TURNSTYLE

Much as many current-day convulsions of blood and guts could trace their origin to a nondescript room of unassuming suits, America’s fight against a much older kind of terror was headed from a decidedly mundane set of offices.

This headquarters was nestled in a sprawling administrative complex in Virginia, a short ride away from the nest of squirming expresso-guzzling worms and that seat of Beelzebub that was Washington DC.

Ostensibly, it was a minor branch of the NRO, the National Reconnaissance Office, one of the multitude of special-access programs which so ravenously dipped into their lion’s share of the black budget.

The purview of its parent was the operation of the country’s constellation of spy satellites, the eyes in low orbit peering into the geopolitical, deadly serious, but still largely mundane affairs of men; this little corner of it peered down into the abyss, and more often than not hurled high explosives at any weird noises.

In reality, the federal government had had at its disposal a force for countering the unnatural for nearly a century. This group had adopted several names over its existence, its fortunes waxing and waning over the decades.

Their remit was to begin with domestic. But born to that tempestuous stretch of time when America was still growing into its hegemonic skin, and had just recently begun to stretch the fingers of its influence beyond its borders, so did the fledgling service find themselves farther and farther abroad.

As the American intelligence apparatus swelled into its own leviathan as the fight against the Axis gave way to the Cold War giving way to the War on Terror– the members of this group found themselves at the leading edge of its unseen tendrils, from the sweltering deserts of the Levant and North Africa to the steaming jungles of the Pacific and Central America, to the darkness closer to home.

Its latest iteration went by the two-letter code name CEMETERY WIND. Its direct action element was designated BLACK KNIGHT, its door kickers and shooters. Both went by a other myriad other nonspecific names and acronyms, but to its members, it was simply The Program and The Unit.

Even the secret within a secret that was the Program had not survived the vast expansion of bureaucracy that followed in the wake of the Global War on Terror unscathed. Nor could the Unit always escape the deficiencies of the broader armed forces through the decades. But as they stood today, both were in capable hands.

Ensconced in that bubble of banality, the Program’s leading lady sat, savoring the aroma of the coffee in-between reading the day’s briefs, when the ranking officer of the Unit barged in with his command-issue scowl and threw a sheaf of papers on her desk. The cover sheet laid out on top was dominated by the header:

           TOP SECRET
OPERATION DAMASCUS

“Care to tell me what this is about, ma’am?”

“And a good morning to you too, Colonel Friedkin.”

At six foot-four, the Colonel was an imposing effigy to directed, calculated violence, and still moved with ease in his fatigues despite the long years of service carved into his frame. His close-cropped hair crowned a hardened yet pensive visage that might well be from a casting office’s dreams.

It was exceedingly unusual for a Colonel to hold the same position within a unit for more than four years. With Friedkin’s record, he should have been well on his way to the first star of general. The Colonel had been commanding officer of the Unit for six. As much as he wasn’t planning on going anywhere, very few in the careerist armed forces of the day would actively look to take his place– even if they knew of the opening.
Facing opposite, Director Lasch was just shy of a generation behind her nominal subordinate. The Director could easily be conflated with the new breed of beltway bureaucrat and ladder climber: the pressed off-the-rack suit accentuating her lithe figure, pristine grooming lending her an elegant, if stark beauty. Someone who knew nothing about her could easily imagine this woman making the morning jog around Foggy Bottom with her Yorkie terrier, prior to signing off on the deaths of hundreds at quarter before lunch.
But that belied the fact that Lasch was more than a match for Friedkin when it came to hard-won experience at holding back the dark. Lasch had actually been in the Program for longer– straight out of college– and elevated to Director just last year. She wasn’t going anywhere either.
Both had given the best years of their lives and more to the cause, where so many had been broken by the magnitude of the truths revealed to their select few, the secrets they were charged with keeping.
Both respected the other, to a point, and the two had worked hand in hand in the execution of their duties, for the most part.
“Why wasn’t I informed of this tasking?” Friedkin said in his no-nonsense cadence, before settling his hands to his side to tower over Lasch in her posh Director’s chair.
For her part, Lasch set the the cup of coffee down on and spared a cursory look at the documents intruding on her desk, though she already had a good idea of what they were.
“This is not a military operation, Colonel. The Unit’s services are not required.”
“But you are transferring one of my men.”
“Yes, our little Wolf. Allied interests in Japan have expressed… well, interest in his unique skill set, and we’ve tracked a number of items on our watchlist to their country. We have assessed that a joint operation would be mutually beneficial at this time.”
“My man is still recovering from his injuries-“
“From that little debacle up north. It’s been a month, and I have it on ink from medical that he is cleared for light work. We do not anticipate this op to be as kinetic. Goodness, not at all.“
Lasch punctuated those words with the squeaking of her chair, rising to meet Friedkin at a more equal level.
“This is a prime opportunity to train him in the discreet side of things. I think you’ll agree when I say that his talents would be wasted if we simply kept him forever with the Unit.”
Friedkin’s facial muscles relaxed by a fraction to indicate his begrudging agreement, but he wasn’t the type to budge without a fight. He crossed his arms before making another attempt at voicing his skepticism.
“All of my men have experience in wetwork, and I don’t see any reason why he has to go alone. For that matter, why can’t your people handle it?”
“He won’t be alone. The Japanese will have one of theirs waiting for him. As for us– my people are already thin on the ground, with respect to our current commitments.”
Lasch lifted her brow like she’d caught on to something.
“Are you not confident in Wolf’s ability to accomplish this mission?”
There was a split-second before Friedkin answered.
“Not for work around civilians, not after his upbringing with us. He’s a born killer.”
Lasch paced across the room and calculated her response.
“He is not as balanced as he should be, but then again most boys his age are. All the more reason for him to learn to interact with ordinary humanity, then. Since the Program took him in, he’s been trained by the best, and he’s already proved himself splendidly as an asset in combat. Now is the time to develop him further. “
The Director shifted direction to the door, signalling an impending meeting by looking at her watch.
“The Japanese are already making arrangements on their end. This really is as routine as it gets– a simple asset recovery, in and out, back before the end of next month. Think of it as RnR for the boy, Colonel. It’s not often that you get a taxpayer-paid vacation to the Land of the Rising Sun.”
Lasch smiled at some private joke, making the beginnings of creases on her face apparent.
“Who knows, he might just learn a thing or two about himself.“

***

Wolf was waiting just outside, and stood at attention on Lasch passing by.
The soundproofed walls only let him catch the tail-end of the pow-wow, but he already had the gist. It was him who had approached his CO, after all.
Friedkin motioned for him to follow, and they took off on a range-walk. The corridors buzzed to the occasional sound of telephones and chatter.
It was his superior who spoke first.
“Draw up your wish list, solo op.”
“Yes sir, It’s not running solo that I have a problem with. I simply don’t understand how my skills apply to this mission. And you know how I am with civvies.”
“You’ve been given the run-through on tradecraft, same as everyone else.”
His superior softened his timbre, imperceptibly to anyone who didn’t know him.
“There’s more to life than the sword, Wolf. ”
“Already learned that in the Unit, sir. If I can’t hang around with that bunch, then I’d sooner just keep to myself.”
At that, Friedkin slowed to a stop, then about-faced. His voice was equal parts amusement and sand.
“If you want to live alone, you got to be an animal or a god.”

A little over three weeks later, and that little Wolf was gagging on saltwater and microplastics as what he was assuming was his Japanese contact stood to the side.
Still reeling from the series of events, Theo had to rummage a bit before he could recall the password.
“Heard it’s been raining hard these past four days.”
“No. It’s only been raining for the past two.”
So this was ARROWROOT, the callsign for his Japanese liaison.
After one last cough, he finally managed to stand erect, looking down on her.
Theo’s mind whirred back up to speed as he sized up the mature beauty in front of him. Somewhere in her thirties, she was dressed pristinely in the dark two-piece suit, white button-up shirt and slacks of a plain-clothes officer of Japan’s NPA, the National Police Agency. Her sole departure from the standard was the long, low ponytail that almost came down to her waist.
Wolf still stood over her, but she was a decent height for an Asian lady, and he could tell the way her suit settled on her figure that she was pliant and slender. He met her dark almond eyes before offering a greeting.
“Kirishima-san, I’m Agent Lovell. I’d reach out for a handshake, but I’m not exactly clean for it.”
He referred to her by the name provided to the Program, which was probably a cover.
Theo came close to adding that his given name would be fine, but caught himself when he remembered what the culture dossier said about the Japanese and first names.
“Agent Lovell, it is good to finally meet you. You can call me Maho-san.”
Maho Kirishima wasted no time proving Theo’s cultural preparation wrong. She answered with an easy self-possession, and Theo couldn’t help but feel somewhat ashamed at his current dripping state as a representative of the US of A.
“It’d be even better if we didn’t have to meet like this, Maho-san, but it is my pleasure.”
Theo held up his finger.
“Before anything else, I’m gonna have to ask if you have a change of clothes on you– I don’t reckon you’d like me messing up your car seats. “
“I have clothes in the trunk– there might be something your size.”
She nodded to the car she came in with: an unassuming mid-size sedan that Theo thought couldn’t possibly have accounted for the power he’d heard come up.
“Right, ‘might’ as the operative word– excuse me.”
Luckily for him, or to the credit of the Japanese, there was a shirt and jeans his size stuffed in a duffel bag. He did not fail to notice the set of implements that just happened to be useful for breaking and entering, and the big medic bag tucked in between. Change of clothes acquired, he made for an alley right by their position, sandwiched between two walls where he could change out of view.
Raised as he was to the military life, one didn’t get too shy about stripping down in front of others, but he didn’t want to embarrass himself on first contact with the local liaison any more then he already had.
He was just about done when he heard Maho call out from the road.
“I advise you to hurry before we start drawing attention. Police radio is talking about the man who fell off the bridge.”
Radio, must be how she found me. Guess that chase was a little conspicuous.
Theo emerged out of the alley in skinny jeans that were a bit too tight and a shirt that didn’t quite fit right, but at least now he could probably get around without drawing weird looks.
Maho gestured to the clothes he changed out of then to the trunk before entering the car.
“Just toss it in. Time to go, Theo-san.”
Theo complied, finding a plastic sack to dump the sopping ball in. He stole a quick glance at his watch, noticing the hands ticking over to two minutes after their supposed link-up. Going backwards a bit, that meant that Maho must have found him lying by the river right at the nick of time.
Did she really go out of her way to meet on the dot?
With that kind of diligence, then he really might have to give the Japanese credit. He made his way to the front passenger-side, and was reminded of another oddity of this country as he got in: right hand driving. He gave his regards to his new acquaintance as he put on his seatbelt, looking a little bit too fresh still.
“Much obliged.”
No sooner had he strapped himself in that he learned why exactly the car had given him the impression of a powerplant mismatch. Maho put her foot on the gas, and what sounded like an inline-four roared.
With a final squeal of tortured rubber, the suspicious pair by the riverside sped away from the scene.

***
On a rooftop not far away, a camera belonging to a local was set up to record the bridge, just happening to catch audio of the pair’s departure mixed in with the buzz and bustle of traffic.
The recording would have been the same as any other, if not for the man falling off the bridge, construction workers coming back to work to find their scaffolding in tatters, and for a short stretch in the afternoon what sounded like fireworks getting set off for about twenty minutes.
The hobby videographer, made busy by a day job that didn’t let him watch more than a few dozen minutes of his hours-long footage anyway, never found it easy to answer what compelled him to shoot the footage.
A co-worker once asked about it, and he mumbled something about being fascinated by the endless traceries of metal and meat zipping past, captured forever in the forty-five millimetres of light-sensing silicon. Far from finding it interesting, the co-worker could only look at him weird.
The video-maker himself would never find out, but his daily ritual had already captured some very interesting things indeed, even as it would go on to record the seaside city of Hokishi in blissful ignorance.