Houston, 2030

by Mike McKay

  The today's on-duty girlfriend cum sound operator was a Caucasian teenager, in jeans cut-offs, so short, they would pass for a bikini, if not for their holes and the Denim material. As the weather was hot, Jack was sitting in his wheelchair with a bare torso. His famous leather vest, with the Purple Heart medal lost amongst about two hundred badges and pins from various rock groups, was trusted to the girlfriend, who was wearing it proudly over her tattered T-shirt with freshly painted ‘JACK-the-RAPPER’ stencil at the front.

  As usual, there was a little crowd of spectators. Jack just finished a song about politicians: with words ‘Washington’ and ‘fat cats – fat cats,’ in the refrain. The vest-clad girlfriend was going around with the red bucket, collecting well-deserved royalties. Mark dropped a couple of dollars into it, and then went to the other vets and added to their donation buckets too.

  “Why did you give them, sir? The others?” the delivery boy whispered grumpily from behind, “these vets are useless. Better you would pay me sixty.”

  “Shut up,” Mark whispered back, “I'll wait for you to come back from the Army without arms and legs. Then, the extra ten bucks will be all yours.” The delivery boy whispered something else, but Mark did not pay attention.

  “Thank you! Thank you for your kind donations, Ladies and Gentlemen! Change for Vets! Change for Vets! Fix my mike, Mopkin, and make another loop with our bucket, if you don't mind. Change for Vets!” Jack-the-Rapper twisted his limbless body a little, allowing his girlfriend to adjust the hands-free microphone. Then, the cripple suddenly turned to Mark: “you, sir! What is your name, if I may ask?”

  “Mark…”

  “Mark! Sending your son to the Army, did I guess it right?” Jack was talking through the amplifier, and Mark – without, so the conversation resembled some mind-twisting theatrical monologue.

  “Yes… Two boys, actually. My son and one of his friends. How did you guess?”

  “Mark is sending two boys to the Army, Ladies and Gentlemen! It's easy to guess, man. Today you must be the tenth – getting all the booze and schmooze for a going-away party. I was told, the AFCO dudes were around, delivering the draft orders. It's the draft time, man, the draft time. What part of our victorious Armed Forces is your boy after?”

  “Infantry.”

  “Ah, an Infantryman! Excellent selection! Very refined. I also was in the Infantry. See, how nicely our Kevlars protect the body?” He rotated his short arms stumps in the air and moved his leg stumps a little, demonstrating the outstanding protective capabilities of the Infantry bullet-proof vests.

  “May I ask where you lost your arms and legs?”

  “Mark is asking, where I lost my arms and legs, Ladies and Gentlemen! Sure like hell, you can ask, man. No problem with asking! In Libya, man, in Libya. Operation Gas Shield, did you hear this name before? Or you heard about it under a different name? The proper name? In the infantry, we called it: operation Gas Gangrene!”

  Mark nodded: “One guy I know, he lost his son in Libya. 2020, right?” The operation Gas Shield was the first since the World War I, in which the troops had no air support. Something went terribly wrong in Europe, and the aircraft did not fly for seven or eight weeks. Left with no air reconnaissance data, without food and ammunition, and with no medical evacuation capability, the infantrymen and the tank crews dug into the lifeless desert, and were killed and mutilated by thousands. Initially, the CNN made the usual publicity stunt and sent the TV crews to the battlefield, but after the triumphant reports turned into gruesome facts of a complete military catastrophe, the TV news quickly stopped coming. Likely, the CNN was politely hinted that if they still wanted to receive the government subsidies, it would be wise to hold their mouths zipped for a little while. Mark remembered how the actual news about the disaster arrived: one bit of information after another, in the war tales of several mutilated vets, who returned to the Sheldon-Res area from the hospitals. Back then, the disabled veterans were still treated like heroes; they met the cripples with flowers and invited them to schools to give patriotic speeches…

  “Yep, sir! Two thousand and bloody twenty! I lost half of my buddies in there. And a good half of myself!” he rotated his useless stumps again, “I kid you not, of my platoon, four men left! With four legs and five arms for all four of us! And for the dead… The Navy loaded dead on barges and performed sea funerals. The Navy way! In the Mediterranean Sea. The fish also need food, right? At some point, already towards the end, there was a medevac plane, full of quad amputees, just like me? They brought us to the airport in two trucks. We lie in the track and hear how our medic is arguing with the Air Force cargo master. The Air Force guy says: no way! You have forty-four patients on the list. The plane can fit only thirty stretchers. And our medic says: these will fit into your plane, Sarge, no probs. With plenty of room to spare. Didn't they tell you? These are the chunks from the freaking Zuwará hospital. Perfectly stumped! And all of us, in the trucks, started laughing. All forty-four chunks. Perfectly! Stumped!”

  The little crowd was quiet. As much as the people were used nowadays to the war horror stories, this particular one was a bit off-the-scale.

  “OK, why are we talking sad things?” Jack-the-Rapper continued after a pause: “Ladies and Gentlemen! The next song is called: ‘Three Out of Each Five!’ For the son of this man here. And the friend of his son. You, sir, please tell the boys to be careful. And – to come back in one piece, not perfectly stumped, like I am here, got it?”

  Jack's girlfriend was already at her sound operator position. “Number fifteen, baby. And add a bit of bass to the mike channel,” Jack gave the orders. The girl fingered an iPod, selecting the right track, then tweaked something on the amplifier. “One, two, one, two… OK, we are ready to roll, Mopkin-Popkin. Hit the ‘Play’!” The speakers filled the marketplace with the synthesizer beat.

  “He would rather dig the shit at the 'Fill.

  But the AFCO dude said: go kill.

  He was called to serve, and he filled the bill.

  Go kill, GI, duty to fulfill.

  He must learn soon enough, these are rules we all play.

  Dig the dirt, GI, dig your hole, and stay.

  Don't you stick your head. Sniper fires – you pay.

  Bullet five-dot-four-five.

  Blends your brains – all the way.

  Don't be heroes, stupid. Don't get blown away.

  If you're lucky, you stay alive.

  It's a darn good luck – to make three out of each five.

  Three out of each five!

  Three out of each five!

  Pro-ba-bi-li-ty, man.

  That's your chance to survive.

  If you both quick and smart,

  Fighting war is not hard.

  Kill before they kill you.

  That is modern war art.

  He became so slick. War geek.

  Operation last week.

  Pulled wrong brunch in jungles – and click!

  But he was lucky, and he survived.

  Coming home, to make three out of each five!

  Now sailing on Dumpster. No hands, no eyes, but alive.

  Will come home a hero. With his stumps,

  In the port, hugging smiling young wife.

  He must learn soon enough, these are rules we all play.

  Get you bucket, young vet. And collect – whole day.

  Live your happy new life.

  Do the Loop. With your pregnant wife.

  Lucky bustard. You made – three out each five.

  Three out of each five!

  Three out of each five!

  Pro-ba-bi-li-ty, man.

  That's your chance to survive.”

  Shit, Mark thought, the song seemingly was about his William. That story: how Clarice came to meet William in the Galveston port. ‘No hands, no eyes, but alive.’ OK, not exactly. William said he could not hug Clarice: not with the little useless stump the surgeons decided to leave for him. But the rest – fitted perfectly! Mark stood q
uietly, listening to the song and watching how one of the legless vets in a wheelchair, a boy, hardly any older than his Mike, moved the shaven head following the rap. Several more people came over to listen and drop their donations in the vets' buckets.

  “Can we go, sir? I can't stand here all day,” the delivery boy whispered and pulled Mark's sleeve. Mark nodded to Jack in excuse for leaving before the end of the song. Jack saw it and nodded back as if giving his permission. Mark and the delivery boy, moved on. The rap was rolling behind them from the box speakers, as some insane military march.

  “If you have no arms,

  Begging isn't that hard.

  They collect all they need. No greed.

  No shoes for his wife, but he has Purple Heart.

  And they must shut up, and perform their part.

  They will learn this new job.

  Where to end the Loop and where to start.

  Don't you know, vet: begging too is an art?

  She gives birth to four sons.

  Who must dig shit at the 'Fill.

  Until AFCO dude tells them: go kill.

  Freedom to protect, duty to fulfill.

  They too, will be called to serve,

  And they will fill the bill.

  Country needs more GIs, follow the drill.

  They must learn soon enough, these are rules we all play.

  Dig the dirt, GI, dig your hole, and stay.

  Only two will come home.

  One on crutches, another in scars. But alive!

  With their beggar Dad, making happy three!

  Out of each five!”

  Three out of each five!

  Three out of each five!

  Pro-ba-bi-li-ty, man.

  That's your chance to survive.

  Chapter 14

  On the Monday morning, Mark woke up with a fundamental headache. William and Mike must be suffering too, he thought. As well as Frederick and Arnold, Elvira and Mary. At least, Mike and Arnold did not have to work today. As for the Army Medical Board, to which the boys had to report at 10:45 and 11:00, respectively, the Army doctors would be probably surprised, if some of the draftees reported for the medical check not intoxicated.

  For his breakfast, Mark had only some acorn coffee. The splitting headache did not help the appetite. He rode straight to the Day-Pay. If I manage to find Jasmine Hobson today, he decided, it would be a great deal. Especially considering the headache combined with the miserable weather. The latter began to deteriorate since the night. The sky was overcast with heavy clouds, and nasty drizzle at times stopped, then started again. Mark left his raincoat at home, and regretted this half-way. However, he did not want to return, as the extra four miles on the bike, with the headache, looked more horrible than the drizzle. He left the bike to the owner of the paid bicycle parking near the Day-Pay entrance. At least, thanks to his FBI badge, he was allowed to park for free.

  It very well may happen I become a frequent visitor here, something suddenly clicked in his head. He imagined himself sitting in the row of ‘Wanna-Any-Job’ workers, holding a day-pay cartoon. What would the middle-age man's rate be? Perhaps, $300. Then, the imagination presented Mark with even more disturbing picture. He was sitting at the Day-Pay, but not alone. Pamela and Patrick accompanied him, both dressed in soiled rags, with straw hats, and with rubber gloves under their belts. The day-pay cartoon read: ‘$430.’ A fair price for two not-yet-fourteen workers, who can perform at least as well as one-and-a-half adults. Nothing wrong with that. He would send the kids to sort the garbage, and then do a full day of work in his carpenter shop, making few hundreds a day. Not a perfect arrangement by far, but at least they would not go hungry… He shook his head dispersing the nasty daydream.

  The landfill and its surrounding area were patrolled by the largest Police beat under their Station – eight or nine officers in total. To help Mark today, they assigned the local Sergeant Inspector, a fat smiling man named Rodrigo. For an hour or so, they walked through the Day-Pay rows, but Jasmine seemingly was not there.

  The party yesterday went nicely. Besides the Fred's and Mark's families, they had fifteen or so external guests, mainly Mike's and Arne's friends from the 'Fill. The barbecue was set at the backyard, next to the swimming pool. Mr. Stolz even generously allowed the guests to refresh themselves in the pool as needed, unfortunately the pool was presently just knee-deep. The main purpose of the pool was now for collecting rainwater from the roof. As the wet season had not yet fully started, and the water was intensively used for the veggies, nothing could be done about the water level. The official part had been completed by about half past nine, – the majority had to go to work on the Monday morning, besides, a light rain started suddenly.

  When the other guests left, both families sat at the deck and gracefully moved from the beer to some sugar cane liqueur, but it was not enough, so Frederick brought a large bottle of chemically-pure ethanol. “I appropriated this in our lab,” he admitted to Mark, “when our company was closing down, I went to my boss and asked: can I quietly take the chemicals home? All the same, they will smash them or pour them in the wrong drain. He just waved his hand: who cares? While my less entrepreneurial colleagues were queuing at the HR, I made three trips and relocated all the stuff into my basement. The other fellows were given their severance checks one day ahead of me, but I was left with all the goodies.”

  Samantha was dispatched to the neighbors to buy some ice, and Elvira began preparing vodka. Strictly by the lab code: in a chemical measuring beaker, two volumes of alcohol into three volumes of ice-cold water, stirring the tincture with a glass rod. As the chemical bottle was slowly emptied of the precious content, the mood at the table became more cheerful. William showed the audience how to drink vodka without hands. He held a single-shot glass in his lips, and threw the liquid into his throat with a swift move of his head. The audience liked it, and the performer was asked for an encore. Mark described how in 2009 he participated in the arrest of an alleged terrorist, reported to the FBI by his vigilant neighbors. The terrorist turned out to be a mere Chemistry student, who produced Mephedrone and other equally pleasing substances for his friends. The mention of the Chemistry led Frederick to tell a story about his work in the oilfield R&D.

  “Did I tell you, guys, I have four US patents?” he boasted. “The coolest one… eek! …was on safe detonators. Well, making a safe deto is very easy. Basically, you just need a resistor… Or a Zener diode, yes! But then – you will need high voltage to set it off. Yes! And we wanted a deto to be set off from a regular battery. But at the same time – to be totally safe. What would you do for such a predicament, Arne?”

  “Dad, you already asked me this. I know the answer.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure. But Mark – he surely doesn't know! What would you do, Mark?”

  “No idea, Fred. My knowledge about the detonators? Ha, limited to three hours of lectures. Some boring FBI training. Besides, it was twenty years ago… Plus last-but-not-least, – I was asleep!”

  “OK. I-got-the-picture… Eek! OK, I'll tell ya'll.” When Frederick was drunk, he loved showing off his perfect Texan accent, acquired from his ancestors. The modern science had not established yet how the accent disappeared if he was sober. “We did a ternary detonator! Not a binary, but a three-state! Yes! While it's not yet activated, you can bang it with a sledgehammer. Or throw it into a campfire. Even shoot a bullet through it! And even high voltage. Several thousand volts – no problem! The detonator will burn, of course, but will not detonate.”

  “And how to set it off, exactly?” Mike asked.

  “Ha! It was the invention. First, you send positive voltage. The reaction is…” He began drawing with his finger over the table surface, but quickly realized that the formula would not add any clarity, and continued: “Never mind the formulas. The firing sequence is like this. Positive pulse: three volts, three seconds or more. Negative pulse: also three volts and three seconds. At this point, the detonator is ‘ready.’ Activated, right?
The next positive pulse of three volts leads to detonation in under five milliseconds. Yes, only five! This is a darn good spec for a safe deto! Moreover, if the deto is not fired, it deactivates by itself in about one hour. And you may sledgehammer it again! So we filed a patent, et al. Our Marketing came up with a commercial name: TriSafe. Ha! Are you aware who is the largest TriSafe user now? Our worst enemies all other the world! The Muslim extremists, the South American guerillas, the Asian freedom fighters, whatever you call them! Billy, I can bet you anything that in your Venezuela booby-trap there was my TriSafe.”