Molon Labe!

by Boston T. Party

  So, James snuck off after school three days a week for dancing lessons across town. He even enrolled under an alias, Fred Rogers. If his dance teacher understood the pun, she never let on. James had his mother's natural rhythm and learned quickly. After just three months he could Swing, Salsa, C&W, and even Waltz. At the homecoming ball he astonished the entire school with his graceful moves. Girls all but stood in line for the next dance with him. Overnight his confidence and reputation skyrocketed. His prom was with the school's prettiest girl. His senior year ended up a huge success, academically and socially.

  He planned on a military career beginning at Annapolis. Graduating fifth in his class, he proudly took on the "butter bars" of a Marine Corps second lieutenant and went off to helicopter flight school. He soon distinguished himself in the Bell AH-1W SuperCobra, and flew the sleek gunship in dozens of sorties during Desert Storm. His last had been the most interesting.

  While attacking, without support, two Iraqi SA-6 "Gainful" SAM batteries he got caught in the radar of a deadly ZSU-23-4 self-propelled AA gun. The 4-barreled turreted system spewed a devastating 50-round burst of 23mm cannon shells, wounding both him and his gunner/copilot, and severely damaging his helo. Captain Preston barely limped back to base before the tail rotor sheared off. He was released from hospital nine days later on medical leave from flight duty. Desert Storm ended before he could fly again. He was happy to learn that he and his copilot had taken out two of the last SAM batteries of the war. For him it was a happy conclusion to his part of the fighting.

  After the Gulf War he was offered a promotion to major if he "reupped" and switched to the MV-22 Osprey, a controversial tilt-rotor/fixed-wing assault transport. Preston seriously considered it but came to call the Osprey a "twitchy beast" and didn't much care for the hybrid craft, though he thought the tilt-rotor concept fascinating. After the MV-22's first crash in 1991 he felt his suspicions vindicated. While Preston loved being a Marine, he decided that he was too independent for military life, especially during peacetime. He left active duty as a captain with 169 combat hours. A week and an hour he liked to joke. He would miss the twin 1,725 horsepower GE turboshafts and the incredible nimbleness of the SuperCobra, however. Attack helos got in your blood like nothing else. He wondered if any other thrill could compare with sending Hellfire missiles into T-72 tanks. He doubted it.

  Although he did not take lightly the killing of enemy soldiers, the surgical precision of his helo's weapons against the singularly evil purpose of Iraqi armor dispelled his initial qualms about combat. Saddam Hussein had had many months to withdraw from Kuwait during the Allied buildup, but refused to do so. His armored divisions could have surrendered once the air war began, but did not. Therefore, USMC Captain Preston went into, and emerged from, combat with a clean conscience.

  He, like his comrades, would have preferred to continue all the way to Baghdad to finish the job. When President Bush let Saddam go with only a partial defeat, most American soldiers felt deeply let down. It helped to alienate Preston from further military service at the behest of politicians who easily lost their nerve.

  Back in Wyoming he pursued several entrepreneurial projects. While his father was pleased to invest in most of his son's ventures, nothing was ever handed to James. A spoiled, indolent son was the last thing he wanted. Wealth is the dessert of hard work Benjamin often said. If James was ever to enjoy financial success, he would have to earn it. That suited him just fine. His innovative PERT5 software for ranchers took off in 1991 with the advent of 386 chip personal computers. He liked the multiplication of profits inherent to the software business. Write it once; sell it often. It felt nice to have his own real money after eight years in the Marine Corps.

  As a reward, he flew first-class to Rome on a hideously expensive open-jaw ticket, took delivery in Bologna of a new 1992 Ducati 900SS, and made a leisurely four month tour of East and West Europe. He had the time of his life on the stunning red and white motorcycle and came very close many times to staying overseas. The reunited and hectic Berlin was his favorite city, and a couple of business opportunities in the former East Germany nearly beguiled him. He rashly fell in love with a gorgeous art student in Budapest who quickly broke his heart after an old flame reappeared and proposed. In Switzerland he thought he'd died and gone to heaven on those endless corkscrew alpine roads, he and his V-twin Ducati merging into one thunderous carving knife of asphalt. In Portugal he almost bought a charming little beachhouse for only US$45,000, but realized that he missed his family and Wyoming too much to remain in Europe.

  He and his bike flew from Paris to Montréal on an Air France 747, and returned to Casper through Canada via Thunder Bay and Banff. His wander-lust satisfied after 13,802 miles, he rolled up his sleeves to join his father on the family ranch. Although a wife and family were in the back of his busy mind, he hadn't expected to meet anyone like Juliette, much less so soon.

  He was just thirty-two years old when her lightning struck in that Federal courtroom. The jury summons postcard he framed and hung on his office wall next to his summa cum laude diploma from the US Naval Academy. Also on the wall were many photos. Astride his Ducati above the little bay of Mykonos, Greece. Being lifted out of his smoking SuperCobra, a barely flying sieve full of ragged holes and gashes, its perspex canopy shattered and bloody. His Silver Star and Purple Heart pinned to a field medevac pillow. He and his copilot, one eye still bandaged, at Ramstein AFB Officers' Club after the war, hoisting frothy beer mugs the size of oil cans and grinning like loons because they were flying home the next day. He and his dad in the Tetons with their tenth elk together, the leaden winter sky lit by an impossibly beautiful opal sunset.

  In the Bighorn National Forest with Juliette on their first camping trip. He often gazed on that wall of momento and achievement, marveling at how it could so brilliantly encapsulate, like a caricature, his life. With Juliette, he would have many, many more things to add to that wall.

  Casper, Wyoming

  On Preston's wedding day, his father Benjamin asks him what it was like when he first met Juliette eleven months ago. He replies, "Dad, I heard bells, and she took my arm. Just like today."

  Benjamin Preston looks at his son warmly. "You two are so right for each other. It's so difficult to meet the perfect woman."

  "Well, it's all thanks to Gordon Lorner, Dad."

  "Lorner? Who?"

  "You remember — the Russell trial? Agent Lorner of the ATF?"

  Ben Preston laughs merrily. "Oh, yeah! Him!"

  "Juliette and I sent him a wedding invitation but he didn't show."

  "Don't worry, Son. He's probably out somewhere, Doing Good." Amidst the chuckles, Juliette smoothly sidles between her two favorite men and asks, "What's so funny, you guys?"

  "I was telling Dad about us having Agent Lorner to thank."

  "Really? How weird — I just saw him a few minutes ago. You can thank him yourself. Be nice, dear. Don't call him 'Flash Gordon.'"

  "What? He's here? Where?"

  "Outside in the garden talking to your cousin Amy. She seems to like him, but I think he's too old for her. She's, what, nineteen?"

  The Preston men bridle instantly and begin to march off to the garden. Juliette sings out, "Just kidding, fellas!" and laughs in that way of hers as she flees the room, her wedding gown billowing like white lace exhaust.

  "Cry 'Fed' will ya?" Preston laughingly bellows, picking up the chase. "If it weren't for this dress, you couldn't catch me!" sings Juliette. "Sweetie, in just a few hours you won't have to worry about that old wedding dress anymore!"

  "That's why I had it made with Velcro," teases Juliette over her shoulder. "It'll be a real time-saver!"

  "Ah, such a sensible woman I married!"

  Her giggles are heard throughout the house.

  __________

  1 National Crime Information Center. Through the FBI's Interstate Identification Index, the NCIC gives access to the criminal records of nearly 30 million people. Most law enforcement ag
encies have access. It includes information about stolen, missing, or wanted goods, such as guns, vehicles, license plates, boats, and financial instruments. It also includes information about a variety of people, such as missing and unidentified persons, foreign fugitives, and deported aliens. The NCIC also provides access to the ATF Violent Felon File, the US Secret Service Protection File, gang and terrorist organizations files, as well as state and federal criminal history records.

  2 Originally a tax-enforcement agency under the Department of the Treasury, it was transferred to the Department of Justice in 2003.

  3 Such, in theory, activated one's 7th Amendment right to a common law trial, versus a mere maritime or equity procedure wherein few or no constitutional rights exist. Rolls of 21 junk Morgan silver dollars were sold as "7th Amendment Rolls."

  4 Fully Informed Jury Association, which is dedicated to informing Americans of their historic and legal right to judge the law as well as the facts of a case. www.fija.org

  5 Project Evaluation and Review Technique, a management tool and decision-making system first used during the Apollo Lunar program. It defines objectives, the sequential and interrelated steps in achieving them, and procedures for tracking progress. PERT defines the "critical path" of a project and identifies bottlenecks before they occur.

  2002

  Liberalism is a philosophy to console the West while it commits suicide.

  — James Burnham

  When a stupid man does something he knows is wrong, he always claims that it is his duty.

  — George Bernard Shaw

  Logan Airport

  Boston, Massachusetts

  October 2002

  Douglas Graves has spent the past several days training members of the Boston SWAT in clearing buildings. He is flying back home to Arizona this morning.

  At the general security checkpoint he is told to turn his laptop computer on and off three times, and to remove his belt and shoes. He does all this, simmering, though without complaint. They open his bag and paw through all his belongings. Last call has just been announced for his flight.

  Cleared through, his gate is literally 50' away. He is just about to give his boarding pass to the pretty blond agent when a pair of secondary security people approach him. They have a desk right at the gate.

  "Sir, we need to check your things and remove your shoes," one of them says dully.

  Anger rises in Graves like throat bile. "I just came from security, right over there!" he points.

  The second guy says, "I know, but we still need to check your stuff." He is, if this is possible, even more bovine than his partner.

  Graves feels himself beginning to snap. Are they both afflicted with Downs Syndrome? "Check my stuff? You're not smart enough to check my stuff!"

  "Sir, please remove your shoes," the first one repeats.

  "My shoes? They're still untied from the first time I removed them. You watched me walk over here from just fifty feet away! My flight is about to leave!"

  "Sir, we'll hold the plane for you. Please take your shoes off."

  Graves is glowing hot by now, throwing his lace-up tactical boots on the floor. "Do I look like a goddamned Arab terrorist?"

  "Sir, there's no reason to get upset. Please remove your belt."

  "My belt? How 'bout my pants, too?" Graves drops his pants to his ankles and jigs a little 360° on his toes. "Happy now, you morons?"

  This is too much for the pair. "Sir, sir," they implore.

  "If you wanted me to board this flight in my fucking underwear, why didn't anybody tell me! I missed reading about that on my ticket! Hey, I know! Let's all fly buck naked with no luggage! That should make your jobs a lot easier!"

  People are stopping to stare. Half are scared — half wish they could cheer him on. The cud-chewing twins in uniform now want to be rid of this guy. The pilot of his flight witnesses all this through the window and actually deplanes to see what is going on, and whether he wants to allow Graves on his aircraft.

  As he is pulling up his pants, he calmly explains to the pilot, "I am Douglas Graves. I work in conjunction with law enforcement and the military. I'm flying home after training Boston SWAT for three days. Here's my card."

  The pilot looks him over, reads the card, nods. He asks the two guys, "Is this gentleman clear? We need to push back."

  "Uh, yeah, he's clear."

  Turning to Graves the pilot asks, "Now, are you going to be calm, cool, and collected on my airplane?"

  "No problem. Just get me out of this stupid airport."

  "Then let's get aboard. We're behind schedule."

  They fast walk down the jetway, followed by the boarding agent. Their steps boom in the rectangular corridor. A stewardess is standing in the plane's doorway, her hand on the door.

  After the pilot, Graves steps onto the aircraft with the stewardess closing the door behind him. Almost immediately the plane is pushed back. He turns right to face a seventy yard long tube full of eyes. Being a highly trained and experienced operator, he immediately spots the Sky Marshal, a black man in coat and tie who is eyeing Graves sternly. Even from six rows away, Graves can discern the shoulder holster bulge.

  "Oh, do you want to check my shoes and underwear, too?" Graves taunts. The Sky Marshal is fairly mortified at being outed, and snaps his head towards the window.

  "I'll be in 21C, Sweetie," Graves murmurs as he passes by.

  He marches down the aisle, eyes bored straight ahead. Finding his aisle seat, he drops in, fuming — lost in the world of his disgust with air travel. The middle seat is unoccupied. He does not bother to glance at his window seatmate to his left.

  After 43 seconds of his silence, however, she can no longer contain herself. They actually held the flight for him, and he is handsome, though in a wiry, menacing sort of way. She assumes he may be interesting to talk to.

  She puts down her magazine and with great chipperness announces, "Hi! I'm Amber Lee! And you are...?"

  Graves's head smoothly turrets on its odontoid process, inhumanly, like an owl's. His eyes are black shotgun muzzles. She knows at once that she has made a mistake.

  Graves comprehends her instantly. She is white, mid-40s wearing a violently colorful Peruvian skirt and roughly hand-knit sweater. Her dead hazel eyes are artificially animated with a concocted liveliness. She happily rattles of jewelry made by the indigenous peoples of Borneo. Her pony-tailed brunette hair is heavily streaked with gray. (No Clairol for this broad.) Her face might have been pretty if it hadn't been etched with those arched eyebrows one gets from walking the earth — barefoot or Birkenstocks — with that moral sanctity reserved for the racially inclusive and ecologically sensitive.

  Graves knows this woman. He knows without looking that her magazine is the Mother Earth News. He knows that her days revolve around NPR broadcasts. He knows that she goes to Yoga on Mondays and African Drumming on Thursdays. That her All-Natural toothpaste from Maine had never been tested on laboratory animals and that her car was imported from Sweden. Undoubtedly she educates the public with a few bumper stickers: Free Tibet! I Believe Anita. Arms are for hugging. He knows that her mountain bicycle contains more hard technology and rare metallurgy than a Saturn V moon rocket, and that its value exceeds the per capita GNP of Luxembourg. Her "life partner" is an environmental attorney who drives that other make of car from Sweden. She is the Sedona Chairperson for the Society Against the Keeping of Caged Birds, just like he knows that she voted for Ralph Nader because Al Gore was too conservative.

  Graves knows her instantly and hates her instantly. She is the perfect antithesis of everything Graves believes and does.

  Matter meets antimatter.

  He says in a quiet, low voice, "Listen. I don't care who you are, or what you do, or how you do it. And you sure as hell don't want to know what it is that I do. So do us both a huge favor and don't talk to me."

  Amber Lee blinks rapidly in recoil. Only out of morbid curiosity does she squeak out the obvious question. "What do you do?"<
br />
  He is no longer looking at her, but glaring at the AirFone in the seat in front of him. "I kill things. And when I'm not killing things I teach others how to kill things."

  "Kill . . . things?" Amber Lee is beyond shocked. He admits it!

  Graves has an unusually acute olfactory sense and she reeks of lavender and echinacea — mostly. These people even smell bizarre, he thinks. "That's right, kill things. Good animals. Bad people. I stay busy."

  Amber Lee's mouth is working like a freshly-landed trout, though with less to say.

  Then Graves casually mentions, "You drive a Saab, don't you?"

  It is not a question.

  Amber Lee is speared by this. How does this, this killer know I drive a Saab? After a couple of seconds, some words manage to spill out. "I've, I've never believed in killing." Amazingly, she manages not to sound pious.

  She is too scared. Her horror at having been cosmically provided such a seatmate has utterly overwhelmed her previous moral certitude. What a difference a single minute can make in a life.

  Graves turns once more towards her and his eyes shade yet another notch of loathing. He says with nonchalant menace, "That's why you and your kind will perish."

  It is a flat statement, not a philosophical proposition.

  The anthropological certainty of the remark causes Amber Lee's mouth to drop open, her mind derailed. Somehow, she believes him, and this deeply frightens her. She has never met anybody like this guy. Never wanted to, either. She begins to wonder if she will survive the flight.

  Graves has one last thing to say. "And if you have, as I suspect, the in-flight bladder control of a Betsy-Wetsy doll, then don't expect to crawl over me for the next 4½ hours. I advise that we change places right now so you can flitter back and forth to the lavatory from the aisle seat."