by Patrick Dent
In a typical early summer day in Beaumont, the South Carolina sky cast a white-hot shade of blue, without a cloud in sight to protect the players and fans from the Sun's brutality. A faint, intermittent breeze taunted Beaumont's citizens with the insincere promise of relief from the sweltering heat. The gnats and mosquitoes focused their assaults on every available ear, eye and nose, inexorably drawn to the moisture there. The weather-beaten bleachers were crammed with people fanning themselves, licking ice cream cones, slurping soft drinks, and sweating.
Slick arms rubbed against each other as people squirmed in wasted effort to find comfort. The sole leniency came from the ancient oak and pecan trees, providing afternoon shade to the home side stands. The visitor's bleachers, in the Southern tradition of selective hospitality, were in direct sunlight.
John noticed that his girlfriend Tammy had lucked into a shaded seat. Nonetheless, she periodically used a napkin to blot the sweat from her forehead. She smiled and waved as John caught her eye from his position in front of the dugout. He warmed up by gently swinging a bat weighted at the tip with two batting rings.
Tammy and John had been going steady since tenth grade, and were due to begin the ramp-up toward matrimony. Although he knew Tammy would support him if he attended Clemson University in the Fall, he also knew she feared their bond would wane during the four-year separation. That was why John had proposed that she move to Clemson with him.
In the background, John heard the chants of a few restless children who had mustered enough energy to play their own baseball game behind the stands. Although school had been out just two weeks, it wasn't even a distant memory to them. John admired their ability to live in the moment. As far as they were concerned, this summer day would last forever.
John noted that his father sat as far away from Tammy as possible. John Sr. divided his attention between his son and the talent scout from Clemson. He had made significant contributions to Clemson over the years; so, when he requested they send a scout to this particular game, they could hardly refuse. Although he could easily afford the tuition, he had told John he wanted him to learn to care for himself. John knew his father fully expected him to play for the Atlanta Braves after graduation, but he didn't want to follow his father's dream. He would use baseball if it earned him the degree he would need to become a Game Warden. After that, John planned to resign his bat.
By the dugout, John swung his bat lazily, loosening the powerful muscles in his torso. Not a notable team player, John did enjoy competition for its own sake. The winner of this game didn't matter to him and would be forgotten in time. Unlike his teammates, John did not consider his senior year the pinnacle of his life. While the others would be content to take jobs in the local mills and spend the next forty years reminiscing about the glory days, sucking on Bud long-necks; John considered his life to be just beginning.
In John's mind, sports were the bread and circuses of twentieth century society. The ancient Romans knew how to entertain the masses – give them young warriors to admire and vilify. Varsity sports? Not much different in John's book.
Most people would rather watch than do. Why else would entertainers and athletes attract such crowds? John realized mediocrity offered a cozy bed, and coziness was the cornerstone of Beaumont society.
The crowd stood for the national anthem. The citizens of Beaumont placed their hands on their hearts and gazed with awe at the baseball diamond symbolizing everything they lacked - fame, heroism, and the chance to be noticed.
John sneaked a peek at the coach, who kept him in stitches most of the time with his exaggerated gestures and statements. Coach Stanch sweat profusely. Having run out of dry clothing and appendages for his face, he was merely moving sweat around with his timid-but-macho gestures. His gut protruded comically over his pants, and he spat tobacco juice at regular intervals. The kids got a kick out of his bumper sticker saying, 'Use care passing, driver chews tobacco'. True to the sticker, an indelible brown stain decorated the driver's side of his Datsun 240Z. He waddled over toward John.
“John, I hear there's a recruiter in the stands from Clemson,” Coach said, pushing the brim of his hat up to improve his eye contact with John.
“Hey, Coach, maybe this is your big chance to get into college,” John jibed.
“Look, you wipe that shit eatin' grin off your face. This could mean a scholarship if you pitch good this afternoon.” Coach's gin blossoms grew bright red. The enlarged capillaries in his bulbous nose resembled a poorly done tattoo. “Besides, we ain't won the title in seven years. Your team needs you. Look at 'em.” Coach pointed at the visiting team. “Don't you want to teach these guys a lesson?”
“Last time I checked, I was a student, not a teacher.”
“Well, for your information, you ain't a student no more. You remember that little shindig we had two weeks ago? Well, that was your graduation, in case you didn't notice. As of now, you're no different from the rest of us.”
“Coach, I think I can safely say I'm nothing like the rest of you.” John smiled widely.
“You still think everything's some kind of joke, don't you?” Coach said. “I'm telling you that dog won't hunt in the real world.” The coach's face softened somewhat. “Look, all I'm saying is keep your focus. Think about that scholarship.”
“Focus? What would a pot-bellied loser know about that?”
“You listen to me, you little tick turd.” Coach emphasized each syllable by poking his finger into John's chest. “That attitude is the only thing standing between you and a pro career. I know the training you do, and you got the talent. You're probably the smartest kid to come through this school ever. But out there in the real world, people won't put up with your crap.” Coach spit a well-marinated strand of Beechnut between John's feet to punctuate his sentence. He stomped away to toward the dugout.
John did train heavily, but not for the reasons Coach Stanch thought. John had boundless physical energy that he constantly discharged. Before school each day, he logged in three miles, three hundred push-ups and five hundred sit-ups. After practice, he ran another five miles. He followed this regimen regardless of the sporting season. To John, exercise equaled life. It took him to a place where the world and all its troubles ceased to exist.
John interspersed ample reading with his exercise. As his eyes scanned the page, his mind left his body and traveled to exotic lands of the past, where bad guys acted like bad guys and good guys usually won. In the world of literature, right and wrong were clearly defined for all to see. No one's father vacillated between hero and villain. No one's mother both enabled and welcomed her husband's cruelty. In books, the greatest minds in history had recorded their wisdom for the benefit of future generations. There were only three times John felt completely free – reading, exercising or communing with nature.
By the time the game started, even the most acclimated people were sweating profusely. John, however, stood completely dry in the direct sunlight dowsing the pitcher's mound. He seemed to have a natural immunity to the plagues of the Southern summer. Heat, mosquitoes, even poison ivy did not affect him.
Five foot nine athletes were rare, but his 230 pounds of muscle and unparalleled explosive strength more than compensated for his height. He tucked his shoulder length black hair under his cap as he waited for his mother to throw out the first pitch.
For eight innings, John hurled the white orb across home plate time and time again. His power and accuracy were unwavering as the innings wore on. No sweat corrupted his brow. No fine motor quivering affected his form. A well-oiled and finely tuned machine couldn't have been more consistent. John knew the Clemson scout would want to chat after the game. He had no way of knowing just how irrelevant that thought would become.
At the top of the ninth, John continued working on a shutout. He had talent, no doubt, but he knew his father manipulated him, reliving his youth through John. The John, as his children called him, had been selling him on a pro baseball career for twelve years now.
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If John wanted to realize his dream of becoming a Game Warden, he would have to play his father's game - baseball.
As so often happens, John worried about the problems he would be unlikely to face. John's visions of the futures he envisioned had a life expectancy of just over two minutes.
John's best - and really only - pitch was his fastball. As early as tenth grade he had been clocked in the low nineties. Number 12 stepped to the plate in the top of the ninth. John had already struck him out in the fourth, and that had simmered beneath Number 12's skin for the past hour. The boy's face stiffened with concentration. He clenched his teeth and stared directly into John's eyes as he raised his bat. From the pitcher's mound, John saw the muscles in Number 12's jaw flexing. The batter took two violent practice swings, then nodded at John.
John's first pitch flew high and inside. Number 12 fell over backwards, narrowly avoiding a shattered jaw.
“Ball!” called the umpire.
Number 12 regained his stance with anger in his eyes. The muscles in his jaw flexed rhythmically. He spat before saying, “Oh, you wanna play? Come on, punk. Let's get it on!” He raised his bat again, this time crowding the plate.
John had no intention of letting Number 12 get inside his head. He lifted his left leg seemingly to the sky and put his entire weight behind the second pitch. Number 12 nearly ripped himself in half trying to get a piece of it.
“Strike one!”
John adjusted his cap, picking up a bit of pine resin from the brim. With all his strength, he released the pitch that ultimately would impact the balance of power in the Western Hemisphere into the next century. The ball struck Number 12 in the hip. He went down, screaming in anger and pain.
Number 12 rose awkwardly and limped hurriedly towards the mound. The bat still hung in his hand. His gait teetered as he attempted to spare his left hip from the rigors of quick movement. His eyes burned with fury. His teeth bared in a feral snarl.
John became instantly calm. He let his glove drop to the ground. Whether Number 12 kept or dropped the bat did not matter. John could neutralize either scenario quite easily. A heavy implement such as a bat had a fight span of one attack move only. After the first swing, the bat's momentum would throw its user off balance and leave him vulnerable for precious seconds.
Time slowed to a crawl as John's senses were heightened by adrenaline. Two hundred spectators were shouting out their opinions as to what each of the boys should do. John's mind drew into focus, filtering out the din of the crowd. He heard Number 12's cleats digging for purchase as he sprinted. He heard his opponent's lungs wheezing for air with each stride. Coach Stanch already waddled awkwardly toward the plate. Brown spittle ran down the left side of his chin as he gasped in the moist heat. John waited.
Number 12 hurled the bat away fifteen feet before he squared off against John. He had no way of knowing this act would have profound implications.
“You did that on purpose, asshole!” Number 12 spat.
John waited.
“By the time I'm through with you, you'll be crying for your mamma!” Number 12 thrust his chest out, clenching both his hands into fists.
John waited.
Number 12 decided to take the conversation to the next level. John saw the telltale dip in Number 12's right shoulder, indicating the opening roundhouse right. The natural human reaction would have been to back away from the punch, but John ducked forward, letting Number 12's arm pass harmlessly over his head.
The attempted roundhouse told John Number 12 had little fighting experience. He was a showman. A lighter punch, such as a jab or uppercut, would not have been telegraphed and would likely have connected, paving the way for a more powerful follow up. John knew the next punch would be another roundhouse right. He had fought Number 12's type many times. They always overextended themselves and lost balance within the first couple of punches. He straightened and waited for the right moment. By this time, there were dozens of people rushing toward the mound. One way or the other, the fight would be over in seconds.
“Scared to fight?” Number 12 said as he threw a haymaker at John's face. This is it, John thought to himself, taking note of Number 12's posture. He saw Number 12 would lose his balance with this swing. John ducked inside and to the right, assuming a crouching position. When Number 12's arm extended completely, John saw his right foot come off the ground. Number 12 could not stop his spiral momentum. In a split second, he would fall forward and to his left. Instantly, John extended his legs and pumped his right fist directly into Number 12's heart.
Number 12 froze, bent over at a forty-five degree angle, his momentum having been neutralized by John's blow. He quickly found himself in a universe without air. A few seconds later, he fell to the dusty ground beside the pitcher's mound. His muscles were so tight he seemed like a statue that had been toppled by juvenile delinquents. As he lay on the ground, Number 12 felt a tightness in his chest like he had never imagined. His left arm went numb. His jaw tightened. His heart stopped beating. And since no one present had any emergency medical training, it never started back.
Chapter Three
Langley, Virginia
Special Agent Fulton fumed with tension, though it was barely ten a.m. He had already removed his jacket and loosened his tie. He had no time for formalities. These days he arrived anywhere from six to six thirty in the morning and worked until seven or eight at night. Fulton didn't fear hard work. He had just one fear – failure. A successful execution of Project Crossfire would be a career milestone for him. And time worked against him constantly. He had much to do. His secretary buzzed in, “Sir, Mr. Carlton is here.”
“Thanks, Joyce. Please send him in.”
Carlton entered the room with obvious trepidation. As he approached Fulton's desk, he removed a handkerchief from his back pocket and mopped sweat from his shining pate. He wore his typical work clothes – a starched, blue Oxford shirt, pressed khaki pants, and penny loafers. Fulton suspected the penny loafers would be replaced with well-worn boots as soon as Carlton returned to his car.
The two men exchanged greetings, Fulton poured them each a cup of coffee, and after a few minutes of small talk, they got down to business. “Mr. Carlton, first I want to thank you for coming in,” Fulton began. “Second, I'd like to dispel some common misconceptions people have regarding the CIA, if you'll permit me.” Fulton walked around to Carlton's side of the desk and sat on it with one leg, creating a more intimate connection with Carlton. “Most people form their perceptions of the CIA based on Hollywood. They assume the CIA abounds with duplicitous spies, secret agents, assassins, and other nefarious characters.
“The truth is we're predominantly bureaucrats, but bureaucrats who pay well when we put work out for contract. Our specifications are quite demanding, as you will soon see. Few can adhere to them.” Fulton paused before continuing. “I understand you are an excellent metal worker, with a top-notch crew.”
“Well, I've been in the business for twenty-two years, and have over two hundred years experience in my team. I'd say we're pretty much up for any challenge,” Carlton responded. Fulton pleasantly noted Carlton's even voice and his relaxed posture. He took Carlton at his word.
“Mr. Carlton, the job I have in mind will require an extraordinary understanding of metal stresses and strains, as well as heat stability. The tolerances are what I consider 'world class'. You're not likely to encounter limits tighter than ours.”
“What is the project, by the way?” Carlton ventured.
Fulton handed Carlton a schematic representing a small part of a picture that, in its entirety, was known only to Fulton and a handful of technicians. Carlton located a small piece of paper with a large dollar figure stapled to the last page. He only took a quick glance, enough to count the zeros. “I need three sets of cylinders, one hundred forty six each, built to these specifications,” Fulton said.
Carlton studied the schematics for some time. Carlton's expression of shock when he reached the last pa
ge made Fulton smile. Carlton finally responded, “Wow, these babies are tough! May I ask what they are to be used for?”
“Mr. Carlton, this is the CIA. We pay well because we require the highest quality in the world. And, as you may have surmised, we strongly dissuade curiosity. Am I making myself clear?” Fulton stared directly into Carlton's eyes for several seconds.
“Yes sir, I understand.”
“Excellent, then. Will you take the job?”
“Mr. Fulton, for what you're offering, I'd be a fool not to.”
“I'm just looking for the word 'yes', Mr. Carlton.”
“Yes,” Carlton replied.
“One other thing, Mr. Carlton,” Fulton said, leaning forward on his elbows, “This project has an extremely aggressive timeline. I'll need the first hundred and forty six units delivered within the next ninety days, with each subsequent set delivered every sixty days.”
Carlton couldn't quite conceal his shock. “Mr. Fulton, I'd have to drop every other project I have, and work my men double time to meet those requirements.”
“Welcome to the CIA, Mr. Carlton. I don't think the math should be difficult. This is not a difficult business decision for you. I suspect you know other contractors who can take over your existing projects.”
After staring at his lap for about a minute, Carlton looked up into Fulton's eyes and said, “It'll take me a week to clear my schedule. Can we agree that the clock starts ticking next Monday?”
“Mr. Carlton, I do believe we have a deal.”
After the contractor left, Fulton felt the knot in his stomach relax, having solidified this critical aspect of Project Crossfire. You'll never know what you've done for your country, he thought. But then, no one would ever know what Fulton had done for America either. At least he knew. That would have to be enough. In his line of work, that would always have to be enough.
