Chapter 3
The elementary school gymnasium provided me with haunting memories of a distant past. Thirty-seven science projects covered folding tables arranged in rows, each one labeled with construction paper signs and glitter that got everywhere.
Parents clustered in small groups, their voices echoing off the cinder block walls.
I stood near the twins' robot display, watching Jase and Bonnie chat with another couple by the water fountain experiment three tables over.
They'd already seen the presentation, congratulated the kids on their third-place ribbon.
Now they networked, because I guess that's what parents did at these things.
"Uncle Code!" Lachlan bounced up to me, the yellow ribbon clutched in his fist. "We got third place! Out of thirty-seven projects!"
His excitement was contagious. The kid practically vibrated with pride.
"That's great, buddy. Your robot did a great job."
"It only dropped one aluminum can." He held up a single finger. "Just one!”
Amber stood behind her brother, arms crossed, a scowl carved deep into her face. She looked exactly like Bonnie when Jase forgot to take out the trash last night.
"Third place," she muttered. "We should have won."
"Third out of thirty-seven is really good," Lachlan said.
"Good isn't first." Amber's jaw set tight. "We made an actual working robot."
Lachlan's shoulders dropped. His sister's anger deflated him faster than a punctured balloon.
"Hey, Lachlan, why don't you go show your parents the ribbon?" I nodded toward Jase and Bonnie. "I bet they'd love to see it again."
He brightened immediately and took off running, nearly knocking over a solar system model made of Styrofoam balls.
I turned to Amber. "Want to take a walk?"
"Why?"
"Thought we might check out the competition. All of it."
Her eyes narrowed, calculating. Smart kid. She knew I had an angle but couldn't figure it out yet.
"Fine."
We started with the third-grade projects. Potato batteries, magnets picking up paperclips, plants grown under different-colored lights. Basic stuff. Amber barely glanced at them.
The other fourth-grade projects showed more sophistication. A kid named Trevor had built a working telegraph. Another girl created a water filtration system using sand and charcoal.
"These are better," Amber admitted.
“Than yours?”
“No, but they’re getting there,” she admitted.
The fifth-grade section was where things got interesting. More complex concepts, better execution. We methodically worked through every ribbon winner, regardless of grade level.
We stopped at the second-place overall winner. A fifth-grade girl named Samantha had constructed a miniature greenhouse with automatic vents. Small motors opened windows when the thermometer inside got too hot. She'd used the same kit as the twins' robot, but her code looked cleaner.
"Evaluate it," I said.
"Why?"
"Just do it."
Amber circled the display twice. She read every line of the poster board explanation. Studied the wiring through the clear plastic walls. Even lifted the base to check underneath.
"Her code is simpler," she finally said. "She didn't write the same commands over and over like we did. She used something called loops to make it repeat automatically."
"What else?"
"The construction is cleaner. No visible hot glue. All the wires are organized with those little plastic ties." She frowned. "Mom wouldn't let me use the soldering iron. We had to twist wires together and use caps instead."
"Smart mom."
Amber shot me a look that said she disagreed.
We moved to the first-place winner. A sixth-grade boy named Brian had built something I hadn't expected from a kid his age.
A mechanical hand made from fishing line, drinking straws, and some 3D-printed pieces.
Pull one string, the index finger curled.
Pull another, the thumb moved. Simple but clever.
"How old is this kid?" I asked.
Amber checked the placard. "Twelve."
"He made this?"
"His dad probably helped." Bitterness crept into her voice. "That's cheating."
I looked at her and raised an eyebrow.
“Okay, okay. You helped, so it’s stupid for me to say it would be cheating if he had help.”
“There you go. Now evaluate it.”
She spent even longer on this one. Tested each finger's range of motion. Examined how the fishing line threaded through the straw segments. Read the detailed explanation about helping people who'd lost hands.
"It's good," she finally admitted. The words came out like pulled teeth.
"Why?"
"Because it actually helps people. Our robot sorts recycling, which is useful, but this could change someone's life. Plus, it's all mechanical. No batteries, no computer, nothing that can break or need programming."
"So, it deserved to win?"
Amber kicked at the floor. "Yeah. I guess."
"You know why I had you look at these?"
"To make me feel bad about losing?"
I almost smiled. "No. You need to know your competition. Understand what you're up against. Learn from what beat you."
"Like knowing your enemy in the Army?"
The question caught me off guard. Most kids didn't make that connection so fast.
"Yeah. Exactly like that."
We stood there, both staring at the mechanical hand. Some kid across the gym knocked over his project and started crying. The sound echoed off the walls.
"Jase was really good at that, wasn't he? Knowing his enemies?" Amber didn't look at me when she asked.
"One of the best."
"I know what SEALs do." Her voice dropped low. "I looked it up. They go after terrorists and bad guys in other countries. Really dangerous stuff."
"Amber..."
"I'm not stupid. He'd disappear for weeks. Mom would be stressed out and on edge the whole time, snapping at us for little things. I knew he was somewhere dangerous. I worried about him all the time."
My chest tightened. This ten-year-old had carried that weight, that knowledge, probably for years.
"I'm glad he's retired now," she continued. "I'm glad we moved to Jasper Creek where nothing bad happens. Where he just works at a regular security company and comes home every night."
I thought about the operations Jase had run, the close calls I'd only heard about through family channels. Yeah, retirement was the right call, especially with these kids.
"Me too," I said.
She finally looked up at me. "Were you like him? In the Army? Did you go after bad guys?"
"A different kind of bad guys. Digital ones mostly."
"That sounds safer."
I thought about the times I'd been in the field, embedded with special operations units in Afghanistan, setting up secure communications while taking mortar fire.
The server farms in Eastern Europe I'd infiltrated to plant monitoring software, one wrong move away from ending up in an unmarked grave.
The cyber-attacks that could have crippled power grids, poisoned water supplies, crashed financial systems. Safe was relative.
"Sometimes," I said.
Jase appeared around a display of mold growing on different types of bread. "There you guys are. We're heading to Pearl's for dinner. You coming, Code?"
"I'll pass. See you at home."
"You sure? Pearl makes a mean chicken-fried steak."
"I'm good. Want to walk around town a bit."
Bonnie joined him, Lachlan trailing behind still clutching his ribbon. "You should come. We're going to celebrate. I get the biggest sundae they have."
"Next time."
They knew better than to push. Military families understood when someone needed space.
"Don't get lost," Jase said. "Town's bigger than it looks."
That was a lie. We both knew it. But I appreciated the attempt at humor.
After they left, I headed outside. The spring air felt good after the gymnasium's recycled staleness. The school sat on the town's edge, about five miles from the square. Six miles total to walk back to Jase's if I went through town, and I planned to.
Movement helped me think. In Afghanistan, I'd walked the perimeter of our FOB every morning. At Fort Gordon, I'd run the same five-mile loop before sunrise. Here, I had sidewalks and trees that weren't trying to hide IEDs.
About halfway to town, Thatcher's Automotive appeared on my right. Three bays, all open, country music drifting from inside. A car sat on the lift in the middle bay. Even from the street, I could tell it needed work. A lot of work.
I found myself walking closer. The car was a 1970 Plymouth Barracuda, green paint oxidized to almost gray, rust eating through the wheel wells. It looked like someone had parked it in a field twenty years ago and forgotten about it.
A woman stood under the lift next to a weathered man in coveralls. She had grease on her hands and a red shop rag hanging from her back pocket. They studied the undercarriage with the intensity of surgeons examining a patient.
The woman spotted me the second I entered the bay. Her awareness was sharp, trained. She cataloged my presence but kept talking to the mechanic.
"Frame's solid. No structural rust. That's surprising given the body condition." She pointed to something I couldn't see from my angle. "Transmission pan has some corrosion but nothing fatal. Engine mounts look original but serviceable."
"Could be a good flip," the man said. "If the price is right."
"The price is always right when you know how to negotiate, Jim."
She turned to face me while wiping her hands on the shop rag. The movement was smooth, practiced. "I'm Lisa Thatcher. You look lost."
"Not lost. Just walking."
"New in town, though."
It wasn't a question. I nodded.
"What brings you to my shop? Looking for work or something?"
I glanced at the Barracuda. "Nope. What's the plan for this?"
"Full restoration. Then we'll sell it to someone who appreciates American muscle." She tilted her head. "You got a name, or should I just call you the mysterious stranger?"
"Code."
She waited for more. I didn't offer it.
"Code. That's it? Like Cher or Madonna?"
"Drakos."