Beirut was not welcoming; it was heat, grit, and the smell of diesel mixed with sweat, all of it soaked in tension. The docks were a forest of cranes and antennas and temporary American flags, a floating suburb of ships and pallets. Gulls barked, drifting on air currents of bilingual discourse and tense static. Pointing sailors and Lebanese port workers shouted over each other, and in the middle of it all were stacks of crates stamped with a logo Tyson hadn’t seen since the medical class back in boot: CRD.

  He stood on the ramp of the 5-ton with his clipboard, watching his trucks offloading. They’d chained the fleet down in Jacksonville, babied it across the Atlantic, and now it was a mad rush to get it off the ship before the port got shelled or the Lebanese police decided they were in the way. Dust clung to his teeth. The sun was already too bright.

  “Staff Sergeant! This yours?” A young sergeant waved him over to a line of pallets. “This all says ‘medical’, but it ain’t on the Navy manifest.”

  Tyson looked. The crates were metal, sealed, not the usual cardboard or particleboard with IV bags. Stenciled letters: Caliber Research & Development. Underneath in smaller print: For Forward Integration / Do Not Store.

  “Where’s it going?”

  “‘Forward medical nodes,’” the sergeant read off the cargo tag, clearly unimpressed. “Wherever the fuck that is.”

  “Of course.” His jaw flexed, though he signed for it anyway.

  He was about to tell his Marines which trucks to stage it on when he saw her. She strode down the pier, queen of the surf. Semi-civilian attire but nothing soft — tailored rugged slacks, boots dusty from actual work, blouse rolled at the sleeves. Clipboard in one hand, lanyard around her neck with a badge that made Marines move aside. Her dreadlocks were pulled back tight; sunglasses hid her eyes. Two CRD techs followed her, both pale and sweaty.

  “That’s ours,” she said without a preamble, her voice calm like the rest of them weren’t scrambling. Her accent was East Coast, educated. “CRD consignment. I need it on a vehicle with shock absorption, not on that flat rack.”

  Tyson looked up from his own board. “Ma’am, we’ve got a process—”

  “So do we,” she said. “And I need that equipment operational inland by sixteen hundred. Your people are going there anyway. It makes sense to consolidate.” She finally looked at him. He recognized something in the look; the hierarchical kind. She was used to people doing what she asked.

  A radio popped over her shoulder in fast Arabic; she ignored it. Tyson glanced at the stamped label again. Forward integration. Not a store. That was weird; even for medical. But the battalion CO had said civilians were attached, and everything here was a hurry-up-and-do-it.

  “We’ll make room.” He nodded once.

  She didn’t thank him. She just gave him a short, professional nod, turned, and kept moving down the pier, directing her men to tag other crates. Marines watched her go — partly because she was a woman, partly because she didn’t seem afraid of anything.

  He watched her too, felt a flicker of dislike, and couldn’t have said why. Maybe it was that logo. Maybe it was Cervantes’ voice from seven years ago in his head — “We worked with some outfits in Da Nang who didn’t exist. They asked too many questions and told us nothing. Never trust the ones with better gear than you got. They ain’t here to bleed with you.” Cervantes had called them “shadow outfits.” CRD looked like one of those. And now they were riding in his trucks.

  “Hey, Staff Sergeant?” One of his corporals, Lennox, jogged up. “They’re saying some of the embassy guys got pulled out of the rubble yesterday. Marines. Not all accounted for, though. They’re spreading ’em out around the city.”

  Tyson’s head snapped, the sergeant had his full attention. “Embassy?”

  “Yeah. Suicide bomber. Big blast.” Lennox lowered his voice.

  “I knew there was an attack, but— Damn.“ Tyson’s free hand rested on his hip, head hung.

  “Oh, yeah! I heard some got pulled to secure an undisclosed site. Protective detail. Maybe out by the airport. Maybe up in the mountains. Nobody’s saying.”

  Tyson’s heartbeat changed. Alex. Embassy duty, but the location was still unknown the last time they spoke. This assignment was perfect for a bilingual, squared-away corporal on his way to sergeant. He pictured that grin, that scar, that laugh. If anyone was still moving, it’d be him.

  “Who told you?”

  “Supply sergeant from 2/8. Said, ‘Some of our boys are still out there.’” The sergeant’s face was stern, detached.

  Tyson didn’t say anything. He tucked his face behind his clipboard and went back to work, signing off on cargo manifests. The information was filed away, distanced from him and the tasks at hand. This wasn’t home, this was somebody else’s war. Everything seemed so clear while they were training, packing, loafing— even yesterday on high seas. After just one hour at port, there were already too many secrets and lives lost.

  He met her properly on day five. They’d been running short hauls from the port to the Marine staging area near the airport — ammo, rations, medical. CRD loads too. Always CRD, or what Tyson would learn later to be ‘one of the subsidiaries’. He still didn’t know what half that shit was. The cases were too sleek, too new, cables coiled like snakes inside. Not field hospital gear. Not the way he’d seen it.

  Most mornings he was inside the ops tent; a big khaki thing that smelled like canvas, sweat, and map ink. It was often crowded, stuffed with unit leaders receiving their morning safety briefing and plans for the day. Before work could take place, everyone had to figure out where they were going, and how they were to get there. CRD and other civilian organizations were there, too.

  Tyson was standing over the table, comparing route overlays: main highway vs. west bypass and a handful of other course of action and their ramifications. Really, it was more of an argument between him and the third-country nationals.

  “I’ll say this one last time: I’m not taking my trucks through there. The city is under siege. What part of that are you not understanding?”

  “Yes, but time— time is very long.” The man struggled for the English, turning to a colleague to vent frustrations in Arabic. He pointed back down to the map, his finger tracing the central highway. “Faster. Much faster.”

  “This again? Most of that highway is gone! What’s left is under occupation. You’re asking me to order my men to drive into a massacre.”

  “The guns, the guns,” his friend motioned as if he was holding a rifle, jerking from imaginary recoil as he exclaimed “Pow!”

  “Oh, oh, oh.” The first rummaged through his pockets, change or keys clinked and chimed until the Lebanese contractor slid a card across to him.

  “You need heavy escorts. You call this number. We provide. Army Corps use, too.” Their English was good, but their patience was lacking.

  More undesired civilian assistance. “Thank you, but I don’t think this is a matter of having more guns. We have plenty of gunmen. That’s not—“

  “You call them. Ask them—“ both men now chittered in broken English between them.

  “Fine!”Tyson took the card, flipped open his wallet to slide it behind his ID. It was that, or he reached for his sidearm. “I’ll see what they say.”

  He didn’t see her coming. Somebody called her name from the entrance. She turned, bumped him hard with her shoulder as she tried to pass. His wallet slipped, fat from years of unused business cards and IDs, and hit the floor. The card, some dollars, and one small silver-foil square skittered across the plywood.

  She impulsively bent down to help, her fingers froze on the condom. He saw it the same time she did. It might as well have been a grenade. Slowly, she raised her eyes to him over her glasses.

  “Well,” she said, her voice dry as paper. “A Marine prepared for every contingency. Is this why you’re called Devil Dogs?”

  The tech behind her choked back a laugh.

  Tyson’s ears burned — not from shame exactly, just from the stupid timing of it. “It’s not like that,” he said, squatting to grab the contents of his wallet. “It’s a force of—”

  “It’s unprofessional,” she said, straightening, handing him the foil between two fingers like it was dirty. “Especially around civilians.”

  He took it, his jaw tight. “I’m off duty sometimes.”

  “Not in my convoys, you’re not.” She stepped past him, called out toward the table, “Have you all figured out what’s what? We’re burning a lot of daylight here.” From her bag, she pulled a bottle of hand sanitizer, rubbing her palms together. “I need the medical group manifest for convoy three, and I want the drivers’ names spelled correctly this time.”

  He got a better look at her now. Dark skin, the kind ageless women had, a hard line to her jaw. She wore the CRD badge with a red stripe; he didn’t know what that meant, but the MPs had let her through every checkpoint with no questions. Her blouse was pressed. Boots shined. Too clean for Beirut.

  Tyson stacked and sorted the manifests on the table, paper clipping packets and shoving them into marked folders—one for each of his convoys. She got the hint, scoping the folder on the desk, thumbing through.

  “You Graves?” she tossed back over her shoulder, not even looking.

  “Yeah.”

  She flipped back and forth between pages, “You’re hauling for me today. Six cases, one console. No stacking. No exposure.” She finally met his eyes again. “And no passengers you picked up at bars.” The folder slid into her bag, her feet carrying her out of the tent.

  “I don’t pick up at bars,” he said. “Can I at least get your name?”

  “You don’t need it,” she said, her stride unbroken. “Just follow instructions.”

  Foil packet still in his hand, he watched her go, placing it back in his wallet anyway. Not because he was a dog, but because he was a realist. Beirut didn’t care about anyone’s plans.

  As tensions mounted through Lebanon, workloads grew, shipments did too. Their frequency and durations seemed to lengthen every week. The routes started to stack.

  Every other day, it seemed, CRD needed a truck. Not to the hospital. Not to the airport. Out. Inland. Deep into the countryside, toward places Tyson’s maps didn’t name clearly. Olive groves, chalky hills, half-bombed neighborhoods with shell holes in the walls. They called them “forward stabilization sites,” but the Marines who dropped off actual wounded never saw the wounded come back out.

  You could always tell a real aid station — the traffic flowed both ways. These didn’t. They’d unload boxes that looked like refrigerators made for spaceships, with built-in cable ports and cooling fins. Some were labeled ‘vital ops support,’ some ‘biomech interface.’ All had the CRD logo. All went down into bunkers dug into hillsides or carved into old buildings. Army Corps of Engineers trucks showed up more and more — dozers, graders, pallets of prefab wall panels. Whatever this was, it was expanding.

  On one run, a corporal from another motor unit leaned over Tyson’s Humvee hood while they waited to be waved through.

  “You runnin’ for the science ladies too?”

  “Science—“

  “The science ladies! Yeah, I know you’ve seen at least one of them. Either the old broad, or—“

  Tyson nodded. “Yeah, why?”

  “They pay extra?”

  Tyson’s eyes narrowed. “Not us.” Just what was this guy trying to imply?

  “Figures.” The Marine turned, leaning now with his back against the hood. “You’ve seen or heard anything odd?” He was now looking back through the windshield at Tyson. “I heard a doc say they were bringing in live specimens. Civvies they pulled off the streets.” The corporal wiped dust from his brow. “Then heard another say they were just patching up our guys closer to the line. Depends on who you ask.”

  Patching up our guys? Alex, maybe? It had been one week since there was any word from the Embassy sentries, and while their task was top secret, Tyson had grown concerned. Was CRD sitting on intel regarding US troop movements? He didn’t like any of it. His job was getting shit from point A to B, but he’d bled enough for the Corps to have an opinion. And this felt like Da Nang again — the version he’d been fed by Cervantes’ late-night school circles. Secret outfits. Projects stacked on wars.

  Two thumps on his hood. “You’re all set, Boss.” The corporal waved him through, sending him on his way, but his mind lingered on the secrets. Always back to the secrets.

  While he showered and shaved, changed oil and coils, it was unshakeable, nagging at him. Consuming him. Who was he riding, all this time? What were they doing out here? With whom? What did they know about the embassy?

  He tried probing for information three weeks in, while they both watched a crane lower a console through a bunker door, into an underground compound. She was clearly in charge, wielding her mind like a weapon; spouting seemingly made-up words and scientific jargon and getting responses.

  “You said this device was so patients don’t have to be driven all the way back to the city?” He squinted to see her, the sun low in the sky behind her.

  “Correct.” Her eyes were glued to the console.

  “But I haven’t seen a single litter carried back out. None of my drivers have, for that matter.”

  She didn’t move, or blink.“Because they’re being treated.”

  “Then where’s the waste? Where’s the trash trucks? Where’s your biohazards?”

  She cut her eyes toward him, studying hard. “You watch too much television.”

  “I watch what comes in and out of my trucks.”

  The corner of her mouth flickered — it might have been respect, it might have been irritation. “Be that as it may, you’re a driver, Staff Sergeant. Not an auditor.”

  Tyson turned his head and spit. “Let me break it down for you, sista.” He squared his body to hers. “I’m Motor T. That means logistics, ya dig? That means I can count.”

  “It also means you can follow orders,” she said, her voice cooling. “You move the gear, we do the medicine. That’s how this partnership works. ‘Ya dig?’”

  Tyson looked over the crates being taken into the facility and wiped his brow. “Pretty fancy medicine,” he said, nodding toward the console disappearing into the earth. “Never saw anything like that at Pendleton.”

  She didn’t bite. “I would imagine so. My team built it,” was all she said. Dust trailed from her boots as she ended the conversation, leaving Tyson alone at his truck.

  July didn’t bring answers, nor was there peace. Tensions heightened on all sides as threats materialized into actions. Attacks on the city intensified, minimizing safe routes, condensing travel down to a handful of corridors and drivers. Every day Tyson was on the road, hauling equipment, he assumed, to its destination with his A driver, the Lady Scientist.

  The first month was pure animosity, whether that be between them, or with their environment. It was hot. Hotter than he’d ever felt back in Georgia, North Carolina, or California. The trucks had no AC. On a handful of occasions, they would have to pull over and stop due to sand storms, forcing them to bake in the cab until it was over. From time to time, words would be exchanged, not always friendly.

  “They buy everything else new from us, I don’t see why they cheap out on these old beaters.”

  “Easier for us to maintain—“

  “You mean ‘cheaper’,” she corrected, arms crossed.

  The back and forth was never worth it. He’d bite his tongue until they returned to the motor pool, and she would be on her way, those legs carving new paths through the desert. Tyson watching her walk away. That was their life. In the evenings, he would hose down the truck and make sure his men came back safely before heading back to the barracks.

  Every morning, each driver inspected their truck and filled it up before receiving their orders from the ops tent. The tent was never empty, whether that be soldiers running their mouths, the comms officer on duty, or orders being passed, or Marines looking for a purpose. Tyson liked to show up early, beating all the other drivers so he could catch up on the latest gossip.

  “We’re going far today, Staff Sergeant.” She burst into the tent, the Lady Scientist, sipping coffee from her thermos. Her hands were thin, woolen gloves. Mornings in the desert were often cool, sometimes even cold. “Further than I think I have gone.”

  She pointed to a map, dropping her finger on a location without tracing a single highway.

  “Are you sure that’s the spot? You don’t want to take a moment to study it?”

  “You think this is my first briefing? The only map I see in a day? Make the manifest, please?” She tapped the spot until Tyson circled it and plotted the course.

  “I suppose you’re not going to tell me what’s changed?”

  “You suppose correctly. Same truck?”

  “Yep. Same truck.”

  She was gone as quickly as she came, back into the world beyond the tent.

  The load-out was relatively small, the route took them around the city and deep inland, further than he’d ever gone before, but his mind was present and attentive. What was in his payload? Where was he going? Where was Alex?

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  The convoy pushed up the sun with every mile until a little past high noon. It was hot. Always hot. That kind of humid heat that suffocated you in closed spaces. The sentries never stayed in their post, retreating back into the compound for refuge, forcing the convoy to sit and wait for their return.

  Rays of light danced with the desert’s features in the distance. Tyson’s voice was dry and soft. His head hung out the window. “Why does the desert do that?”

  Her head, laid back against the headrest, locks sprawled, rotated towards him. “What?”

  “Those lines. In the desert.” He pointed into the distance. “I can’t be the only person that sees them.”

  “It’s the refraction of light. Light bends as it passes through air layers of different temperatures. As light travels from cooler to hotter air, it speeds up and bends upward. In short, it’s a mirage—and an inferior mirage, to be exact.” Her face swiveled back out her window. “Here they come. Thank god.”

  The sun was a low orange smear over the ridges not their way back, the air tasted like chalk and old artillery. Their two-truck convoy took the less-watched roads back to the city center. UNEF checkpoints were frequent; Israeli armor was rumored on the move, so the Lebanese militias were jumpy. The less visible they were, the better their chances of avoiding conflict.

  Tyson felt it before he heard it — that ugly, familiar whump followed by a slow sag to the right. “Shit.”

  He pumped the brakes, eased the 5-ton off the road. The escort Humvee in front of them rolled to a stop too, Marines in the back swiveling to watch the surroundings. Standard procedure.

  He hopped down, dust puffing around his boots.

  “I was hoping it would last at least this trip,” he walked around the back of the vehicle to the problem and inspected.

  Noel climbed down the passenger side, hair scarfed today against the dust, sunglasses off now so she could see. “What’s the problem?”

  Tyson was crotched. Inspecting the wheel well for more damage. “The outer dual, it’s shredded — rock, shrapnel, I’m not sure it really matters.” He looked up and wiped sweat from his brow. “We’re stuck here until I can slap another one on.”

  “How long?”

  “Twenty if nothing else goes wrong,” he said, heading for the toolbox. “Thirty if you watch.”

  “I’m absolutely going to watch.”

  He snorted. “Of course.”

  She held the flashlight when the sun dipped behind the ridge. He tugged the bad tire off, muscles moving on muscle memory. She leaned close enough to see him work, and took a sudden step back — something had hit her, not physically, something else.

  She stiffened for half a second, inhaling deeply.

  “I know that smell… Is that—”

  “Sauvage,” his chuckle was low, but deserved. He didn’t wear much, just a dab in the mornings out of habit, the same bottle he’d stuck with since Oakland. One of the few indulgences he allowed himself. Whoever she had back in Princeton waiting for her had expensive tastes.

  “You okay?” he asked, not looking up.

  She cleared her throat. “Fine.”

  “You sound a little homesick. Catch a whiff of your lovers scent?”

  “Maybe I did.”

  He glanced up then. Her face was softer in the dusk. Less boss, more woman. Then it was gone; the mask back in place.

  She cleared her throat. “Your friend,” she said, changing the subject. “The one you were talking about at the port. You hear anything?”

  “Nothing official.” He set the new tire, bolted it down. “Unofficially, guys say some Marines from the embassy were moved out to help protect relocating embassy staff. Split up. Dispersed. Not all names got reported back. So yeah, he could be out there. In the elements. Or worse.”

  She took a moment to reply. “You want to look for him.”

  He shrugged. “He’s probably more conditioned, and experienced than I’ll ever be. I don’t want to worry, I just want to know.”

  She nodded like she understood that in particular. “We had people up and vanish too,” she said after a beat. “Not from bombs. From paperwork. One day they’re on a project, next day they’re ‘reassigned’. No forwarding address. No trace they were ever in-country.

  “That’s how it goes in your lab?”

  “That’s how it is everywhere they want silence.” She switched the flashlight to her other hand. “Finish up. I don’t want us out here in the dark.”

  He tightened the last lug, rolling the spare to the bed and tossing it in. “You ever going to tell me your name?”

  “You never asked nicely.” Her eyes beamed, hand gripping the handle to the cab.

  He wiped his hands on a rag. “Alright. May I have your name, miss?”

  “Noel,” she said, surprising him with how easily she gave it. “Dr. Noel Stowers.”

  He approached her slowly, then outstretched his hand. “Staff Sergeant Tyson Graves.”

  She giggled, taking his hand lightly. “Oh, I know who you are,” she said, a hint of humor in her tone. “You’re the Marine who carries a prophylactic.” She sang the words playfully.

  He groaned. “You’re never going to let me live that down, huh?”

  “Not a chance.”

  The shelling got worse as summer burned on. Some nights the horizon flickered like a bad TV, distant thumps rolling over the bay. Tyson’s Marines hardened into their routines. Patrols, convoys, sentry duty, sleep. They followed their protocols too, shipping in more equipment; spread across more sites, and more secrecy.

  Noel was opening up, however; exchanging Black experience stories with Tyson like they were old college friends. She knew about Berkeley, and the frozen treats. He knew about Princeton and how she lived in her father’s shadow. Between them, the walls they built slowly began to chip, finding common ground between the textbooks and school bells; lab coats and combat boots. Farewells from the motor pool were more friendly by the week.

  By the end of summer, Noel had finally worked up the nerve to ask a question that made Tyson highly uncomfortable.

  “Tell me about your folks.”

  “My folks?” Tyson didn’t take his eyes off the road. “What about them?”

  “Well, whatever you feel comfortable disclosing, I guess.”

  His mind was a blank slate, counting first the days since he’d thought about them, then to the last time he’d spoken to them. Nothing. No words, just the roar of the motor on the dirty road.

  Noel crossed her arms, and looked at him. “Staff Sergeant Graves.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Well?”

  He felt her eyes burning through him. “I—I don’t talk about them.”

  There was a moment between them. “OK, I can start. My Fath—“

  “You don’t have to do that, Dr. Stowers. I’m not going to share. You can just—“

  “Not going to share…?” She scoffed, throwing her arms up. “Come on, now you gotta tell me.”

  “No, I don’t think I gotta.”

  Noel’s face narrowed. “Oh my god. You’re serious?”

  “Sure am. We’re here.”

  Tyson pulled the truck through the checkpoint, proceeding to the usual location, backing his truck to the loading dock, next to his escort. He shot a quick glance back to Noel, and exited the vehicle. He needed to distance himself from her, from her questions, and his parents.

  He slammed the door, and walked over to the Humvee. Now was a good time to validate their return route. Noel left the cab too, overseeing the offloading of her tech, and signing off on its delivery.

  Tyson signed the forms too, then they were off again, riding in silence. An unbearable suffering for Noel to endure.

  “So, did they beat you, or were you an orphan—?”

  “Again with this?”

  “What?” She shrugged her shoulders, perplexed.

  He didn’t respond. His forefinger tapped the wheel impatiently. He cleared his throat, shooting a quick glance over to the passenger seat.

  “Change the subject, please.” That low, quiet tone.

  Noel crossed her legs, looking out the window. “Your cologne isn’t the only thing you share, it seems.”

  Tyson took that as a victory, and basked. It was short-lived.

  “So why the Marine Corps?”

  Another hard question. She was full of them tonight. He took a deep breath, and recalled the day he met the recruiter, avoiding any mention of his family.

  His story took them all the way back to the motor pool. He was logging his vehicle status and damage when he heard her boots on the concrete behind him.

  “Staff Sergeant.”

  He didn’t break his focus. “Doctor.”

  “I think I owe you a drink.”

  He looked over his shoulder. “For the tire?”

  “No,” she said. “For overstepping my boundaries.” Her hands were behind her back, appearing sincere. “I’m a scientist. No question or answer is ever off limits with my machines. I spend so much time with them, I guess I forget society doesn’t work that way.”

  Tyson signed off on the clipboard, and hung it on the wall. “I really need to validate these charts—“

  “You’re the first person in, and raising hell tonight will get you nowhere.” She approached slowly.

  He turned and she stopped. “I can’t drink with civilians,” he said automatically, even though that rule was bent all the time. Cervantes’ words echoed through his mind.

  She raised an eyebrow. “You can drink with a contractor on a joint assignment. And you look like you could use one. My treat.”

  “One.”

  Nightlife in Beirut centered around one thing: The soldiers. The opening salvo in those opening months scared away many of the civilians from the city center, taking with them all the local shop owners and workers, leaving a vacuum only the West could fill. Within weeks, a new wave of vendors and providers braved the streets. Bazaars peddling knock-off foreign bags and trinkets. And speakers.

  By day, broken streets were littered with cautious patrons and persistent traders who used lavish sound systems to attract leads. When night fell, the speakers were consolidated into a handful of venues who acted as bars, saloons, and speakeasies. This was the Beirut nightlife.

  They didn’t go anywhere wild, just a small hotel bar two streets off the main route, one that had been halfway militarized already. UN guys came there. Journalists, sometimes. A few of the Marines who were told to stay out of trouble. The bartender knew to turn the TV to BBC for Westerners.

  They sat at a corner table. He ordered whiskey, she ordered something lighter. For a while, they drank without talking, the TV muttering about West Beirut. He watched her profile while she was focused on the door.

  “You wear your job,” he said finally.

  “You mean I look tired?”

  “I mean you look like you’re waiting to be watched.”

  She smiled humorlessly. “I am. My boss made sure I understood where we are, where we stood, who we’re working with, and how easily Marines talk. She warned me especially about you all.” The drinks arrived, lightly sat on the table. Noel slid the card across the table. “Leave it open.” She turned her focus back to Tyson, who leaned in patiently.

  “I guess the sentiments are mutual?” He leaned back, amused. “What’d she say?”

  “That Marines fall in love with conflict, not women,” Noel said. “And that you all ask the wrong questions.”

  “She sounds smart.” Tyson griped the glass and took a slow sip.

  “She’s… alive,” Noel said, and there was weight in the word. “Caliber rebuilt her. I think she has a ‘new lease on life’ these days. She doesn’t waste time. Doesn’t mince words, either.” She finally took a sip.

  “Are there a lot of women in power in the CRD?”

  “No, not really. And Nancy owns the enterprise. She bought her way into power, as most tend to. She’s kind of an inspiration.”

  “I can see how. I admire the older Black Marines I’ve served under. Makes me know I can be there, too, one day.”

  “I don’t know about all that. I get the idea, but she’s on a whole other level.”

  He took a sip. “So, do you believe in what you’re doing?”

  Her eyes dropped to the varnished wood. “I believe in the science,” she said slowly. “I believe people have an obligation to fix society. What I don’t always believe in is the methods used.”

  “Are we still talking about your work or—”“

  “All science. Whether they are studying microorganisms in the Galapagos, or splicing atomic particles in Los Alamos.”

  “But what about your work?”

  “I—I don’t know. At times I do. Not like I did. Not like before, at least. All of this is strange to me.”

  “So when you became a scientist, you never imagined doing these things?”

  Both Noels’ palms were flat on the table as she sat upright. “It’s not that simple.” She drummed her fingers on the wood. “I’m not just some scientist doing a job. This, everything the CRD’s doing out here, is my work.”

  Tyson’s ears perked. “Come again?”

  She stalled, searching for the line in the sand between them. “Yes. Of three managers out here, with the CRD, only one of them is over me.”

  “The ‘Science Ladies’, okay it makes more sense, now.”

  “Yeah. Although,” Noel laughed, genuinely, “she’s a ‘science lady’ for an entirely different reason.” Noel finished her drink and called for another.

  Tyson didn’t get the joke, continuing his line of inquiry. “So how did such an aware sista such as yourself come to be in charge of a project like this?”

  “That’s classified.” There it was. The line in the sand she’d been searching for a moment earlier. “Need to know basis, ya dig?”They shared a laugh, and the second round of drinks appeared.

  “Oh, it’s like that?”

  “Yeah, it’s kinda like that. Unless you want to double back to our conversation from earlier.”

  “My folks?”

  Noel took a sip, waving him on with her free hand.

  “Well.” He took a drink too, deeper than the previous. “Damn.” There was a pause between them before he continued. “I don’t really talk to them.”

  “You mean often?”

  “I mean ever. I haven’t seen or spoken to them since I enlisted.”

  “Wow.” She searched the table for words to fill the void. “You wanna talk about it?”

  He did. Seven years was a long time to bottle it all up. Nobody asked, ever. His secrets were his own, until now, but the words wouldn’t come easily.

  “I take it they didn’t agree with your choice to enlist?”

  “I don’t know. We never talked about it. We had a fight the night before I left — I didn’t even plan to go. Schmuck was just there; right place, right time. I never asked them how they felt. Can’t even tell you how they’re doing.”

  “Why?”

  “They were panthers. They would never understand. I saved them the trouble of having to disown me. That’s how I see it, anyway.”

  Noel leaned back. “Huh. That’s why you were a part of the protests in Berkeley?”

  He pulled his wallet from his pocket and showed her a picture of him in his black leather jacket. “I was raised in the cause. Consumed by it.”

  She was reengaged in the dialogue. “I feel that.” She sipped her cocktail. “It’s hard not to inherit the burdens of our parents. That’s how I ended up here.”

  “Oh?”

  “This was my father’s research. You asked how I came to be in control, well, it’s because he was a gatekeeper. When he passed away, they fell behind and took a gamble on me— Nancy took a gamble on me.”

  “He taught you what he was working on?”

  “We never got that far. He and I had an argument, too. I let pride stop me from making amends. He left great notes, to say the least. I wonder how he would feel if he could see his work?”

  “Would he be proud?”

  “I’m not sure. I can’t even say if I’m proud of it. The jury’s still out.” She finished off her drink, staring down at the glass.

  “Oh?”

  “I know you’ve heard the rumors. Marines talk like gossiping women. I don’t even have the full clearance to see how the entire project is coming together, but I hear disturbing things.”

  “And the missing scientist?”

  “I assume that’s where the rumors originated.” They sat with that. She glanced at her watch. “I should get back.”

  “To the lab?”

  “To my flat. Civilians don’t get bunks.” She hesitated, then looked at him. “You mind walking me? The city’s jumpy tonight.”

  He raised his hand to pull his wallet out, “Let me get—“

  “Stop. It’s a corporate card. ‘R and R’.”

  She paid, despite his protests. They stepped out into a street washed amber by bad lights. The air smelled like sea and burning trash. A distant shot cracked; neither of them flinched.

  Her building was nicer than he expected — CRD money. CaliberOne secured the perimeter. HighCaliber provided the armament. Third floor, iron steps. When they got to her door, she unlocked it, then turned back.

  “So,” she said, eyes dancing a little now that the war was on the other side of the door, “You still carrying that thing?”

  He played dumb. “What thing?”

  “That ‘standard issue’ you keep in your wallet.”

  He felt the heat in his face again, but this time her voice wasn’t mocking — it was teasing.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I still got it.”

  “Holding on to hope, huh?” She stepped aside to let him in, laughing quietly.

  Her flat was simple — couch, desk, radio, a potted plant somehow still alive. Papers on the table written in a language of science he didn’t speak. A photograph of a man who had her nose and probably his cologne. She slipped off her boots and sat on the arm of the couch, watching him like she was deciding how far to go.

  He didn’t pounce. He hung back, letting her lead. This wasn’t San Diego. This was a woman in a war zone who could get him disappeared if he misread the moment.

  “You know this can’t go anywhere,” she said quietly. “My clearance, your command — none of it matches.”

  “Tonight’s not ‘anywhere’,” he said. “It’s just tonight.”

  Her shoulders dropped. “God, you even talk like him.”

  “Like who?”

  “My father.” She stood, came closer. “Same cologne. Same ‘live for the moment’ sentiments. Same bullshit. My father was a Marine. World War II.”

  “Worked on your mom, didn’t it?”

  She huffed a laugh. “Yeah. It did.”

  She kissed him first. Not desperate, not sloppy — tired. Human. The kind of kiss people give when the world keeps almost ending and they want to remember they’re made of more than orders.

  He put his hands on her waist, careful of the line between strong and gentle. She unbuttoned his blouse, fingers lingering over old scars the Corps had loved into him. He traced the curve of her back, the warmth where stress lived. Outside, a siren wailed; inside, the room narrowed to breath and heartbeat.

  When she reached for his wallet, he caught her hand, grinning. “Who’s hopeful now?”

  “What do you think you’ve been saving for,” she murmured. She caressed his arms with the back of her hand, leaning into him.

  He let her. The foil was warm from his pocket. She held it up between two fingers, saluting with her free hand, biting her lip. When she stepped closer, he didn’t step back.

  “You were right,” she said.

  “About what?”

  “To be hopeful.”

  Her bedroom was dark, lit only by the thin streetlight through the curtains. Clothes found the floor. Limbs found each other. It was two people pulling breath out of each other because tomorrow wasn’t guaranteed. There was laughter, and there was a moment where she looked straight into his eyes like she was cataloging him — smell, weight, voice — to store in whatever part of her life was off-limits.

  Outside, somewhere toward the airport, heavy guns spoke once, twice, rolling over the city like distant thunder. Inside, she moved closer, buried her face in his neck, and for the first time since he’d stepped off the bus in San Diego, Tyson Graves let someone touch the part of him that wasn’t Marine.

  #

  The fan above her clicked with every slow revolution. Tyson’s breathing was even, deep — that kind of sleep Marines fell into anywhere, as if trained for it. She lay beside him, eyes open to the faint gray that leaked through the curtains, tracing the ceiling cracks like fault lines.

  His cologne lingered on her skin — the same warm cedar note that used to follow her father from the lab. It should have been comforting. It wasn’t. It only reminded her how far she’d drifted from the kind of science she once believed in.

  Her mind wouldn’t still. The rumors from his convoy, the equipment weights, the unexplained shipments labeled biological interface, the CRD memos about “acceptable field losses.” None of it matched the humanitarian front she was told to recite. And now there was Tyson — honest, blunt, asking the questions she wasn’t supposed to answer.

  She slid out of bed quietly. His arm twitched, but he didn’t wake. The floor was cool under her feet. On the table near the door sat her field tablet and a folded uniform blouse. She pulled the blouse on over bare shoulders, slipped the tablet into its case, and left without turning on the lights.

  The streets were nearly empty; just a few distant trucks rumbling somewhere toward the airport. The CRD compound was lit like daylight, halogen towers washing the concrete in sterile white. Guards at the gate recognized her badge, saluted half-heartedly, and let her through.

  Inside, the air hummed with generators and cooling fans.

  The mainframe room was down a narrow hall, marked Authorized Personnel Only. She keyed herself in.

  The chamber beyond was a cathedral of servers — columns of brushed metal and green lights, the low-frequency heartbeat of the HIVE network. Screens lined the far wall, each displaying diagnostic feeds and data streams in motion.

  Noel sat at the nearest console. Her reflection flickered in the glass. For a moment, she hesitated, fingers hovering above the keys. Her father’s old credentials were still active; she had never told anyone that. She typed them slowly, each keystroke a betrayal.

  ACCESS GRANTED — WELCOME, DR. J. STOWERS

  Her chest tightened. HIVE’s interface unfolded like a living thing, nested menus, soft pulses of light that felt more organic than digital. She navigated to the maintenance logs, to a directory she wasn’t supposed to know existed. JaxRin_Notes. He’d always joked that if you wanted to hide a secret, put it somewhere boring. She opened the most recent file.

  Patch Log 081282 – JAX:

  {anomaly in neural sync subroutine. Traced to new field nodes (Lebanon). CRD uplink stable but activity off-chart. Requests from unknown subroot. Investigating.}

  Her fingers trembled slightly. He’d been here, recently. Within the hour. She hit ‘enter’ twice and started typing.

  >Jax, it’s me. I’m here. Something’s wrong with these builds. Nothing comes back. Do you know what they’re doing? I thought I was just locked out of my Princeton files…. I’m unable to see all the operations data…

  The cursor blinked. Then:

  > Noel? damn, Sydney locked your access too? I’ve been digging. Found new shell facilities stateside - Cuba connections too. I think the old projects are active again. You need to be careful. Sydney’s been talking to the feds. They’re calling it “containment disclosure.” Caliber’s nervous.

  >Disclosure? She did. I’m on Ol’ Faithful. Reactive? What personal were rerouted, that’s odd…

  > She is. Saw her with some suits. Some of her traffic was intercepted — Said she’s ‘done protecting ghosts.’ Watch yourself. If she’s right, Lebanon’s might become a new field test.

  The console lights and Noel’s heart pulsed in sync.

  >A field test for what? Can you trace the unknown subroot?

  > Trying. Data loops back through an offshore relay — looks like Caliber’s main HQ. Might be Nancy herself. I also found remote nodes, globally, no traceable packets, but high traffic… All clues point to live specimens. I’m locked out of my research. Ducks’ files are totally off the grid, I wonder if those are the packets?. I can’t tell you anything about them. I’ll try to find something. I’ll send it to your flat printer.

  Her throat went dry.

  > I’ll keep you posted. Stay off the grid after this. Seriously.

  > Copy. Thank you.

  She closed the session, wiped the cache, and shut the console down. For a moment, all she could hear was the hum of the machines, endless, tireless, alive. The streets were occupied, though not densely.

  By the time she returned home, dawn was a faint bruise over the city. The air inside still held their warmth. Tyson was awake, sitting on the edge of the bed in his undershirt, boots half-laced.

  “You’re up?”

  “I’m up early every morning. Where’d you go?” His voice was low, not angry yet, just watchful.

  “Had to check something at the compound.”

  “At 2:30 in the morning?”

  She hesitated. “I’m not obligated to inform you of what’s going on in my lab.”

  He studied her, the stiff shoulders, the calm that was just a little too practiced. “And you couldn’t tell me? I can’t say I’m a fan of all the secrets.”

  “I don’t have all the answers, either. I’m trying to keep people alive,” she said. Her printer fired up, gears winding until it spat out a document.

  He nodded once, slow, like someone who’d heard a partial truth before. Then he stood, pulling on his blouse.

  “Right.”

  He started for the door, Noel rushing to get in front of him.

  “Wait!” It was then she realized that Tyson was a big man. She was tiny in his shadow, her 5’3” to his 6’2”. “I may have an olive branch.” Her eyes cut to the printer. “Just wait a moment.” Her forefinger just before his face.

  Within seconds, she had the printout in hand, studying it, but her expression soured. “I just — give me a moment.” She paced the room, searching for an excuse to keep him, not noticing that he’d walked up behind.

  “You’re not going to find logic in those numbers, Noel.”

  She jumped, turning to face him as he took the page from her hand.

  “These are coordinates.” He looked at her for a moment. “This is another one of your deliveries?”

  “No.” What things were slowly becoming clear to her. “Those are directions. Presumably to the truth.”