Devil's Fork

by Jesse Jacobson

  Jeannie screamed and stood to move toward me. She was fully exposed.

  “No!” I screamed. “Get down.”

  I lunged, grabbing at her. I felt a third bullet burn into my lower right back. If I had not stood the bullet would have hit Jeannie. The force of the impact from the bullet hitting my back caused me to bump into Jeannie and we both went over the K-Raft’s side and into the river.

  Jeannie screamed and grabbed onto me. I held her tight.

  “We have to get back into the boat!” she screamed.

  “There’s no time, and the current’s too strong,” I told her. “Hang on to me. Don’t let go.”

  “I won’t let go,” she said. “Trust me.”

  The current was pulling us into the rapid, its enormous dark jagged rocks looming larger and larger. There were steep drop-offs coming. Pain seared through my side and shoulders but my adrenaline level was sky high.

  “Grab onto my back, Jeannie,” I said. “We’ll move as far toward the left bank as we can.”

  “Why? We can’t possibly reach the bank.”

  “I know, but I want to go down the rapids to the left of that largest boulder,” I screamed.

  “Why?”

  “Just trust me.”

  She said something else but the crashing torrents of water muffled her words. I mustered as much strength as I could to swim to the left of the largest boulder I saw. Jeannie followed.

  The last thing I remember before floating into the rapids was catching a glimpse of a helicopter. For a split second I thought it was our rescue, but then I realized, it wasn’t ours. No rescue. We were on our own.

  Chapter 16

  Just before we reached Devil’s Bitch, I repositioned Jeannie in front of me. I wrapped my arms around her and held tight. I wanted to get us to the left but the current grabbed us and moved us forward. We were approaching an enormous rock. A twenty-foot high torrent splashed over the rock and crashed down on us with the same impact as if we were being hit by a large bag of sand. The torrent forced us under water.

  When we emerged, I struggled to alter our course but it was too late. We would slam into the rock… hard. Right before we crashed into the enormous boulder, I turned my body so that I could shield Jeannie from impact and allow my back to absorb the force of the blow. My back absorbed much of the impact but it hit my head as well. My helmet crunched against the humongous rock. Had I not been wearing it; my head would have spilt in two. The force of my body slamming into the rock took my breath away, and I gasped for air; bolts of pain rifled up my spine. The impact to my head was starting to make me lose consciousness.

  Jeannie screamed again. The jagged rock cut into my padded life vest; I felt some of my ribs break. I groaned as we both dropped over ten feet into the next wave of the rapid. We sank several feet under the water before the current pulled us up and down the rest of the rapid.

  I could see Jeannie gasping for breath. She was taking water into her lungs. She couldn’t take much more of this.

  The river slammed us into another rock. I turned Jeannie away and used my body once again to cushion her from the blow. This time my helmet exploded completely away. The force of the impact caused me to lose my breath. I gasped and heaved for air. I felt more blood gushing, this time from the side of my head, above my ear.

  “Oh, my god,” Jeannie screamed. “Jolly. You’re hurt so bad.”

  She was right. I was barely conscious. This was it. We were not going to make it.

  The rapid swept us over yet another edge, this time fifteen feet straight down. Through my remaining slivers of consciousness, I noticed the natural path of the water around the rocks below was pushing us toward the bank.

  I felt the current calm. We had done it—we survived Devil’s Bitch. Barely.

  “Jeannie,” I screamed. “Let go of me. Swim to the bank. You can make it.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m done. I’m too hurt. I can’t swim.”

  “I’ll carry you on my back if I have to,” she said.

  “No, I’m too heavy. I have no strength left. Can’t swim. It’s over for me. Go. When you get to the bank, run. Run like you’ve never run before.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “You have to. It’s the only way.”

  I released her pushed her away.

  “No, I’m not leaving you,” she screamed. She tried to move toward me but again, I pushed her away.

  “No,” she screamed again. She lunged for me but it was too late. I began free floating away with the current. Jeannie called for me one last time and then began swimming for the bank. I saw a lone figure on the bank walking toward its edge, staring at her. He carried a high-powered rifle on his back.

  The shooter.

  The chopper I saw dropped him a line and moved him across the river to meet us at the bottom of the rapid. All of this, everything… was for naught. The shooter would still capture Jeannie and I’d be dead.

  As I slipped into unconsciousness, I saw the shooter and he saw me. I had no strength left. The shooter took aim at me and sneered. I realized I was seconds away from death, looking upward now, into the clear blue sky, resigned to my defeat and accepting my fate.

  “Hey asshole!” I heard Jeannie scream out. “Leave him alone. I’m the one you want. I’m here. I give up.”

  The shooter paused and looked at her.

  “You have caused me a lot of trouble,” I heard the shooter shout at her. He aimed his weapon away from me and toward her.

  “I thought you needed me alive!” Jeannie screamed.

  “That’s true, but no one said you needed to be perfect,” he replied. “Perhaps I could shoot off your hand.”

  “No!” she shrieked.

  “Maybe your kneecap,” he continued. “Perhaps both.”

  The bastard began to chuckle at her. His sadistic laugh caused my blood to boil. The adrenaline surging through my veins at the thought of him hurting Jeannie brought me back to consciousness, but I knew… it would be temporary.

  The current carried me close enough to the bank for me to feel solid ground under my feet. I grabbed my camping knife and pulled it from the sheath on my belt. I summoned all my will to stand and focus on one final act of desperation. I stood up; the waterline now at my waist. The shooter must have seen me stand through the corner of his eye because he turned back toward me again. I flung my knife at him with all the remaining strength I could muster. I heard him howl and watched him fall to his knees. The knife found its target, right in the center of the shooter’s chest.

  He looked at me; his eyes and mouth gaped open; his expression a combination of shock and fear. He then slumped to his side.

  Now Jeannie might have a fighting chance I thought, but the fleeting hope lasted only a few seconds. I saw four more men holding weapons approaching from the back, all headed toward Jeannie.

  It was done. I had failed.

  My eyes were heavy—too heavy to keep open. My legs weakened as I began to blackout. I fell onto my back in the river water again and the current began to sweep me away. I had no strength left to fight it.

  “Jolly!” I heard Jeannie screaming. I saw her getting smaller and smaller as the current whisked me away. She was standing on the bank now; the men were less than twenty feet from her and I was powerless to help.

  I opened my mouth to answer but nothing came out. I’m sorry, Jeannie, I thought—so sorry I couldn’t protect you.

  I was almost out when the sound of helicopter blades startled me. They were so close that wind created by the blades kicked up water all around me. The chill woke me momentarily and I forced my eyes open one last time.

  The shooter’s chopper? No. The blades sounded… different. I looked toward the sound.

  An enormous helicopter now hovered above. The last thing I remember before drifting unconscious was seeing three letters across the chopper’s belly.

  F-B-I.

  Chapter 17

  Ten days later

&
nbsp; Washington DC

  I woke to the sound of a steady mechanical beep, a hospital monitor. I remember very little. I could smell the fresh sheets and the scent of rubbing alcohol. I recall the color white. The room I was in was white. My bed sheets were white. There was medical equipment around me—it was white, with tubes running to my arms.

  My left arm and shoulder were in a white cast and suspended in the air by a white tether attached to the white ceiling. White, white, white. I was in a hospital. I tried to lift my head but it felt as though it was made of concrete. I was disoriented and confused.

  I saw my buddy standing over me.

  “Jolly?” he asked. “Are you awake?”

  “Where am I?”

  “You’re in Walter Reed hospital in Washington, in the trauma section,” he said.

  “Washington?” I repeated. “DC?”

  “They transported you here two days ago, after you were stable. You gave us quite a scare. You’ve been in a coma for ten days. You took quite a blow to the head and lost a lot of blood. I thought we would lose you.”

  “Lose me?”

  “Yeah, you woke up two days ago,” he said. “Remember?”

  “No.” My mouth was dry. My head was in a total fog and the pain was killing me.

  “I’m not surprised. You were really out of it.”

  “I was?”

  “You talked for a bit. The doc said you’d be in and out of consciousness for the next few days. Are you in pain?”

  “Yeah, it’s bad,” I said, “and I’m thirsty.”

  “I’ll get you some water.”

  “No. Wait. What happened?”

  “You saved the day, buddy,” he said.

  “I did?”

  “That’s right. The FBI swooped in at the final minute. You got the sniper; the FBI brought down their chopper and captured the other shooters. It turns out a terrorist cell based in Syria financed the attack. Without your heroics we’d all be dead.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. There’s someone here to see you,” he continued. He looked at the doorway and waved someone in. That’s when I saw her. She walked into the room, all smiles.

  “I’m so glad to see you awake,” she said.

  I looked at her and blinked.

  “You saved my life,” she continued.

  “I did?”

  “You sure did, don’t you remember?”

  I looked at her beautiful eyes and her gorgeous smile, “I’m sorry, miss, do I know you?”

  Chapter 18

  Eleven months later…

  Santa Monica, California

  The street musicians on the 3rd Street Promenade in Santa Monica were the best in the country, I thought. I’d been listening to a goth teen playing Metallica songs on the violin in front of Bloomingdale' s. I stood and listened to her for fifteen minutes. She was blowing the crowd away with an ethereal rendition of Nothing Else Matters when I looked at my watched and moved on.

  The day was gorgeous like so many days in L.A. are—sunny and seventy-five degrees.

  I stopped in front of an Apple Store where a thirty-something man dressed like Bob Dylan from his Nashville Skyline days was picking an old flattop guitar and singing, Like a Rolling Stone. When the song ended, I tipped him and moved on to a different corner where an old black man was strumming a banjo and singing Mr. Bojangles. I moved along.

  I spent most of my time listening to a foursome whose music was best described as Celtic Bluegrass; I suppose. There were four men playing the guitar, fiddle, banjo and bagpipes. It was the most unique sounding music I’d heard in a long time and I loved every second. I picked up one of their CD’s, paying the ten bucks. I listened to them for another ten minutes until I needed to go. The restaurant was five minutes away on foot.

  Barney’s Beanery was an eclectic dining establishment with a ceiling covered in old license plates. Polished hubcaps from old Chevys and Fords and just about any other car you could think of surrounded its indoor sign. There were pictures of the 1960’s rock band, The Doors, hanging about with storyboards explaining that the band ate lunch there during recording sessions at Elektra Records, just around the corner.

  There were people waiting in line but a hostess offered me the option of sitting in the bar where I could order from the full menu. We passed the dart boards and pool tables to get to the table. It was loud and busy in the place.

  The waitress was pleasant and smiled at me, telling me that the Barney’s Reuben was the lunch special of the day. I ordered a beer and pulled a menu from the condiments stand and thumbed through it.

  I sipped my beer and watched a little of the Dodgers-Cardinals game before I heard her voice from behind.

  “The Cards are having a tough year,” the voice said. It was Jeannie’s voice.

  I turned to her and smiled. Something connected—a familiarity. She was smiling brightly.

  She was breathtaking. She looked different than the picture ToeJam showed me of her. Her skin was now golden brown, no longer fair. She’d cut her hair into latest Hollywood fashion with blonde streaks. There was no makeup on her face and her ice-blue eyes beamed. The short, yellow sundress and heels she wore accentuated her shapely body.

  Jeannie smiled when we made eye contact and I stood to embrace her. The hug felt a little awkward. She gave me a quick peck on the cheek and pulled away.

  “Are you a baseball fan?” I asked.

  Her smiled dimmed briefly. I didn’t understand why.

  I had few memories of what happened that day. I didn’t remember Jeannie at all. ToeJam had told me what happened over and over and some things I think I remember now, were probably me recalling what my best friend told me. The doctors said that this was normal for people suffering head traumas. He also told me I may or may not ever get those memories back.

  I didn’t want to come here. It felt awkward. Toe insisted I come, though. He told me it might spark my memory and that even if I didn’t remember what happened that day, she certainly did, and she and I had gone through a lot together. I owed her a visit, he told me.

  “I am,” she said. “You knew this about me… at one time. I’m a diehard Cubs fan.”

  “I feel so bad for you, then,” I replied.

  “Well, I see some things haven’t changed,” she replied, the smile reforming. “The Cardinals have lost two straight games, you know.”

  “They’re still two games up on the Cubs,” I replied. “It’s sad to see what’s happened to the Cubbies since they won the World Series.”

  “Our next series with the Cardinals is in Chicago, bright boy, don’t forget that,” she said. “Our home record is the best in the league.”

  I smiled, “True. ToeJam told me you just moved out here,” I said. “How are things?”

  “Busy,” she replied, as if not knowing what else to say. “You know, new city, new job…”

  She smiled—it was a sad smile—it felt like a pity smile for my benefit. I hated that.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” our pleasant waitress asked.

  “I’ll take a Blue Hawaiian,” she said.

  The waitress smiled and said she’d get the drink while we checked out the menu. I took a sip of my beer.

  “Blue Hawaiian? What is that?” I wondered.

  “It’s Blue Curacao with rum, pineapple, coconut and orange,” she said.

  “Fancy-schmancy,” I noted.

  “What’s this?” Jeannie asked, pointing to a tattoo on my arm.

  “It’s a tattoo,” I said, stating the obvious.

  “I know that,” she replied, “But it’s new. You didn’t have it the last time I saw you.”

  I was impressed. She must have known me well enough to recognized the tattoo was new to me.

  “It’s a Brotherhood Protectors tattoo,” I said.

  “Who are the Brotherhood Protectors?” she asked.

  “It’s an organization founded by a former Navy SEAL named Hank Patterson,” I told her. “It�
�s made up of ex-military types who have useful skill sets that can be put to use. ToeJam has been a member of the brotherhood since he left the Navy. When Hank heard what happened at Devil’s Fork, he came to see me—told me I was the kind of guy he needed in his organization. I jumped at the opportunity.”

  “What does the brotherhood do?”

  “They protect those who need protecting.”

  “People like me?”

  “Yes.” I smiled.

  “Is this a full-time job?”

  I shook my head, “No. For the moment, it’s honorary. I can’t be active until my rehab is complete. That could be another year.”

  “How has your rehabilitation gone?” she asked. “I heard they sent you from Walter Reed to a military hospital in San Diego.”

  I nodded, “That’s right. The one bullet crushed my right shoulder and the rocks badly damaged my knee. The wounds from the other two bullets have healed fine. My knee replacement surgery went well but it’s still painful. I’m walking just fine but I’ll never have a full range of motion in my shoulder again.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Jeannie said. “You look no different at all. In fact, you look magnificent.”

  “There was a lot of time to work out and keep in shape,” I confessed. “I focused on that.”

  Jeannie perked up, “How is the memory loss? You said you still don’t remember much of what happened?”

  “It’s been a long process,” I told her. “The doctors said the area of my brain that deals with short-term memory was most affected. I remember my job and further back, being a SEAL, but more recent memories are gone. For a short while, I couldn’t remember ToeJam’s name. I knew he was my best friend but couldn’t remember his name. I kept calling him ‘buddy.’”

  “I’ll bet he didn’t like that,” she offered.

  “You’re right. The last time I saw you, Toe told me I didn’t remember you at all. I’m sorry. That must have hurt you.”

  “It’s not your fault,” she said.

  “I know, but…”