I Shot JFK

by Jake Aaron

  In the early morning sunlight, Gunnar takes me on a hike along a path into the jungle. After about ten minutes we come to a cave. The moss-covered rocks at the opening to the cave continue down to a roaring underground river that flows to the ocean. The massive flow of water is visible only with a flashlight. We hang back from entering the slippery cave of no return. Green flora clings to the rock floor of the entrance, creating a slimy surface that gives all the traction of ice.

  Another ten minutes away we come to the source of water for the base — Tarague Wells. We walk down three flights of steel-grid ladders in the center of the cavern. The crystal clear water below reflects eerie blue hues from the floodlights that illuminate the stalactites and stalagmites in the water at the base of the cavern surrounding us.

  “I would never expect this on a tropical island!” I tell Gunnar.

  “The wells are actually sinkholes. The groundwater phenomenon is known as the Northern Guam Lens. Rainfall percolates through the subsurface limestone made of fossilized coral and algae. The filtered fresh water floats on top of any saltwater below creating the ‘lens’ at sea level. This area provides water for half the island’s population.”

  “I am amazed,” I gush. “Still Mr. Wizard?” I know he remembers his TV mentor.

  “Wait until I show you something back on the beach,” Gunnar promises.

  *****

  Back on the beach at the Boy Scout camp, Gunnar uses the entrenching tool to dig a hole in the sand. Fresh water quickly fills up the 12-inch crater. “This is what I wanted to show you. Up to 110 inches of rain each year has to go somewhere.” he teaches. “A large portion flows to the ocean.”

  “Amazing,” I am filled with wonder. “I must try this on the beaches of Efate, if I ever return. Port Vila gets slightly more rain per year than Guam. What’s next Jacques Cousteau?”

  “Grab a snorkel and a mask. Keep your tennis shoes on. They’ll protect you from the tar-like sea slugs and razor-sharp coral. You will not believe how much you can see inside the reef here. The fish colors span the whole visible spectrum of light. Their brightness is mind-boggling. Fluorescent, iridescent — you name it, best to not touch anything. There are very large moray eels that peek their heads through holes in the coral. They are ferocious. Some of the beautiful live sea shells are deadly poisonous. Cone shells are notorious for that. Some shoot poisonous harpoons at their prey. You don’t want to be their target. I’ll show you pictures of some of the shells the base safety office warns personnel about, including several textile shells.”

  “Gunnar, I appreciate the warning. You know I snorkeled in Vanuatu? Sea shells are even one of its main exports.” I remind him. “There I would warn you about sea snakes.”

  “Sorry, Alex, I know you were there and know the ocean’s hazards. Anyway, I just want you to be safe in this hostile environment. Consider that a friendly reminder. It looks like paradise, but touch the Indo-Pacific man o’ war or box jellyfish — you’ll think differently. By the way, there are sea snakes here, too.”

  I am mesmerized by the beauty I see as we snorkel, even though Vanuatu was similar. I could spend hours here. I want to see more. I want to go out beyond the reef. Gunnar is emphatic that we get out of the water.

  “First,” Gunnar begins, “it’s a good time to get out. The tide is coming in. You can tell by the cool feeling of the incoming water. Second, you need to stay away from the reefs on Guam, which are particularly treacherous. Sometimes there’s a thin crust of coral over a big cavern. People have been known to fall in and never get out. I don’t have to tell you about the countless coral cuts you’d experience if you did fall into a cavern. Beyond the reef, airmen from Andersen have been sucked out to sea. And equally bad, the ocean has been known to pummel some, crashing them into bloody messes on the reef.”

  “I’m not going to argue with a war hero, especially when he’s my big brother,” I give in. “I want a milkshake.” On the way up the steep road back to the base, I crane my neck to look back in awe of the beautiful panorama.

  Gunnar takes me to a stand-alone hamburger shack on base. He orders two medium pineapple shakes. Pineapple? I have my doubts. It is the best shake I have ever had in my life. It’s frostiness takes the edge off a hot, humid, windless day. The flavor is fantastic!

  “We could do this again,” I smile. “The Guam Bomb, not so much. I always wonder when I stumble into something as good as that shake whether it’s a fluke, a one-time mistake on their part. Yes, we’ll have to come back here, in the interest of science! We’ll see whether they can duplicate the recipe.”

  Gunnar wants to take me for a hike to Talofofo Falls. First, he has to check his room for messages. He returns to the car, “Something has come up. I’m meeting with one of our guys in an hour where we had the pineapple milkshakes. Let’s go back there and chat over coffee until then.”

  *****

  An hour later, I enjoy another small pineapple shake while Gunnar sits at a corner picnic table with one of his people. I am the only other person around and fully thirty-five feet away. His counterpart rises, orders a large pineapple shake, and departs. Gunnar joins me at my table. We are alone. “I know I’ve discouraged you from being a professional assassin. I’m kicking myself for asking this. Do you want to take out a bad guy tonight for $100,000?”

  I laugh. “Brother, this is not funny. Are you serious?”

  “I am. Part of me says I hope you turn me down. The other part says I need an expert to do a hit for us tonight. The shooter who was supposed to be here got sick on the flight out of Hawaii. He can’t do it. Everything has come together tonight except him. The payment is our standard for the level of danger and support.”

  “If you need something done, I’m in,” I say. I would never turn down a request from my brother. He knows I never miss.

  Gunnar looks relieved and befuddled at the same time. “Okay then, let’s each get in a good nap back in our cool rooms.” He wipes sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. “I’m telling you more than you’d normally get because I trust you. The target is a Communist cell leader in Agana. He manages to monitor specific military flights out of Andersen AFB. We have a Blackbird, a supersonic spy place, that is taking off in the wee hours on a special mission. We know the public phone the target will use to report the takeoff to his contact off the island. In this case, you’ll take him out before he places the call. We’ll frame his right-hand man for the hit. That ambitious bastard!,” Gunnar laughs. “Taking him out of the game paves the way for one of our people to step into leadership of the cell. Another benefit is the surprise overflight of North Vietnam, not to mention testing whether we have a mole. It’s a nice little chess move all the way around.”

  “I’m glad I can help. The phone booth area is illuminated?” I inquire.

  “It is. There are not usually witnesses around at that hour. We’ve got a proper rifle with a telescope. You’ll be with the agent I just met. I can’t be anywhere near for various reasons.” Gunnar sounds like a military briefer. He reminds me of a West Point cadet at this moment. I see him as a plebe with a pointer explaining on the blackboard how he proved a calculus theorem.

  *****

  At 2 AM on the dot, the SR-71 launches from Andersen AFB. We can see the red-orange cones from the two nozzles of its afterburners. An earth-shaking roar follows. Four miles from the base near a bar in Yigo, the roar is a loud rumble. The classified time of takeoff had been set for 4 AM to sniff out any intel leaks.

  Ten minutes after the takeoff, the target shows at the phone booth, as predicted. One of Gunnar’s people has given a local $200 to buy drinks for all around in the adjacent bar. I watch three hundred yards away behind a huge banyan tree. No one emerges from the bar. The target arrives alone. By the way, when I ask about clean up, the guy with me advises, “Don’t worry; the Company will take care of it.”

  I experience my usual comfort and remembrance taking up the rifle. I connect with my world. I am one with the universe. I am in
flow. I am relaxed and focused. I feel totally in control. Gunnar’s man gives me a positive ID on the target. I fire. I feel an overpowering rush. I never miss.

  My contact congratulates me. He takes the silenced rifle from my grip and escorts me to a van. Someone else takes the rifle from him and drives away in a sedan. We head to the 24-hour air terminal on Andersen AFB. My mood is so high that I don’t even notice the giant toads exploding under our tires at 45 mph, max speed on the island, on our 4 mile drive. My contact drops me off.

  I enter the cafeteria. Gunnar is drinking coffee alone. He sees me, smiles, and rises to get a coffee for me.

  “Piece of cake — ala mode — cherry on top,” I report.

  “That’s too bad,” Gunnar smiles. “I was hoping for a pineapple shake. You have made me look good. Everyone thought we had missed a perfect confluence of events, a golden opportunity. Thanks to you, we didn’t. I don’t have to tell you that Dad would have approved — totally. And Glen would have been in awe. Me? I think you did pretty well.” Despite his studied flat affect, he gives a glimmer of a grin at his understatement. He laughs. “I knew the job was done when you accepted!”

  *****

  The next day we do our car tour of the island. We begin a clockwise drive. At 45 mph, we expect to take all day. I am enthralled with my beloved flame trees. Their fluorescent orange blooms remind me of my idyllic times in Vanuatu. The joy the color gives me is a hint of how I feel when I shoot. Some sort of synesthesia, I suppose. The crossing of sensory paths has interested me since Gunnar very seriously told our parents about his ability to smell colors.

  Near the southeast tip of the island, we follow the signs to the trailhead of Talofofo Falls. We park and traipse along the jungle trail in tropical mugginess. “Hey, Gunnar, deja vu?,” I quip.

  “You got that right, sis!” He laughs. “I love the smell of decaying flora and fauna in the morning. Reminds me of the day I escaped from the Viet Cong squad. Sweet, sweet the memories!”

  “Have I told you lately, you’re the best brother in the world?” I ask him.

  Gunnar puts his arm around my shoulders and squeezes me hard. His eyes are misted over. “You’ll do,” he manages to say. “You know, there’s one thing worse than being hot in the jungle of Vietnam. That’s being cold. I can’t tell you how miserably cold I was some nights, especially in the rain — without fire. So I chide myself when I grouse about the heat.”

  “I can imagine how terrible it was to be that cold for so long. I once cancelled my in-progress campout on the beach in Efate because I hadn’t brought enough clothes or blankets. The temperature dropped just a few degrees. I was shivering uncontrollably that night. No wonder you choose to work in the tropics!” Any temperate climate would often feel too cold. I cannot sympathize enough.

  As we make our way on the muddy trail, we slip and slide on the red-staining mud after a tropical shower. “When was the last time you saw Hank,” Gunnar asks off-handedly.

  “That would be at your funeral. He stood beside me the entire time. He also helped explain some of the stories people told about you at your wake. A great best friend!”

  “Of you or me?” Gunnar jokes.

  “That would be of you. Too bad you can’t let him know you’re alive,” I reply.

  “I don’t know … . Yes, he is my best friend. I don’t know whether he ever told you. The guy is madly in love with you.”

  “No, he didn’t tell me. We got along all right …” I am taken aback. I replay hundreds of conversations with Hank in microseconds. Was Gunnar right?

  “Alex, I think one reason he hung out around me was to see you on weekends. Wild-man, tiger Hank became a kitten around you. He was totally taken with you. He told me once you were too perfect. That probably intimidated him from telling you. You are too attractive, too smart, and too accomplished for most guys,” Gunnar states. “That, by the way, is a compliment.”

  “So that’s how guys see it?” I question.

  “If you’re worried about it, you could always play dumb,” Gunnar jests. He gives me a sly look out of the corner of his eyes.” With a smile, he adds, “I’d buy tickets to see that!”

  “Brother, you can still make me laugh! Thanks for that, you distracted me from how hot and sweaty I feel. I guess a lady should say perspiry.”

  “Don’t change the subject, sis. You should know that you are the love of Hank’s life. Whether you act on it is up to you.”

  I get a wry smile, “Sounds like one of us should marry him!”

  He smiles back, looking at me beside him, “You always could end a conversation. Always! — the word of arguing siblings and spouses,” he summarizes.

  “You, you make me keep talking, so I will. I think you are the love of Emily’s life, but that does not mean that LIFE in big capitals will let that happen,” I argue.

  “True,” Gunnar returns. “Buy you a pineapple shake when we get back to Andersen?”

  *****

  When we reach the falls, I am a little disappointed. It’s not Niagara Falls, but it is the best Guam has. The headwaters are muddy, but the water below the falls is clear. Gunnar wants to go into the pool below the falls. I warn him of the dangers of leptospirosis, a spirochete that can wreak havoc on the human body — sometimes with just skin exposure, symptoms appearing after as long as two weeks. Usually a tropical disease, it is often misdiagnosed. “I haven’t seen any cases in Vanuatu, but you never know,” I warn.

  “Are you getting back at me for my many cautionary remarks at Tarague Beach?” Gunnar has a wry grin.

  “Turnabout is fair play, I’d say,” I reply with a playful smile that morphs to seriousness. “After your jungle survival in Vietnam, you may be immune to everything. As you forgot my Vanuatu experiences, so I sometimes forget your Vietnam excursion. Like hell!”

  “Now you’re talkin’! Thanks for throwing me a bone, doc. I’ll forego my swim in these pristine waters. Let’s call it me-taking-your-advice, and you spot me one for my next faux pas. It does look inviting, though, doesn’t it?”

  “You get your chit, Gunnar. By the way, in the unlikely event you and I ever get to Efate again, I need to show you the Mele Cascade. About 7 miles from Port Vila, the waterfall is over 100 feet in height. Spectacular!”

  “You’re not knocking my Talofofo Falls, are you?” He laughs.

  *****

  We drive south and stop at the Inarajan Pools along the coast. Coral creates shallow pools that allow viewing the tropical sea life without getting wet. It has to be the world’s greatest outdoor aquarium. My absolute favorite species is a stunning little turquoise fish. I have never seen this one before.

  Gunnar puts his arm on my shoulder and counsels me, “We’re a long way from Alamogordo!” The expression is so true. It encapsulates the arc of half of our lives, and, with Gunnar’s inimitable timing, it’s funny.

  “Gee, Gunnar, I’ve never heard that one before,” I kid him.

  “You know us engineers: long on thought, short on dialogue.” His smile is even more beguiling with the mustache.

  We continue driving around the periphery of Guam to the southwestern town of Umatac. The bay is where Magellan, the Portuguese explorer, landed in 1521 as he sailed around the world. Eventually, the Spanish claimed and colonized the island. We see old Spanish forts that serve as a reminder of that process. On the shore by Umatac, we see the rusted remains of a Japanese two-man submarine that beached there during World War II.

  We stop at more spectacular beaches heading north. Like a child, I am fascinated by the name of the beach: Gab Gab. We grab sandwiches in the capital of Agana. We eat them while watching a Chamorro fisherman cast his circular net standing shin-deep in Agana Bay. I have seen this many times in Vanuatu and never tire of it.

  As we stop at Tumon Beach, Gunnar offers, “Don’t you just get sick of these beautiful beaches?”

  “No,” I laugh at his humor. “Each is so wonderful in its own way. And yet there is a connecting sameness. I think I
just spoke gibberish, but the emotion prevails.”

  On the road back, Gunnar calls out a sign for a place called Agafa Gumas. “Hey, sis, I like that almost as much as Gab Gag Beach.”

  “We’re almost back at Andersen. Want to hit Tarague Beach again?” I’m half-kidding.

  “I’d like to, but I’ve got to check in,” Gunnar explains, knowing I understand. “Remember the large pineapple shake I owe you?”

  “I’m not about to forget that!”

  “You come to paradise, and the high point is a pineapple shake!” Gunnar notes ironically.

  “In Vanuatu, Dr. Aurand warned me about overdosing on kava kava. He would never comprehend overdosing on pineapple shakes in Guam,” I note with my attempt at humor. Gunnar laughs.

  *****

  At the air terminal cafeteria, Gunnar meets with his contact in a far corner table. I eat a veggie-cheese omelet while I wait. I look at the rice in the salt shaker aimed at keeping the spice from clumping in the extreme humidity. Despite the rice gambit, I still can only get a trace of salt on my food.

  Knowing there are only three of us in the waiting area, Gunnar’s contact gives me a friendly minimal wave with only his left hand moving four inches in a normal stride. He doesn’t look or smile or speak. After he leaves, Gunnar is all smiles.

  “Let me begin on this cold Guam Bomb.” He lifts the top of the bun and squirts mustard and catsup over the chili and burgers. “Everything fell into place. I mean everything.” He takes a small bite. When he finishes chewing, he goes on, “ The local police picked up the cell’s second-in-command for the murder of Telephone Man. With no telephonic warning, the North Vietnamese were late turning on their radar for the SR-71 fly-over. And, very important to me, we apparently don’t have a mole in our chain. I would call the whole operation a catenation of miracles, maybe a mile of miracles.”