Chapter 4 - THE CALL THAT NEVER CAME
I had requested extraction three times.
That was in the notebook.
No response.
Then at 2156, someone answered.
Unknown call sign.
“Hold position.”
We did.
For nine minutes.
Nine minutes inside burning wreckage.
Then the transmission stopped.
Owen read the notes.
“Do you remember the voice?”
“No.”
“Male?”
“Yes.”
“American?”
“Yes.”
“Rank?”
“You can’t hear rank.”
“You can hear confidence.”
He was right.
The voice didn’t sound confused.
It sounded deliberate.
Hold position.
Not attempt evacuation.
Not move casualties.
Hold.
I carried M1 first.
Then Owen.
Then Thomas Maddox.
I did not hold.
That decision saved them.
It also burned my shoulder when aviation fuel flashed across the ground during the second carry.
Owen stared at the scar.
“You disobeyed the order.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I almost smiled.
Then the smile died.
“What did your father know?”
Owen looked toward Mom.
She whispered:
“He said Marcus Vale knew.”
There it was.
Colonel Vale.
The man who sealed the report.
Owen stood.
“Where is he now?”
I answered before Mom could.
“Retired.”
“Location?”
“Virginia.”
“You kept track?”
“No.”
“Yes, you did,” Mom said.
I looked at her.
She knew because she had seen the notebook.
I hated how much of my private life she had watched while pretending not to understand me.
“He runs a security consulting firm,” I said.
Dylan asked:
“Why would he cover up an attack on your own people?”
“I don’t know.”
Owen said:
“My father might have.”
We all looked at him.
He stared at the photograph.
“My father spent his retirement advising congressional committees on defense procurement.”
The room changed.
Money.
Contracts.
Influence.
Not battlefield rivalry.
Something larger.
“He had been investigating something,” Owen continued. “He never told me details.”
“When?”
“Around the time of Raven Three.”
“Did he travel privately?”
“Yes.”
“Could he have gone to Afghanistan off-book?”
Owen laughed bitterly.
“Apparently.”
Then Mom brought out the cassette recorder.
“I never listened.”
Nobody believed her.
She looked offended.
“I didn’t.”
I found an old player in the basement.
The tape hissed.
Then Thomas Maddox’s voice.
Clear.
Older.
Tired.
“Elaine, if you’re recording this, good.”
Mom covered her mouth.
“He knew.”
Thomas continued:
“Harper must not be told yet.”
I froze.
Mom whispered:
“I swear.”
The recording continued.
“She has already been made to believe the fire was an accident.”
My hands went cold.
Owen leaned toward the speaker.
Thomas:
“It wasn’t.”
Silence.
Then paper rustling.
“I was carrying evidence.”
Evidence of what?
The tape answered.
“Helix Defense Systems.”
Dylan frowned.
Owen knew the name.
“So do I,” I said.
Helix supplied aircraft parts.
Navigation components.
Fuel systems.
Raven Three’s aircraft had experienced what the official record called mechanical failure.
Thomas said:
“Certain parts were counterfeit. Procurement officers knew.”
My heartbeat slowed.
Counterfeit aircraft components.
People died for less.
Then:
“Marcus Vale was protecting someone.”
Owen whispered:
“Who?”
The tape clicked.
Static.
Then Thomas:
“If anything happens to me, tell Harper she was right not to wait for extraction.”
A pause.
“She was never supposed to survive long enough to contradict the report.”
Mom started crying.
I didn’t.
Not yet.
The tape continued.
“Do not trust the final medical file. Do not trust the casualty count. And do not trust—”
The tape stopped.
I stared at the player.
“Do not trust who?”
Owen rewound.
Same place.
The tape ended physically.
Cut.
Someone had removed the rest.
Mom shook her head.
“It was like that when I got it.”
I believed her.
Maybe.
Then Dylan noticed handwriting inside the cassette case.
A number.
Not military.
Telephone.
Owen recognized the area code.
“Arlington.”
We called.
Disconnected.
Rebecca—
No, wrong world.
I corrected myself.
No lawyer yet.
No investigation.
Just family.
Then Owen searched the number online.
Archived business listings.
It belonged to a company called Vale Strategic Advisory.
Marcus Vale’s firm.
The tape had been routed through the man Thomas believed was protecting the cover-up.
Then a second thing appeared.
The company’s current managing director.
Vanessa read the name over Owen’s shoulder.
Her face changed.
“What?”
Nobody answered.
She grabbed the phone.
The managing director was:
Dylan Carter.
No.
Different surname.
Dylan Bellamy.
My brother.
The man standing in the room beside us.
Dylan stared at the screen.
“That’s not me.”
May you like
But the company filing showed his full legal name.
And my brother suddenly looked less smug than I had ever seen him in my life.
