by Keith Wease
Whatever it was, he'd decided to take me down a peg right after rifle practice. He said something nasty by way of preamble. I ignored him and turned away and he made the mistake of grabbing my arm and spinning me around. As I turned, I saw his fist cocked to hit me. I was amazed. After all, I was still holding my rifle; grabbing and threatening someone holding a firearm doesn't come under the heading of the brightest - or safest - idea in the world. Of course, he was one of the muscle boys, the type who always thinks first of using his hands. It never occurs to them that someone else might think otherwise. I briefly considered shooting him, but the rifle was a little out of position and he was too close. I won't pretend that the idea that the Army would take a dim view of one recruit shooting another didn't play a part in my decision, but it wasn't an overriding concern. Besides, I didn't need to shoot him to win. I simply brought up the rifle and broke his jaw with the butt.
With an innocent look on my face, I bent over him and said loudly, "Hey man, I'm sorry. Are you all right?" It was wasted on him; he was out cold. I got a couple of fellow recruits to help me carry him to the infirmary. When I came out, my instructor, March, pulled me off to the canteen for a beer.
Once we were seated with our beers - I don't really like the stuff, but hard liquor was prohibited during training - March asked me, "Why didn't you shoot?"
I looked at him contemplatively for a moment before discarding the idea of playing innocent. He knew better. I simply replied, "It wasn't necessary."
"You thought about it, though. I could tell. I saw the look in your eyes and thought he was dead. You stopped the impulse in time, which showed good sense, but why hit him with the butt? Why not just fight it out like the others do?"
"I don't fight for fun and he's too big to take with my bare hands. That judo stuff we've been practicing is fine when both people observe the rules, but I don't think he'd play fair. He'd just beat the hell out of me." I let out a pent-up breath. The anger was beginning to subside, the anger I always feel when I come up against the attitude that Cameron represented. I don't know why, but I felt I had to explain myself to this old warrior.
"Look, I'm tired of people who think they are so tough that they can do whatever they want and the rest of us should just lay down and take it. I won't take it and I refuse to play by the rules. All anybody's ever had to do to stay perfectly safe and healthy in my neighborhood is to leave me alone. If someone chooses not to and opens the gate, I figure I am at liberty to walk as far in as I choose."
"How old are you, Helm - 22, maybe 23?" I nodded. "How does someone that young develop that attitude?" He wasn't criticizing, I saw. He was actually curious, in an approving sort of way. Well, he'd been around the block and survived. Maybe he'd understand.
"I got that way in college, the first college I went to, a real gung-ho place. It had a kind of ornamental pool, called the Lily Pond, although it was mostly muck and weeds. The upper classmen, if they disapproved of the behavior of a lower classman, had the cute habit of descending on him in force, dragging him out to this glorified mud puddle, and heaving him in. It was kind of an old school tradition.
"Well, one day the grapevine let me know I was next on the dunking list. I'd been expecting it. I'd been planning on upholding the school honor in such individual sports as fencing and rifle-shooting, but the seniors had decided I ought to go out for basketball because of my height. I'd told them frankly that if there was anything that turned my stomach, it was team sports of any kind, particularly the ones that became college religions. That hadn't gone over real big, if you know what I mean. Well, I just didn't feel like an involuntary bath that evening, so I laid out a hunting knife and wedged a chair under the doorknob of my room. It was a fairly feeble old chair and the back was cracked, but nobody knew that but me. I just wanted some evidence that they'd actually broken in. There weren't any locks in that dormitory that worked. It was a real togetherness institution. You weren't supposed to want privacy, ever. That was considered antisocial and un-American.
"Well, they came. There was the usual loudmouthed, beery mob. They yelled at me to open the door. I called back that I hadn't invited them, and if they wanted in, they knew what to do. They did it. The first one inside after they'd smashed the door open was the big school-spirit expert who'd given me the pep talk about how I didn't want to let the college and the basketball team down. He was very brave. He told me not to be silly, I wasn't really going to use that knife, just put it down. I told him if he put a hand on me, I'd cut it off. So he did; and I did. Well, not all the way off. I understand they sewed it back together and he got some use out of it eventually. Nevertheless, the immediate result was a lot of groans and gore, very spectacular. I told the rest it was a sample, and I had plenty more if anybody wanted it. Nobody did."
"Wasn't that just a tad drastic?" March asked.
"I know, they were boys who were obviously just tight and having a little fun. And they could have gone and had their tight little fun anywhere they damned well pleased, except in my room at my expense. I made that quite clear to them before the action started. They chose to ignore the warning. That made it open hunting season by my way of reckoning. I figured - then and now - that anybody who invaded my domicile by force is mine if I can take him. Anybody who lays hands on me without my permission is fair and legal game. Anybody who opens the door to violence has simply got no legitimate beef if a little more violence walks in than he bargained for. As far as I'm concerned, people can either stick to polite, civilized conduct, or I'll give them jungle all the way."
"What happened after that - legally, I mean?"
"Hell, the school authorities couldn't do anything to me. I was the aggrieved party, wasn't I, the victim of unprovoked aggression? I mean, there I was in my room, studying hard and minding my own business like a good little freshman. A bunch of hoodlums breaks in and, outnumbered though I am, I defended myself bravely. Wouldn't you think I'd be in line for a hero medal, or something? They said I didn't have to use a knife, and I said of course I had to use a knife. Or a gun. What was I supposed to do, beat up a dozen older boys, including some outsized football types, with my bare fists? Superman, I'm not. To stop them, without actually killing anybody, I had to do something swift and bloody and dramatic to show I meant business right at the start. I did just about the least drastic thing that could get my point across. They threw me out of that school, of course. Having a weapon in my room was the official excuse. The broken chair, proving they'd forced their way in, saved me from being sued or arrested for assault, but nobody ever did anything about any of the others besides a sort of token reprimand. And at that point, I realized I was just a little out of step with the rest of the world, a world where you're supposed to let people heave you into fishponds any time they happen to feel like it. I decided I'd better look around, once I'd finished getting my degree elsewhere, and see if I couldn't find at least a few characters marching to my kind of music. I still haven't found them yet. I kind of hoped to find them here, but it's the same old thing."
I stopped to take a breath, waiting for his reaction. I still often find the old anger coming back that always hits me when I meet that kind of guy; the kind that broke into my room that night, the kind that's always pushing people around and always gets terribly, terribly shocked and self-righteous when he runs into somebody who's willing to die, or kill, rather than put up with his overbearing nonsense.
March watched me quietly, waiting for the punch line, not saying anything. After a moment, I continued.
"There was a kind of epilogue. Three years after the incident I read in the papers that there was a big scandal at that school. Another bunch of arrogant seniors had got hold of another poor dumb freshman whose behavior wasn't to their liking; and they'd given him the old school heave - only, it turned out, there was some kind of a rusty drainpipe out there in the muck that nobody'd ever noticed. He landed right on it. The last I heard, he was still alive, if you can call it living. He can blink his eyelids once for
yes and twice for no, or vice versa. And every time I think of him, I remember my old hunting knife with much affection. If it hadn't been for those six inches of cold, sharp steel, that human vegetable might have been me."
We sat there a while, drinking our beers and not saying anything. I got the impression that my instructor knew exactly the way I felt and was simply waiting for my adrenalin rush to subside. He was the first person I had ever told that story - why, I couldn't really say. Maybe it was just the look of him, a predator with the smell of gunpowder about him, and why that thought came into my mind is anybody's guess.
He gave me a wolfish grin. "You're all right, Helm. You realize you don't really fit in here, don't you?"
"I know," I grinned back. "Can't you just see me as the gung-ho leader, getting his troops all pumped up for God and country? Hell, with my attitude, one of them would probably shoot me in the back as we went up the hill. Maybe I shouldn't have accepted a commission."
"Have you considered sniper school? Your scores are certainly good enough, and you've got the right instincts."
I frowned. "Not really. I didn't know they selected officers for sniper duty."
"Normally they don't. But I've heard of a new program being considered, sort of a commando outfit. They don't seem too particular whether it's bars or stripes that determine your rank. They're more concerned with results. If you're interested, I'll ask around."
"I'm interested."
"Good enough. By the way, don't worry about that little fracas. You set it up with that innocent act. I'll make sure it sticks."
"Thanks, Sarge." I'd found it interesting that most of the field instructors were enlisted, while the classroom instructors were officers. It seemed kind of backwards to me. Shouldn't the leaders be the best fighters? Welcome to the modern military. As he'd said, I didn't really fit in, but what the hell - you do your duty. Nobody ever promised you'd enjoy it.
Two weeks later, after pinning the shiny new gold bar on my lapel, I was offered a chance for some special training; objective vague, unit unspecified, mission classified. I grabbed it. Like I said - a spy.
Chapter 3
I was shipped off to a place in Arizona, called the Ranch, never mind exactly where. We went through some pretty silly procedures involving several detours and an open door on a parked vehicle before we pulled up in front of a shiny new gate at the end of an old weather-beaten dirt road. As the driver got out to open the gate, I had the feeling of being watched. Nobody else was in sight, but I didn't think I would want to open that gate without the appropriate authorization. It was that kind of a place.
It had been a long drive and I was tired and bored and it was late. The driver had introduced himself as Frank and that was practically the last word he said, other than polite inquiries concerning food and sanitary needs. We drove past a couple of low buildings with a few people milling around. No one paid us any attention, which was strange. You'd think simple curiosity, if nothing else, would warrant a stare or two.
A short distance away, we stopped in front of a small bungalow. Frank told me to take my things inside and wait until someone came to brief me. I was not to wander around, but to stay inside. It was the longest sentence I'd heard from him. Then he surprised me. As I started toward the front door, he waved and said, "Good luck." It made him seem almost human. Almost.
They didn't make me wait long. I'd just managed to unpack a little and splash some water on my face - the bungalow was a miniature hotel room with its own bathroom complete with shower, which was okay with me since I don't fit too well in the average bathtub - when a well-built, medium-sized guy walked in without knocking. He was quite a handsome and distinguished-looking man with thick, black well-combed hair. He also had a look much like March, my drill instructor. I don't mean that they looked anything alike. It was the bearing, a hint of danger and, as I'd said before, the smell of gunpowder that is perceived by the brain if not by the nose. I think that was the first time I started getting the feeling I'd found a home.
He smiled and held out his hand. "The name's Vance, and you're Helm." It wasn't a question.
I shook his hand, noticing that he felt no need to assert his masculinity with a knuckle-grinding clutch, as I would have expected from my first impression. It was just a nice, firm handshake. "Are you the guy who's going to explain what I'm doing here?" I asked.
"To a certain extent. I'm going to be your trainer for a while. Are you hungry?"
"Starving."
"Let's go over to the canteen and grab a bite and I'll explain as much as I can."
He led me to one of the low buildings I'd noticed, entering through a door on one end, the East end if it matters. He went first and I noticed a bulge under his coat, up against his spine about belt level. I wondered if it was what I thought it was. As we entered, it was apparent that half the building had been divided into a combination cafeteria and bar. Only a couple tables were occupied. We went through the serving line, both of us helping ourselves to something that vaguely resembled roast beef and some watery mashed potatoes. At least we had a choice of vegetables. I picked peas while Vance went for the corn. A couple soggy rolls topped off our plates. There seemed to be plenty of food, if a limited choice; however, there were no people in sight behind the counter. A door led off the back to what I assumed was a kitchen.
Vance headed toward a back table, well away from the other diners, and I followed, careful not to stumble on the rough wood floor. The whole place looked like a hastily-converted bunkhouse with no attention being given to dressing it up. I kept wondering what happened to the horses. I mean, it was obviously some kind of horse ranch. Having been brought up in New Mexico, I grew up around the corrals where the interesting characters hung out. I felt right at home.
In between bites, Vance told me what I could expect during my time here. "You're on a sort of probation," he said. "You've got some specialized abilities we're interested in and an aptitude for acquiring some others. That's my job. There are a few other things to be determined before we decide to keep you around, but you'll find out what those are as we go."
I started to object and then decided against it.
Vance smiled. "That's one, self control. I don't like blowhards, no matter how good they are - or think they are. We're going to get along just fine."
I rather doubted that. There was just a little tension between us and I wasn't sure why. I figured it out later, of course. This kind of business tends to attract loners and, as a rule we - I'm definitely included in that category - don't get along "just fine." Most of the time we're wondering if we can take the other by hand or if we'll need a gun...
He continued, "We have a rather unique training program. There's one instructor to each student, at least in the beginning. This is a highly classified operation and if you don't make the grade, you can be returned to your former branch of the service - in your case the Army - without too much interesting information in your head.
"Here's the way it goes. For the next few weeks, I'm your chaperone. You don't eat, walk, shit or even look at another person without me around. You do get to sleep by yourself, and any free time is spent in your room, not that you'll have much free time. In between learning new skills, we'll concentrate on refining existing ones. Any questions?"
"No, sir." I mean, he'd made it quite clear. I was in the Army; I was used to taking orders, even stupid, meaningless and totally nonsensical orders. They're all security happy in the military and if it made them feel good to say "Top Secret" every time they didn't want to tell you something, who was I to complain? But I made up my mind that I would take everything this guy told me with a grain of salt.
He bent forward a bit and reached behind him. I tensed a little as he brought out the standard Army-issue Colt .45 automatic, Model 1911, black and deadly-looking. He laid it on the table and pushed it toward me, watching carefully.
The hell with him. I hadn't needed the Army course to respect firearms. I grew up with them, including one
just like this that my father had owned. I picked it up and, turning in my chair to point it downward, popped out the magazine to make sure it was loaded and checked the chamber to see if there was a cartridge in it. There wasn't. Well, you don't carry a pistol in your belt with a cartridge chambered, not if you want to keep all the various parts of your anatomy in working order. I slipped the magazine back in and made sure the safety was set.
"Very good," he said as I grinned at him. "That's yours for the duration. Your job is to learn it to the point you can strip and reassemble it blindfolded, and that's not a figure of speech. Then we'll teach you how to shoot it."
"I know how to shoot it. My dad had one."
"You just think you know. Just like you think you know a lot of things." He held up his hand to stop me, but I was disciplined. I wasn't going to protest. I was just going to wait and show him. He nodded in approval and went on, smiling.
"I'm not being obnoxious. I'm just being honest. I had a lot of training before I came here the first time and thought I knew everything there was to know about shooting, too. We all do, until we go through this very specialized course."
