The middle-aged sergeant pointed to an old 2.5 ton Army truck parked alongside a temporary maintenance shed, behind a row of portable toilets. “My truck is over there, sir. She's all gassed and ready to go,” he answered.
The sergeant removed his soft cap, scratched his half-bald scalp and pointed his finger to the left of the truck. “If ya gotta go, use one of the johns near the truck. They're cleaner. Here...” the sergeant held out a canteen filled with cool water. “Ain't no point in heavin’ on a dry stomach.” The arrangement seemed to be the first convenient thing to happen to Anthony all day.
Anthony accepted the canteen and took a sip. Mercifully, his palette was greeted with the cool and refreshing taste of distilled water. Maybe this sergeant character wasn't a total jerk, after all, he thought to himself.
“I'll get your gear into the truck, including them two crates of .22 ammo, and wait for you there."
“Thanks” Anthony replied with a weak voice as Captain Richard walked up to greet him. He could see the exhaustion and stress in the pilot's face. This man needed a break, and that was what Anthony intended to do for him.
Jerome stuck out his hand. “Sorry about the rough trip. I understand you wanted to speak with me.” Anthony nodded in agreement. “Also, the base XO is on his way.” Anthony could see the man was over-exhausted. He sorely needed rest.
“Captain, may we speak privately for a moment,” Anthony said as Vigo walked back to the rear of the Flying Circus. “This might be an odd question, but just out of curiosity, why is it you never liked fishing with your father?"
The question peeled Jerome's eyes wide open. “Why is it I never what...” he stammered.
Anthony held up his hand. “You know who I am and what I do, so let's cut to the chase, shall we?” Jerome nodded tentatively. “Whether you believe it or not, Dusty is with you every minute you're up in the air. I first saw him looking inside that engine you toasted during our landing, and we had a nice chat. Now, I'm not going to go into the details, but I will tell you this; he can help you if you'll only let him."
Jerome was flustered, but deep inside he knew he was hearing the truth. “Frankly, I'd like that, but if you haven't noticed we're a long way from an incense and candles shop, and my sitar is flat busted."
“Shut the fuck up, and listen to me,” Anthony snapped back, “I'm trying to help you!” Jarman's serious tone silenced Jerome. “When you're up there, not sure of where you're going or what is ahead of you, I want you to remember your first night looking through that old 4.5” Meade telescope Dusty bought you. He'll show you a star to guide by. It will be dead center. Whatever direction the star moves, you move likewise. If it moves up and to the right that will be your signal to initiate a right climbing turn and so forth.
The faster it moves, the faster you move. I know you can't see stars now worth a damn, so keep an old star chart in your map case for each month of the year 2010. Make sure you lay it out on your lap before you take your power nap. Dusty will take his heading from that. Now, repeat back to me everything I just told you."
Anthony's announcement sent an electric chill through Jerome's body that seemed to have entered through the right side of his head and ran quickly down through his body to the tip of toes and back up again. It was a though a life energy had just passed through him, an experience he had never felt before. Rather than be a disbelieving smart aleck, he calmly repeated the instructions. As he finished, the base XO pulled up. As the visibly irritated Major climbed out of his HUMVEE, Anthony leaned toward the pilot and asked in a loud whisper. “Why didn't you like fishing with your Dad? I'm just curious to know."
“The worms,” Jerome answered sheepishly. “I hated baiting them on the hook as they squirmed, and my dad wouldn't fish with anything but worms."
Anthony laughed, “I see your point."
“Is this him,” the base XO barked at Captain Richard.
“Major Duncan Peal, may I introduce Captain Anthony Jarman,” Jerome replied “and I have no idea of why he wants to talk with you."
“Just who in the hell do you think you are?” the Major demanded angrily. “I've got a busted up airbase to run and I don't have time for this kind of nonsense."
A waft of pungent jet exhaust passed over Anthony's face, making his stomach turn. “I'm an End of Life Management Officer and I'm asking you to make sure that the crew of that airplane,” he pointed at the Flying Circus, “is given hot meals and clean beds while their aircraft is being repaired."
“Mister, I don't care if you are a frickin’ ELMO or Jesus Christ himself,” Major Peal shouted angrily. “How dare you come on my base and suppose to order me to..."
To Anthony's sudden surprise, the man stopped mid sentence and looked down to his left. He saw the shadow of Master Sergeant Vigo Jones on the tarmac with a duffel back slung over one shoulder and two crates tucked under his other arm. He looked up as the shadow approached and saw that it was indeed Vigo who stopped and snapped to attention as a shaft of light cut across his body.
Anthony turned his attention back to the Major. Something in the man's face tripped his instincts. There was a subtext here—but what? He immediately slowed his perception of time just a bit so the two men would not notice him as he studied their body language.
After the major returned his salute, Vigo lowered the duffel bag to the ground, leaned forward and said, “I couldn't help but overhear what y'all were saying, and if I was you sir, I'd give this fellow what he wants. You know, these ELMOs got mighty big friends, if you know what I mean."
The major remained silent. Anthony could see an unmistakable sign of surprise in his face, as well as a strong hint of concern, if not perhaps, fear. What could it be about this sergeant and his Gomer Pyle act that could cause a surly major to freeze in his tracks, masking his own emotions?
Kicking a bit of gravel with his boot, the major said in a sour voice, “Sure. Fine. I'll see to it myself.” Without another word, he spun around on his heels and signaled his driver to start the HUMVEE's engine. “Now get your miserable ELMO ass the hell off my base,” he spat as he climbed back into his HUMVEE.
The three men stood there speechless and watched the infuriated major drive off in the direction of another C-130 that had just landed.
“Captain Jarman,” Jerome said gratefully. “I don't how you got the juice to pull rank this way but I'm not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. The crew will be mighty grateful to you for this, as am I."
Anthony smiled. “Don't thank me, Captain; just tell them this one is compliments of Dusty."
Jerome laughed. “That I will,” he said with a big smile. “You ever need anything, you just let us know. We take great pride in accommodating our premier passengers you know."
Anthony felt a dry heave coming on. “I know. Sleep well, Captain."
AS VIGO HAD said, the portable toilets nearest his truck were the cleanest on the flight line. Exhausted, but with his nausea somewhat quelled, Anthony slowly walked to the truck where he found the sergeant grunting under the hood. In the dim light, it appeared he was fiddling with something on the engine.
As he approached the truck, he quietly wondered about this Master Sergeant Vigo Jones fellow. He hadn't been in the military that long, but it was the first time he'd seen a major cowed by a sergeant. So then, who in the hell was this Vigo guy anyway? He had to know.
Reaching up to grasp the passenger door handle, Anthony swung open the door and said, “Vigo, let's get the hell off this base."
“Jump in, sir; everything is all packed in the back,” Vigo replied as the truck's engine came to life with a satisfying rumble. “I trust you're feeling better."
“I will, once I get the hell off the base."
Vigo threw the old truck into gear and grinned. “I know how it is, sir. I got something that might help you feel better once we're past the main gate.” He let out the clutch with a soft jolt that rocked Anthony's stomach and drove directly towards the main gate.
Vigo
pulled up to the main gate and greeted the young private on sentry duty. The young soldier recognized him. “Wait here, Sergeant,” he said, signaling to another MP in the guard shack to come out. Moments later, another sergeant with an MP armband strolled up to the Vigo's side of the truck and saluted. “Do you have any contraband?
“Not a flippin’ thing,” Vigo smiled back, then added, “well, actually, that's not completely right. In fact, I did find some odd stuff lying alongside the road back a ways, and I'll be darned if I can figure out what it is. Here let me get it for ya.” He reached into a black daypack sitting on the cab floor, pulled out a tattered carton of More cigarettes and held them out to the MP. “Perhaps you'd have some use for ‘em,” he said with a smile. “Don't use ‘em myself."
The MP snatched the carton and tucked it under his arm. “I can handle this.” He waved them on with a smug smile, “Drive safely, now."
As the heavily laden truck creaked down the two-lane road to Highway 205, neither man said a word. Turning east onto the Interstate toward San Francisco, Anthony recognized the familiar site of the displaced persons, or the Bay Area Homeless, as they were called, camped alongside the highway in accordance with the dusk-to-dawn Homeland Defense curfew. Given a choice, these troubled people would keep traveling till they dropped, but the nighttime hours were the sole domain of the government, road crews and anyone else with a Homeland Security Forces authorization.
“Man, I wish I had something for my stomach,” Anthony said, finally breaking the silence. “I wanted to snatch that carton of cigarettes out your hands back there, but one puff and I'd be heaving again, and all over your truck."
“We don't need that, sir,” Vigo quickly replied. “You need to put something gentle in that stomach.” The sergeant reached under the seat and handed him a liquid drink.
“What's this?” Anthony asked as he accepted the can.
“One of those instant breakfast drinks. Vanilla, I think.” Anthony nodded appreciatively.
“Sip it slow, sir, or you'll get sick again.” Vigo added.
Anthony peeled back the tab and began drinking the sweet, chalky-tasting drink. He almost gagged on the first sip, but began to feel better after a few small gulps. “Thanks, sergeant."
Anthony leaned his back and swallowed the last of the drink. “I only hope I can keep it down till I'm over this. My stomach feels like it was sucked through a meat grinder; damn! You know, I was counting on a hot meal back on the base, too."
Vigo chuckled. “Their mess closed about an hour before you arrived, but you didn't miss nothing. They were serving some of that leftover UNICEF gruel we used to ship to Ethiopia or some other backwater born-hungry kinda place. Awful tasting stuff sir, but if you're a patient man I think I can do you better once we've covered a few more clicks."
The sergeant unbuttoned the lapel on his shirt pocket and carefully fished around for a moment. Finding what he was he looking for, he held out his hand to Anthony with a hand rolled medical-marijuana cigarette. “This is good stuff sir—grown by the City of San Francisco no less. They grow this stuff for their dispensaries. A few puffs and you'll feel better, I guarantee!"
“A joint!” Anthony exclaimed. “I'll be damned. Normally I'd take a pass on that, but this nausea is killing me.” Anthony dug a lighter out of his pants pocket, stuck the medical-marijuana cigarette between his lips, lit it and inhaled deeply. “Oh yeah,” he wheezed through his pursed lips. “This will kill the nausea for sure."
“That's what it's for, sir.” Vigo answered as Anthony felt a sense of relief flood through his body. As he resumed his puffing, Anthony's thoughts returned to the sergeant, who was now quietly humming to himself as he drove them on through the night.
During his encounter with Major Peal, he sensed that Vigo was more than a sergeant, even if this backwoods-acting character of a man was amiable, if not downright useful. Nevertheless, something else puzzled him. It was the dj-vu feeling that he knew this man from somewhere else or another time. He finished smoking half of the cigarette and, feeling that he'd smoked enough, stubbed it out. “What do I do with this, Vigo?” he said as held up the rest of the butt.
“Toss it. Do whatever you want. They keep tons of the stuff at the Los Gatos Triage Center for the patients, so it doesn't matter much."
“OK,” Anthony replied, tossing the remainder out the window as he decided to keep his eyes peeled for a chance to get to the bottom of his instincts. It was then that a simple fact dawned on him; Vigo showed an indomitable sense of hope—something that was pretty rare these days.
Over a fourth of the human race had already perished, and perhaps many more would perish in the year to come. While most of the death toll was in Africa, India and China, only a few countries like Switzerland and Australia seemed to escape the tragedy of the times. Those who survived usually chose to face life one forward footstep at a time, but this man was more than just happy to be alive and useful. He seemed to ooze with hope for the future for some odd reason. It was as though he knew something that no one else knew. That, too, was something Anthony resolved to understand in time. “All things considered, I'm feeling pretty damn good, Vigo. In fact, I'd love something in my belly right now and a pack of smokes. I've got cash if you've got something to sell."
“I'm glad you're feeling better, sir. We'll go on down the road a bit further before we eat, but in the meantime...” he grunted as he reached down into the bag next to him on the seat. Shaking the bag a bit, he pulled out a box of Marlboro cigarettes and handed them to Anthony. “This one is on ol’ Vigo."
“Thanks, Vigo,” Anthony pulled a pack from the carton and began unwrapping it. “Shitty habit I picked up in New York, but it sure calms the nerves."
“There will come a time to quit. In the meantime, just light up while ol’ Vigo finds us a place to park for some chow."
A few miles down the road, the sergeant found a spot in the road absent of the customary homeless campfires. Making a final check to see that they were alone, he pulled off the side of the road and came slowly to a stop. The two men got out, stretched and, with a few self-satisfied grunts, relieved themselves alongside the road.
Holding a GI issue flashlight in one hand, Vigo lifted the hood of the truck. Wrapping an old shirt around his hand, he removed two cans from the engine compartment as Anthony lit up. Drawing the smoke deep into his lungs, he felt the nicotine course through his body.
Vigo then went to the rear of the truck, and, folding back the canvas flap, he rummaged through a large box near the back of the truck. Halfway through his cigarette, Anthony watched with curiosity as Vigo walked towards him holding a one-liter bottle of water and the heated cans of C-Rations.
“I put them on the intake manifold before we left the base,” Vigo grinned. “Gets them all nice, hot and shook-up, like.” He held the light on the cans. “Let's see, here. Lima beans and meatballs, or spaghetti and meatballs?"
“If you're not particular, I'll take the spaghetti,” Anthony replied.
“Figured that, but that's OK as I like the hell out of Lima beans."
Walking around to the front of the truck, they set their meals on the fender and Vigo began opening the cans with a small Army issue can opener. Leaving the opened lid on the top of the C-Ration can, he handed Anthony a spoon and a clean shop rag and said, “Food's hot, so you'll need hold the can with this while you're eating."
Anthony gently touched the side of the can with a fingertip and his hand immediately jumped back. “Damn! That is hot!” he exclaimed.
“Yup, you might let it cool a mite. It just spent that last thirty minutes or so bouncing around on the engine manifold.
“Don't tell me; it's your secret recipe, isn't it?” Anthony joked as he carefully wrapped the shop rag around the dull, green can. He pulled back the lid and took a whiff. To his surprise, it smelled good—really good. In the glow of the flashlight, he noticed the date printed on the top of the can—July 1974. “Vigo, you sure this is OK. This stuff is p
retty old."
“Been eating it for two weeks now, and no problems. I found this stuff in a High School R.O.T.C. emergency wartime cache. They had it stored in a concrete bunker built under a football stadium bleacher: constant temperature and all that. Heck, even the foil-wrapped candy bars are still good enough to eat."
To prove his point, Vigo peeled the lid off his own C-Ration can and lifted a heaping spoonful of Lima beans to his mouth. Blowing on the food till it seemed cool enough to eat, he took the whole spoonful into his mouth and chewed it from side-to-side while making appreciative noises to signal that it was, indeed, edible food.
Satisfied with Vigo's performance, Anthony dug into his spaghetti with great relish.
After they consumed the contents of the cans, they shared their remaining pound bread, jam, crackers and chocolate bar treats, washing it all down with gulps of water from the shared canteen. Policing the mess into a small plastic bag, Anthony lit up another cigarette and said. “You're a good host, Vigo."
“Oh hell, this is just our coach service. You ought to see what we do up in business class."
“Well, forgetting that miserable flight, I guess there is something to be said for frequent flyer miles after all,” Anthony laughed.
As the glow of an early dawn began to form in the far horizon, the two slowly, silently finished their meal, after which Anthony lit another cigarette and turned to face the sergeant. “Vigo, I gotta ask a question, and it might be a bit direct."
“Shoot."
Godschild Covenant: Return of Nibiru Page 15
