Chapter 6 - The Truth My Father Took to His Grave
General Mercer stared at the message on my phone for so long that I began to wonder whether he intended to answer at all.
Then he said, "Your grandfather's name was Samuel Wells."
I felt my jaw tighten.
"I know my grandfather's name."
"He served as a civilian communications engineer during the Cold War."
I stared at him.
"Grandpa Sam repaired telephone lines."
"Among other things."
I shook my head.
"No more riddles."
Mercer nodded.
"You're right."
He led me into an empty office.
Whitcomb followed.
The general closed the door.
Then he sat down slowly, resting both hands on his cane.
"Samuel Wells discovered irregularities in a military communications procurement program in the late 1970s."
I folded my arms.
"What kind of irregularities?"
"Contractors charging the government for equipment that didn't exist.
Equipment that failed testing.
And secure communications components that were being diverted through unauthorized channels."
I stared at him.
"Fraud."
"Yes.
And worse."
He paused.
"Your grandfather believed some of those components were being sold overseas."
I looked toward Whitcomb.
She didn't interrupt.
Mercer continued.
"He collected records.
He reported what he'd found.
Then his car went off a bridge."
A cold feeling spread through my chest.
"No."
Mercer lowered his eyes.
"The accident investigation found no evidence of criminal involvement."
"But you think somebody killed him?"
"I think his death deserved a more thorough investigation than it received."
I sat down.
For a moment, I felt nine years old again.
Listening to adults whisper about things they wouldn't explain.
Grandpa Sam had always smelled like pipe tobacco and peppermint.
He used to call me Little Bird.
He taught me how to make paper airplanes.
When he died, Mama told me he had gone to heaven.
I remembered asking whether heaven had telephones.
She cried.
Now I was being told that his death might have been connected to the same system that later betrayed my military team.
"How does Crawford fit into this?"
Mercer took a breath.
"His father was a senior procurement officer connected to the original program."
I stared.
"His father?"
"Vice Admiral Robert Crawford."
I had heard the name.
Anyone who studied Navy history knew it.
Decorated officer.
Influential administrator.
A man whose portrait still hung in several military buildings.
I looked at Mercer.
"Are you telling me James Crawford inherited his father's corruption?"
"I'm telling you the same network survived long enough to operate under different names."
Whitcomb leaned forward.
"There's evidence suggesting that several companies involved in the original procurement fraud later became part of the Arclight network."
I felt sick.
Generations.
Decades.
Families destroyed while the people responsible accumulated power.
I looked at Mercer.
"And my father?"
"Your father found some of Samuel's original records after your grandfather died.
He tried to reopen the matter.
When he discovered similar vulnerabilities appearing in newer communications systems, he began documenting them."
"Why didn't he go to the authorities?"
"He did."
I stared at Mercer.
"What happened?"
Mercer looked down.
"His reports were buried."
I thought about my father.
The quiet man who fixed radios on Saturday afternoons.
The man who told me never to cheat at cards because winning wasn't worth much if you had to steal it.
I remembered the night he died.
A heart attack.
Sudden.
Unexpected.
He had been forty-seven.
Doctors said his heart had simply failed.
I had never questioned it.
Now every memory felt unstable.
"Are you saying my father was murdered?"
Mercer met my eyes.
"I don't know."
It was the first answer he'd given that I fully believed.
He continued.
"But I know his final report reached someone in the military oversight system."
"Who?"
Mercer hesitated.
Then he answered.
"Me."
I stared at him.
"What?"
"I was a major at the time.
Your father contacted me through a protected reporting channel.
He believed the communications vulnerability could place military personnel at risk."
I couldn't speak.
"He died before we could meet."
I looked away.
For years, I had imagined my father died without unfinished business.
Without secrets.
Without enemies.
Now I realized how little I had known.
Mercer leaned forward.
"Tara, I joined the Fallen Angel investigation because of your father's report."
My head turned.
"What?"
"I believed the corruption network had resurfaced.
And when your team discovered the archive overseas, I thought we finally had enough evidence to expose it."
I stared at him.
"Did you know who I was when you assigned me to the mission?"
He closed his eyes.
There it was.
The answer.
I stood.
"You knew."
"Tara—"
"You knew I was his daughter."
"Yes."
My voice rose.
"And you let me walk into that operation without telling me?"
Mercer stood with difficulty.
"I believed your presence was unrelated to the investigation."
"Bull!"
Whitcomb stepped forward.
"Tara—"
I pointed toward Mercer.
"He knew my father.
He knew the family name.
He knew the reports.
And he watched me go into that valley without telling me a damn thing."
Mercer's face tightened.
"You're right."
I almost hated him for admitting it.
He continued.
"I made a terrible judgment.
I convinced myself I could keep the personal history separate from the operation."
I stared at him.
"Eleven people died."
His eyes filled.
"I know."
"And you've spent thirteen years hiding."
"Yes."
I took a breath.
"Then you owe them the truth."
Mercer lowered his head.
"That's why I'm here."
Saturday morning arrived beneath a sky filled with low gray clouds.
I hadn't slept.
At 5:40 a.m., Michael sent a photograph of the wooden angel.
It was exactly as I remembered.
Uneven wings.
Crooked face.
A tiny scratch beneath the chin where I'd accidentally slipped with the carving knife.
He had found it on a shelf above the garage office.
The little sculpture had sat there for years, collecting dust.
I stared at the photograph.
Then Michael called.
"You really made this thing?"
I smiled faintly.
"Unfortunately."
"It's hideous."
"Thank you."
"One wing's bigger than the other."
"I was nine."
He laughed.
For three precious seconds, everything felt normal.
Then he grew serious.
"Deputies are still here.
They checked the building.
Nobody's come back."
"Good."
"What do you want me to do with the angel?"
"Don't damage it."
"Tara, I already noticed something."
My stomach tightened.
"What?"
"There's a seam along the bottom."
I sat up.
"Can you see inside?"
"Not without opening it."
"Don't."
He sighed.
"You're killing me."
"I know."
"Okay.
I'll wait."
I paused.
"Michael?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
He was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, "You don't have to thank me for being your brother."
My throat tightened.
The call ended.
And I realized something.
For thirteen years, I had tried to protect my family by keeping them away from my military past.
But the secrets had reached them anyway.
Now the only way forward was together.
The third competition round began at 8:00 a.m.
The course was more difficult than anything we'd faced so far.
Targets ranged from six hundred to one thousand yards.
Some remained stationary.
Others moved across reinforced tracks.
Weather conditions were changing rapidly.
A strong coastal wind shifted across the range.
The competition officials had finally removed the artificial wind machines.
Helen Brooks personally inspected each firing lane.
And a new independent scoring team had been assigned.
Crawford stood beneath the command tent.
He no longer smiled when he saw me.
That was fine.
I wasn't smiling either.
Calloway approached.
"Sleep?"
"No."
"Breakfast?"
"Coffee."
"That's not breakfast."
"Tell my mother."
He laughed.
Then his expression grew serious.
"Word is Crawford's trying to get the final moved up."
I frowned.
"Why?"
"Sunday morning instead of afternoon."
My stomach tightened.
The earlier time would leave less opportunity for formal review before prize verification.
And I suspected that was exactly what Crawford wanted.
"Who told you?"
"Monroe heard the officials discussing it."
I looked toward the command tent.
Crawford was speaking with Redding.
Both men looked tense.
"Anything else?"
Calloway nodded.
"There's a new competitor."
I turned.
"What?"
"Replacement entry.
Late authorization."
I frowned.
"That's against the rules."
"Apparently there's an emergency exception."
I looked at him.
"Who?"
Calloway handed me a printed roster.
I read the name.
Then read it again.
VICTOR R. SHAW.
My chest tightened.
The same Victor Shaw who was supposed to have died in Afghanistan.
The same man whose watch appeared in the photograph from my mother's hospital.
I looked up.
"Where is he?"
Calloway pointed toward the equipment inspection station.
A man stood beside a black rifle case.
Tall.
Lean.
Gray hair cut close to the scalp.
He wore dark sunglasses and a plain shooting jacket.
His left hand rested on the case.
A large black watch circled his wrist.
I could see the rectangular face.
And the silver edge.
For a moment, the entire range disappeared.
I was back in Afghanistan.
Dust.
Smoke.
A radio dying in my ear.
Shaw crouching beside a communications terminal.
Telling me to move.
Now he was standing fifty yards away.
Alive.
Competing for the same prize.
I started toward him.
Calloway followed.
"Tara?"
I didn't answer.
Shaw looked up as I approached.
He removed his sunglasses.
Our eyes met.
He smiled faintly.
"Hello, Angel."
I stopped.
For thirteen years, I had imagined what I might say to him.
I had imagined demanding an explanation.
I had imagined asking why he left us.
I had imagined whether I could ever forgive him.
But standing there, looking into the face of a dead man, I found only one question.
"How many of us did you sell?"
Shaw's smile disappeared.
He looked over my shoulder.
Crawford was watching.
Redding too.
Then Shaw leaned closer.
"All eleven."
My blood turned cold.
May you like
Before I could move, he added something else.
"And if you don't lose today, your mother makes twelve."
