The Rhythm of the Stone

by James H Bird

  By the time I got home from the café I was over my disgust with manicured man. Mostly I realized he was not much different than everyone else. They believe everything they read in the paper. I like to find out things from accumulation of known facts. I sat at my desk and gave the article one more read and looked up stories on line. Something bugged me about the whole tragedy. I was there, I know that probably has something to do with it but I have distrusted news for a long time and since I was there, I wanted to know more.

  I wrote down the names Michael Darnay and Anthony Timmer. Terrorism was on everybody’s mind but I ruled that out. That left me with a joy ride but that didn’t make sense? I called the homes of numbers I found in the phone book. No answer or a machine to leave a message. I called the hospital. I knew Anthony had been released but Michael was still in an induced coma. I called the Sheriff’s Department and got the same story that the newspaper grossly misconstrued. Anthony told me the car had simply gotten away from Michael.

  Recalling the events of the previous day, and fuming over the misreporting, I wrote a letter, more an essay, of everything I knew about the accident. I spoke with the parents of both Michael and Anthony at the hospital. They provided detail about the lives and intentions of the young men. I wrote this too. I sent copies to all the major newspapers in the region via email. Several editors called me to verify my story. All of them told me they will run it either in the opinion section or as a below the fold first page article. I didn’t care much about all that only satisfied that the truth will be told.

  Then, on the internet, I read the story of Fred Teller. It wasn’t much, a few paragraphs. The story didn’t link him to the accident and how he stepped in to help. That he took Bonnie and others to the hospital. I was going to find out more of this man.

  Thinking of Bonnie made my stomach jump. I recalled out conversation from last night over the phone and smiled at how I leaped out of my desk chair when the phone finally rang. I reached over and snatched the phone out of its charging cradle.

  “Hello?” I said, and cleared my throat. Electric butterflies bashed against the walls of my stomach.

  “Hi. It’s me, Bonnie.”

  My heart jumped and cartwheeled in my chest. I had to calm myself and catch my breath. I had the sensation that I was standing in a dark room and starring out the only window at tiny point of light far away. I wanted to grasp that tiny point of light but is was just out of my reach.

  “Hello! You called!”

  “Of course!”

  The conversation began polite and restrained as we gauged each other’s temperament like two dogs sniffing each other for a familiar scent. My face began to flush. I want to reach through the phone and caress her. I felt a strong certainty that only comes once in a lifetime and never again. A stew of fear and longing. I kept these feeling secret. That was the fear. The undeniable euphoria. That was the longing. We made plans for lunch and perhaps more.

  Funny how things work out.

  ####

  About the Author

  James Halister Bird III (Hal) spent over twenty years as a Technical Writer and manager, he is a published songwriter and subject matter articles. Born in Georgia, a graduate of Georgia Southern University and as a ‘military brat’ he has a variety of employment and life experiences. His passion is historical fiction and the research this category involves. His writing style is a humorous, cynic and southern charm. He is also a student of the human condition. Mr. Bird’s influences include Hunter S. Thompson, Ernest Hemingway, John Steinbeck, H.L.M. Mencken, Bill Bryson, Jon Meacham and the public library. He loves history of the weird and other mostly unknown facts. He currently lives in Tennessee and goes by the name Hal.

  Hal enjoys music starting out annoying his parents and anyone within ear shot with a beat up drum kit. After a raucous rock and roll life, he ditched the sticks for picks, began playing the guitar at eighteen, and hasn’t put one down since. He has also noodled around on a banjo, Dobrobanjo, mandolin, doghouse bass and slide guitar. He tried a fiddle once but he fled in terror believing he had murdered a cat…

  He likes to write, cook, learn, explore, travel and meet interesting people. Hal has a wicked sense of humor and enjoys a good laugh and making others laugh.

  He sincerely appreciates everyone that follows his work. Please remember to leave a review for his book at your favorite retailer.

  Thank you!

  Other Works in Progress

  The High Water Mark - Long Journey Home - Sample Chap One

  Off the Road on the Way - A Wartime Pilgrimage – Sample Chap One

  Last Man Standing

  Tullahoma Mud

  Connect with Me:

  Email Me: halbanjo25@gmail.com

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  Off the Road on the Way

  A Wartime Pilgrimage

  CHAP 1 EUROPA

  On this particular morning Dean stood before the consulate, United States, West German and Bavarian flags furled in light breezy puffs. He received brief instructions yesterday, one-line memo straight to the point: ‘Wait outside front entrance, 6:45 A.M. End.’ It was sent from his boss so didn’t bother to question the strange instruction. A government sedan sped around the corner and stop abruptly, someone from the inside of the car opened the rear door. Dean slid onto the backseat dragging his briefcase behind him. Before he could settle in, a black hood was pulled over his head.

  “Hey! What the…” Dean began to protest.

  “Be quite, Mr. Spalding! We’re going for a ride.”

  Dean was shoved to the floor as the car sped off. The assailant tied Dean’s hands behind his back. His struggling subdued by a foot on his neck. He had read about the frequent kidnappings and Dean figured it was his turn, but why. Usually they were high level politicos or the wealthy for ransom. He panicked and breathing came hard, sucking the fabric of the hood in and out like a convict on the scaffold.

  Too many turns in irregular order for Dean to count. The engine in high hum suggested a long stretch of highway or Autobahn. The car slowed followed by more confusing turns. A bump then tires squealed their objection to the rapid deceleration. The door was snatched open and Dean felt four arms grab him and snatched him up and out of the car. He was led through a door, down a hall then another door and down a flight of stairs, a landing, more stairs. Metal door this time, he was propelled down a long linoleum hall floor. Dean was halted and turned right. He heard what sounding like the clicking of high heels.

  “Stand here Mr. Spalding,” said the same voice from the government car.

  “Is this him?” A female voice asked in a slight Mediterranean accent. Dean couldn’t identify which country.

  “Yes ma am,” Dean’s assailant said.

  “Good. Carry on. Kline is waiting.”

  Dean heard someone knock.

  “Yep, come,” a steely voice said, an American voice.

  Dean’s kidnappers escorted him into the subterranean room. One snatched the hood off while another unbound his hands. Another tossed his briefcase at his feet. Dean breathed long and deep. He coughed and blinked his eyes.

  Retired Army Colonel Ed Kline Deputy Director of Information and Political Affairs sat in front of him. Dean never met him and strangers make him uneasy. Colonel Ed Kline a clean-cut rawboned thick man around six feet tall with large hands and round shoulders. He had the look of someone who might have played linebacker in college. He wore a high and tight haircut his silver hair stood at attention and had the look of being brushed with a wet towel. He had a
square face and piercing hazel eyes that projected command and no nonsense.

  He sat behind standard issue gray metal government desk on a wooden swivel chair. The only furnishings. His legs crossed, and sitting sideways to the door, reading. A black beret with no insignia lay on his desk. Kline wore a military style black sweater and dark gray pants. He did not get up nor extend his hand to Dean. Kline’s austere office looked like a temporary arraignment to Dean. Unlike consulate offices furnished with quality wood desks, tables and comfortable chairs.

  Colonel Kline continued sitting while looking over papers clearing his throat, he did not smile. With his left hand, he motioned Dean to come closer. The room grew warm, causing Dean to loosen his tie. He tried not to fidget and keep his composer.

  “Why am I here?” Dean said in an uncertain tone. “I mean… I didn’t know… is part of the consulate?” his voice was hoarse. “Um… I… I mean I didn’t know anything…” His voice trailed off.

  Kline continued reading without speaking.

  “… and I’ve been working at the consulate for nearly a year,” Dean exclaimed, looking around wide-eyed.

  Kline did not look up when he spoke. “There are many things you don’t know Mr. Spalding. This building has nothing to do with the consulate.”

  “Why am I here?” Dean said in an uncertain tone. “I mean… I…I… who… who are you?” his voice sputtering.

  “This briefing is your first. I will provide you with as much information we consider necessary for you to complete the current phase and to keep you alive.” Kline looked up at inexpressive Dean.

  “I was opposed to you for this work … but others in Bonn thought you better cover.”

  “Cover?” Dean said and gulped. He opened his mouth to say something but no words came out.

  Kline returned his attention to his papers, “You are a twenty-six year old graduate student about to go on a pilgrimage and should not draw attention. … You’ll be able to move around northern Spain with ease.”

  “I am a doctoral candidate in Government and Political Science and a history major,” Dean said a bit boastfully.

  “Your education is a plus but not overly important. Your recent work for the embassy and here at the consulate has been noticed. You have a keen sense for detail and work with poise under pressure. … I’m told you are dependable.”

  “Thank you sir.”

  “The Berlin incident to name one. Furthermore, your work with the counter terrorism desk on the Bahder-Mahouf, ETA and Red Brigade problems. However, what has been reported in the popular press and your briefing material is incomplete.” Kline’s voice softens, “some in Directorate of Operations have called you a man for all seasons. You’re going have to prove it.”

  Dean rocked back slightly but kept his expression placid. He could feel his blood pressure rise, he struggled for a response. Man this guy is up the chain. That’s compartmental classified information. Dean suppressed internal voice, speak less speak best.

  “Oh that yeah thank you, pretty basic stuff sir.”

  Kline ignored Dean’s remark, “Over the next six months we will train you certain skills and techniques. We will send you to Las Palmas on the Spanish Canary Islands; we’ve got a training facility there.”

  “Yes sir. I’ve always wanted to visit there.”

  “You will improve your Spanish. You will learn more in depth analysis concerning the political and economic situation in Spain,” he clasped his hands. “We will train you in survival, evasion, resistance, and escape. You will learn and abide by Army code of conduct.”

  “Yeah, things are a bit shaky since Franco croaked,” Dean said in a weak attempt at lightening the mood. He failed, miserably.

  Kline turned over a page and cleared his throat, “Mr. Spalding,” he looked up again, “foreign affairs is serious business. This is not Saturday night at the frat house nor a vacation to an island paradise.”

  “Yes sir. I understand.” No I don’t…

  “Oh, do you? Tell me what you know of Spain,” Kline said in a condescending voice.

  “Yes well … I…” Dean, unprepared for an oral presentation, bumbled along in a meandering narrative reading from his notes and papers that had acuminated in his battered lawyer style briefcase.

  “Franco’s political party Falangism is widely associated to a fascist ideology. Franco believed Spain’s "national love for law and order" due to Germanic Visigoth tribe heritage. Falangist regime respected Nazi Germany discipline. Franco ordered Spanish archaeologists to demonstrate Spaniards were Aryan race through their Visigoth legacy. Some have suggested this admiration for Nazism and Aryan race shaped Franco’s political philosophy.

  “Spain, in 1978 is in turmoil and shaping up to become bloodiest year for Euskadi Ta Askatasuna commonly known as ETA translated as Basque Homeland and Freedom. This group is an armed Basque nationalist and separatist organization in Northwest Spain and Southwest France. I have been watching this group closely.”

  Dean dangled the pages by his side and pushing his hair back, “Why am I telling you this? Like you said earlier, this information is widely known. Would you rather here what we are doing?”

  Kline looked up, “Perhaps Mr. Spalding. What else do you know?”

  Dean frowned at Kline and rubbed his jaw.

  “Let me see.” He said, delaying to look where he left off.

  “This Law for Political Reform tested Suárez’s political shrewdness. Not only did he have to work with diametrically opposite parties, military and church, the new prime minister needed to bring the dangerous situation in Basque Country under control and contend with treacherous ETA,” Dean let out an impatient huff and shuffled his feet.

  Colonel Kline held up his hand, “That’s enough.” He cleared his through and said, “Ok Mr. Spalding, anyone could find that in countless publications. Your research would make a sufficient sophomoric academic paper,” He swiveled his chair, it squeaked. “We have an assignment for you.”

  “Yes sir,” Dean said and straighten up.

  The Colonel spoke in a guarded tone, “Spain is not yet a NATO member.”

  “Yes sir, I know.”

  “We need it to be. … More on NATO in a minute,” Kline said, he waving his hand as if swatting a gnat. He picked up a paper from a desk drawer.

  “Here is a list that explains what we wish you to observe and report while on your hike. It’s the usual. Ships, trains, military equipment. It’s on your list. Let us know immediately if you see troop movements or suspicious military-like behavior. Take a few moments and look it over,” Colonel Kline said, flatly like he was handing Dean a grocery list. He began tapping his finger on his desk.

  “Uh? I thought I was…”

  “Changes Mr. Spalding. They are as inevitable as the sun. Any run of the mill tourist could take pictures of buildings and chat with the locals.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “No guessing in this game Mr. Spalding …. In addition, you will learn how to provide detailed hydrographic features description and accurate charts showing water depths at all points, reefs, rocks, shoals, and peculiar currents. Anything a danger to navigation. Likewise, tributary streams and channels. We want you to observe and record but there are some things you must know. Things not on your list,” Kline said. “Things that may cause you trouble.”

  “Trouble?”

  “If you don’t want this assignment then I’ll send you back to that piss ant clerk job,” Kline barked at him.

  Dean looked at Kline then down at the list that identified things to look for while hiking in Northern Spain. After he skimmed Kline’s list he shrugged his shoulders.

  “This looks simple enough. I’ll do it,” Dean said, “I might get delayed some though.”

  “How?”

  “I dunno, going down to ports and stations. Things like that.”

  “Take binoculars or use your camera lens. We will teach you these things.”

  “Good point,” Dean felt foo
lish. I should of thought of that. He lamented.

  Colonel Kline stayed silent for a few moments then dropped a bombshell that would change Dean’s life forever, “Have you heard of the … Gladio?”

  “Gladio?” Dean put his fingers to his tilted forehead, “No. What is that?”

  “It’s Italian for a short, wide, double-edged sword used by gladiators in ancient Rome,” Kline sat back and folded has hands in his lap. His expression solemn and sad. He let out a long sigh then began speaking slowly.

  “This Cold War is tricky business. Spain in particular, Left and Right extremists fighting for control. You know this from embassy briefs,” Kline said, he crossed his arms across his chest and shot a glance at Dean with narrowing eyes.

  “Today I will give you a little background. You will be given more information during your training … and during you work on this assignment.”

  “Um … OK?” Dean said, more of a question. He felt his pulse quicken he shuffled on his feet and fidgeted with his ear lobe. What the heck is this about?

  The door opened and someone walked in behind Dean. He didn’t reveal himself nor offer an introduction. The door shut and mystery man stood his hands clasped behind his back. He wore a dark business suit. He had a featureless round face and close-cropped dark hair and maybe little over weight. He was a big man as tall as Dean. He did not make eye contact, looking instead over Dean’s head.

  Kline went on, “Gladio generally is a network of secret army that exist in Italy and other NATO countries. The CIA’s covert warfare section coordinates this activity through the UN. These armies were set up by CIA and British Secret Intelligence Service MI6 after the war. They fight Communist.”

  “I can see why secret armies were kept under wraps. Who pays for this?” Dean said, taking a step closer.

  Colonel Kline unfolded his arms and leaned forward, “I will tell you what you must know and that is all.”

  “Yes sir.”