Post by Dome on Oct 24, 2011 6:27:10 GMT -5
Back Story:(Warning its a novel 
)
Agent McMahon looks at his watch as he stands in the hall outside the classroom. He had the principal unlock the door and leave. His plan was to enter the second floor history classroom with only seconds left before the bell was to ring to cause a distraction and to throw his quarry off balance. ’I don’t like going in on his turf but they said this is the best way. Gotta remember to stick to what the nerds gave me, not back down. They say the information is solid, the computer doesn’t fail. It just needs someone to deliver it properly.’
Taking a breath McMahon swings the door open as wide as possible letting it slam against the outside wall and steps in to what is the back of the classroom. The students startled by the noise of the slammed door turn their heads to look at who caused the noise. The teacher, a middle aged looking African American man with an afro, full beard and hair so white it looked almost silver in the bad florescent lighting of the public school classroom, offered a short glance in the man’s direction but made no comment and no move at all.
Only seconds later just as McMahon had planned, the bell rang. Unfortunately the unruly mob of students leaving the class distracting the teacher, did not take place as he expected. Instead, as if reacting to some Pavlovian conditioning, the entire class snapped their heads back forward to their teacher, sat straighter in their chairs, and waited patiently.
Addressing the class, the white haired men took one step forward reached down to straighten his tie and then said, “Remember class, to read chapter 12 on the War of 1812. There will be a discussion on Monday,” he says in a clear authoritative tone with a look to match, barely detectable behind all the facial hair. Continuing he says, “your only other mission from me,” he pauses and allows a smile to etch his features although it is hard to tell through the beard, “is to enjoy your weekend.” He salutes the class and then says, “DISSMISSED!”
As one the class rises from their seats and in a single file orderly manner exits the class by the door closest to the front of the room, each pausing long enough to offer the teacher a short salute before ducking out into the hall and joining the unruly mob that was out there. Although it seemed like it took longer, the entire dismissal process only lasted about a minute.
Acting as if he was ignoring his visitor, the teacher begins to straighten papers and other items on his desk. Once the last student leaves the room, and the door closes behind him, Agent McMahon begins to walk up the isles of desks towards the front of the room. “That was impre…” he begins before getting interrupted.
“So what can a high school history teacher do for the CIA today,” the teacher asks as he lines up several freshly sharpened pencils on his desk.
McMahon answers, “CI..Who said I was CIA?”
“Sir, no one comes to this school in a suit unless they are from the School Board or law enforcement. School Board personnel travel in packs, and local law enforcement would send uniformed officers into a classroom leaving the suits in the main office. Also, I recognize that shade of black. As I am sure you know, judging by the files under your arm, I’m no stranger to spooks. You may not be CIA but you’re definitely from one of the alphabet soup agencies. The question remains, what can I do for you?”
Agent McMahon was obviously the one off balance now, he thinks, ‘this is not how this was supposed to go. I need to get control again.’
Pulling one of the folders to the top and opening it he says, “my name is Agent McMahon, I’m looking for Corporal Antoine Stokes?”
Stiffening slightly the teacher, trying to hide his reaction reaches up and rubs his chin. He responds curtly, “Agent McMahon, you got the wrong guy. Have a nice day.”
McMahon looks at him then down at the file, “oh my mistake,” pulling another file to the top of the pile in his hands he opens it and says, “Master Sergeant Anthony Simmons. I have something to discuss with you.”
Simmons responds, “I haven’t been Master Sergeant in ten years, I’m retired and I’m not interested in your offer.”
McMahon shrugs, “what offer? I was sent to discuss something with you.” Opening the first folder he tosses it on the teacher’s desk. Pointing at it he says, “Specialist Andrew Smith, Army Ranger, served during World War II, brutal close combat specialist. His unit called him Wrecker. Said if he got close enough to land a punch on an enemy he was wrecked. Retired at the age of 50. Obituary said he died of a massive coronary 2 years later in 1954. Never married, no children on record.”
Not giving Simmons a chance to respond or think, Agent McMahon seemed to be hitting his stride now, no longer the one off balance, he tossed the next open folder on the desk, “Corporal Antoine Stokes. Joined the Army in 1959, and was immediately sent to Vietnam. He earned the name Ghost. His commanding officer said he could go anywhere through any jungle or terrain and not even leave one leaf over turned or one broken branch. He could sneak right up behind a target and eliminate him, walk back out and aside from the body no one would know he was there. Presumed KIA before the end of the war.”
And tossing the last one on top of the others he says, “Master Sergeant Anthony Simmons, Army Ranger Sniper, AKA Longshot. You joined up in 85 right? An artist with a rife during Desert Storm. Reports say you could squeeze more range from a weapon than any other Ranger. Retired in 2005 been teaching history in Georgia ever since.”
Simmons looks at the last file open to his picture. He knew that it was his own face staring up at him only completely devoid of hair, but the picture just looked like an average 25 year old guy. “Why are you showing me my service record and the records of these other guys? Sounds like they were good soldiers, but what do they have to do with me.”
McMahon says, “I’m glad you ask. You see, the alphabet soup agency I work for has a pack of nerds. I know that’s not ‘P.C.’ but it is what it is. So anyway, this pack of nerds developed this big old computer. And they spend all day pumping data into this computer and all this computer does is look for patterns. See from what I understand Wrecker had a problem with finger prints. Seems there are a set on file, but there are no distinguishable markings in them. Means even if Wrecker was right here with us and we took his fingerprints, we couldn’t match them.”
“To the computer that was nothing special, but then the computer hit Ghost’s file. Well from what the nerds tell me Ghost’s file would have brought up a flag anyway as he was listed KIA but this is a man that could walk 5 feet away from his team and disappear so his KIA status would have flagged anyway as questionable, but here you have the same fingerprint problem as Wrecker, so it got tagged and pinned to Wrecker for further analysis. It seems your fingerprints have the same issue. No other soldiers ever have had this finger print problem.” McMahon walks back and forth in front of the desk.
“So from what I’m told the computer tied the three files together and then began to do further research. The computer tried to compare the photo’s from the three files, see if maybe there was a family resemblance or something. The computer using the newest facial recognition software produced an answer that no one believed. They ran it three times on that system, and then they ran the pictures on three different computers belonging to three different agencies. Seems all of the computers reported the same thing. There is a resemblance, but not a family one. They say that the three photos are exactly the same person,” McMahon looks at Simmons for a reaction.
Simmons sits in the chair behind his desk and pulls all the pictures from the files and lays them out next to each other but says nothing.
McMahon can tell he has Simmons on the rope, “you may have gotten away with it, except for the fact that your abilities that seem extraordinary are exactly what we are looking for. Had we not been targeting activities that seemed beyond the normal, you may have slipped through the system. But your unique abilities to disappear, to put tremendous power behind close combat fighting, your prowess with a rifle, not to mention your many years of experience are needed and wanted by the government. Your pension is being suspended, as of tomorrow morning; consider yourself back on active duty.”
Simmons shakes his head, “I should have just stayed away.” Looking up he meets McMahon’s gaze for probably the first time since the conversation started. “I loved being a Ranger. It’s why I kept going back. I love this country.”
Looking back down at the papers and pictures he re-files everything and stacks them neatly on his desk, “I suppose it was only a matter of time before Simmons had to go and I would start over and rejoin anyway. What does the government want with me?”
McMahon walks up and shakes his head, “that’s not my place. I was only sent to to talk with you about your history and let you know you are active again.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a business card that says S.P.I.R.I.T. on the front. On the back it says a time and a place. “go to that address tomorrow. You’ll learn all you need to know,” he reaches down and picks up the files, “it was a pleasure Master Sergeant. We probably won’t meet up again. Don’t forget that address tomorrow,” and then Agent McMahon walks towards the door. As he reached for the handle he turns back and says, “just in case you’re thinking about it, I wouldn’t try your disappearing act again. The nerds and the computer will find you again and the next recruiter may not be so cordial.” Then he walks out of the classroom leaving a deafeated looking Simmons sitting staring at the word S.P.I.R.I.T. across the business card.
)Agent McMahon looks at his watch as he stands in the hall outside the classroom. He had the principal unlock the door and leave. His plan was to enter the second floor history classroom with only seconds left before the bell was to ring to cause a distraction and to throw his quarry off balance. ’I don’t like going in on his turf but they said this is the best way. Gotta remember to stick to what the nerds gave me, not back down. They say the information is solid, the computer doesn’t fail. It just needs someone to deliver it properly.’
Taking a breath McMahon swings the door open as wide as possible letting it slam against the outside wall and steps in to what is the back of the classroom. The students startled by the noise of the slammed door turn their heads to look at who caused the noise. The teacher, a middle aged looking African American man with an afro, full beard and hair so white it looked almost silver in the bad florescent lighting of the public school classroom, offered a short glance in the man’s direction but made no comment and no move at all.
Only seconds later just as McMahon had planned, the bell rang. Unfortunately the unruly mob of students leaving the class distracting the teacher, did not take place as he expected. Instead, as if reacting to some Pavlovian conditioning, the entire class snapped their heads back forward to their teacher, sat straighter in their chairs, and waited patiently.
Addressing the class, the white haired men took one step forward reached down to straighten his tie and then said, “Remember class, to read chapter 12 on the War of 1812. There will be a discussion on Monday,” he says in a clear authoritative tone with a look to match, barely detectable behind all the facial hair. Continuing he says, “your only other mission from me,” he pauses and allows a smile to etch his features although it is hard to tell through the beard, “is to enjoy your weekend.” He salutes the class and then says, “DISSMISSED!”
As one the class rises from their seats and in a single file orderly manner exits the class by the door closest to the front of the room, each pausing long enough to offer the teacher a short salute before ducking out into the hall and joining the unruly mob that was out there. Although it seemed like it took longer, the entire dismissal process only lasted about a minute.
Acting as if he was ignoring his visitor, the teacher begins to straighten papers and other items on his desk. Once the last student leaves the room, and the door closes behind him, Agent McMahon begins to walk up the isles of desks towards the front of the room. “That was impre…” he begins before getting interrupted.
“So what can a high school history teacher do for the CIA today,” the teacher asks as he lines up several freshly sharpened pencils on his desk.
McMahon answers, “CI..Who said I was CIA?”
“Sir, no one comes to this school in a suit unless they are from the School Board or law enforcement. School Board personnel travel in packs, and local law enforcement would send uniformed officers into a classroom leaving the suits in the main office. Also, I recognize that shade of black. As I am sure you know, judging by the files under your arm, I’m no stranger to spooks. You may not be CIA but you’re definitely from one of the alphabet soup agencies. The question remains, what can I do for you?”
Agent McMahon was obviously the one off balance now, he thinks, ‘this is not how this was supposed to go. I need to get control again.’
Pulling one of the folders to the top and opening it he says, “my name is Agent McMahon, I’m looking for Corporal Antoine Stokes?”
Stiffening slightly the teacher, trying to hide his reaction reaches up and rubs his chin. He responds curtly, “Agent McMahon, you got the wrong guy. Have a nice day.”
McMahon looks at him then down at the file, “oh my mistake,” pulling another file to the top of the pile in his hands he opens it and says, “Master Sergeant Anthony Simmons. I have something to discuss with you.”
Simmons responds, “I haven’t been Master Sergeant in ten years, I’m retired and I’m not interested in your offer.”
McMahon shrugs, “what offer? I was sent to discuss something with you.” Opening the first folder he tosses it on the teacher’s desk. Pointing at it he says, “Specialist Andrew Smith, Army Ranger, served during World War II, brutal close combat specialist. His unit called him Wrecker. Said if he got close enough to land a punch on an enemy he was wrecked. Retired at the age of 50. Obituary said he died of a massive coronary 2 years later in 1954. Never married, no children on record.”
Not giving Simmons a chance to respond or think, Agent McMahon seemed to be hitting his stride now, no longer the one off balance, he tossed the next open folder on the desk, “Corporal Antoine Stokes. Joined the Army in 1959, and was immediately sent to Vietnam. He earned the name Ghost. His commanding officer said he could go anywhere through any jungle or terrain and not even leave one leaf over turned or one broken branch. He could sneak right up behind a target and eliminate him, walk back out and aside from the body no one would know he was there. Presumed KIA before the end of the war.”
And tossing the last one on top of the others he says, “Master Sergeant Anthony Simmons, Army Ranger Sniper, AKA Longshot. You joined up in 85 right? An artist with a rife during Desert Storm. Reports say you could squeeze more range from a weapon than any other Ranger. Retired in 2005 been teaching history in Georgia ever since.”
Simmons looks at the last file open to his picture. He knew that it was his own face staring up at him only completely devoid of hair, but the picture just looked like an average 25 year old guy. “Why are you showing me my service record and the records of these other guys? Sounds like they were good soldiers, but what do they have to do with me.”
McMahon says, “I’m glad you ask. You see, the alphabet soup agency I work for has a pack of nerds. I know that’s not ‘P.C.’ but it is what it is. So anyway, this pack of nerds developed this big old computer. And they spend all day pumping data into this computer and all this computer does is look for patterns. See from what I understand Wrecker had a problem with finger prints. Seems there are a set on file, but there are no distinguishable markings in them. Means even if Wrecker was right here with us and we took his fingerprints, we couldn’t match them.”
“To the computer that was nothing special, but then the computer hit Ghost’s file. Well from what the nerds tell me Ghost’s file would have brought up a flag anyway as he was listed KIA but this is a man that could walk 5 feet away from his team and disappear so his KIA status would have flagged anyway as questionable, but here you have the same fingerprint problem as Wrecker, so it got tagged and pinned to Wrecker for further analysis. It seems your fingerprints have the same issue. No other soldiers ever have had this finger print problem.” McMahon walks back and forth in front of the desk.
“So from what I’m told the computer tied the three files together and then began to do further research. The computer tried to compare the photo’s from the three files, see if maybe there was a family resemblance or something. The computer using the newest facial recognition software produced an answer that no one believed. They ran it three times on that system, and then they ran the pictures on three different computers belonging to three different agencies. Seems all of the computers reported the same thing. There is a resemblance, but not a family one. They say that the three photos are exactly the same person,” McMahon looks at Simmons for a reaction.
Simmons sits in the chair behind his desk and pulls all the pictures from the files and lays them out next to each other but says nothing.
McMahon can tell he has Simmons on the rope, “you may have gotten away with it, except for the fact that your abilities that seem extraordinary are exactly what we are looking for. Had we not been targeting activities that seemed beyond the normal, you may have slipped through the system. But your unique abilities to disappear, to put tremendous power behind close combat fighting, your prowess with a rifle, not to mention your many years of experience are needed and wanted by the government. Your pension is being suspended, as of tomorrow morning; consider yourself back on active duty.”
Simmons shakes his head, “I should have just stayed away.” Looking up he meets McMahon’s gaze for probably the first time since the conversation started. “I loved being a Ranger. It’s why I kept going back. I love this country.”
Looking back down at the papers and pictures he re-files everything and stacks them neatly on his desk, “I suppose it was only a matter of time before Simmons had to go and I would start over and rejoin anyway. What does the government want with me?”
McMahon walks up and shakes his head, “that’s not my place. I was only sent to to talk with you about your history and let you know you are active again.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a business card that says S.P.I.R.I.T. on the front. On the back it says a time and a place. “go to that address tomorrow. You’ll learn all you need to know,” he reaches down and picks up the files, “it was a pleasure Master Sergeant. We probably won’t meet up again. Don’t forget that address tomorrow,” and then Agent McMahon walks towards the door. As he reached for the handle he turns back and says, “just in case you’re thinking about it, I wouldn’t try your disappearing act again. The nerds and the computer will find you again and the next recruiter may not be so cordial.” Then he walks out of the classroom leaving a deafeated looking Simmons sitting staring at the word S.P.I.R.I.T. across the business card.