“Well, that’s all changed now,” replied Ryan. “I’ve found a wonderful woman in San Francisco and when I retire someday, I hope to find her still waiting for me. I intend to settle down with her if she’ll have me.”
“I take it you didn’t meet up with this one in a bar.” Rosie faked a frown.
“No, my friend, as a matter of fact I didn’t. We were introduced by mutual friends at a quiet little dinner party and it took off from there. I had absolutely no intentions of having a romantic relationship and was, in fact, very bitter about women in general. No offense, Monique. I didn’t mean you,” Ryan quickly added.
“No need to explain, honey. I know you didn’t. Now how ’bout some dessert? I got my little Ryan his favorite. I’ll bet you can’t guess what it is, can you?” she teased.
Ryan faked ignorance. “Well, I uh…No, I can’t. Wait a minute, is it…?”
“Yeah, baby, it’s pecan pie, homemade right here in your little tan sista’s Georgia kitchen.” Monique laughed at the scripted back-and-forth she and Ryan always played.
A few minutes later, as they finished up the last of the pie and downed their coffee, Rosie asked, “How ’bout a cigar?”
“Sounds good,” Ryan replied as they got up from the table.
“Y’all ain’t smokin’ in my house now, Rosie. You take them stinky logs outside and smoke them in the yard,” Monique scolded, knowing full well that Rosie already knew the rule about not smoking inside. Yeah, she ran a tight ship. First Sergeant Theodore Roosevelt Washington may be the first pig at the range, but the missus clearly outranked him around the house.
Rosie grabbed a couple of cigars from the box and a bottle of cognac that he saved for special occasions. Pouring two shots, he handed Ryan a glass and motioned toward the front door. The smoke and after-dinner drink were a nice way to end a perfect evening.
“If you can hang around for another night or two, I can take you out to the range with me tomorrow and show you around. What about it?” asked Rosie.
“Yeah, I’d like that,” Ryan said. “Always wanted to see what old, out-to-pasture workhorses do to justify their existence.”
“Okay then, we better turn in, ’cause reveille’s at 0500 and if your pale white ass ain’t out of the rack when it blows, I’m gonna dump it over on ya.”
The two old friends laughed and went inside. Rosie showed Ryan to his room and went to join Monique, who had long since retired for the night.
CHAPTER
12
Sedona, Arizona, was a slice of paradise to most people. But to the disheveled former math professor who’d dropped out of society and chosen to live in semi-seclusion, it was more like a hideout. No longer able to cope with modern society, he lurked on its periphery, coming out only to shop for the few essentials necessary to sustain him.
One of his few pleasures was sitting on the porch of his cottage near Oak Creek Canyon drinking tea and watching the rising sun cast its light on the golden spires and rock formations that towered above the ponderosas and sycamores. Twice divorced and burned out from too much drug use, he whiled away his days talking to his golden retriever, the one living being that didn’t argue with his disjointed and sometimes incoherent ramblings.
When he wasn’t mumbling to himself or engaging in one-way dialogue with his dog, he was inside his dank little home hunched over an antiquated typewriter, pecking out the memoirs of a unspectacular life—a life highlighted by a brief period four decades earlier when he’d been a leader in the radical domestic terrorist organization known as Lenin’s Legion.
He’d once aspired to be like his idol, Che Guevara, but was now a forgotten, jittery shell—a staggering, slobbering, emasculated mix of jaundiced skin and bones. Long gray hair, an unkempt beard, and soiled attire made the former anarchist look even filthier than he was. And that was saying a lot. He didn’t bathe but once or twice a month, and only then if he remembered.
People snickered and pointed when he ventured into town to buy groceries or pick up mail at the post office.
Yes, Gilbert Hayward the recluse was a reject and outcast. He hoped the autobiography he was in the process of writing would inject some meaning into his worthless life and earn him some recognition and respect. The once loud and boisterous college radical who’d rioted, burned, and blown up buildings was going through an inner crisis, torn between a need to be recognized and a guilt born of the realization that his past was wrought with evil acts, some of which had resulted in the deaths of other human beings. He hoped to redeem himself through the book and explain his actions so that readers would be able to understand him and realize that, although still an ideological Marxist, he was remorseful for the harm he’d inflicted on others.
Now broken and approaching the twilight of life, he wondered if perhaps there really was a God. An avowed communist, he’d always rejected that notion and gone about his criminal activities fearing nothing of an afterlife. Recently, however, with age closing in, he was having second thoughts.
Gilbert’s confusion and anguish was further aggravated by his increased consumption of cocaine and marijuana. The drug abuse was his attempt to self-medicate, but instead of helping him cope with the panic attacks that were plaguing him, it was just making matters worse. The attacks had started a few weeks back when he’d picked up a newspaper and read about the murders of his former companions, Bill and Brenda Delgadillo. “Hell,” he’d thought, “they even killed Hugo.” Little Hugo was only an infant when he’d last seen him.
Gilbert wondered if the murders were related to the days when the three of them and the pack of radicals they’d roamed the country with had tried to bring about a Marxist revolution. Had they been murdered by the CIA or the FBI? No, no, he wouldn’t go there. He knew that was being paranoid. Or was it?
Perhaps it was just a random killing carried out by sadistic home-invasion robbers who got pleasure out of torturing and massacring their victims.
But what if they’d been killed by a friend or relative of one of the countless people who’d suffered at the hands of Lenin’s Legion? That possibility sent shivers up Gilbert’s spine because it was the most likely of the scenarios rampaging through his mind. If that were the case, would he be next? And if so, how would the killers locate him, tucked away out here on the outskirts of town near a creek in the forest? What would they do to him when they found him? He shuddered at the prospect of being burned to death in the same manner as his former comrades.
CHAPTER
13
Ryan looked at the clock next to his bed and saw that it was four forty-five. He rolled out of the sack, grabbed his shaving kit, and went down the hall to the guest bathroom, where he showered and shaved.
Dressing quickly, he stashed his green beret in the cargo pocket of his ACUs, laced his boots, and headed for the kitchen. The smell of coffee and bacon greeted him. He was met by Rosie, who wisecracked, “It’s about time you got up, shitneck. I was just fixin’ to pour some ice water on your lazy ass.”
Ryan laughed. “Now I see why they call you Rosie. You look so domesticated and feminine, puttering around your kitchen like a little old lady.”
Rosie feigned a frown and chuckled. “One more crack like that and you’ll be wearing over-easy for a hat, boy.”
They were just finishing up breakfast when Monique wandered into the kitchen. She grabbed a cup and poured herself some coffee. “So, what do my two favorite fellas have going on today?” she asked.
“I’m gonna take Ryan out to the range and show him around. We have a qualification going on at the flat range this morning and some demolition classes in the afternoon. Pretty full schedule, so don’t expect us home before 1700,” Rosie replied.
“You planning on staying another night, Ryan?” asked Monique.
“Probably, if that’s all right with you, little sister,” he replied.
Monique smiled. “You know it is.” She was pleased Ryan was staying. It had been a while since she’d seen her husband relax th
e way he had the night before. She attributed the improvement in attitude to Ryan’s visit. Rosie had been moping around a lot lately. He missed the camaraderie that came with sharing danger with other men in mortal combat and found the transition from warrior to instructor about as fulfilling as sitting in a rocking chair.
“Come on, Irish, it’s time to shove off,” Rosie said as he motioned to Ryan. He bent over and kissed Monique good-bye, and they were soon out the door and driving away from the housing area toward the far reaches of the reservation where the ranges were located.
Rosie passed the red range flag and stopped to chat with the communications NCO, who was preparing his equipment for the day’s qualifications. There would be two of them today, one with the Beretta and the other with the M-4.
“How’s it going, Charlie?” Rosie asked.
“Okay, First Sergeant. Everything’s good to go. The ammo’s here and the troops will be out at 0900 sharp.”
“That’s great. Is the doc here yet?” Rosie inquired.
“Roger that, First Sergeant. He arrived a few minutes ago.” Staff Sergeant Charlie Bradford pointed to the medic, who was setting up a table and removing his aid kit from a Humvee about fifty yards down the line.
“Yeah, I see him. By the way, Charlie, this is an old buddy from my days as a fighting soldier. Name’s Master Sergeant Ryan O’Hara. If I get preoccupied, look after him and show him around the operation, will ya?”
“You got it, Top,” replied the staff sergeant as he shook Ryan’s hand.
Rosie drove toward the makeshift aid station, which, like the communications station, was mandatory at all live-fire exercises. He greeted the young medic. “Good morning, Doc. All ready for another day of operating?”
“Just about, First Sergeant,” replied Staff Sergeant Wilrolan Nunes.
“Very good, Doc. Carry on,” Rosie said.
After introducing Nunes to Ryan, Rosie drove the jeep over to the ammo shed, where the rest of the crew were looking over the morning report and preparing for the day. As the A-team got ready, the range masters and safeties began the briefing that was required before each live-fire session. Ryan offered to watch the ammunition and communications equipment so that Doc Nunes and Communications Sergeant Bradford could attend.
He looked over the boxes of 5.56 and 9 mm ammo set aside for the day’s close-quarter marksmanship training and qualification. Like most Green Berets, Ryan felt that this type of qualification course was useless. Shooting at stationary targets on an open range was not the type of drill Special Forces soldiers found helpful. It did little to hone their skills to the degree necessary for fighting the war on terror. What was needed were exercises designed to challenge them with simulated combat situations that imitated the types encountered in the Middle East and other lesser-known trouble spots in which Special Operators fought.
Emphasis needed to be on training the operators to fight their way out of ambushes, breach defensive positions and clear urban areas street by street and house by house. Situations to test reflexes and decision making also needed to be thrown into the mix. Shooting at stationary targets was well below the threshold that these operators required to keep ahead of the curve.
The only explanation Ryan could think of to explain this total waste of training time and resources was that it probably enabled some rear-echelon desk jockey to get an administrative-excellence rating on his OER.
Ryan was anxious to get on the demolition range to see what would be used—or, better yet, what wouldn’t be used—in that segment of the training. The rifle and pistol ranges were not where he wanted to be, but he’d have to hang out here until the training moved over to the other site. He hoped to find some of the items he needed there.
At 1300 hours, after a brief lunch break with the team, Rosie punched Ryan softly in the shoulder and said, “Get your ass in the truck. We’re going to the demo range.” Ryan was happy the morning session was over. Now maybe he could get what he’d come out to the range for in the first place.
Ryan gave no hint about his intentions. As far as Rosie and the other operators were concerned, he was just hanging out with an old friend and watching the others train. The last thing he wanted was for any of the operators to be implicated in any wrongdoing if his plans fell through and resulted in a court-martial.
Ryan and Rosie pulled into the demo range and were met by the range safety master. The range safety greeted Rosie and then broke into a broad grin when he saw Ryan. “Well, if this don’t beat all. When the hell did you pop in, lad?”
Ryan recognized the voice but didn’t connect it to the face at first. After several seconds, though, he made the connection. He smiled. It was Navarro Rhodes. The two of them had gone through ranger school together when they were just young pups and had served in the Seventy-Fifth for several years before Ryan went to the Special Forces.
“Hey, Ryan me lad, how about we go out and take a hike up to the top of Mount Yonah after the range closes down?” joked Rhodes.
“What’s this shit about Yonah? That godforsaken place is in Georgia. We here in the Mojave Desert and no Mount Yonah be out here. So what gives? You two know each other or something?” Rosie asked.
“Yes we do, my friend,” Ryan answered. “This is Navarro Rhodes, aka Catman. A top ranger and a lover of felines. The only macho gunslinger I know who would rather have a Siamese cat than a German shepherd. But then we all have our quirks now, don’t we?”
“Well, well, well. I’ll be damned. I didn’t know you was a cat lover, Rhodes. Kind of knocks you down in my esteem. Here I thought you was a big, tough, Clint Eastwood type and you turn out to be Catwoman.” Rosie laughed.
“You little son of a bitch, Ryan, I told you not to tell anyone about my cats,” Navarro joked. “As for you, Top, I’m not the one they call Rosie.”
After waiting for the back and forth to die down, Ryan continued, “Navarro and I served together in Third Battalion and had some wild times as we worked our way up from private to sergeant on our first hitch. Endured a lot, especially the night we pretty near froze to death on Mount Yonah while in ranger school. The temp was a minus five degrees with wind chill figured in. Had to be one of the worst nights of my life, and that includes all the combat I’ve been in over the years.”
“What combat, you little leprechaun? You bailed out on us before 9/11 and missed all the fun. Shit, man, the Seventy-Fifth’s been on so many deployments to Afghanistan and Iraq, you’d have to be a mathematician to count the number of times they’ve had their asses in the way of flying lead and ordinance,” Navarro jested.
“Rosie can vouch for me, Catboy. He and I have had our own excitement and it doesn’t much matter to a bullet whether the skull it’s heading for is under a green or a tan beret, now, does it?” countered Ryan.
Navarro paused a moment and then replied, “Naw, I guess it doesn’t. It’s just that I would have liked to have had you with us when Bravo Company hit the Haditha Dam. That was quite a show. Went on for a couple of weeks. We endured everything Saddam’s army could throw at us, including artillery, mortars, and rockets. We were outnumbered several times over and the enemy never seemed to run out of men. They just kept coming at us. No matter how many of them we killed, more came. A few times we had to call in air support and dump ordinance almost on top of our own positions. When all was said and done, though, we walked out of there with several hundred enemy KIAs to our credit and the Euphrates River valley was no longer in danger of being flooded as a means to hinder our progress.”
Pretending to be serious, Ryan replied, “I would sure like to tell you about all the adventures Rosie and I have had, but as you know, we are the ‘silent warriors.’ Can’t tell you where we’ve been, what we’ve done, or where we’re going. If I did, then I’d have to shoot you.”
“Horseshit,” Navarro countered. “You seem to be forgetting who you’re talking to. You’re still spewing the same line of crap you did when we jumped into Panama. You were full of bull then,
and you’re still full of it. But hell, even so, my brother, I still love ya, and it’s damn good to see you.”
“Right back at you, Catwoman,” replied Ryan.
“Oh, for the love of Jesus. This is getting downright sickening. Why don’t you two just plant a couple of big sloppy kisses on each other’s asses and get it over with?” Rosie chimed, rolling his eyes in mock disgust.
“Yeah, you’re right. It is getting a little thick. Come on, shit birds, let’s go over to the shed. I want Ryan to meet the rest of my crew.”
Navarro hopped aboard the truck and rode the short distance to the range shack with them, where, after introductions, the three men began examining the materials to be used for breaching and shape charges.
Rosie called to the medic, “Hey, Doc, do you have any extra IV bags of saline fluid available?”
The medic answered, “Roger that, First Sergeant. As a matter of fact, I do. I figured you’d probably want to use a water-impulse charge for breaching through a couple of metal doors. You always do.”
Rosie winked and gave a thumbs-up. He looked at Ryan and said, “I never have to worry about Doc. He’s always one jump ahead of me. Asking him if he has something is like asking him a question I already know the answer to.”
Looking over the inventoried demolition, Ryan was anxious for a chance to grab what he needed. He waited for the operators to leave the shack and watched as they set up to blow their first charge. As soon as he was sure they were fully engaged in their exercise, he grabbed a two-pound block of C-4, split it in half, and placed it in his cargo pockets along with some detonation cord he’d already picked up.
Ryan scanned the area for the remaining materials he needed for the bomb he planned to construct. First off, he’d need a couple of M-81 fuse igniters. He quickly located the igniters and switched them with two expended ones that he’d brought from the demo range at Fort Campbell. He also needed blasting caps but decided to improvise with 5.56 mm blank cartridges. Ryan knew that blasting caps were irreplaceable after detonation and would show up as missing on any future materials inventory. He didn’t want to risk the probable CID-initiated, 15-6 military criminal investigation and possible court martial that could result from the theft of those items. Criminal law as laid out in the Uniform Code of Military Justice was unforgiving and Ryan had no intention of putting his friends or himself in any more jeopardy than he already had.
The Rampage of Ryan O'Hara Page 8
