Execution of Justice

by Patrick Dent

  “You will be trained to effectively function under conditions of simulated combat stress. Frequent and unexpected enemy contact, reduced sleep, difficult terrain and the constant pressure of operating within restrictive time limits will all contribute to this atmosphere of stress.

  “At any point during the course, any student may be dropped on request. Ranger School is not mandatory. If you're not committed, we don't want you. When I dismiss you from this formation, you will proceed directly through the OD doors behind me in an orderly fashion for processing. Tomorrow, the fun begins. Company, dismissed!”

  John and Gip couldn't believe they had ended up in Ranger School together, much less in the same platoon and squad. They had no idea their coupling was at the order of Major Briggs, who took his directive from General Dalton.

  * * *

  Langley, Virginia

  Special Agent Fulton stared across the DCI's desk into his boss' foreboding eyes. The DCI's heart pumped ice water through his veins. Fulton realized he needed to develop that same coldness. The hard part of that transformation was behind him – making the decision to execute Project Crossfire.

  “Well?” The DCI snapped.

  “Sir, I've identified a commander for the mission. Lieutenant Commander Rymes – a squid. He's currently a desk jockey, but has combat experience in Viet Nam. Rymes had his own ship, held the rank of full Commander, and was on the fast track to Captain until he made a critically bad command decision. American soldiers were killed and maimed as a result and he was given a desk job.” Fulton paused to let his words sink in. The quintessential bureaucrat, Fulton was attuned to his boss' mood and thought process at all times. He saw that the DCI recognized the name and waited for some subtle reaction from this stoic man.

  “This tragedy you mention. Wasn't that the USS Burke incident?” The DCI inquired.

  “Yes Sir, exactly. I believe Rymes would undertake any mission to regain his honor. He will jump at an offer to redeem himself. He'll accept the assignment without question. Plus, how many O-5's do we need sitting behind a desk? Rymes should have been court martialed. I think we owe him one, or more to the point, he owes us one.”

  The DCI sat quietly for several minutes, rubbing his chin. Fulton knew not to speak until he was invited. Eventually, the DCI responded.

  “Excellent work, Agent Fulton. I want you personally to recruit Rymes. Work the redemption angle and emphasize the importance of discretion in selecting his crew. Tell him he's on a 'need-to-know' basis, but we need his full commitment up front. Understood?”

  “Yes Sir,” Fulton replied.

  Chapter Twelve

  Fort Benning, Georgia

  Tammy knew the time had come. She could not continue to live with John without revealing her secret. He had graduated Ranger School with honors and had quickly risen to the rank of E-5, Buck Sergeant. Their lives together in the modest but clean house provided by the US Army had been wonderful these last months, but the splinter in her soul needed removal. She braced herself as she prepared to share her dark experience with another human being for the first time. Her lips trembled as she spoke. “John, there's something I've got to tell you, and you're not going to like it.”

  “What is it, Sweetheart? What's wrong?” John asked. Her tone instantly put him on edge.

  “John, you are the most loving and wonderful man in the world. But, I need you to listen to me for a few minutes without interrupting.”

  John joined her at the dinner table and gave her his undivided attention. “Take your time, Honey,” John said. Tammy's hands were trembling. She noticed his hands were trembling too.

  Tammy was terrified. She had played out this scenario in her mind a hundred times, and every time the outcome was different. Sometimes, John went into a rage. Sometimes, John receded from her, turning to stone as surely as if he had gazed at Medusa. What man wanted a scratch-and-dent wife? She almost lost her nerve, but realized it was too late to turn back now. Better to have him leave her than to keep living a lie. If she could get this out, perhaps the nightmares would stop. There was also the chance her life would become a nightmare. If John left her, whatever was left of her self esteem would evaporate. After some hesitation, she began her tale.

  “John, you know how I'm afraid of water? Well, I haven't always been. My phobia started the summer after ninth grade, and it's related to my bad dreams. Remember, let me finish without interrupting me, or I may not be able to get this out.”

  Tammy proceeded to tell John the source of her demons. As the story progressed, John's body temperature dropped. By the time Tammy finished, he had become a block of ice. Tammy talked for over thirty minutes, often having to stop to cry. Neither of them would ever know the real reasons behind what happened all those years ago in Beaumont, but knowing the reasons would not have affected John's response. These are the events Tammy described to the best of her ability.

  * * *

  Tammy, Fat Jack, Patch and Skeet were celebrating ninth grade graduation at the river defining the northern border of Beaumont. Against the express wishes of the power plant upstream, they walked out across the rocks to their traditional spot. All the kids knew the sound of the gate release siren, and respected it immensely. It didn't take many drowning fatalities to hammer the lesson home.

  The white water was breaking all around them, and they even had a mini waterfall with about an eight-foot drop. Behind the curtain of water was a cave of sorts that seated six comfortably. Of course, the first one in had to check for Water Moccasins, but even so, the kids universally considered it the coolest place on the river. John and Tammy were not yet dating. They were in the extended flirtation stage pubescent teens seemed to need.

  Patch was still in convalescence from the car crash that had claimed both his eye and his license. Although a heavy drinker since the age of twelve, he blamed his addiction to narcotics on his postoperative treatment. He did, however, work diligently to augment his prescriptions with the most recent illicit drugs.

  His latest discovery was a drug used in the 1950's as a general anesthetic for humans, but its use had been promptly discontinued due to its severe psychotic side effects. Since 1960, veterinarians had been using it to anesthetize animals. Apparently, the animals did not possess the higher brain functions necessary to suffer the side effects. Luckily, Patch knew the town vet, and had coaxed him into sharing a little of this uncontrolled substance for a nominal fee. The vet had some fancy name for the powder, but Patch just remembered its abbreviation, PCP.

  Patch and Fat Jack hoisted the cooler of Budweiser across the rocks until they reached the right spot. Mother Nature had even been kind enough to provide a flat, high rock, providing safe quarter for their cooler. They basked in the warm sunlight, enjoying the contrast between the sun's heat and the water's extreme cold. Several hours passed without much conversation. Skeet had not yet had his life changing experience, and was sucking down beers with the rest. Tammy was immersed almost entirely in the water, and her body had become numb. Not a heavy drinker, she didn't realize she'd had seven beers until she tried to stand. The chilly water induced some sort of sensory deprivation making her feel sober until her departure from that frigid womb. Once standing, she staggered, almost falling before Fat Jack grabbed her arm.

  “Hey guys, it's about time for a joint,” Patch contributed to the sparse conversation.

  “Patch,” Tammy responded, “There are people all around!”

  “Please, step into my office,” Patch said, pretending to hold the waterfall back as if he were holding a door for the lady.

  “Whose turn is it to look for snakes?” Tammy asked.

  Snake reconnaissance was no light matter. A bite from a Water Moccasin could cost a person a limb unless they reached a hospital within forty-five to sixty minutes. Aside from the fifteen-minute walk to the car, the hospital was twenty miles away.

  “I'm up,” Skeet admitted, as he summoned his courage. His courage turned out not to be far away, as he had drunk nea
rly a twelve pack in two hours. He dove into the water curtain. For dramatic effect, he waited a couple of minutes before sticking his head back out.

  “All clear!”

  “Next time you take that long, we're gonna have a serious talk; the kind that doesn't have any words. You dig?” Fat Jack said.

  “Okay, Man. I was just foolin' around.”

  Once inside their private chasm, Patch opened a series of plastic bags, eventually revealing his hidden treasure - the special veterinary joint. Patch had an evil grin on his face as he fired it up. He had never sampled PCP and wasn't sure what it would do when burned. The vet had told him it was injected into animals before operations. He took the first three hits, then offered it to Tammy. Tammy waved it away.

  “Patch, I'm already a little too drunk. I don't need anything else.”

  “Come on, it's graduation. And besides, this is the best grass I've gotten my hands on, ever.”

  “Patch, I said no.”

  Patch begrudgingly passed to joint to Fat Jack, who was more than happy to accept it. Fat Jack followed the agreed upon protocol of three hits per turn before passing it to Skeet.

  Marijuana typically begins its psychotropic effect within five minutes of inhalation. PCP, however, takes a little longer. For the first half-hour in the cave, the three men enjoyed the mild effects of the grass.

  Skeet noticed the change first, when he felt a sensation of moving at infinite speed, although his eyes told him he was sitting cross-legged underneath a waterfall.

  Patch followed soon after, with the vision of a purple child. This child was about ten years old, but with a huge cranium shaped like an inverted pear. His lidless eyes stared at Patch. Patch tried to look away, but the child followed his gaze everywhere. He noticed the child's eyes were all pupil. Occasionally, the purple child would lean near Patch's ear and whisper something unintelligible.

  Fat Jack found it interesting that there was a naked cowgirl in the cave with them. Well, naked except for the boots and hat, otherwise how would he have known she was a cowgirl? His cut off jeans bulged in response to his hallucination. Fat Jack reached for his cowgirl.

  Tammy slapped Fat Jack's face in response to his jerking at her tube top and exposing her left breast.

  “What the hell do you think you're doing?” She screamed.

  Patch experienced an epiphany. Tammy was the purple child. He realized that his mental anguish could be quenched by only one method. He ripped Tammy's tube top off and tossed it into the water. Tammy, horrified, covered her chest, but by then it was much too late. Patch began molesting her with his hands. She slapped him as hard and as fast as she could, to no avail. Patch seemed impervious to pain.

  Fat Jack and Skeet were quick to follow Patch's lead. They held Tammy while Patch yanked her cut off jeans down. Tammy screamed, kicked, and punched at random. Some of her blows hit human flesh, but most contacted with rock.

  Her assailants soon tired of her resistance, and held her head underneath the waterfall, nearly drowning her, and not really caring. She caught occasional gasps of breath by vigorously shaking her head. Meanwhile, her three best friends took turns at raping her.

  Tammy blocked out most of what happened next, but when she awoke it was dark, and she was underneath the waterfall, naked and bleeding. She stepped out, humiliated at her condition, only to discover she was alone. The solitude was both a blessing and a curse.

  Judging by the moon, she guessed it must have been ten or eleven at night. She certainly was in no mood to face anyone, but was facing a ten-mile walk home, naked, bleeding, and traumatized. How could this have happened? What did she do to provoke such an attack?

  Tammy stumbled aimlessly through the woods for an indeterminate time, humiliated and confused. Her salvation came in the form of a couple of poachers named Bubba and Jimmy.

  Bubba and Jimmy were men of many hobbies, but their favorite pastime was spotlighting deer.

  “Sweet Mother of God!” Bubba exclaimed, “Jimmy, get a blanket from the truck!”

  Tammy was in the early stages of shock, and did not speak as Bubba gently wrapped her in a blanket.

  “It's okay, honey, we won't hurt you,” Jimmy assured her, “We're gonna take you to the hospital.”

  Tammy shook her head vigorously. She coughed, hacking up some more river water. She managed one word.

  “Home.”

  “Okay, Okay! Can you tell us the way?”

  Tammy nodded.

  When Bubba and Jimmy stopped in front of Tammy's trailer, Bubba offered to walk her to the door and talk to her parents.

  “Please don't. I don't want anyone to know.”

  “All right, sweetheart, we won't tell nobody, right Jimmy?”

  “I swear,” Jimmy replied.

  Tammy sneaked into her home and showered until there was no more hot water. She scrubbed herself until her skin was raw, suppressing her urge to cry, knowing that if she started, she'd never stop. She silently heaved as racking waves of revulsion pulsated through her body.

  * * *

  As Bubba and Jimmy drove home, they were sickened by what they had seen.

  “Whatever bastard did that has gotta pay,” Bubba said.

  “Yea, but she didn't want nobody to know about it.”

  “I ain't talking about the law, numbskull. Mr. Drake will know what to do. Besides, he pays good money to know stuff.”

  * * *

  As he sat at his kitchen table that day, John's mind raced with conflicting thoughts. Childhood memories made with friends. Growing up together. Friends being there in his times of need, when his family wasn't. Those friends destroying the woman he loved. Images flashed through his mind: violence against Tammy, violence against his friends, himself at twelve standing over that freshly shot dove.

  Fortunately, the mind had a shut-off mechanism to protect it from trauma. John retreated into a merciful blanket of nothingness. At the simplest level of existence, emotions were separated from thought. Thoughts became crisp and logical. The area where emotions reside remains vacant. John had to face this shocking development. He needed a simple path to follow.

  So, as John floated in icy emptiness, a thought eventually formed. It was a voice from the past. There is no right or wrong. There's simply whose side you're on. The John's insight interrupted the nothingness of John's thoughts. That phrase led John to the simple path he so desperately needed, drawing John inexorably into its gravitational pull. The universe suddenly shifted into focus.

  Just as he had done so many times before, John became a machine – cold steel forged for a singular purpose. John remembered his training. There were many preparations to make, but his path was already beginning to gel in his mind. He had negotiated a new equilibrium with the world.

  He and Tammy spent the rest of the day lying in bed, comforting each other while John constructed a game plan that would transform him into the thing he most despised. He neither showed nor felt any emotion whatsoever. He was in shock. Part of him had died.

  * * *

  The Prometheus

  Commander Rymes stood on the deck of his new ship, Prometheus. Before him, twenty-two men stood at attention in platoon formation. The Prometheus was in dry dock, still under preparation, but Rymes felt it important to have this briefing on deck. He paced back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back, inspecting his crew. This assignment was an opportunity he never expected to receive. He was uncomfortable not knowing the details of his mission, but understood that such was the nature of the CIA. The smell of salt water filled his lungs with a passion he hadn't felt in years. He began his kick-off speech.

  “Men, I have hand picked each of you for this mission. You should be proud to be a part of something this significant. The details of our mission are strictly on a need-to-know basis. Today, you need to understand that you will be serving your country and your president on a mission with extremely significant implications. The lives of thousands of people rest upon our shoulders.

&nb
sp; “You're probably curious. That's only natural. I have no answers to give you except this. If you execute your orders properly and to the letter, you will all be heroes.”

  Rymes scanned the young, enthusiastic faces before him. He hadn't experienced the sensation of command in years. It was exhilarating. Second chances were rare in this life, and he was grateful. When Special Agent Fulton had recruited him, he could barely contain his enthusiasm. He knew little about the mission at hand – only a set of coordinates to reach. Once there, he would receive further instruction. Rymes felt a knot tighten in his stomach as he remembered the USS Burke, but that was the past. He had no intention of letting any harm come to any member of his crew. That was his top priority.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Beaumont, South Carolina

  John looked upon his hometown with new eyes. He had learned things he could not unlearn. He was a man on a mission – one that superseded all the emotions and beliefs he had ever possessed. As he drove past the pecan orchards on the periphery of town, he hardly noticed the majesty of nature that typically engrossed him. He passed the old “haunted house” he and his friends had dared to enter on teenage Saturday nights. Only the bravest had ever ventured upstairs, where John & a few close friends knew there was a chair, just like the one from All In The Family. The significant difference was that this chair was missing a half moon from the area designed to comfort the occupant's head. This chair's final occupant had known no comfort. The dark brown stains on the chair and floor were a testament to that fact. The locals said Old Man Sisko had used his toe to pull the trigger of the twelve-gauge shotgun, thus ending one set of problems and beginning a new one.

  Past the orchards, he was now driving through a seemingly infinite expanse of cotton. There were single lots of land larger than New York City. Two miles past the crossroads, he turned left on a country road having no designation other than S-9-63. After a quarter of a mile, he pulled into the dirt road leading to Fat Jack's trailer.