by Patrick Dent
All the while, multiple AK-47s held crosshairs on their heads. The Arabs were inventing desert tactics thousands of years before the US Army existed. The key to finding someone in the desert is glare. American snipers concealed themselves well, but always left the tips of their scopes bare, making them easily seen by the trained eye. All four of Falon's men radioed in the clear shot signal, but he ordered them to stand down. Business was business and one did not shoot one's associates until it became profitable to do so.
* * *
Beaumont, South Carolina
John's circle of friends held an intimate going-away party at Fat Jack's trailer the Saturday before basic training. The initial shock and anger began to wear off, and John adjusted to the change of course his life had taken. A military life wouldn't be so bad. Besides, you do get to play with fun toys. Plus, they would provide a decent housing allowance for a married soldier. Aside from the likelihood of being shot, overall this seemed a workable situation.
“Hey man, you really think you're going to 'Nam?” Fat Jack asked John as he passed a joint to Skeet, who waved it away. Fat Jack, close to 400 pounds, acquired his nickname honestly. His shaggy and frizzled blonde hair hung so coarse it appeared weightless. He had forearms like Popeye, disproportionately large even for a man his size. He had to hold his arms at a funny angle when he walked, always appearing on the brink of teetering forward. Like a sea lion, Fat Jack consumed his body weight in carbohydrates each day – mostly in the form of hops, barley and oats. He had the look and attitude of a Viking king with the vocabulary of a well-trained mountain gorilla.
“Probably. Who knows?” John responded, “They say it might be over soon. I might get lucky.”
“Come on, Skeet, take a hit,” Fat Jack insisted.
“You know I don't touch that stuff anymore,” Skeet said.
“How long has it been?” John asked Skeet.
“Two years, three months, and sixteen days,” Skeet replied with pride. For Skeet, the decision to clean up his act had been precipitated by ninety days in juvenile lockup at the age of sixteen. The judge suspended the balance of his thirty-three month sentence, pending good behavior.
Skeet and the state of South Carolina did not see eye-to-eye on the topic of marijuana as a cash crop. Skeet had the honor of being the first person in the county ever to get busted with over a pound of marijuana. DMV revoked his driver's license for the entire thirty months of his probation. In just over two months, Skeet would rejoin the world of drivers.
“How about you?” Fat Jack said as he nudged Tammy.
“I'm fine,” Tammy responded coldly.
“EAT SHIT!” Fat Jack burped out loudly. Tammy cut him a sharp look, and he didn't quite meet her eyes. “I'm sorry, Tammy. You see; I have this condition. My doctor says there's a little man living inside my head, and he can only speak while I'm burping. BITCH! You see what I mean? I can't control that.” All the men present were howling with laughter.
“Well, you're right about one thing. There is a very little man living inside your head. And his name is Fat Jack,” Tammy said, refusing to look directly at him.
“Hey man, pass that thing over here!” Patch jumped in. Patch had lost his left eye in a DUI related car crash at the age of fifteen. He blamed his addiction to narcotics on his extended convalescence period, when he was inundated with prescription painkillers. Once, John, Skeet and Fat Jack had compared notes and discovered no one had ever actually seen Patch eat. They concluded that the delicate balance of the various drugs in Patch's system must have mummified him. He was a living, breathing chemical robot. He even had that mummy lethargy thing perfected.
John watched his friends with detachment. He wanted to rise above this place, these people. He wanted to be middle class, and these guys had already topped out on the social ladder. Once he and Tammy were in Georgia, the game of life would be reset. They would live in a middle class neighborhood. They would make middle class friends. John knew he could do much better than this. If the military took him out of Beaumont, so much the better.
John looked forward to crafting a new life with Tammy. Watching the erosion of his parents' relationship over the better part of two decades taught him that marriage becomes a lifelong project. You must not only weather the storms; you have to constantly repair the damage they cause. John reeled in his thoughts and tuned into Fat Jack, who had been gesturing at him for several minutes.
“John, I need to ask you something,” Fat Jack said, leaning forward onto his elbows. “You remember that fight we got in with those Peachtown guys back in football season?”
“I remember,” Patch said, clearing his throat, “That's the day John let me get my ass kicked.”
“Well, you see, John,” Fat Jack continued, “That's what I wanted to ask you about. It was three guys against three and you took your guy down in one punch. Then, you just stood there and watched Patch get his ass beat. Why?”
“It was a fair fight - one on one,” John answered.
“Fair fight?” Patch jumped in, “There's no such thing as a 'fair fight'! There are won fights and lost fights, but there are no fair fights.” Patch fancied himself a philosopher, and loved to pontificate on topics ranging from the meaning of life to the rules of engagement for schoolyard fights.
“That's real deep, Patch,” Fat Jack said in a sarcastic tone. Patch ignored him.
“Patch,” John said, “This may surprise you, but you and my father agree on something. He says there's no right and no wrong, there's simply whose side you're on.”
“The man's a genius!” Patch exclaimed.
They spent the next several hours rehashing stories of cars wrecked while drinking, cars wrecked while racing - wrecked cars in general. Patch grew progressively higher until he reached the pinnacle of conscious thought. Then, he had an epiphany. “Wait, wait, wait, I've got an idea!” Patch said, “Instead of letting Uncle Sam shave your head, let me do it.”
“Right,” John said.
“Wait! An even better idea - let me give you a mohawk. That way, they'll think you're crazy from day one. Nobody will mess with you.” Patch brimmed with bright ideas when he reached what he called “the zone”.
“There is no way you're giving me a mohawk!” John said.
“All right, I'll make you a bet!”
“I'll tell you what,” John said, “You polish off that pint of Jack Daniels in one swig and you can give me the mohawk.”
“Man, you're crazy!” Patch said, “I've been drinking all afternoon.” Then, upon further consideration, he added, “What if I don't finish the bottle?”
“Then you owe me fifty bucks.”
Patch went blank for a few seconds as he did the math. “You're on,” he said, as he broke the seal on the pint and lifted it to his lips. The first couple of chugs went down reasonably well, but about halfway through the bottle, Patch's body began to jerk as his stomach bucked, and he regurgitated Jack Daniels and stomach acid into his mouth. Then, in one swift motion, he emptied the contents of his mouth and the bottle into his stomach. Although extremely unhappy, his stomach eventually surrendered and retained the Jack Daniels. Ironically, Patch slept while Fat Jack gave John the mohawk.
* * *
The next morning, John walked into the breakfast room wearing a baseball cap. As usual, neither he nor his father acknowledged the other's presence. They had long ago fallen into a mutual disinterest. He smelled his mother's traditional breakfast of bacon, eggs and grits coming from the kitchen. Although Gloria didn't understand John's decision to abstain from eating meat, she supported it by making him an extra serving of eggs and grits. As he took his usual seat to the left of his father, The John reminded him of proper table manners.
“Hats off at the table. You know that.” Somehow not saying 'good morning' was perfectly acceptable, but wearing a hat at the table was gauche. John knew this would not end well.
When John removed the hat, he thought his mother would pass out from shock. She dropped the
platter of breakfast, the coffee cups shattering on the tile floor. John saw in her eyes that she was witnessing an abomination. She shrieked and ran out of the room, crying.
The John had a different method of expressing his discontent. His left jab caught John by surprise, and cost him his lower right canine. John spit blood and tooth into his hand and looked at his father with contempt. His mind scrolled through hundreds of memories of belittlement, beatings, vacations, gifts, wages, and promises of inheritance.
The John's seemingly complex pattern of brutality and reward were quite simply explained by one word - control. Control over others. Control over objects. Most importantly, control over himself.
In all fairness, The John did mete out occasional expressions of love. John easily spotted his father's love, as it took only one form - material gifts. These gifts were usually proportionate to the severity of the physical and mental tribulations he visited upon his family. John took eighteen years to decipher the incomprehensibly simple economy of the Drake family. The gifts were not apologies or acts of atonement. They were a fair wage paid for his family's obedience.
John finally decided that, if he could change The John, violence would certainly not be the method. It also didn't make sense to stage a rebellion the day before he left home for good.
“I'll go shave,” John said calmly as he walked back toward his bedroom. Another trait he and The John shared: they were both men of few words.
* * *
John faced Fat Jack as they stood in Fat Jack's yard. They were both wearing jeans and both had their hands in their pockets. John hated to ask such a favor, but had nowhere else to go. John called this event 'the changing of the guard'. Late Sunday afternoon, T minus one evening. John was exhibiting some signs of nervousness – rubbing the back of his neck, pacing constantly. Inside, he trembled with fear. His entire life would change in just about twelve hours.
All week long there had been reminders of the approaching deadline, as John set his affairs in order. He had managed to find homes for almost all his worldly possessions, taking to basic training a simple bag containing two civilian outfits. Uncle Sam didn't even permit wristwatches. John didn't mind, though. He wanted to forget everything about this place and start fresh. Of all the tasks John had to perform, he dreaded this one the worst. Aside from Tammy, John would miss his dog Vonnegut most of all.
“I've always been afraid of that dog. Why don't you find someone else to take care of it?” Fat Jack said.
“Him.”
“What?”
“Vonnegut is a he, not an it,” John replied.
“Well, pit bulls make me nervous. Haven't you heard the stories of them killing people?”
John sighed with exasperation. “Pit bulls are much less dangerous than people. The only reason you're afraid of him is you can't speak his language.”
Fat Jack responded by barking repeatedly. John couldn't help but giggle.
“Look,” John said. He produced a wad of foil and unraveled it, revealing a piece of steak. He handed the steak to Fat Jack.
“Here, you feed this to him, and Vonnegut will understand you are his friend. Be sure you hold it below his mouth.”
Fat Jack did as instructed. As he crouched down on one knee and extended his arm, Vonnegut approached at first with trepidation, but finally could not overcome his primal desire for meat. He delicately clamped his teeth into the steak as Fat Jack released it. Vonnegut then lifted his eyes to the sky and practically swallowed the morsel whole.
“Keep your hand down,” John advised.
A few seconds later, Vonnegut licked Fat Jack's hand, relishing the new friendship he had made.
“What does Vonnegut mean, anyway?” Fat Jack asked.
“He's a writer.”
“What does he write?”
“Books,” John replied with a smile.
“Aw, come on, Man.”
“Well, basically he does not believe in free will. He thinks God has already created the past, present, and future. Therefore, we appear to have free will simply because we can't see the future, which is fixed anyway, at least from God's perspective. Get it?”
“John, I love you, man, but sometimes I have no idea what the hell you are talking about. Nobody controls my future but me.”
“Don't be so sure.” John winked. “What if I decide to kick your ass five minutes from now? Would you be in control of that future?” They both enjoyed a good laugh.
Chapter Seven
Langley, Virginia
Special Agent Fulton ducked into the Blue Hose Diner at precisely eleven forty-five. The place bustled for a Tuesday. Grey suits and USAF uniforms were packed into every table and booth. He scanned the front section, peering over the bobbing sea of heads. The diner had a Scottish tavern motif, the blue hose being a reference to the battle stockings worn by bravest Scottish warriors. All the wait staff wore kilts and blue hose, a look that Fulton thought diminished the image of the blue hose and the real soldiers who wore them. He heard bagpipe music coming from the rear section.
“Robert! Over here,” Peter called. “I've got us a table in the back.” Perky Peter. Peter's constant cheeriness annoyed Fulton, whose mind never strayed far from his work. Fulton's coworkers kindly referred to him as 'focused'. In truth, he tended to obsess a bit - perhaps more than a bit.
The two shook hands and navigated the crowd to their table in the bar section. In the rear section, the lights were considerably dimmer, creating an atmosphere of conspiracies and secret plots. Two men were playing darts in the rear – cricket, judging from their conversation. Men with beer guts pushed against the bar, staking out their little pieces of territory on the bar top as they guzzled Scottish ale from half-yard glasses.
The bar area overflowed with humanity, but tables were open for dining. Crowds seemed thinner to Fulton in dim light, and the background noise maintained a level that would interfere with recording devices. As they sat in the most private booth they could find, Fulton tucked his tie into his shirt.
“What's good today?” Fulton asked.
“The Bannocks.” Peter paused. “It's a barley and oat biscuit baked on a griddle, then served smothered in melted cheese. You've got to try the Bannocks. It's a new addition to the menu.” Peter's father owned a restaurant, so he unofficially assumed the task of choreographing all matters of cuisine. They each ordered Bannocks with 'wee heavy' ale. 'Wee heavy' meant the strongest brew on hand.
They made small talk until the food came out. Then, they ate like hyenas, attacking their food. Neither was a breakfast person, and both were famished. As their blood sugar stabilized, they became more man and less animal. They began to ease into their own semi private world.
“How's work?” Peter asked.
“Can't complain. Got a lot going on, though.”
“Hey, that's job security. Can't argue with that,” Peter grinned. “What I mean is, how's 'Fulton's Folly' coming?”
Fulton's crew nicknamed his leviathan ship, Prometheus, 'Fulton's Folly'. The Prometheus, a monstrosity of Fulton's own design, was the crux of Project Crossfire. Fulton's inner circle had doubts they could overcome the engineering challenges of the Prometheus in the given time frame. Although the nickname was partly in jest, it got under Fulton's skin.
Fulton's grimace lasted no longer than a millisecond. He assured himself Peter didn't catch it. There were a few Gremlins in the project, but if Peter asked him if the project would 'float, no pun intended', Fulton thought he would punch him.
Fulton had to constantly switch between contractors so none would have enough information to piece together the nature of the ship they were building. When the Prometheus reached the finishing and armaments stage, he would use exclusively CIA technicians.
Fulton's plan was a little risky, but if it went well, he could stack the balance of power in the world for the next century. His father endowed him with a strong dose of patriotism from an early age. Crossfire could do two things for Fulton. First, he'd be fast t
racked to DCI. Second, he would become chairman of the Oil Council - the first Westerner to hold that title. He would control the flow of billions of dollars. Of course, high rewards involved high risks, and Project Crossfire did have its down side. Starting a war often had its hitches.
“It's going fine,” he finally answered, somewhat irritably. “I'm having a little trouble acquiring the special munitions, but it's nothing I can't handle.” Fulton didn't intend to sound defensive, but he wasn't in the mood to be jibed.
“Hey, man. Don't get so sensitive,” Peter said. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “You know nicknames bring good luck.” He returned to his side of the booth. “Besides, we didn't meet to talk shop. Did you remember this year?”
“Remember what?”
“Your dad's birthday! I can't believe you forgot again.” Peter sneered in jest.
“Is it past?” Fulton's eyes grew perceptibly wider.
“No, man, it's two days after Thanksgiving. How can you forget that? And you know how sentimental the old man is under all his gruff.”
“No, you're right. How stupid! I've just been so preoccupied with the project lately. Man, he'd never admit it, but it would hurt his feelings if I forgot.”
“Okay, listen. There's no time to get a card to him in 'Nam through his APO address, so I've got an idea. You send him a wire.”
“A wire saying what?”
Peter leaned forward as he dug into the idea of finding a clever way out of this little dilemma. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “What's his favorite song?”
“Probably 'My Way'. He sings it all the time.”
“That's perfect, you send him a wire with the lyrics to 'My Way'. The words of Paul Anka, traveling half way around the world to remind a weary soldier of home, it's perfect. The theme of triumph over adversity provides a nice touch, too.”
