by Randy Moffat
Now Colonel Po was sent off to a quiet purgatory in a corner of Manchuria in the mountains close to the Korean peninsula. Inevitably, the Korean War followed. After suitable dust settling a gang of guardians of the revolution were sent to arrest Po as a counter revolutionary, but they missed him. Actually they overlooked his clever disguise—dressed in rags and snoring in an open sewer with a bottle in his hand.
Po was saved from their return because the cultural-revolution started the next day. The arrestors were themselves arrested. The ensuing chaos of life behind the bamboo curtain was right up Po’s alley. A creature of chaos himself he emerged waving a little red book without the faintest idea of what was in it. Mao himself toured the area and being as dotty as hoot owl the communist leader’s eye was caught by Po’s proletarian image of missing body parts, ragged clothing and bibliophilic gestures. Mao laid his kindred hand on Po’s shoulder, called him comrade, mumbled some nonsense about feeding peasants with quinoa and courage and then promoted Po to brigadier general of the people on the spot.
General Po was then shipped west unconscious from the celebratory party and awoke district chief of intelligence in the mountains of Himalayas in time for the Chinese invasion of Tibet.
It wasn’t until China finally entered the 80’s and 90’s that chill winds began to blow for Po. The old guard schizophrenics and sociopaths began dying off or being killed one by one. They were like a protective herd of sheep that had concealed him from the abattoir of history but as the herd thinned he came to be more and more in view. The people who heard the pops of displaced air and rushed in to fill the power vacuums of the old guard were not all fools and lunatics like their predecessors. Some soon perceived that Po was not so much a sinister dark force of legend, but more of a left over loser shivering in a hut somewhere near Shangri-La.
The young Turk Chinese rid themselves of the ‘Po’ embarrassment in the usual subtle way. They invented a fiction and then repeated it. A billion people saying the same thing cannot be wrong and the fiction gained credence. The tale told was that the hero, General Po, was too important to be wasted inside China or any nation close to it. Po would better serve the motherland in the darkest corners of intelligence gathering abroad—facing the capitalist running dogs. The cunning dogs of the Chinese people would cleverly place the protective barrier of the Pacific between China and Po. They sent him to the US as a special agent without mission hoping he would be arrested by the Americans. Chinese intelligence did what it could to help him along by making sure his presence was leaked to the FBI along with his flight number, description, and fingerprints. The Americans dutifully gathered him up and interrogated him for five days. Even the credibility of the FBI has limits and they refused to believe that China would make such a perfect idiot an intelligence agent, called the whole thing a setup and turned him loose with a tourist visa and strict orders to leave the country in thirty days. Then they forgot about him.
It is probable that Po would have merely drunken himself into an alcoholic coma in the land of the bloated bankers under an overpass somewhere, but the aroma of Po luck still lingered on the new continent. He happened to know a man named Qing Li and showed up one day on his doorstep like a battered UPS package.
CHAPTER 1—JOB OFFER
“Bear” MacMoran pressed his calf firmly against the man in front of him while his buttocks brushed against the muscular thigh of the Sergeant Burroughs behind him as all four men counted and swayed like a metronome to synchronize their actions without speaking. Their rocking together lasted until they hit the magic number ‘three’ in their heads. They were sweating and their fingers were wet on the triggers of their carbines clutched in both hands across their chests. It was hot as a stove in the Iraqi sun and salt water poured from under Bear’s helmet making him blink to clear his eyes . . . the forty plus pounds of body armor, camelback, ammunition, grenades and helmet were a portable sauna in the baking middle eastern sun and his back was soaking wet from several blocks of jogging from the Dutch oven of the armored vehicles and the final jog up to the building they were about to raid. The countdown complete the number one man in lead slammed the door with his shoulder and it flew open easily since he had already delicately loosened the knob so that no one inside had noticed. It was a classic citadel entry and each soldier swarmed into the room at a run with their rifles tracking swiftly to a designated quadrant of the room with their barrels seeking targets. Naturally it was a not a normal room. Building codes sucked in chaotic Arab societies where home construction more often followed the homeowner’s whim and whatever materials they had bought or stolen than any scheme set by a municipal planning department. Here an odd rhomboidal alcove sat off of one corner of what expectation dictated would be a perfectly rectangular living room. Three locals sprawled on a couch in the alcove facing a TV that blared Arab music and a bewhiskered announcer on a DVD condemned something or other passionately. All three of the men looked dopily at the American intruders—blinking as if their eyes couldn’t quite focus.
Burroughs swung his carbine in a smooth motion on its sling to his back with an elegantly dexterous move and in an almost balletic fluid motion slammed a shoulder into the first guy who was only now struggling to rise with obviously impaired coordination from the too soft cushions. Burroughs momentum smashed his victim back and into both his companions and they all ended up in a pig pile on the floor arms and legs flapping about like so many turtles.
“Grab . . . !” Bear yelled unnecessarily to the other two enlisted soldiers already leaping forward and each climbed onto one of the now struggling men until a coordinated tactical operation took on the look of a demented wrestling competition. The locals lost. All three stunned targets were dragged to their feet and mashed against the wall to control them. Bear had chosen his shock troops well. Burroughs along with a corporal from California everyone called “Dude” were body builders with an excess of upper body strength. They both were able to lift an ordinary, poorly nourished man bodily. As their heads bounced off the plaster the locals seemed to finally register what was truly happening to them, shook off some of their fog and began to struggle in earnest, but leverage was against them since they were now fighting a much larger man with their feet mostly off the floor. Dude stabbed a fist into his target’s kidney to calm him and Burroughs held his guy in the hammerlock. Bear saw some papers sticking out of the shirt pocket on Dude’s guy who was wind-milling sticklike arms in ineffectual circles and gasping for air. The guy was barely out of a crop of fading acne and Bear pegged him at about 16 years old. A typical recruit for the Arabs in the area; an underage hick from some rabbit hole village in the back of Morocco or Algiers, their brains soft targets for some wacky mullah who laid pretty bullshit on them about the struggles of Islam and how everyone’s lives would be better if they volunteered to French-kiss god. The next thing the rubes knew someone was smuggling them on a leaky fishing boat into Syria and they were jouncing across the desert in an old truck full of goats to await their lofty mission; which invariably involved strapping C-4 under their shirts and being sent into some crowded market to blow up housewives and shopkeepers for a quick ticket to paradise in the name of a ludicrous something or other. Up close Bear could see the kids eyes were dilated dramatically. Their handlers had softened their nervousness about smearing their molecules over two hundred meters of pavement by letting them pre-taste heaven with a couple kilos of hash brought in from the distant brotherhood in Afghanistan. The trio was doped to the gills. Bear made a snap radio call to the second string team outside to cross the street and join his group and recover the three prisoners just as another inner door to the room burst open and two guys surprised them by tumbling backwards through it. They were looking behind them and were obviously retreating from the back door which a third team had also entered. The pair turned together, looked surprised and one started fumbling at waist level as Bear swung his rifle up and plugged the guy who already had his gun out. He hit him
in the chest with a three round burst and the enemy stopped cold forever and slid to the floor. As Bear tracked his laser dot onto the second man the ‘ter’ staggered sideways clawing out a huge revolver from his belt. His foot hit a thoroughly rumpled prayer rug and tripped him forward just as MacMoran fired. Bear’s bullets went high over his sinking head and chipped the wall. It gave the guy just time to clear his hog-leg and he raised the pistol and fire twice from the floor, the first round hitting Bear’s leg and the second missing him. The second round instead entered the kidneys, stomach, did an upwards ricochet off a hip bone and ultimately sliced through two ventral aortas of the kid Burroughs was holding against the wall. As Bear felt his leg collapse from his bullet and he used the motion of falling forward to empty the rest of his clip on full auto into the man on the floor where he died ingloriously but thoroughly. The brutal pain from a violently bullet-fractured tibia then hit Bear with a stab of indescribable agony that punched through his endorphins and he gritted his teeth in a grimace of pain, swallowing a moan and assumed a half fetal position on the floor clutching the wound. Burroughs dropped his now dead woowser, bent over MacMoran, brushed the officer’s hands aside and leaned on the bright blood flowing from the hole in his pants at the calf to stop the bleeding. The pressure hurt worse than the break.
He looked dispassionately at Bear’s twisted face and his gulping pants delivered through gritted teeth.
“Told you staff pukes like you got no place on a kick and go like this!”
“Fuck you.” Bear said through grimaced teeth and groaned as the big black sergeant leaned harder still on him and grinned.
“That’s fuck you, Sergeant . . . Sir!” He glanced at the sticky arterial blood oozing between a couple finger and shifted his grip to shut it down, “. . . Million dollar wound as my daddy woulda said. Get you six months vacation stateside easy . . . but I’m warning you . . . they’ll patch you up and we’ll see you back here soon enough.”
Bear looked at him and spit out his answer with lips gripped down tight on the pain.
“You wish! I’ve had enough of this shit. I’m gonna strike it rich . . . getting out and going contractor. I’m gonna root my nose around in the Brown and Root . . . get some serious green . . . this . . . getting shot . . . sucks!”
Boroughs’ shifted his grip to slap the Kafeyah from around his neck on the wound to help staunch the blood flow and Bear tried unsuccessfully to swallow a scream before he mercifully passed out.
Four years later Phelan “Bear” MacMoran had kept his promise to SFC Burroughs and was working as a contractor for the most objectionable boss he had ever had the misfortune to fall under on a government project, when he ambled around a limp on the old wounded leg that still hurt him on the humid days into the office of the military officer who held that stinking distinction—The name plate on the door said Rear Admiral Selkirk and the emphasis was on the ‘rear’ if the limericks written on the bathroom stalls were to be believed. Selkirk was responsible for power system improvements throughout the Navy of the United States. It would take an exceptional man not to let such an important post go to his head. Selkirk was not an exceptional man.
“Hey, boss.” Bear said lightly. He lacked the gene for kowtowing to superiors, insisting on addressing them as informally as he could get away with. Selkirk was a tyrant, but let Bear’s aloha shirt manners pass because it was a muumuu on a golden goose. Bear produced results that made Selkirk look good and never ever argued at weekly staff meetings. The Admiral might have changed his attitude if he understood how often Bear was doodling picture of B-29s like a 7th grader in Math class while Selkirk distributed micro-management McNuggets skewered on rapidly stabbing fingers. Bear was a sensei at building power point mountains of spin that looked marvelous and had absolutely nothing to say. Behind this Microsoft fictional legerdemain that kept the Selkirk’s of the world happy, Bear quietly and successfully worked to insure that his projects came in on time and under budget with the minimum of wasted effort; while keeping his people happy. It was a dangerous business-like approach rather than the cautionary cover-your-ass of the bureaucratic leeches the admiral seemed to attract.
“What are you up to?” Selkirk asked suspiciously; suspicion being his normal energy state; a condition that held him suspended just below an emotional fusion that could go to critical mass if one of his subordinates was stupid enough to nudge an anger molecule off-orbit to collide with his oversize adrenal gland. That potential Hiroshima was a part of any social interaction with him. Bear ignored it with a barely suppressed yawn.
“Just meeting the due dates in the knowledge management system—closing out my bit of this . . .” Bear waved his hand from the wrist in a vague way that encompassed the entirety of their project, most of the base they were on and a good chunk of the galaxy as well. “Are you cutting me loose?” The question was casual though the intent behind it was not. Looking for work meant effort and effort bored him.
Selkirk stroked his chin. He was rigidly parsimonious with a resource, but Bear knew he was almost out of time when he could husband them. His project was winding down faster than watery tornados in a tub drain. The word was out that Selkirk was being moved to a Vice commander position over in the Pentagon a month from now; a nominal promotion, but the kiss of death in career advancement for a man at his age. Luckily he wasn’t really smart enough to know it. Selkirk grunted by way of response to Bear’s questions and fiddled languidly with a heap of papers on his desk, extracting one not-so-carefully husbanded sheet that had a conspicuous coffee stain on it.
“I got a courtesy call today from an officer I know over in the “Pure Black” signal section. His name is Admiral Dyer . . . he’s looking for a guy.” Selkirk emphasized the word ‘officer’ ever so slightly without thinking. He was a rank snob at heart, lording his gold braid over lower ranking personnel without really thinking; a personality quirk that Bear had never admired. “Pure Black” made his ears waggle a bit through the creases of his distaste, it meant a project classified top secret. Top secret projects were great—Lots of money and very little oversight.
“What’s the project?” Bear asked casually. He never invested any adrenaline in anything until after he was sure he cared.
Selkirk looked at his sourly.
“You know better than to ask me that . . . . At least I do. Just a skill set is listed” He read from the sheet as over his glasses. “Organizational and leadership skills, project management, knowledge of physics, and TS cleared.” He shook his head. “I don’t know if I am doing you a favor or not, but your name came to mind.”
Selkirk’s altruism was suspect. Bear knew if he was to successfully take the spot that Selkirk would make damn sure that Admiral Dyer knew that Selkirk had done him a favor passing Bear his way—another chip on the table in the extended poker game of a naval career. In his heart he never expected Bear, a mere wage slave to be able to do him any good or he would have demanded tangible payback from him too.
Bear grinned into his hand.
“How do I see him . . . find out more?” He asked politely.
“I’ll call him.” Selkirk replied and with exaggerated rudeness started reading his e-mail by way of dismissal.
Bear went back to work without comment.
Two hours later an e-mail hit his inbox that said he should be at Redstone Arsenal in Alabama tomorrow at 1730 hours and included a series of reservations with associated e-tickets on various airlines.
He smiled. Apparently Admiral Dyer did not waste any time—or at least his secretary didn’t. Bear made a mental note to buy her a cup of coffee.
Alabama was ahead of Washington in nasty summer weather if nothing else. Cloying damp heat hit him as soon as he exited the terminal in Huntsville.
His military issued ID was valid and the gate guard let him in with a visitor’s pass for the tiny government rental car. He found building—T-25 i
n a nearly abandoned corner of the base. The building was a relic—The ‘T’ in its address meant temporary—a wooden two story built in 1942 as an open bay barracks and intended to last ten years. The peeling paint of the exterior boded poorly, but they impression changed on entry. The buildings insides were nicer. They had been recently gutted and rebuilt and even had carpet and offices portioned off so you only occasionally saw light through chinks between boards in the walls. Presumably they had killed the termites too. All in all it felt vaguely like a civil law office belonging to a shady firm of ambulance chasers. Just at the moment he prepared to introduce himself to the overweight woman behind the secretary’s desk a tall man in Khaki pants and a golf shirt came out an office door with an empty coffee cup in his hand. His hair was salt and pepper tight curls and his skin was a dark as a tire. The over-all look smelled like golf pro, but it was only a momentary impression. The aura did not belong to a philandering empty-headed greens gigolo. His black sharp eyes locked onto Bear’s like tracking radar—making his own assessments while Bear finished his own and the man smiled naturally. Bear’s knew in an instant that that this Admiral was no Selkirk and based on that he knew he would probably take the job if it was offered—who you did a job with was so much more important than what you did. Selkirk has left him with a bad taste in his mouth. This Dyer guy might be the mouth wash he needed cleanse his palette.
“Admiral Dyer? I’m Bear MacMoran.” Bear said formally with a slight bow from the waist. “It’s your game; what are the rules?”
Dyer grinned, a hint of dimple. So far so good.
“Take a walk with me Mr. MacMoran.” It sounded like a spontaneous invitation, but Bear could smell that it wasn’t in the least casual.
The Admiral stepped outside and Bear followed, expecting that they would stroll up the esplanade of military buzz-cut grass for a quiet chat. Instead Dyer hooked behind the building and instead headed for the tree line where the grass gave way to tall southern pines. They followed a winding narrow path through rigidly straight trees and scattered underbrush for a quarter mile without speaking at all until they came to a small clearing filled with stunted palmettos where Dyer stopped and faced him. Bear had felt over-hot almost instantly in the humidity and by now his shirt clung to his wet un-acclimatized Yankee armpits in a soggy mess.
