Brother's Keeper. Joaquin De Torres
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model with all the apps included. Just take it to the mall to get it activated. All the paperwork and recharger is in this box; here, put all your stuff in it.” As the boy looked over the electronic treasures he’d just received, Jason beheld the grateful, weeping woman once more.
“I must go now, Mrs. Bantilan. Just by my short talk with Danilo, I can see that you are a good mother. Your son is an exceptional boy. He has an exceptional character. He won’t let you down, right Danilo?”
“I won’t!” He looked at his mom and kissed her. “I’ve already promised you.”
“I know he will succeed.” The woman stepped forward and hugged Jason, then stepped back. Danilo put down the box of gifts and hugged him, too. Jason closed his eyes and imagined Jordan in his arms.
The final embrace of my life.
When they stepped back, all three had to wipe the tears from their eyes. Jason smiled approvingly, satisfied that he had given at least one person in the world, hope and joy.
“Here’s the money for the food. There’s something extra in there for you, Danilo.” The boy took out the two $50 bills, replaced one in the envelope and gave the other to his mother.
“I always give my tips to my mom.”
Jason pursed his lips before they began to tremble. This boy’s devotion was unreal, reminding him of his own to a family that was all but snuffed out of his life. He sniffed hard and nodded.
“That’s good, Danilo. Take care of your mother. Always.”
“Thank you for everything, Mr. Jason.” The woman was still misty-eyed as she put her hand on his shoulder. “Come find us when you come back from the war. You are welcomed in our house.”
When the Bantilans drove out of the parking lot, Jason felt a calm satisfaction. He will have done something charitable, an act of kindness and mercy from deep within his heart before ending his life. What’s more is that it was spontaneous, almost natural. To give the boy all those things and not leave them to Mr. Sebastiani was, alone, gratifying.
Jason was not a religious man by any stretch, but he did have his own remote imaginings of what might or could happen once death claimed a person. He wasn’t afraid of dying. He surmised that only people with something to lose, like family, wealth or power, feared death the most because they couldn’t take any of it with them.
But since he had none of these things, he didn’t need to fear it. He relied on the traditional Asian mentality that death was just another chapter of life, a new phase of existence. He wouldn’t really be dead-just exist, and even function-in another place, in another time, surrounded by other, well, dead people.
He believed that this realm had levels, stages and tiers from which the soul could evolve from and ascend to. Although Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory were Christian locations, all were in every sense, part of every religion’s atlas of the world of the deceased. The roadmap of the dead, he believed, could be navigated, even charted, leading to higher levels of redemption through how one behaved while on the road.
Hell had many levels of despair, pain and anguish, he surmised; but someone could eventually work his way out of a level and ascend to the next one. Horrifying challenges, arduous tasks and formidable tests would have to be endured and passed in order to move forward and upward, to the goal or level one held most dear.
Jason’s goal was to go to his parents and his brother. As a suicide, he knew he would have to endure a long period of painful struggles in the lower existences of Hell. Still, he was not afraid.
He believed in the basic concepts of Karma, the checks and balances of the universe. He had done his best to be a good person throughout his short life, considering the hand he’d been dealt. This pure and innocent episode with the Bantilans may have helped his cause. He thought that perhaps, just perhaps, this last act of humility might score a couple of extra points to put him on the favorable side of the cosmic ranking system and forces that awaited him. He would soon see. He pulled back into the doorway and closed the door. He headed for the table and his final destiny.
Jason Li would soon pull the trigger, and find out exactly where he ranked in the universe.
Chapter 3
Leap of Faith
Concord Sheraton Hotel
Suite 42
Scott Rivers had just gotten off his Skype conference call with the most powerful men in his realm: his boss Rear Admiral Bob Marrion; Commander Naval Forces Japan, Admiral Travis Reich; Commanding Officer of the USS George Washington, Rear Admiral Miguel Hernandez; and the newly promoted Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Admiral Antonio Espinoza.
Four admirals with 117 years of accumulated experience, now depended on his own 24 to pull off what he considered a mission absurdly improbable. As he predicted, Admiral Espinoza reminded him of the paramount importance of this mission, and that if it fails, the Navy would be about one step behind the “grave danger” rating for force readiness. This all-or-nothing mentality was something Rivers didn’t need.
In an e-mail to Marrion, Scott railed against Espinoza’s insistence that this was an A-Priority item. He wrote:
“To expect anything miraculous in this case is not only unrealistic, but foolish!” Marrion completely understood his friend’s concern. He had always taken all of Scott’s “gut checks” and “smell tests” seriously, and often went to bat for him at the highest levels to either alter, postpone or cancel particular missions.
Scott Rivers’ reputation was immaculate. He was a detailed and meticulous man who crunched all the right numbers of a mission: crews’ experience, mental states, personal issues; as well as the logistics, statistics, ratios, and probabilities of success or failure.
He researched the enemy’s numbers as well: force strength, political climate, current deployments, VIP locations and activities; supply distribution-everything, was excruciatingly worked into his mission models. This was graduate-level Threat Analysis material and Rivers was a master at it. So, when he said something wasn’t going to work, he knew exactly why.
Marrion had brought Rivers over from NSA for that very reason—to provide sound counsel and empirical logic for strategic missions that might have catastrophic results or international implications. Plus, Rivers had the unique and invaluable experience of flying such missions for DSC. His perspective was priceless; and in some cases, it was everything.
This in itself made Marrion’s job even harder when he was ordered to attempt a mission that Rivers repeatedly stated was impossible. Torn between the duty, orders of his position and his good friend’s rock-solid guidance, he had to look at it on another plateau-the Big Picture.
The Navy thought only of the machinery involved; Rivers thought only of the personnel involved; but in the end, neither thought of the nation’s future if this mission was not attempted. In this vein, he had to side with Admiral Espinoza.
To Scott Rivers, Espinoza was pushing the proverbial envelope with this “stunt” and didn’t want his efforts wasted on it when there were other real and budgeted missions needing his attention. But his stance was somewhat softened by the voices of the two other admirals, Reich and Hernandez, who had deep concerns but supported the plan because of its strategic import. They dedicated their support to the project both fundamentally, philosophically and logistically. Nevertheless, towards the end of the teleconference, Espinoza offered:
“All of us agree that you hold the final word here, Scott. You are the expert. We have nothing but respect for your judgment. So, it’s your call.”
There it was. “It’s your call.” Those three magical words that absolves all responsibility from the one who pronounces it and lays it on you. Scott knew instantly that this was officer speak for: “We have nothing but respect for your judgment, Scott. So, you’re going to do what we want.” Completely outnumbered and outranked, he had no choice. This was one of those times when the perceived importance of the