by Ryan Hyatt
Luckily, he didn’t have to. While taking a bath in the back of the bus, he received a call, and Joe G. appeared on the Telenet above him. He was in his studio smoking a cigar.
“Where’s al-Hakim?” Joe G. said, puffing away on his stogie. “I want him filming for this.”
“Asleep.” Chuck said. “Should I have someone wake him up?”
“No, never mind,” Joe G. said. “It doesn’t matter anymore. But between you and me, there only seems to be someone filming when I’m the bad guy.”
“Maybe it’s just too seldom you appear as the good guy.”
“I don’t need this abuse,” Joe G. said. “The show’s cancelled, effective immediately.”
“I’m not surprised,” Chuck said with a sigh. “I’ve been following the ratings and the criticism. In many ways, the show has gone downhill since Flagstaff.”
“You doomed us with your humanity, cowboy,” Joe G. said. “You gave us everything you had in one dramatic burst. Sometimes it’s impossible for art to trump the drama of life.”
“Sorry,” Chuck said, and he splashed water on his face. “I guess you and your revolutionary pals will just have to find another way to win the hearts and minds of the people now.”
“Aren’t you worried about your money?”
“My money?” Chuck said, and then it hit him. His eyes glazed, jaw drooped. He moaned and sank to the bottom of the tub.
Five months into the roadshow, and Chuck had sold approximately four million in merchandise. Since the roadshow was cancelled and Chuck’s goal had not been met, it didn’t require a review of his contract for Chuck to know so ended his latest hopes and dreams for early retirement. His ex-wife would hate him more than she already did. His daughter would feel sorrier for him than she already did. Money was what made the world go round, and after all was said and done, Chuck still had little to show for himself.
Once again, the joke was on him.
Joe G. relished Chuck’s slip into despair, but when he thought his friend might drown, he made a loud announcement.
“Of course, the game isn’t over for you!” he said. “The public loves you, and your recent stunt in the chicken costume piqued the interest of some of your oldest fans and friends.”
Chuck’s head reemerged from the water.
Joe G. smiled, and then he stepped away from his desk. Replacing his face in the Telenet was another beloved Polack’s – Tom H. from the Hit Lit Agency, Chuck’s former literary representative. Tom H.’s hair was a little whiter and thinner than it had been more than a decade prior, but he was otherwise very much as Chuck remembered. He even wore the same ancient bifocals when he brokered Chuck’s first and only major book deal.
“Chucky, how’s it going, baby?” Tom H. said, and he didn’t wait for a response. “I got to tell you, man, you’re hot right now! Smok’n hot! You’ve got a lot of readers waiting in the frying pan. Any new books you cook’n?”
Chuck surged to his feet in the bathtub, crowed like a rooster and pumped his fists into the air several times, exposing dangling testicles.
“Woahhhhh!” Tom H. said. “Take it easy, pal! Have a seat, please. Hasn’t anyone ever taught you to keep your privates to yourself?”
Chuck wrapped a towel around his genitals and said, “I’ve been writing a follow-up to Charles the Chicken Crosses the Road, and it’s almost finished!”
“Good, because we’ve got offers, Chuck, big offers!” Tom H. said. “I don’t think you’re going to have to worry about holding a day job for a while…”
The one-time children’s author received a substantial seven figure advance to write five more books. The first in the series appeared at the end of 2023, Charles the Chicken Crosses the Road, Again.
In the story, Charles is a father rooster and he and his newborn baby chick, Bella, hatch a plan to escape from their coop to find a special kind of kale on the opposite side of town that might help Bella’s mother, Dawn, recover from a strange illness. Along the way, Charles and Bella avoid becoming a hobo’s dinner. They also befriend a female fox, Red, who happens to be vegetarian. The fox leads them to the kale. However, winter arrives with a fierce storm that forces Charles and Bella to take shelter in the fox hole, still far from home. The winter storm does not relent, so Red, better able to brave the elements, agrees to take the kale to Dawn. Eventually spring arrives, and the two chickens return to the coop where Dawn awaits, feeling much better, thanks to the kale delivered by the family’s newest friend. Together again the family savors their time together, and Charles and Dawn and Bella postpone any further travel plans for a while.
The unsuspecting return and success of the Charles the Chicken Crosses the Road series inspired a new level of comfort and confidence in its author. Upon his return to Jerome, Chuck embraced his renewed license on life, as well as his long-lost career. He bought a blue electric car, sold his faded yellow square house and moved across town into a white round adobe home. In the process, he purged many of his outdated belongings, which he no longer found necessary. He tracked down Rita at Greeley’s, and she was glad he did. They continued their romance as promised, and soon Rita moved into Chuck’s new home and helped him update his furnishings.
Chuck paid April what he owed her in child support in one lump sum until May legally became an adult, which ensured he would never be late on a check to his ex-wife again.
Meanwhile, May was glad to have her father back in town, and she liked his girlfriend.
One spring afternoon, as Chuck basked in the beautiful Arizona sunshine, writing a new tale, he opened an envelope addressed to him from Sara Salvatore at Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton, outside of San Diego.
The envelope contained a large, colorful picture of a farm with chickens and other animals wearing funny clothes from around the world, holding hands, singing ‘peace’ under a rainbow.
Chuck cried silently to himself in a way he hadn’t since May was born.
PART THREE
Now What?
CHAPTER 1
On the morning of Dee and Sara’s departure for Flagstaff, Ray woke with a lump in his throat. Over the course of his career, he killed countless men, endured two helicopter crashes, and once, in Venezuela, he was briefly taken prisoner before he escaped.
Despite overcoming such ordeals, nothing took more courage for Ray than saying goodbye to his daughter on Saturday, February 5, 2023. After they ate breakfast, he met her in the driveway, holding back tears, refreshing her with the old drill.
“Remember, I love you more than anything,” he said.
“I know, Daddy,” she said.
Yet the lump in his throat didn’t go away.
Sara was paler than usual, and the dark circles around her eyes seemed permanent, but Ray knew that would pass and she would recover, not only from the implant surgery, but the ordeals she herself endured recently, first losing her father to his job, and then her home as well.
Sara’s pursed lips and sustained eye contact seemed to assure Ray that no matter what happened on his business trip, she would be all right. This unbreakable façade for a four-year-old filled Ray with a peculiar relief, and sadness. He realized his darling would survive without him, if need be, but at the cost of growing up faster than he wished. He loaded her into the car.
“Bye, Daddy,” Sara said.
Ray felt compelled to salute her, a strange impulse. He smiled instead and said, “See you soon, baby.”
With his family gone, Ray’s mind turned immediately to work. That morning he was scheduled to have a meeting with the Colonel. There were rumors trickling down the military chain of command about a new directive that might soon require service family members of Liberator pilots to relocate within American military bases for the duration of the Iran campaign. Ray thought it might have been the smartest move in light of the spate of strange threats and home intrusions to a few Marine Corps households leading up to the invasion.
Ray supported such a directive, and he hoped to express this
wish during his meeting with the Colonel, and he felt surprisingly optimistic riding in his red pickup truck on his way to the old Generic Motors proving grounds. The sun shone brightly, the breeze blew firmly, and he left his windows down in the pleasant winter air as he parked outside the hangar.
Only a week passed since Ray last glanced at his Liberator, but he never took for granted the colossal awesomeness of such a machine. Comprised of mystifying metals and materials, Mama’s Boy One had a way of spurring his imagination whenever he laid eyes on it. On that day, its sleek, reflective elegance reminded him of some giant, dark knight, a humongous angel of death. Liberator provided an astounding glimpse of the ingenuity of his countrymen, and it remained to him nearly superhuman, or otherworldly, in scale and scope.
Ray believed the United States was the world’s true beacon for progress and hope, despite the many challenges of his imperfect nation, so as he approached Mama’s Boy One, he tried to view it not as a monster of mechanization, but as a guardian of justice in the long struggle to free humankind from despotism. As the onslaught of Iran approached in a matter of days, however, Ray became increasingly skeptical of the worthiness of his mission, tormented with doubts about its true purpose.
It’s just pre-combat jitters…
The Colonel stepped out from behind the foot of the Mama’s Boy and said, “You’re late.”
Ray checked his watch. It was one minute past the hour.
“What can I do for you, sir?” he said, annoyed.
The Colonel fired back a look at Ray that made it clear he was even more annoyed and said, “For starters, you can quit giving me ammunition to use against you.”
“Sir?”
“The local authorities brought this to my attention,” the Colonel said, handing Ray an envelope.
Inside was a police report that tied Ray to an incident in which he allegedly assaulted and detained two ex-convicts who led a crime ring stealing baby items and reselling them inside an abandoned home.
“Sounds like a civilian matter to me,” the Colonel said. “Why didn’t you leave them for the police to handle?”
“I did leave them for the police to handle,” Ray said, and he showed the Colonel a photo taken at the scene, the men bound together naked with a sign that said, “WE STEAL FROM STRUGGLING FAMILIES.”
“Don’t get smart with me, Captain,” the Colonel said. “You know the Marines doesn’t tolerate vigilantism.”
“Why not?” Ray said, undeterred by the ambush. “You and I know very well the local police are too ill-equipped to handle the numerous criminal rackets proliferating in this economy. If I didn’t stop those men, nobody would have.”
“Maybe so, but there’s a big difference between vigilantism and heroism,” the Colonel said. “You of all people should know that. Putting yourself on the line for your men as you did in Venezuela was an honorable self-sacrifice, but putting yourself on the line for some baby items was idiotic. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay,” the Colonel said, and he put out an open hand. “I can live with that mistake.”
Ray returned the envelope and its contents.
“I’m having a harder time living with this one,” the Colonel said, handing Ray another envelope.
Inside was a complaint in which Specialist David Kim and Sergeant John Huxley accused Ray of using threatening force to make a point after an exercise. Ray scanned the file, saw the word ‘Beretta,’ and knew that the complaint was in reference to the drunken game of Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Moe that Ray played with the two men while they were stationed at Kiki.
Although Ray knew he was culpable, he thought the apologies he made to his crew were sufficient and that his dissatisfaction with the weak links of the Eagle Scouts were already addressed and mended. Ray was surprised and hurt by his men’s official report against him.
“You know the politically charged atmosphere we live in,” the Colonel said. “Even the Marines isn’t what it used to be. This kind of hazing – excuse me, this kind of harassment – it’s simply not acceptable.”
“I made a mistake, and I admitted it to my men.”
“I know, and that’s why I’m going to let this one slide, too,” the Colonel said. “Moving forward, however, I want you to keep something in mind. Some of the men in your unit are not as experienced as you are, Captain. Due to the strain our armed forces have faced for the past several years, many of our best and brightest have been killed in action or simply have become too mentally ill or old to fight. The point is, the kind of men you prefer serving by your side are harder to come by these days, so we have to pull our resources from the young, citizens of promise. This generation is a little different than the one in which we were raised. Those you’ve singled out in your unit as being inferior soldiers are already well aware of their inadequacies, Captain. I hate to say it, but they’re even a little sensitive about them…”
As Ray listened to the Colonel speak, he suddenly wondered if he was a Marine at all or a chaperone assigned detail at a sorority sleepover. Ray was enough of a veteran of the times to know that any sarcasm on his part at such a critical juncture would lead to serious consequences, however, and so he stood at attention and bravely soaked up his commander’s pre-combat, pre-menstrual pep talk.
Judging by his wicked grin, Ray thought the Colonel might have been fishing for a strong reaction from him. Why, Ray knew not, except maybe so the Colonel could stockpile more ammunition and later use it against him?
“…You get one chance to do this right,” the Colonel said at last. “You can’t afford any more fuck-ups. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Good,” the Colonel said. “There are other matters that need attention, related to our families, but I’m not prepared to discuss them yet.”
Ray was disappointed to hear addressing his wrongs was the primary reason for the meeting. He found it hard to believe plans for the relocation of service member families was not the main order of business. It wasn’t that Ray believed the Colonel’s censure wasn’t warranted. It was, Ray thought, but not when there were more pressing concerns such as the safety and security of loved ones. Perhaps the military high command was trying to avoid prompting public alarm.
“Will that be all, sir?” Ray said, with the lump in his throat he felt all day.
“Yes, Captain,” the Colonel said. “For now.”
Ray slammed the door to his pickup truck. As he started the vehicle, he was startled by a tap on the windshield. Stephen Humphrey gazed at him with an awkward smile. It had been years since Ray, a former college running back, was caught off guard, and considering the unexpected conversation he just had with the Colonel, Humphrey’s sudden appearance made that twice in a day. Ray’s optimism was shattered, and he wasn’t in the mood to chat. He just wanted to go home and down a few beers.
“What can I do for you, sir?” Ray said to the figurehead credited for creating Liberator.
“Not much,” Humphrey said with a snicker. “Just hoping you can deliver world peace.”
Humphrey was supposedly the brains behind Liberator, although Ray, agitated to the point of paranoia again, wondered if one engineer, let alone an army of them, was capable of making such a marvel. Staring at the white-haired, bespectacled old man, who in a normal world would have retired long ago, Ray remembered his initial thoughts when he was hired by Rocket & Gamble: Liberator must have an alien origin. It was just too good to be true, something beyond the reach of twenty-first century human expertise. Only after dealing with more earthly matters, such as training for his mission, did Ray’s phantom suspicions vanish from his mind, until Humphrey’s face reminded him all over again. To that end, as far as the prospect of peace was concerned, Ray wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cry. It seemed impossible in his lifetime. So, he rolled down his window and said, “You lost me there, Steve.”
“I think it’s time you and I had that drink.”
“Excuse me
?”
“A while ago we talked about getting together before your mission, remember?” Humphrey said. “You know, to discuss any last minute…concerns…you might have.”
“About the machine?” Ray said.
“What else would I be referring to?”
“I don’t know,” Ray said, but he suddenly realized why he had a lump in his throat. Fear. Ray was afraid his re-enlistment would take away what he valued most: his wife, his daughter, his life. Instead of protecting all he found dear, he felt himself heading toward a trap. He felt extremely vulnerable.
“Most of the engineers put in overtime this weekend to make sure your crew’s set,” Humphrey said, and he pointed to a group of colleagues walking to their cars. “I think you’ll be glad to know that you are. We’re heading to Outer Chowder Steakhouse to wind down. You been there before?”
“Sure have.”
“Great. I’ll see you soon.”
Outer Chowder Steakhouse was livelier than the last time Ray and Dee ate dinner there. Judging by the plates, red meat resumed being a hot commodity. Either God was smiling on gay America once again, Ray thought, or perhaps the only good virus the Iranians managed to unleash on U.S. soil was oil.
Ray joined the Rocket & Gamble staff at the bar and fulfilled his wish, soaking his sorrows with suds. Soon he was embellishing engineers with tales of his crew’s exploits training in Liberators.
“…We were submerged somewhere in the South Pacific, and I realized where the guy was aiming, and I shouted, ‘Cease fire!’” Ray said to the throng gathered around him. “But I was too late. The bastard blew up a Spanish galleon.”
“Amazing!”
“No way!”
“Better than our stories from the lab, that’s for sure,” a woman said. “Buy him another beer!”
“No, I shouldn’t have any more,” Ray said, and he realized he was drinking with colleagues, a big no-no since Tiki.
Ray placed his empty glass on the bar and walked to the restroom. He reminded himself to be careful what he said. Last thing he wanted was to get a call from the press because some outraged historical preservation group caught wind of the Spanish galleon incident and wanted justice. The Marines had enough public relations problems to manage with teenage terrorists on the loose, and didn’t need any more trouble. Ray was confident the Colonel would agree.
