As Diaz followed the owl through the white phosphor tubes of her NVGs, a rhythmic flashing light caught her eye as the owl flew into a cusp of trees ahead. Diaz stepped off, moving quickly towards the light, she knew that flashing anywhere. Diaz stayed low as she hustled through the brush into a clearing as the Blackhawk came into view.

  In front of her lay her aircraft, its infrared strobe flashing in the night. The owl perched on the helicopter’s tail as wind gently rotated its blades in a lazy circle.

  It was as if her Blackhawk had been placed carefully, in this exact spot, in this remote wilderness. Making even less sense, it looked completely intact. Unharmed. Untouched. Not destroyed by an inflight crash. As Diaz approached, her pistol at the ready, she became more unsettled at this condition.

  The owl once again leapt into the air and soon roosted among the trees. Diaz approached her aircraft, pistol up as she scanned left to right. She approached the open cabin door and carefully cleared it. Taliban could have beaten her to it, or maybe even left a trap. But the aircraft was clear, and as she looked around it everything seemed to be untouched and where it was supposed to be. Yet, there was no sign of her crew.

  What she did find was one of the crew chief’s weapons; an M4 with a magazine still loaded. Additionally, she found that the two M240 machine guns were still mounted. If the weapons were still here, then it was a safe bet the locals hadn’t been here.

  Diaz grabbed the M4. Better safe than sorry, she thought, sending a round home into the chamber.

  She made her way to her seat up in the cockpit, hopping in and laying the M4 in the copilot seat. She ran some checks and everything seemed in order. But when she tried to start the aircraft, she was met with silence. She tried again and, again; silence.

  “Fuck,” she muttered out loud. Flying out of here wasn't an option.

  She tried to boot up her Blue Force Tracker, but it wasn't drawing power either. She tried the radios to no avail, everything was dead. With no power, this aircraft was now a part of the mountain.

  She reached into her gear and took out her personal radio for escape and evasions—perfect for such an occasion. She turned the power knob and prayed in the darkness that it would work, and to her relief the screen turned on with a soft beep.

  Diaz keyed the mike as she glanced down at her GPS. “Mayday mayday, this is Clydesdale 66, we are Winchester at grid four two sierra x-ray golf eight five eight six one one nine one.” She said it several times into the radio, praying that each time someone would hear her call. But each time she was met with silence.

  “Fuck,” she whispered. Diaz desperately hoped that whatever happened, at least the Blue Force Tracker, before it had died, had been able to transmit their last position.

  Blue light suddenly lit up everything outside. Diaz strained her eyes. She struggled to look out there, half blind, as if on instinct trying to find the source of this pulsing light. It was so bright it almost burned, and Diaz’s reflexively shut. After a time it dissipated, and when it did she noticed three figures now standing beside the aircraft.

  Then the owl hooted.

  Diaz reached for her M4 as she scrambled out of the cockpit. She wasn't about to be taken if she could help it. Diaz jumped behind one of the M240s switching the selector to fire.

  “Halt, or I’ll fire!” she cried.

  The figures didn't move a muscle. She couldn't make out their details. The clouds must have moved in and her NVGs suddenly weren’t as effective as they usually were.

  Diaz remembered that the M240 had a PEQ15 on it; an infrared laser used to target anything unfortunate enough to shoot at them. It was infrared; her NVGs would pick up what it illuminated. She carefully moved the M240 to point directly at the chest of the middle figure. Its invisible beam then struck, revealing a man wearing an American uniform.

  “Bazgew!” Diaz shouted, “Is that you?”

  The figures remained motionless.

  She moved the beam to the other two, revealing Chu and Hernandez. Both who, like Bazgew, still remained unresponsive. Diaz scooped up the M4 now, toggling on the attached PEQ15. With the rifle at the ready, she crept from the helicopter towards her crew, waving and saying their names.

  Diaz crept closer; they stood like strange statues. She could see they all were staring straight ahead; wide-eyed and with faces like stone.

  “Bazgew, Chu, Hernandez; are you ok? Can you hear me?” She took out a small flashlight and toggled on the IR to get a better look.

  The three men remained still, gazing as if into some unseen abyss. Even through her NVGs, Diaz could see their eyes had a glazed look, like no one was home behind them.

  The hairs on the back of her neck started to stand up. Diaz grabbed Bazgew’s collar and violently shook him. “Bazgew, snap out of it!”

  Her copilot suddenly came to with a gasp. Lieutenant Bazgew fell to his knees, almost dragging Diaz down with him. His breathed rapidly and shallow, now flailing in the dark.

  “Calm the fuck down. It’s me, Diaz!” she yelled.

  “Diaz!? What the fuck?” Bazgew said as he started to come to his senses. Trying to catch his breath, “Where the fuck are we?” he said. “What happened?”

  “I have no fucking idea. The last thing I remember was hitting something in the air.”

  Diaz herself tried to remember. She continued, “Next thing I knew I woke up on the ground next to the helicopter. I found you guys just standing here.”

  “My head is killing me.” Bazgew put his hands to his ears. “What the fuck happened to—how are we not dead?”

  “I have no idea what’s going on. When I found you, it was like you were in a trance.” Diaz responded before paus-ing, “like these two.”

  “Well, I don’t remember shit.” Bazgew said. “Are they…okay?”

  Diaz looked hard at Chu and Hernandez. “I don't think they can hear us.”

  Diaz and Bazgew shook their fellow crew members, who also came to in a bewilderment of panic. The two pilots did their best to calm the crew chiefs, who barely held onto any semblance of composure. They too suffered from headaches and memory loss.

  Diaz mustered her crew back into the Blackhawk, repeating her story again to Chu and Hernandez. Diaz watched the three begin the futile attempt to troubleshoot the helicopter. She once again tried to call over the emergency radio to anyone who may be listening…but static answered her back.

  Hernandez slammed his fist on the door. “The bird is dead as fuck. I don't know what’s wrong with it, but it’s not gonna fly.”

  “This is bad, really bad.” Bazgew said blankly, staring out into the darkness.

  Diaz placed a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll figure this out, someone is bound to notice eventually. I bet they already have.”

  Chu, who had walked to the tail to check a panel, suddenly shouted to the other three: “Ugh guys, come here and look up at the sky.”

  Diaz and the others walked to Chu and looked up into the darkness. At first, Diaz didn't know what to look for. Then she realized it. The stars. When she woke up the sky was clear, the starry sky in full glory. But now, they were gone. All gone. In their place was darkness, a true darkness devoid of anything. She’d first assumed it was the clouds rolling in, but now she felt the color drain from her face as she realized she’d been wrong.

  Something was blocking the sky.

  Diaz’s heart began to beat faster. Above them was the perfect outline of a circle. An artificial pitch-black blotting out the stars on the other side. Something was looming up there. Despite the mountain cold, Diaz began to sweat.

  It was the object.

  “What the fuck…” one of her crew members started to say, but they didn't get to finish.

  Because suddenly, that familiar blue light overwhelmed the flight crew. They shielded their eyes as they looked skyward, blinded.

  Diaz began to shout to run to the helicopter, but her voice was drowned out by a mechanical humming that filled the air. Her crew members didn't need to be told to run for cover and were already moving. Diaz followed them. Rocks and pebbles began to rise around her. Her M4 was pulled from her hand. Then a peculiar feeling came over her, her movements became sluggish and delayed. She suddenly felt like she was moving underwater. At this newfound challenge, Diaz lost her footing. She began to fall forward, though, bracing for impact. But it never came.

  She was floating in midair. Weightless. She struggled to right herself, but to no avail. She felt herself rising. Panicked, she looked around as her crew members shouted in astonishment. They too had begun to float skyward towards the source of the light, kicking and screaming. Even the Blackhawk was now off the ground, following the aircrew as they rose higher and higher.

  Diaz suddenly found herself hanging limp as she stared skywards.

  The last thing she saw was the haunting face on an owl, a face that welcomed her inside.

  Twenty-Four Hours After the Crash

  Chief Warrant Officer Percy Diaz strained her eyes against the bright white light above her. She sat in a room somewhere on Bagram, slumped in an uncomfortable metal chair and leaning on her elbows over a table. Across from her was a man wearing a sterilized MultiCam uniform, regarding her with a stone face. Diaz could tell he wasn't regular military. He was cold like the steel on a knife and his eyes cut right through her. While he didn't have a nametag, he introduced himself as “Barton.”

  Over the last several hours he had been her interrogator, continually questioning her about what she could remember.

  She’d gone over the story a dozen times. “Again, that’s all I remember,” she’d said weakly.

  He’d maybe scribble a note, or maybe he’d just stare.

  “Where are the others?” she asked Barton.

  “Irrelevant at the moment, Chief,” Barton said plainly. “They are being debriefed just like you are. Again, what do you remember?” Barton paused, stone faced and waiting. She adverted his gaze; his eyes bore into her. When she didn't respond, he continued. “So, you have no memory of what happened? No memory of how you and your crew ended up in a field in Kandahar? How your aircraft was inexplicably deconstructed down to nuts and bolts and laid out neatly in a poppy field?”

  Diaz just stared at him.

  “Because I feel like we are missing some key details here, Chief. And it’s imperative we get those details. Do you understand?”

  Diaz struggled for answers, fought for the memories hidden away. But when she tried, the face of an owl stared back at her.

  “I… I don't…”

  Barton sighed as he got up from his chair. He walked over to the door and opened it, and he turned to her. “We’ve been talking for a few hours now,” he said. I understand this has been a traumatic event for you, Chief. Take a break and get some fresh air. When you come back, we’re going to continue.” And a guard in a sterilized uniform appeared through the open doorway and greeted her, ushering her then away down a series of hallways.

  Diaz followed the guard through the unknown facility, who soon brought her to an open-air courtyard. The buzz of helicopters in the distance droned over the night air.

  The guard offered her a cigarette and coffee which she gladly accepted. She walked alone to a bench and sat down as he hung back at the door. Diaz lit the cigarette and took a drag with trembling hands, before washing it down with cheap government procured coffee. She grunted to herself. She never smoked before, but tonight seemed a good place to start.

  Barton probably saw through her feint. Diaz remem-bered coming to in that field, and those helicopters that were thundering overhead. Her own helicopter had in fact been disassembled and neatly spread out. She remembered how soldiers in MOPP gear lifted her onto a stretcher and loaded her into an aircraft, whisking her away. Diaz remembered the medical examiners discussing the surgical scars that had appeared across her body, as well as whispering about the metallic object they pulled out of her.

  The truth was, she didn't want to remember. But she most certainly did.

  Diaz looked up and exhaled. She watched the smoke rise and dissipate into the cold, clear night. She stared into that masterpiece; a starry heaven painted across the sky. Beautiful and mysterious. In days past, she would have stared with wonder and excitement: curious of the vast expanse displaying itself each night.

  As she stared into the cosmos, she shuddered under the gaze of countless eyes. Because she didn't feel that same sensation. Not anymore.

  As Chief Warrant Officer Percy Diaz gazed, an owl hooted somewhere in the distance.

  She felt fear.

  The Transcript

  The following is a transcript recording of an interrogation conducted by Master Sergeant Joseph Hassan on an unknown detainee known only as “The Detainee.”

  [Begin recording]

  [There a door opening and bootsteps. The door closes and locks]

  MSG Hassan: Ok recording is a go. Sound test. Test test test. Okay I read you loud and clear. Date is November 17, 2003.

  [Shuffling of equipment and paper]

  MSG Hassan: Ok recording in progress. For the record, subject is an approximately thirty-year-old military-aged male. Of Muslim descent, potentially ethnic background points to Iraq or Iran although it's currently unknown. Subject has remained silent since capture and has resisted enhanced interrogation techniques. Subject was extremely violent and combative with guards and handlers, injuring several. He has been placed in restraints, which has reduced violent outbursts. However, he has still attempted to bite several personnel.

  [MSG Hassan clears his throat]

  MSG Hassan: Due to my ethnic and religious back-ground, I have been brought in to attempt to connect with the subject to determine how he breached a secured facility. And more importantly why.

  MSG Hassan: [In English] Lets remove that hood. Ah, there you go. [Switching to Arabic] As-salamu alaykum.

  [A chair slides along the ground and creaks as MSG Hassan sits down]

  Detainee: [In Arabic] Wa ʿalaykumu s-salam. [May peace be upon you]

  [Detainee laughs heartily]

  Detainee: I believe for the sake of the record we can use a common language your superiors can easily understand.

  MSG Hassan: Oh. I see you can speak English very well…where did you learn? The UK? America?

  Detainee: You’ll find that I know a great many things, language need not be an obstacle in our discussion. Although I see your superiors believe the commonality of our skin and language will create some familiarity between us.

  MSG Hassan: I see. Well then what should I call you?

  Detainee: Nothing. You can call me nothing but that which you already know me. I am one of many. Nameless.

  MSG Hassan: Ok then, Nameless, then who are you?

  Detainee: I already told you.

  MSG Hassan: Where do you come from?

  Detainee: You already know where I come from.

  MSG Hassan: Do I? Because last I checked this is the first time you have decided to open your mouth to speak.

  Detainee: Again, you know who, and what, I am.

  MSG Hassan: That’s not an answer. If you keep this up, we will go back to our methods from before.

  Detainee: And that proved effective how?

  MSG Hassan: Answer the question.

  Detainee: [Sighs] I am from what you call the “Cradle of Civilization,” or for you specifically, what your father Ahmed called the “Holy Land.”

  MSG Hassan: So, you’re Arab?

  Detainee: No.

  MSG Hassan: Persian?

  Detainee: [Chuckles] No.

  MSG Hassan: Pakistani?

  Detainee: Ha! [Snorts] The lines drawn on a map do not define me.

  MSG Hassan: I know how combative you’ve been, that's why you’re in these iron chains now. I saw how you fought the guards until the restraints were on. If you cooperate, we can talk about walking back some of our measures. The Uni-ted States is open to rewarding those who cooperate with us.

  Detainee: But you have nothing to offer me.

  MSG Hassan: I can take you back to the dogs you know that right? I saw that the dogs seemed to break this stubborn façade of yours.

  Detainee: [Shouts] No! [Clears throat] No. No dogs.

  MSG Hassan: Ah, so not so unbreakable. Keep the shit up and I’ll throw you to the wolves we have here. The dogs like new play toys.

  Detainee: Fine.

  MSG Hassan: So, you appear to be educated. You speak English better than me. Well-fed and healthy. No ordinary man could pull off what you did. Who do you work for?

  Detainee: I have no master.

  MSG Hassan: [Chuckles] ISI? Mossad? Quds Force? Hamas? Al Qaeda? Any of these ring a bell? Should I go on?

  Detainee: I told you. I have no master.

  MSG Hassan: You see, I highly doubt that.

  Detainee: I would be lying if I gave you any other answer.

  MSG Hassan: So answer this then, why were you found sitting cross-legged in a secure location deep within Fort Bragg?

  Detainee: [Laughing] I take it Task Force Orange wasn't amused with that.

  MSG Hassan: You see, the fact that you know that name proves you’re full of shit.

  Detainee: Oh?

  MSG Hassan: Yes.

  Detainee: I told you; I know all sorts of things.

  MSG Hassan: You’re not as clever as you think, we know there’s a mole. Someone feeding you information. Helping you.

  Detainee: Noooo, tsk tsk tsk, it's just me. [Laughing]

  [A struggle is heard. Furniture is moved and there is a soft thud. Someone gasps in pain]

  [A crackling is heard. A yelp of pain follows]

  MSG Hassan: Are you ready to tell the truth now? This cattle prod has plenty of juice, and I have plenty of time.

  Detainee: [Begins to laugh]

 

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