The Rampage of Ryan O'Hara

by James R. Pera

  Having gathered all the necessary materials, Ryan quickly took a pound of C-4 from the table where the demolition material was located and made what looked like a two-pound charge. He then placed the two “expended” packages into the dunnage pile and marked “expended” on the tracking sheets. The doctored paperwork validated the detonation of the charge and accounted for the C-4, M-81s, and detonation cord that Ryan had in his pocket. Once off the range and back to the housing area, he knew he would be home free and ready to proceed with the next phase of his mission.

  Ryan was ready to leave by the time Rosie and Navarro came back into the shack with the rest of the men.

  It had been a long but worthwhile afternoon in which Ryan had needed only a brief moment to obtain the necessary material vital to carrying out his plan. The rest of the time had been spent pretending to be interested in what was going on with the various demolition exercises, which he found boring. Having participated in the same types of exercises on countless occasions, they were old hat and he could have performed them blindfolded.

  Ryan said his good-byes and promised to keep in touch with Navarro, who had to take a rain check on Rosie’s invitation to dinner because of his daughter’s soccer match. The two men knew the chances of meeting up again anytime soon were slim, but no matter when or where their paths crossed in the future, they’d just pick up where they’d left off. That’s what rangers did. They were part of a brotherhood, and that brotherhood was sometimes as thick as—and often thicker than—blood. Over and above getting what he needed from the range, Ryan felt that the day had been worthwhile. Seeing his old buddy had made it so.

  “So waddaya think of my gig, Irish?” Rosie asked as they headed back to Cracker Jack Flats.

  “Not bad for an old washed-up has-been, I guess. A little slow for me, but then I’m a lot younger and in better shape than you are,” Ryan joked.

  Rosie didn’t offer a comeback. He just shook his head and chuckled as if acknowledging the joke to have more truth than humor.

  Ryan enjoyed another fine dinner and an evening of conversation with his old friends and then turned in.

  He was up at the crack of dawn to drink a couple of cups of coffee with Rosie and Monique.

  “You sure you don’t want breakfast before you hit the road, partner?” Rosie inquired.

  “No, thanks. I wish I could but I have to head out. Lots of people and places to see and things to do. It’s been great, though. I really enjoyed it.”

  Ryan rose and gave Monique a hug. Noticing the tears welling up in her eyes, he said, “Aw, come on now, little sister. Be brave. I’ll be back one of these days and it’ll be sooner than you think.”

  Monique choked back the tears and smiled. “You know how much you mean to us. Why, if it wasn’t for you, I’d be a widow today. Not a moment passes when I don’t think of what you did for me when you got my Rosie out of that valley.”

  “He’d have done the same for me.” Ryan laughed. “No choice. We’re like Siamese twins. Can’t get away from each other no matter how hard we try.”

  Rosie left Monique inside and walked Ryan to the car. “You take care of yourself now, ya heah?”

  “Always, old buddy,” Ryan replied.

  “Y’all know what I mean,” Rosie countered.

  Yes, Ryan did know what his friend meant but didn’t say anything more about it. Neither did Rosie. The two of them knew each other’s body language and could tell when something was about to go down. Their ability to read each other wasn’t all that unusual for men who’d spent time together on dangerous missions and depended on one another to stay alive.

  Ryan glanced in his rearview mirror and waved back at his friend, who was standing in the road behind him. He felt empty and sad as he drove out of the housing area toward the main gate. He hated good-byes and always had, ever since the day so many years ago when his dad had left him at the Dawn of Light to be straightened out by Father O’Rourke.

  CHAPTER

  14

  Ryan’s mood improved as he headed east along Interstate 40 and then south on US 95 toward his next stop, the Special Forces High Altitude Low Opening School at the Yuma Proving Ground in Arizona.

  High Altitude Low Opening, or HALO, special operators are those who—unlike their brethren who jump near the ground using static lines—free fall from twenty-five thousand feet. It’s a hazardous but effective means of inserting men into enemy territory because they are able to exit an aircraft undetected at extreme altitudes and descend most of the way to the ground before popping their chutes and guiding themselves in on an objective. HALO is a game of stealth. When an operator graduates from the school, he is one of an elite group of warriors whose skills rank them at the top of the Special Operations food chain.

  Ryan was looking forward to visiting the HALO school. It had been several years since he’d been through and he reflected on how challenging the experience had been. HALO was more than just parachute jumping. Static line jumps from twelve hundred and fifty feet were a piece of cake because the time between exiting the aircraft and landing was quick. It required no special preparation or equipment. HALO, on the other hand, was a whole different game, requiring oxygen, thermal clothing, and a forty-five minute pre-jump ritual of inhaling pure oxygen to preclude getting the bends. Yes, it was a different experience all right, and gave the first-time student the unique sensation of flying through the air for an extended period with nothing between him and the ground but his thoughts.

  The drive was pleasant and Ryan enjoyed the serenity as he cruised along the freeway surrounded by Joshua trees, cacti, and distant mountains. Before he knew it almost five hours had passed and he was entering Yuma, Arizona. Deciding to drive on, he passed through the city and proceeded the additional twenty-five miles to the proving ground.

  The HALO school was only one small part of the overall operation at this enormous thirteen-hundred-square-mile installation. YPG also hosted an array of other schools, including those that taught dismounted and vehicle land navigation, rappelling, and desert survival. It was here that soldiers learned to acclimate to desert conditions and were tested to their limits with forced marches in situations they would encounter when deployed to the Middle East.

  The constant drone of aircraft overhead and artillery in the distance indicated never-ending exercises that tested every conceivable weapons system in the U.S. arsenal. Helicopters, Humvees, tanks, artillery, mortars, and land mines all had to pass muster before they were certified for final entry into the defense inventory. There were no exceptions, and the constant work done at YPG was a boon to the local economy. It furnished jobs to a large portion of the area’s citizens, who enjoyed a friendly and prosperous partnership with the soldiers.

  After entering the base, Ryan drove an additional twenty minutes out to the barracks that served as the temporary home for the HALO students. One of his former team members, Crawford “Crawfish” Adams, was running the show out there and he looked forward to dropping in for a surprise visit.

  Ryan also hoped he’d be able to gain solo access to the team room, where he could put the finishing touches on his plan. He would need to be alone in order to assemble the components he’d collected at Fort Irwin into a workable bomb. After that and a short reunion with his friend, he’d then be ready to move on and take care of that communist scrote bastard who was vegetating down in Sedona.

  At the barracks, Ryan walked in and identified himself to the duty NCO who was manning the orderly room. “Morning, Staff Sergeant. Name’s Master Sergeant Ryan O’Hara. I’m looking for Sergeant Major Adams. Is he around?”

  “Yes, he is, Master Sergeant. I’ll page him. By the way, I’m Everett Tuttle.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Tuttle,” Ryan said as he shook the staff sergeant’s hand.

  Tuttle picked up the phone and dialed. “Sergeant Major, there’s a Master Sergeant O’Hara here to see you.”

  There was a momentary pause and then Tuttle stated, “Uh, I don’t know
if I should address him in that manner, Sergeant Major. It may not sit well, if you know what I mean. Yes, I know what you’re saying. You are a sergeant major, but I’m only a staff sergeant and he’s a master sergeant and I…Yes, Sergeant Major, I’ll tell him…Yes, in those exact words. Roger that.”

  Ryan looked amused. Staff Sergeant Tuttle, whose face had turned crimson, was obviously uncomfortable about something that Crawfish, who was an abrasive and unmerciful rib artist, had said to him.

  “I’m sorry, Master Sergeant, but the sergeant major wants me to tell you, uh…to uh…”

  “Spit it out, Tuttle. Nothing he says will surprise me,” Ryan interjected.

  “He told me to tell you to get your sawed-off, slimy, green, Guinness-drinking, Harp ass down to the team room before he comes up here and orders me to stomp you into the ground,” the staff sergeant replied.

  Ryan feigned anger and stared into the eyes of the young staff sergeant. “Okay, then. I think I’ll just stick around here and wait for that fuck-stick bitch to come so he can order you and me to go to fist city. Waddaya think of that, big sarge?”

  Ryan was surprised when Tuttle got up from the desk. His face had changed from the crimson of unease to the red of anger. He obviously didn’t like being challenged by this intruder who had invaded his orderly room, causing him to be set up by the sergeant major, who, like Ryan, enjoyed employing this type of rough humor on unsuspecting subordinates.

  As he approached Ryan, Crawfish appeared in the door. “Stand down, Tuttle. It’s okay. Ya gotta learn to relax and enjoy a little humor and not always be ready to scalp a bastard.”

  Ryan grinned and said, “Always tryin’ to start shit, aren’t you, fucktard?”

  “Yup, and you’re damned lucky I got down here in time to save you from this Injun ’cause on top of being a boxer, he’s Apache. He would have whooped yo grappling ass and then hung it upside down from the roof of the barracks as buzzard bait.” Crawfish laughed, his jab intended to denigrate Ryan’s wrestling background.

  Ryan grinned, gave Crawfish a slap on the back of the head, and said to Tuttle, “I like your mettle, Staff Sergeant. Glad this asshole showed up in time to prevent me from having to extend my convalescent leave.”

  Tuttle shook his head and chuckled as he returned to his desk, somewhat embarrassed at losing his cool but none the worse for wear.

  Crawfish grabbed Ryan and led him out of the orderly room. “Come on, slugger, I want you to meet some of the guys before we shove off. Say, how about coming down to Phillips DZ with me? I’m not going up in the bird today, just observing landings from the ground.”

  “I think I’ll take a rain check on that, Craw,” answered Ryan. “I’ve been on the road for a few days now. But if I can hang out in the team room and grab a little shut-eye, maybe we can hit the strip tonight and have a few brews.”

  “Well, I’ll be go-to-hell and a big boohoo. Haven’t we turned into quite the lily?” Crawfish mocked. “Since when did a little sleep deprivation prevent you from going out to the DZ to watch a jump?”

  “Gettin’ old, Craw. No excuses and nothin’ to prove. Just need some downtime before I press on.”

  “No problem. You can use one of the racks. And if you get thirsty, I have a stash of sour mash under the sink. Help yourself,” Crawfish said.

  After entering the team room and making introductions, Crawfish gave his team the order to saddle up. A few minutes later, Ryan was by himself and ready to go to work. As soon as he was sure that Crawfish and the rest of the team were out of the area, Ryan prepared to make his bomb.

  He took the components from his carry bag, laid them on the table, and did a quick inventory. As he prepared to assemble the device, he saw a box of saline IV bags. Knowing that the addition of a water-based compound to the bomb would magnify the blast, Ryan decided to add the saline for extra effect.

  Retrieving an ammo can he’d brought from Irwin, he used a drill to open two holes near the base of the can. The holes would serve as portals to accommodate the time fuse, which would connect the C-4 inside to the M-81 igniters on the outside. With the drilling complete, Ryan placed the saline bag on top of some nails he’d spread along the bottom of the can and cut a piece of cardboard, which he laid on top of the saline.

  Grabbing the two 5.56 mm blasting caps, Ryan fed two strands of time fuse into each of the rounds and carefully molded the two blocks of C-4 into a single block around them. Laying the molded block on top of the cardboard base, he covered it with the remaining nails and fed the rest of the cord through the holes in the can to facilitate attaching the initiating devises. Using hydrogel, he sealed the charge.

  Finally, because he didn’t want to risk an accidental discharge prior to arriving and setting up the device, he taped the ends of the exposed chord, leaving off the M-81 ignition devices. He would attach these later, just prior to employing the device. Ryan locked the bomb in his carry bag and placed it in the trunk of his car.

  Alone and with time to kill, Ryan located the bottle of sour mash that Crawfish had told him about and poured a double shot. He downed it in one gulp and retreated to one of the bunks for a nap, which seemed to end before it even started.

  Ryan had slept for the better part of the afternoon but thought he’d just fallen off when the team room door burst open to the loud voices of the men returning from the HALO jump. They came in and started putting away their gear.

  “Hey, cherry, did you get enough beauty sleep?” Crawfish asked as he appeared next to the bunk.

  Ryan sat up and put his feet on the deck. “Yeah, Craw. Good as new and rarin’ to go.”

  “Good. Shower up and get into some civvies. We’ll go out and grab a steak and then throw down some drinks. A few of the boys want to tag along, so we’ll make an evening of it. We won’t stay late. I’m sure you want to get on the road early. Tomorrow’s a training day so we’ll be back by 2100. You can camp out here tonight if you want.”

  “Excellent,” Ryan replied.

  An hour later, they were on the strip outside the base at Smokey’s Down Range Grill. A steak dinner and several pitchers of beer later, Ryan, Crawfish, and the other four operators called it a night.

  Ryan got up with the troops at 0430 and thanked his friend for the hospitality. As he passed the orderly room, he stuck his head in and saw Tuttle, who was busy looking over some paperwork. “Hey, Injun, see you around. Next time you better have your tomahawk ready ’cause I’m a comin’ in for the kill.”

  Tuttle laughed as he waved Ryan off. “Anything you say, Master Sergeant. Stay safe.”

  CHAPTER

  15

  The other patrons in the coffee shop were annoyed. Gilbert Hayward had arrived at the establishment with three similarly attired, filthy street urchins who, like him, were spaced-out and unkempt. The smell of incense drifting from their corner booth was unpleasant and the shop soon emptied, as it often did when Gilbert and his followers showed up.

  Although Sedona’s residents and most of its tourists shunned him, this small group of transients, dropouts, and losers always gravitated to Gilbert whenever he left his cabin and ventured into town. Having no meaningful purpose in life, Gilbert’s followers augmented their government SSI checks by selling street art and Marxist pamphlets to anyone charitable enough to waste their money. Living rent-free in a couple of broken-down recreational vehicles on the outskirts of town, they were able to pool their funds, feed themselves, and still have enough money left over for the dope they needed in order to cope with their miserable lives.

  On this particular day, Gilbert discussed the progress of his upcoming book and, as always, peppered the conversation with rationalizations for his destructive past. “I was a freedom fighter. My only desire was to unlock the chains of slavery binding the poor and release them from the yoke of the rich masters who were stealing the fruits of their labors,” he explained to his derelict disciples, who, because they were failures, were all too happy to listen to a tale that blamed the i
lls of the world on those who were successful.

  Gilbert discussed the recent demise of his fellow revolutionaries Bill and Brenda Delgadillo, making them out to be noble freedom fighters. He suggested they’d been martyred for the betterment of mankind, completely brushing over any mention of the many victims who had left the earth prematurely at their murderous hands. “I don’t know who did this to my comrades, but I fear they may only be the first of many on a list of people’s advocates targeted for death by the rich and powerful,” he emphasized to his listeners, who were just high enough not to catch the paranoid turn that the conversation was taking.

  Having lingered too long over several free refills, the group was finally asked to leave. After all, management was in business to make a profit, and the presence of riffraff on the premises was bad for the bottom line.

  After exiting the shop and complaining to each other about the treatment they’d been subjected to by the reviled capitalist owners, the group promised to meet again the following week for another session.

  CHAPTER

  16

  Ryan pulled into Sedona in the early afternoon. After checking into a moderately priced hotel, he set about exploring the area. He found it pleasant. Nestled in the middle of some of Arizona’s most picturesque country, the popular vacation destination is surrounded by red sandstone formations and complemented by groves of pine, sycamore, and oak.