The Major

Jack Fuller looked nervously at the prosecutor, who, upon detecting his gaze from the rear of the courtroom, glanced backwards with a convincing, affirmative nod. Other than the rustle of the seated movements and the occasional tapping of anxious feet, the room was silent. Awkwardly silent. Too silent. An hour ago, Jack wished he had not drunk that mid-afternoon coffee, but by now, the urge to relieve himself had gone unnoticed.

Nancy’s parents sat in the front row. Bill Flowers looked like a wreck. Audrey looked like a zombie. Never mind the defendant, in their eyes, Jack was responsible as well. After all, if it had not been for Jack, Nancy never would have been put in that position. The cops actually did a pretty good job, even considering that Jack was seconds away from physically assaulting detective sergeant Brace on more than one occasion during interrogation. They charged the right man in the end so it must have been worth it, Jack reasoned. Brace never did apologize, and stoically maintained that it’s his job to get under a subject’s skin. It may have been his job, but he was still an asshole, but that’s water under the bridge. Brace isn’t the biggest asshole Jack has ever encountered, and certainly won’t be the last. And of course, nobody can touch the degree of anal cavity exhibited by the man, if you even want to use the term, seated at the defendant’s table, except possibly the individual defending him.

At least it was a civilian trial. Duckworth had gotten away with it before, in Afghanistan. He faced a hastily arranged, unorthodox summary courts martial at Bagram, attended by the family of the woman and a translator. His JAG attorney blamed the assault and murder on a local, through testimony, and the panel was satisfied, and that was that. An unsubstantiated but otherwise reliable insider said that in a closed door session, the damage in credibility caused by convicting an officer of the rape and murder of a local would be astronomical. Plus, the woman was well, dead, and they really needed the officer.

Fast forward a year after that. Both Jack, and Duckworth, ended up at the same stateside post but in different units. Duckworth traded his captain’s bars for a major’s gold oak leaf and a staff assignment in brigade headquarters, and Sergeant Fuller was on track to put a rocker on the bottom of his three stripes. It was a chance encounter when he and Nancy were drinking at a cowboy bar off post when Duckworth decided to stop in for a few drinks. Duckworth just had to barge in. Jack loathed the man when he was his company commander back in Afghanistan. Jack went for the throat over the incident in Kabul, words were exchanged, and a fight ensued. That fight was broken up by two MP’s on a routine off-post welfare patrol of the local bars. Duckworth wanted to press insubordination charges, but the MP sergeant explained that a counter charge of conduct unbecoming of an officer would likely ensue. Furious, Duckworth steamed off. And so did Nancy, angry over Jack’s impulsive behavior – never mind that he didn’t start the fight. She was found, unclothed, and dead, in a drainage ditch the next morning. Which, coincidentally, was also how the Afghan woman was found.

Three years later, the trial finally began. There was DNA evidence. The defense argued that it was the result of a consensual liaison and assassinated Nancy’s character. That came across as weak. There was a lot of other evidence. Cell phone location records. Timelines. The defense argued that this was all circumstantial evidence, but the prosecutor did a damned good job of laying out the case.

The more he thought about it in the weeks after Nancy’s murder, the more Jack was angry at the army. If the courts martial panel had not elected to make a decision based on politics and the good old boys’ club, Nancy would probably still be here. In the two months prior to his planned reenlistment, his unit commander gave him some lame admin assignment so he could mope and lament in solitude, and he rode it out and walked away with his discharge papers.

Jack Fuller was still a soldier. Being a soldier was really all he knew how to do. The question is, when all you how to do is be a soldier, and you get out, what do you do? The right answer is you learn to do something else. Or you become a cop. It’s not that Jack hated cops, but, okay Jack hated cops. Then he ran in to Hugo Buchanan. Hugo was a larger than life, local bounty hunter, who frequently handled high profile cases. Larger than life, high profile bounty hunters don’t work alone, and Jack quickly became a valued asset to the team. Wouldn’t it be the ultimate irony if Duckworth skipped bail, and Jack would have been the one to hunt him down? Oops, had to shoot him in self-defense in an apprehension attempt. But, the judge really didn’t like Duckworth either and denied him bail.

Now sitting in a civilian jail for an extended period of time awaiting a murder trial didn’t exactly bode well for Duckworth’s military career either. Given that multiple witnesses stated that he had gotten drunk and started a fight with an enlisted man, coupled with the fact that the courts martial action was still on his record, even though he prevailed, caused his commanders to reconsider his suitability as an officer. Revoking an officer’s commission is an extremely difficult process, but Colonel Stoddard advised him that he would seek a ‘dismissal’, which is the officer equivalent of a dishonorable discharge, if Duckworth did not voluntarily resign his commission. Initially Duckworth wanted to take his chances, but Stoddard pointed out that a former army major could walk in to any of the major international Blackwater style security contractors and be handed a high level position on the spot.

But that was all about to become a moot point. The jury foreman silently entered the courtroom and handed a message to the bailiff, to be given to the judge.

Even the rumbling and the foot tapping stopped. The judge read the note, and addressed the jury foreman. “I understand the jury has reached a verdict?”

“Yes your honor. On count one, sexual assault, we find the defendant, Marvin Duckworth, not guilty.”

There were loud outcries in the courtroom. “Silence!” The judge ordered. “Continue.”

“On count two, murder, with special circumstances, we find the defendant, Marvin Duckworth, not guilty.”

There was an explosion in the courtroom. Mr. Flowers looked dumbfounded. Mrs. Flowers still looked like a zombie. The judge was shouting at the top of his lungs to restore order. His shouting could not be heard over the epithets and obscenities leveled from the spectator section.

O’Malley’s was a place where the attorneys hung out. And the bail bondsmen, hoping to the inside scoop on potential skips, and the bounty hunters, hoping to get more business. Jack sat on a bar stool, staring in to a shot of whisky with a very contemplative gaze.

Hugo Buchanan sat next to him. The man was massive. He wore a suede leather vest and a white cowboy hat, in sharp contrast to Jack, who was lean and fit, still dressed in his courtroom slacks and a pinstripe dress shirt and tie. “I heard what happened” Hugo said. “You seem to be taking it well.”

Jack downed the shot. “Yeah I’m… surprised. Very surprised.”

Hugo looked him up and down and stared him in the eyes. “But not disappointed.”

“A part of me is, and a part of me isn’t. Listen, Hugo, I got something I gotta do. What’s the possibility of me taking some time off?”

Hugo sighed. And exhaled. “Well, you’re going to do what you’re going to do. If you’re asking me if I’ll hold your position open for you, then the answer is yes.”

“Thanks. Listen, I need to get going.” Jack scooped up his suit jacket and started to walk towards the door.

“Oh and Jack” Hugo said.

“Yes?”

“Do not, absolutely, do not, put me in the position of having to come after you.”

“Right.”

It was Stoddard himself that planted the seed. But he was right. Marvin Duckworth stared at the small compound that served as Distant Thunder’s headquarters in Reston, Virginia. It looked just like a scaled down private military academy. Which, is what it was prior to becoming Distant Thunder’s headquarters. They would recruit candidates for assignment in various countries in North Africa, Southeast Asia and the Middle East. Of course the most lucrative venues were the military contracts, which, resided primarily in the Middle East. They would run these candidates through physical courses, and give those written tests and oral evaluations, and then determine who would be hired, and where they would be sent.

But a man like Duckworth, a former army major, is not going to be running around in a combat zone with an assault rifle. In fact, he isn’t going to be running around. The physical part is moot. They want him to be a manager. A logistics strategist. Someone experienced in military operations that can lead paramilitary operations. All of the contractors want former military. Enlisted infantry are the ground operators. Elite ops is a big plus. Former officers, are managers and commanders. As rank increases, expectation increases, and at some point rank equates to contacts within the military which equates to business generation.

And being a major is on the brink of being from a high level manager within a contractor organization, to being a rain maker. Rain makers are valuable. Duckworth could generally talk the talk, and walk the walk. It wasn’t quite the ‘walk in the door and immediately given an executive position’ as Stoddard alluded, however, in the course of conversations over several days and a couple drunken bar sessions, Duckworth was offered a contract for a position in Distant Thunder’s Kandahar operations.

Kandahar proved to be a lot different from Kabul. The United States Army’s major base was Bagram, just outside of the city of Kabul. The British operated out of Camp Bastion. Pretty much everyone else, including the major contractors, operated out of the capital city of Kandahar save for the really lucky contractors to earn a spot at Bagram. It was a playground, as much of a playground as one could have in Afghanistan, which wasn’t very much. It was relatively safe, as long as you stayed fairly close to your compound and didn’t travel very far or alone. It was sure as hell a lot more fun than Bagram. They actually had bars that catered to western contractors. Kabul? Forget it. You didn’t go there unless you were in an armored convoy.

Duckworth viewed this assignment as a new start. And new opportunities. New opportunities in a playground, where there were few playground monitors and no real playground rules. And it was an escape from one demon from his past – Jack Fuller.

Under the tutelage of Hugo Buchanan, Jack learned and developed a special investigative skill – how to track down people like a bloodhound. Their business is finding people that don’t want to be found, and they can end up in the darndest places. Now Duckworth himself, even though he wasn’t necessarily trying to disappear, he didn’t exactly leave any forwarding addresses either. Jack had a pretty good idea of Duckworth’s next move. Smart money says he went to work for a military contractor. He’s been discharged from the military so he’s not going back to his post. He sure as hell isn’t staying in Austin. But it's still like looking for a needle in a haystack. Paramilitary organizations are tight lipped on their personnel for fairly obvious reasons, so you can’t just start making cold calls and asking. Being licensed private investigators in most states, bounty hunters do have some tools available to them that the average person does not. They do not however have all the tools they would like available to them. This makes it important to maintain relationships with people on the law enforcement side who do.

A check of Duckworth’s passport activity reveals that he departed Dulles, and landed at Dubai. From there the trail ends. He’s probably not in Dubai. Dubai is a standard launch point for flights to countries and regions not served by normal airlines from the United States, and where passports are irrelevant. It’s how contractors get to Afghanistan. He’s likely in Afghanistan. If he were going to North Africa, the flight would have been through Frankfurt. The fact that he left from DC somewhat narrows down the list of contractors, but not very since most like to maintain a relationship with military brass and lawmakers.

Afghanistan isn’t one of those places you just go to on a whim. Normally, someone is paying your way, and putting you on a chartered flight from Dubai to Kandahar. Absent of someone paying your way, you need to find other arrangements, which will normally be a paid space-available seat on a private charter, and you can’t guarantee a flight there or a return back so you have to be prepared to camp out. But, there are other ways. You can go through Pakistan, take domestic flights to Quetta, and hire a car to take you to the border, and possibly even the whole way to Kandahar. But it’s a big deal, and an expensive deal. Jack was willing to go, but not without solid confirmation that Duckworth was actually there. After all, Dubai is a waypoint for many locations where a contractor might go. Hell, he could be in Iraq. He could be in Syria. Or, Jack might have it all wrong and he had other reasons to travel from DC to Dubai.

Feeling a bit frustrated, he decided to reach out to Laura Dell. Detective Laura Dell with the Austin PD. He met her when they simultaneously closed in on a local bail skip, and argued profusely over who was going to take Rashandre Demarcas into custody. It kind of mattered to Jack because he wanted to earn the bail percentage. It kind of mattered to Laura because she wanted the credit. They agreed to jointly escort him back to the county jail for booking. It ended up being a win-win situation, and they developed a friendship. Jack may not like cops, but thin blondes with piercing blue eyes go a long way to offsetting any personal bias he may have.

Laura nervously twirled the fork in her hand, as she plied the menu of a somewhat upscale restaurant. “You know, Jack, I hope you’re not getting the wrong idea. This feels a little bit like a date. And we’ve had this conversation before. I don’t date.”

“Well” Jack said, “if you must know, I actually wanted to ask a favor from you.”

“Oh. Well I’m not sure I’m relieved to hear that, since your favors typically encroach on our department policies.”

“It’s something you’ve done before. I wanted to see if you could check some bank and credit card activity.”

“On who?”

Jack mumbled inaudibly. “Marvin Duckworth.”

Laura choked. “Oh hell no. I wouldn’t even if I could. There is only one reason why you would want that. No siree, mister. Besides, the only reason I was able to run the last transaction history was because we already had a warrant for the individual’s financials for other reasons.”

“Oh come on, you’re on first name basis with these bankers. When was the last time they asked you to produce a warrant?”

“That’s not the point. It pushes the line to give you the information when we have a legitimate reason to get it. Getting it without a legitimate reason crosses it.”

Jack sighed. “I figured as much. I thought I’d ask anyway.”

“Let it go, Jack. It’s eating at you. It’s not going to bring Nancy back.”

“The man got away with murder, twice. He’s done it before.”

“I get it Jack, I would be angry too, and I don’t blame you for being angry. But guess what? Marvin Duckworth ends up with an acute case of copper jacketed lead poisoning, an investigator is going to look in to his financials, and hey, by the way, Detective Laura Dell just ran them a few days ago. How’s that going to look?”

“For what it’s worth, I’m ninety nine percent sure he’s in a hostile foreign country where nobody is going to care what happens to him except possibly his private military contract employer.”

“Look at me, Jack, I’m a cop. Don’t tell me these things. I’m not going to facilitate vigilante justice.”

“How do you know I’m planning vigilante justice?”

“You can sit here and promise me you just want to talk to him? I find that hard to believe.”

“All right, all right. Let’s just let it drop then.”

“You need to find someone, Jack. You’re an empty person right now.”

Jack raised his eyebrows. “Are you offering to step up to the plate?”

“There are reasons why I became a cop. I’m not ready for another relationship.”

“Will you ever be?”

They ate in silence. A glass of wine turned in to a bottle of wine. Which turned in to a second bottle of wine. “You okay to drive?” Jack asked as he escorted a wobbly Laura down an elevator.

“I took a rideshare here. What about you?”

“I’m okay.”

“Jack, I can’t let you drive. I’m a cop.”

“I’ll be alright.”

“You can sleep it off on my couch.”

It was maybe four in the morning when Jack awoke to the sound of a gerbil running around in a wheel in the darkness. The occasional sound of a car horn started to register on the city streets below. The last thing he remembered was riding the elevator up to Laura’s condominium prior to waking up on the couch. He felt around for his shoes and put them on. He silently walked over to Laura’s bedroom door, which was ajar, and saw her, fast asleep on the bed, still dressed save for her own shoes. He pulled the comforter over her, kissed her lightly on the cheek, and let himself out the front door, locking it behind him.

Jack spent the day pouring over social media searches, hoping that Duckworth would break a cardinal rule and establish a social media presence. But he’s a little bit too smart for that. Military contractors have strict rules over how social media may be used when on assignment, and violations normally end in instant termination with the offender on the very next flight out of country.

Laura was right. Technically. But he did it before and he’s going to do it again. At least that’s how Jack rationalized taking him out. Just when he was ready to call it quits and grab a lunch at the deli below his apartment, his cell phone rang. But it wasn’t the phone itself but rather a face time messaging app from an unknown number from an unknown location. Normally he ignores calls like that, but he decided to answer it anyway.

A vaguely familiar face appeared on the screen, and a voice spoke. “Hey, Jack old buddy, it’s Vince Soto.”

“Oh wow, it’s been a while. You still in? I always pegged you for a lifer.”

“Nah, I didn’t re-up. I’m actually working as a contractor in Kandahar.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah, shit conditions, but the pay is great.”

“How did you get my number?”

“Wasn’t easy. Gregor ended up giving it to me.”

“Oh, right. Anyway, good to hear from… wait… you said you’re in Kandahar?”

“Yeah, listen, the reason I called you is because you would never guess in a million years who I saw.”

Jack’s jaw dropped. “Please tell me it’s Duckworth.”

“In the flesh. He’s working as a mucky muck for Distant Thunder.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Nah. Didn’t want to. I don’t think he even recognized me.”

“Dude… straight up, I’m coming over there.”

“Why don’t you sight up with Peel & Shafter? I can get you in the door.”

“Yeeeaaah… um, let me think about that one. Got a place I can crash for a bit?”

“We got a few spare bunks. I can hook you up.”

“Can you get me a piece?”

“It’s easier to get an AK here than it is to find a decent steak. Actually, we have stacks of them in the arms room. Way more than we’ll ever use.”

Listen, I have to go away for a while. I’ll be back. Of course Laura asked where was going. Of course he lied and said he was going to visit his mother. Of course Laura knew he was lying, but let it go. And of course, she knew, that he knew, that she knew. Funny how that all works out.

The flight to Frankfurt was uneventful, and as comfortable as one could expect for a long distance transatlantic flight in cattle class. The flight to Karachi was cramped, and not comfortable at all. The flight to Quetta was downright uncomfortable, sweaty hot, and reeked of cigarette smoke, body odor and cheap perfume. The original plan was to have Vince meet him at the border in a company vehicle, but that plan had to change. Vince was able to convince the boss to let Jack bunk down for a couple days, as long as he was on his own for food, but sending a single vehicle any significant distance was against policy, and sending an armed convoy to the border was a complete no-go. The driver’s name was Omar. He didn’t normally run passenger fares, but he was going to Kandahar anyway to sell some dry goods at a market. Consequently, the run-down Toyota Hi Lux pickup bounced down the dusty road. Although Kandahar was only a little more than twenty miles from the border, the trip lasted two hours.

One thing became apparent. Jack was tolerated in the fortified compound that served as Peel & Shafter’s Kandahar headquarters, but his welcome was limited, and more than two days would really be pushing things. He had to get in, do his thing, and get out. But that’s how they operated out of their forward operating base, or FOB, in raids on the Taliban, so he was used to it. Of course, the environment was a lot different. This wasn’t open barren lands with sparsely populated mud walled compounds. This was a large city with a lot of tall buildings and lots of crowds, at all hours of the day and night. An AK simply wasn’t going to work for the mission. Yes, you carry them with you for transport missions, but you don’t carry them openly walking down the street under normal circumstances. But that was not a setback. It was easy enough to purchase a Tokarev clone automatic pistol sourced from Pakistan for about a hundred dollars in US currency. The quality was poor and it was largely hand made but it worked. On Vince’s advice, he insisted on test firing it first before buying it, because they don’t all work.

The companies would generally prefer if their employees stay within their walled compound for the duration of their contract when not on a mission, but face it, you can’t live like that for six months at a time. Plus, Kandahar isn’t really much more dangerous than say, downtown Chicago, as long as you take steps to not stand out too much. Consequently, contract employees can be often found plying the markets, and drinking at the makeshift bars set up exclusively for Western contractor employees. Afghanistan is an otherwise dry country, never mind that opium flows like water over Niagara Falls. You could pop someone openly in the street, and it’s not like cops are going to come running, and if they do, they aren’t going to look very hard. You pop someone, people scatter, you scatter with them, get the hell out of dodge, and that’s the end of it. It happens here.

Day one consisted of developing intel on where Distant Thunder was located and where their people hang out. Night one consisted of hanging out at those places. Asking around would be a fairly bad idea. The cops might not come running, but you whack a contractor, their company and their mates will come running. Jack figured he could off Duckworth in the bathroom, slip out in the confusion, and the general assumption will be that it was a Taliban or Taliban sympathizer hit, which, happens to be a very real risk when outdoors.

Night two was going to have to work, because night three was going to have to be spent somewhere else, and an American attempting to spend an night in a Kandahar hotel is probably not going to have a pleasant fate. As it turns out, Jack hit paydirt, as Duckworth showed up at the Vegas club, bigger than life. Duckworth stood at a makeshift bar constructed of rough-hewn planks. There were no women in the club. Sometimes rare and occasional female contractor employees show up at the clubs, but not for ‘action,’ and local women are forbidden from entering the premises.

Like clockwork, two beers and it was time to take a piss. Jack followed Duckworth in the rather crude bathroom. It did have a locking door, and a rather large window in which to make a hasty escape. It needed a rather large window, as it smelled really bad.

Duckworth didn’t initially notice the second man enter behind him in the single seater, or rather single hole facility, and Jack flipped the metal hook shut, and pulled out his pistol. Initially, Duckworth was taken aback, and thought it might be a joke, but then quickly recognized who it was.

“Your time has come, you sonofabitch” Jack said, flicking off the safety. “You want to tell me anything before you go?”

Duckworth threw his hands up. “You really don’t get it, do you, Fuller?”

“Get what?”

“You know, I spent three years of my life locked up behind bars, and lost my military career, over something I didn’t do.”

“Oh bullshit Duckworth, you’re guilty and you know it.”

“Did it ever, ever occur to you that just maybe, the jury found me not guilty because I actually wasn’t guilty?”

“DNA evidence doesn’t lie, Duckworth.”

“Okay, okay, listen, yes… okay look. After our fight, your girl was really mad at you. You left, I offered to give her a ride home, and… yes she was that mad at you. We, uh… did it. And then she kind of sobered up, regretted it, jumped out of the car and left on foot. I mean you heard the story. But it’s true.”

“But the girl in Kabul….”

“Yeah. She really was assaulted and murdered by a local. A lot of people wanted to blame it on me. Perceptions get warped, Fuller. Trust me, JAG would have thrown me under the bus and let it drive over me several times. Ever since the Mai Lai massacre, things have changed. And that was even before your time. Mine too in fact.”

Jack tensed on the trigger. “Right.”

“How is this going to make you feel? I know that you’ve whacked Taliban, I get it. But killing a fellow American? An innocent fellow American?”

Jack shook his head in disbelief. He tried to squeeze the trigger all the way, but something prevented him. Not something physically – the gun worked. He just couldn’t bring himself to do it. He shook his head violently, lowered the gun, tossed it in the toilet hole, and spoke. “Yeah you’re right Duckworth. You’re not worth it. In fact, letting you live with yourself is probably worse punishment.”

“Look, I’m sorry about your girl. I truly am.”

The trip back from Kandahar was a blur. The only thing on Jack’s mind was that he made an expensive, long, uncomfortable trip all for naught. But at the same time, he wondered that if he had actually accomplished his intended mission, would he have actually felt any better.

Laura looked down, away from Jack’s eyes, as they sat facing each other across a small table at a coffee shop. “Anyway, how did things go at your… mom’s?”

“I choked. I couldn’t do it. I was face to face with him. Something just prevented me.”

Laura did her best to hold back a tear, as she smiled feebly. She wiped it off and looked at him. “I guess you didn’t hear the news, did you?”

“What news?”

“They caught the guy who killed Nancy Flowers. And this time they are one hundred percent certain. They know he’s the one because he actually took a video of the killing. He confessed to a friend at a bar, that friend turned him in, and one thing led to another, culminating in a warrant to search his home.”

Jack looked incredulous. “So, you’re saying that Duckworth was actually telling the truth at the trial?”

“That’s what I’m saying Jack. I got sick to my stomach realizing, knowing that you were on the hunt for him, and hoping that you weren’t the person that I thought you were going to be.”

“Are you trying to tell me something?”

Laura held on to his hand and squeezed it. “Want to have dinner tonight?”

“Well, um… sure. Yes. Where do you want to go?”

“My place. I cook a mean Salisbury steak.”

Jack clinched her hands in his and smiled. “I think I have a new problem.”

“What’s that?”

“The only reason I came to Austin was for the trial. I never really intended to stay after it was over, because there was nothing else here for me.”

“Well, that might just change.”

“That would be a very… Major, change in my life. Get it?”

“Please hold on to your day job.”