Virtual Incident at Indian Springs

	The Major began leaving earlier each evening to stop and pray at the little Church outside Indian Springs. There were never any priests or people there and only a few empty benches stood in front of the altar with its lone crucifix. Some holy vestments were left in the corner next to the confessional and a variety of coins were always in the holy water bowl probably dropped by gamblers looking for a little luck on their way to the Vegas tables. The Major blessed himself with the holy water, dropped a few dollars into the basket and knelt to pray at one of the benches before heading into the night and the security checkpoints.
	The guard at the gate knew him but went through the routine of checking his IDs and saluting before he raised the barrier. He rolled into the base at the required five miles an hour and headed for Building C. It was the nondescript tan building hardly noticeable during the day and only a dark shadow at night where fan palms stood along its northern perimeter to lessen the stark look of its large satellite dishes facing the southern sky. He parked in his usual spot away from the lighted entrance where his red Beemer wouldn’t be so noticeable and stopped for another check of IDs at the door by a guard he hadn’t seen before. The buzzer sounded and he went into the narrow hallway and down to the cramped room they called the lounge. It was empty but someone had left the TV on.
	“Sir,” a voice called from behind him and he turned to see another new face. “They’re waiting for us. I’m Sergeant Davies. I’ll be with you tonight.” They shook hands and the Major followed him down the hall.
	Several people he’d worked with before were at the table. Their silence and avoided glances made him look around for whoever might be conducting the mission. He sensed it’d be the one at the end of the table dressed in chinos, Hawaiian shirt, and a desert jacket. “You’re late, Major,” he said.
	“Sorry,” the Major replied.
	“We have a lot to do tonight,” the man said, and the usual manila envelopes were handed to him and Sergeant Davies. The others in the room looked away while both men opened their assignments. A black and white picture lay on top of the pile of papers showing a man dressed in Arab robes glancing over his shoulder. There was a surprised look on his face and a fear in his eyes making him look uncertain about which way to run. “You’re looking at Farouk Abdul, a top recruiter in the organization,” the Hawaiian shirt said, keeping his information minimal. The Major studied the picture and the fearful eyes.
	“How old is this picture?” the Major asked.
	The man smiled, and said, “A year at most.”
	In this game the Major knew how much a man could change in a year. He looked for some clue in the man’s face to give him a quick identity and saw a small birthmark along the upper left line of his jaw. It would have to do. The angle of the picture made it difficult to tell how tall he was and his loose Arab clothing hid his body and the back of his head.
	“He’s our target,” the man said clearly.
	The Major signed the usual pieces of paper under the picture and stood up. The Sergeant rose with him and they saluted the other men at the table and headed for the interior room behind them. They took their positions in the large leather chairs and the video screens flickered and lit up. The Sergeant adjusted the focus on the control cameras and a dark brown terrain came into view. The Major sensed the run along the outskirts of a small town he’d seen before where tight winding roads led to it through the mountains in the background. He took the controls, gave the signal and felt the drone’s power come into his hands. He recognized the feel of this drone and had spent an entire night flying it to protect a group of men in a disabled Humvee. Shots had been fired and he’d had to use the Drone’s missiles to protect them. It’d been a long night.
	The new flight plan took him over the mountain’s ridge toward some small houses nestled in along a dirt road running down the north side of the mountain. It was early morning there and he could feel the other men stir in their seats when they saw the houses. The Sergeant zoomed in the belly camera and caught what looked like a covered lump. The Major maneuvered the drone higher and glided to the other side of the structure where the shape of a car could be seen more clearly under the loose covering. The Hawaiian shirt moved in closer to the large TV monitor and stared at the quiet scene. The Major kept the drone in the glare of the sun where it would be less noticeable and the shadowed mountains helped conceal it from the houses. The young man in the Hawaiian shirt smiled back at him in recognition of what he was doing. A door in the house opened on the screen and a young man slipped out dressed in Arab robes. He looked up and down the mountain passes and moved to the lump in the driveway. Tugging and pulling at the covering he lifted it off revealing an old pale Mercedes touring car. The young man checked its interior and pulled out what was probably old food wrappings. He turned, checked the road again and went back into the house.
	“You think he saw us?” the Hawaiian shirt asked.
	“I don’t know,” the Major said. “Is he your target?”
	“No,” the man answered, continuing to stare at the quiet scene on the TV screen. “They’re getting ready to move.” The room got quiet and the Major figured the car would be his target and they’d want the strike out on the road away from the houses. The same man came out again and got in the car. He started the motor and pulled in closer to the door. A woman came out carrying a covered basket that looked like food for the trip and she placed it in the back seat. Her face was covered so there was no way of linking her with the man and she wrapped the cloth tighter around her head and went back into the house. When the door opened again the woman came back out with a little boy dressed in blue jeans, sneakers, and a t-shirt. She opened the car and lifted the boy up into its backseat. He hugged her, and for a moment her berka dropped and she kissed him. The Sergeant tried to zoom in on her face but she quickly pulled the cloth across her face again and went back into the house. The man in the Hawaiian shirt took out some other photos, spread them across the table and stared at the pictures he’d probably studied for months. “I don’t think it’s his wife,” he said. “She looked older. Likely his mother.”
	“What about the boy?” Sergeant Davies asked.
	“I don’t know who he is,” the man replied.
	Nothing moved. The Sergeant shifted the lens to catch the man behind the wheel but his face remained covered in the car’s shadows. The Major waited for the man in the picture to come out. There would only be a moment for identification unless he went around the front of the car to get into the passenger seat. The house door opened again and another man in Arab robes came out carrying a small briefcase. He turned to speak to someone inside and then headed for the car. He looked like the same man in the picture except he was laughing as he threw the briefcase into the backseat and jumped in after it and the car pulled away and the men in the room got up and headed for the door. “Thanks for coming gentlemen,” the man in the Hawaiian shirt muttered as they left.
	The Major lifted the drone higher and stayed behind the Mercedes so that the mountain’s shadow covered him. The car drove past the small community of houses and turned north toward the main road. The Agent slipped in closer to the monitor. “He’s our man. You can take him anytime, Sir,” he said to the Major.
	“What about the boy?” the Major asked.
	“What boy?” the man asked, his eyes on the monitor.
	“There can’t  be any civilian casualties or—“
	“Our target has killed innocent civilians and more,” the agent snapped. “We have a ruthless killer in our sights.” They watched as the Mercedes rolled down the hill toward the main road. “We’ve been hunting this man for three years, Major. I don’t want to go back and write another report saying he got away again. This is exactly the kind of thing he’s done in the past.”
	The Major watched the Mercedes go by the last house and head toward the main road. The man in the Hawaiian shirt turned away from the screen and stared at the two men in the leather chairs. He started to say something but the car stopped and the Sergeant pointed at the screen and the Agent turned to look up at it again. “Watch him,” he said. “This may be some kind of trick.”
	“Are you sure it’s him?” the Major asked.
	“It’s HIM!” the man said.
	The Mercedes back door opened and the little boy got out and wen running off the road. The man in the back got out to follow him and the camera zoomed in on them. The boy ran straight to a ditch and opened his jeans to pee. The man came up behind him and the little boy laughed and waved him away. The man laughed with him and stepped back away from the boy several feet and the Major angled the drone slightly and released the missile. The explosion lit up the screen in a cloud of dust and hid the Mercedes racing down the road as the Major headed the drone north after it. Angling it again, he fired the other missile and a silent explosion rocked the video picture and the car lurched off the road. The Major lifted the drone and slid back toward his first strike. The smoke had almost cleared and he could see the dark hole where the missile had hit. He looked for the boy near the ditch but nothing moved.
	“Do you see the kid?” he asked.
	“Negative,” the Sergeant called.
	“Get out,” the Hawaiian shirt yelled. “Get out.”
	The drone moved over to the other side of the ditch where one of the cameras caught the boy trying to crawl up the ditch.
	“There’s nothing you can do. Get out!”
	The Major lifted the drone and headed for the mountains. People were running across the screen and then the mountain peaks covered everything again and he veered the drone southward, hit the escape signal and let go.
	“Great shooting, Sir,” a voice shouted. “You probably saved that kid,” and when he looked over the Sergeant was saluting, and saying, “Great flying, Sir.”
	“It was a definite kill,” the other man said, shuffling papers on the front desk and stuffing them into his attaché case. He spun the numbered lock, picked up his jacket and said, “You’re absolutely the best, Major. The very best.” And the door closed behind him.
	The Major left through a side door and waited in the car until the Sergeant came out to tell him they were finished for the night. The moon had come up and its pale light covered the desert in a cool glow. He drove through the security gates toward the highway and tried not to think of what had happened in Building C as he rolled into the night toward the glow of Las Vegas.
	When he saw the turnoff ahead he decided to cross the highway and take it but had to rethink which way to turn in the dark because he had never approached the Church from this side before. He slowed down and saw the pile of whitewashed stones at the entrance making it look smaller. He edged the Beemer forward and searched for the makeshift parking lot. It was difficult to judge how far he’d come and for a moment he thought he’d made the wrong turn. The old stucco building glowed in the moonlight and he got out of the car and walked down the familiar path to the little Church. He didn’t expect to see anyone and when he reached the door it wasn’t there. It’d been ripped off its hinges and someone had piled the benches in a corner. The holy water bowl and the wicker basket below it were gone too. He glanced up at the altar where the crucifix had been but there was only a faint sun stained image of a cross on the wall. He looked quickly around for the priest’s vestments but they were gone and he felt cold and alone and turned toward the confessional box. Its oval top had been smashed but the seats inside were still intact. A lizard stared up at him for a moment and then crawled under a loose board. Nothing else moved in the cold moonlight. He pushed aside what was left of the torn curtain, said a short prayer and began confessing where he’d been and what he had done on the other side of the world only a few minutes before. His voice grew stronger as he spoke of it and the desert night listened in silence to what he was saying and they cried together in the night’s cold moonlight.

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A graduate of the Yale school of Drama, J.S. Kierland was founder and director of the Los Angeles Playwright’s Group and was Playwright-in-residence at New York Lincoln’s Center, Brandeis University and the Los Angeles Actor’s Theater. Kierland’s original plays have been produced throughout the U.S. and Europe, and his film work includes writing the screenplay for the feature film, O’Hara’s wife, starring a young Jodie Foster. He has published a novel, edited two books of one-act plays, written two films, and has had over sixty of his short stories in literary reviews and magazines around the country.