THE EXTINCTION AGENDA

CHAPTER SIX

       

                                   

Dallas, Texas.

134 hours.

April 17th 

'Dad...' a mellifluent voice emitted through the dark space.

'Dad...'

The calls were consistent and he could feel his senses responding to the familiar tone.

'Dad....'

His consciousness streamed back to reality. 

Two faces were conspicuously evident, staring right at his horizontal position. A mixed sense of despair and relief was visible in them. He could see the tears welling down their eyes.

'Dad...' the younger of the duo, a teen, expressed a dainty smile as she wiped her tear-filled face.

The teenage girl's face exuded a youthful charm and radiant beauty.  Delicate freckles danced across her button nose, adding a touch of playfulness to her features. Expressive almond-shaped eyes, framed by long lashes, shimmered with a mixture of curiosity and passion. They glimmered with an inner light, reflecting her vibrant spirit. The captivating smile that graced her lips, revealed a perfect set of pearly white teeth, and dimples - that was his daughter, Lucille.

Her presence accentuated the serenity that he was now feeling.

The face of a middle-aged woman, his spouse, who flanked Lucille was a captivating sight that radiated grace and insight that had endeared him to her for decades. Her features were a harmonious blend of experience and vitality. Her hazel eyes, framed by a pair of sleek glasses, shimmered with intellect and novelty. The glasses accentuated her high cheekbones and lent a sophisticated air to her appearance. Delicate laugh lines gently cradled her stunning smile, revealing a life filled with joy and laughter. Her smooth, sun-kissed complexion bore the subtle traces of a life of dedication and hard work. With each expression, her countenance expressed tales of resilience, and inner strength, making her even more alluring. She enunciated mildly: 'Nice to have you back, darling'.

'Thanks, Clara', he said, his voice slightly hoarse. 

A bespectacled lithe man, donning a clean, white, neatly buttoned-up lab coat emerged from one end of the room. Exuding an air of confidence and composure, he fiddled with the stethoscope hanging around his neck and turned to him: 'Nice to have you back, Captain. I am Doctor Brian Shore.'

Crowne nodded approvingly, trying to move but encumbered by the numbness that enveloped his entire body.

Dr. Brian turned to Clara, whose attention was apt: 'We need some days to observe his state before proceeding with therapy. I would enjoin you…, he made a slight bow, '...to kindly excuse us while Captain Crowne observes some rest.'

Lucille turned to him, staring into his eyes reassuringly: 'You are okay, Dad'.

Her calm voice and silky touch soothed his body. She lowered briefly and pecked his cheek. 

Clara patted his head, bent slightly, and kissed his lips. She leveled up and gave him a passionate stare.

In that tender moment, their eyes met, and a magnetic connection that transcended beyond words was evident. Shrouded in profound warmth and affection, their loving stare spoke volumes, revealing a world of unspoken emotions. The gaze filled with unwavering adoration, tenderness, and an unbreakable bond - a silent language only understood by two hearts intertwined.

Lucille could see how this duo had been inseparable for years.

Crowne gave her a you-can-go-now nod and soon, mother and daughter walked away, shutting the door quietly behind them.

He could feel Lucille and Clara exuding tears of joy that he was okay.

An obese nurse walked in, tray in hand. She dropped it  on the aluminum table close to his bed

Under the keen observation of the Doctor, the nurse emerged by his bedside, holding a fluid-laden syringe. With a firm yet gentle touch, she swiftly connected the syringe to the vertical stand of the drip that loomed above him. 

In between this procedure, Dr. Brian stood by him, observing his eyes and limbs while he spoke: 'So far, no signs of hemorrhage or internal bleeding. Just a few broken bones which would naturally heal in days to come....'

With unwavering precision, the nurse, cautiously aligned the needle's tip to the designated port, ensuring a seamless connection. Calmly, she depressed the plunger, guiding the medication into his bloodstream.

He was focused on Brian: 'When am I getting out of here, Doc?'

Dr. Brian grinned, stepping back and stuffing his hands in the lower pockets of his lab coat: 'All in good time Captain, all in good time.'

Crowne turned to the nurse who was displaying her expertise honed through countless procedures. She monitored the flow of the medication and took some time to observe him for likely signs of complications.

He soon became groggy. The medication was having its instant effect. He could see the nurse step away from his position and move towards Dr. Brian whose countenance was aglow: 

'Take care, Captain.'

A curtain of impenetrable darkness soon enveloped his vision and rendered him unconscious once more.

                           *********

0455hours.

April 20th.

Amidst the vast ocean darkness, bursts of light appeared.

His eyes opened, and he found himself alone in the warm, desert.

In the distance, he could hear the unsettling hum of numerous Northrop Grumman drones flying in the air.

A rapid succession of gunshots filled the air as the drones aggressively approached him. He tried to run.

His feet became trapped in the sand, making it difficult for him to move.

The drones closed in swiftly. Gunfire continued, striking the sand around him and creating a thick cloud of dust.

He let out a scream.

Suddenly, the drones ceased firing.

He felt relieved and took a deep breath.

However, what followed was even worse...

The drones unleashed a multitude of rockets, all aimed directly at him.

He screamed...

Amid the awful din and commotion, he was not dead. 

The rockets thudded the earth and a cataclysmic explosion erupted in a great ball of fire

                            ******** 

April 17th

0935 hours.

He opened his eyes.

He was still in one bit and able to move his body.

He was in a room possessing cream-colored walls. A single window possessing Venetian blinds was evident at the far end of the airy space. The blinds were fully raised, allowing draughts of air to flutter into the room.

He eased himself to a bolt and upright position. He could feel a throbbing pain in his shoulder - the same place he was shot bakack at Kabul.

He noticed a camera lodged i6n the ceiling above the window.

He leveled himself up from the bed, his feet feeling the cold porcelain floor.

He trudged slowly to the window as he felt a certain heaviness evident in his body with every move. 

He observed the scenery below 

Several men were engrossed in a variety of drills.  Scores were engaged in short sprints while others marched. A dozen or more men climbed the several elevated contraptions designed to ensure an optimum fitness level was obtained.

This was the Farm - a facility owned by the American military specially designed for the training of soldiers required for unusual assignments. This was where he obtained much of his fundamental training as a private as well as his combat skills

There was a curt rap on the door. He twirled around and said mildly: 'Come in.'

A tall uniformed man flanked by a younger officer possessing bulging biceps walked in. He was no other person than General Mitchell Groover, a resolute military top brass that exuded immense authority and great experience. Adorned with a chest full of medals on a crisply pressed uniform, his presence commanded respect. Flanking him was his Aide-De-Camp, a young officer who looked like he mirrored the General's professionalism.

Crowne attempted a curt salute but his coalescing body only made it slow. 

The General realized his situation and raised a placating arm: 'Stand down, soldier.'

He signaled his ADC who brought a chair solitarily placed at one end of the room. 

He waved Crowne to take a seat. Crowne slowly moved to the bed and obeyed as instructed.

'I wish to commend you, Captain, for your bravery and how you survived the attack in Kabul', the General uttered in a booming voice. 

The General took off his cap and screwed his face ruefully: 'While you were evacuated from the desert after the massacre, the boys from the lab conducted a forensic analysis of the drones that attacked you and your men. The outcome of their findings proved that the drones were inadvertently launched from our base by what we suspect to be a breach in our system. Investigations are still undergoing to uncover why the breach occurred in the first place.

Crowne was staring at him - an expression of indifference, plain on his face. All the General earlier mentioned was a preamble to him

The General read his countenance and added: 'I understand that you need answers to the questions bothering you but I assure you as soon as investigations are concluded, you would be the first to know all that transpired that day.'

Crowne made a mild remark: 'While I thank you for taking out time to see me, I wish to stress how brutal the attack was. The drones attacked us with so much aggression. How would our system breach on the inside?' Crowne paused, trying to control his mind from tilting down the precipice of the harrowing trauma.

He added: 'The way those steel birds came at us, they were tactical. Besides, we were radioed late about the attack. There were a whole host of issues that raised more questions than answers. The attack was damn too complex for the Taliban or even al-Qaeda to pull off. I daresay an insider was involved.'

General Mitchell could see how difficult it was for him to conceal the painful emotion. Losing his crew and surviving a deadly attack with such devastating proportions was an experience that would forever scar his entire. being.

The General felt he had already made his point. He heaved to his feet and cautiously placed his cap on his head.

'I am elated you are in tune with reality. Probably you would be out in a week and then you would be briefed on the next line of action.'

Crowne was also on his feet. 

The General made for the door that was swung open by his muscular ADC. He expressed a broad grin as he stared at him:

'I have made a recommendation to the investigative panel that you should be part of the team that should find out what happened in Kabul. I guess a new assignment awaits you, soldier.'

Crowne responded with a salute, feeling elated by the news: 'Aye, Aye, General.'

'At ease, soldier', the General said walking away while his ADC gently shut the door behind them.

                         ******* 

1405 hours

April 22nd

The Farm.

True to the recommendation of the physios, he engaged in daily threads from the infirmary, where he was temporarily domiciled, to the concourse located on the southwestern area of the Farm.

This spanned three hundred meters. For days, he paced the distance, ensuring he achieved the level of fitness that made him a tough and rugged combatant

On this particular day, he decided to take a detour southwards past the vast concourse to the Cemetary where soldiers who met their demise in active duty were laid to rest. He had gotten word that his crew had been committed to mother earth weeks ago along with a solemn ceremony that was characterized by a sudden drizzle that accentuated the tragic ambiance that was evident on the aforesaid day.

He made the walk south in swift athletic strides and came to a halt at a gated area where the military cemetery was sited.

In short cautious steps, he made his way through a dwarf wooden gate into the military cemetery. He was greeted by meticulously maintained grounds, with rows upon rows of white headstones standing in solemn formation. The silence was tangible, broken only by the gentle rustle of leaves and the occasional flutter of a flag in the breeze. The atmosphere exuded a sense of reverence and gratitude, as some visitors trooped into the ground in obeisance to the fallen heroes.

He regarded the headstones which bore the name, rank, and dates of service of the deceased, as a testament to their commitment and bravery. The stones stretched out in perfectly aligned symmetry, creating a visual representation of the unity and camaraderie that bound military personnel.

The grounds were adorned with lush green lawns, carefully manicured shrubs, and vibrant flowers, adding a touch of serenity and beauty to the somber landscape. Majestic trees provided shade and shelter, offering solace to those seeking refuge within these hallowed grounds.

The centerpiece of the cemetery had an obelisk that served as a monument that paid tribute to the collective sacrifices of the fallen soldiers. The fifty feet high monument was adorned with symbolic statues or plaques, commemorating the Vietnam War - the war which shook the very fabric of America's deep-rooted democracy. 

He moved further down the cemetery where the freshly dug graves were located. He came across the gravestone bearing 'Private Omar Ali' which was followed by 'Private Petraeus Thompson' and the other fifteen men. 

He gritted his teeth as memories of the massacre flashed through his mind. Tears welled up in his eyes - reminiscing on the pain these boys had to endure before their untimely demise. 

He clenched his fist as a rush of revulsion surged 

through his mind and he muttered deeply: 'I promise to get the bastards who did this- it's a promise.'

While he was still engrossed in his sober reflection, a female voice emitted behind him: 'Hey, Captain.:

He turned and observed the voice was that of Mrs. Rachel Petraeus a Latin-American brunette who possessed strong nuances of the ancient Navajo tribe. A characteristic feature they exuded was their accent. He knew, while as a private from his interaction with young Navajo officers serving as marines in the American army 

He could observe tears staining her cheeks as her countenance expressed her train navigating the labyrinth of memories of her husband.

'My husband died and yet no one has claimed responsibility for the murder and to think his body was not found.'

He stared at her, expressing a bit of surprise and feeling the crushing effect of the woman in grief: 'I promise to find the bastards who murdered those boys and make them pay.'

She broke down, a sense of grief shrouding her entire being. He was forced to hold and console her. She held his arms and continued moaning in pain.

He broke down too, gritting his teeth, swearing and cursing under his blistering breath.

Back to the infirmary, he was handed a letter informing him to temporarily return home to Everett, Washington where he would be furnished with further directives on his future.

Receiving the note with an air of indifference, he walked to his room and took a nap.