By Delahay
As I looked through the window the darkness stared back at me. I had a feeling if I looked hard enough I could see through to the other side, as if there were answers floating out there in the abyss.
It seems strange how the quietness of night lets your mind run free and, being tethered to it, you have no choice but to follow. Ultimately it will drag you through your own personal Hell where you have to face all your fears, shortcomings, and doubts. This is where you deal with all the should haves, could haves, whens, whys, and wheres.
Too may times I've pressed my face against the glass with thoughts swarming in my head like bees in a hive. All this to be lost in dreams out on the edge of reality. All this time wasted seeking the unknown, chasing shadows in the darkness. Blindly tilting at windmills.
Suddenly I hear a tapping sound. Someone rapping against the window? After listening for a moment I realize that it's not tapping at all. It's a sound I've heard many times before, the crack of distant gunfire.
As my eyes begin to focus, I see thin fingers of light filtering down through the canopy of the rain forest. I feel I am sinking through thousands of years of rotting vegetation on the forest floor. The muck and ooze even leaks in through the canvas webbing on the sides of my boots. I can smell the Willie Pete, sulfur, and napalm through the perpetual mist that hovers like a light rain. Mostly, however, what I smell more than anything else is death.
Little strings crisscross the ground mixed with the vines that encompass the landscape. Anyone could trigger the hellfire and brimstone converted from our own ordnance by catching his toe on one of the strings. Molten metal belches into a body from these hidden instruments of destruction leaving severed body parts and a mass of bloody remains. Identities would be mix and match, but at that point, it makes little difference.
At this point I am beginning to wish I was still out. Back in the blackness, the void of the unknown.
What was that sound, ugly and familiar? I know I've heard it before, ringing, like a school bell but not as loud. A doorbell maybe? No! It's the phone. A phone out here? I open my eyes and I am in my bed and the phone is next to me. Fumbling, with sweat slicked hands, I pick up the receiver. As I hold it to my ear a male voice says, "Randy where have you been? You had us scared to death."
"Randy?" I ask. "Who's Randy?"
The voice replies, "That's really funny man. Are you coming tonight?"
"Me?"
"Yes, of course you. We can't get it done without you."
I said, "Are you sure you have the right number?"
"Ha, ha, ha. Did you have a rough night or are you trying one of your games? I've got to go. Call me after you've had a couple pots of coffee." Click.
I got up slowly, feeling I had stumbled into a strange new universe. I felt as if the ground was crumbling away under my feet. I made it to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face, avoiding the mirror, uncertain of who I might see.
| Author Notes | Willie Pete: slang name for white phosphorous used in flares, incendiary bombs, etc. |
By Delahay
2:23, 2:27, 2:31, 2:38, I just woke up wet with sweat again. The dream. It was the dream again. Now the damn clock just stares at me, reminding me I'm not asleep again. Sometimes I think we are all living a lie to some degree. Like the little old lady with three cats who sprinkles bird seed around her yard, pretending not to know the ultimate outcome.
These thoughts don't help me get back to sleep but there's always something. At times I feel these things are created by me to keep sleep at bay. With sleep comes the dreams, a self fulfilling prophesy and vicious cycle. Should I give up my soul for the solace of a peaceful existence? Could Hell have more jagged edges than life itself? The endless hours of "infomercials" mark night's passing. I love that nomenclature. "Quick gym", "Magic kitchen", "Super slide". Games to separate insomniacs from their money.
Yeah, I've been to the doctors. Taken their tests and their pills, biofeedback and self hypnosis, and wondered how to pay for them. I believe the whole truth is that life just fills in the space between birth and death. The only certainties. Sometimes lying in the dark I can see faces floating by, some living and some dead, some by my own hand. But really, you must feed a democracy a lot of lies and lives to make it grow. It grows like a cancer until it consumes its host, then it leaps to the next fool.
There can be a perverse beauty in the small hours of darkness. Empty streets, the scavengers that ramble through the dumpsters, the distant sound of boxcars being bumped at the switches, the sirens hurrying life and death forward, the quiet thumping of your heart. The crashing thunder of the silence.
I realize I can hear a voice calling my name.
"Jim. Jimmy. Wake up! Wake up you're dreaming again."
When I wake, Patience is sitting on the edge of the bed staring at me. She tells me I have been tossing and turning for the last three hours. She asks me where I go in my dreams. I wish I could tell her. I wish I knew.
Patience is my wife, but that is not really her name. Patience is my pet name for her because that is her nature. God knows how many times she's gone through nights like this with me. I would never have lasted this long without her.
Patience took me in like a lost and wounded animal, without asking a single question. Her kind eyes held the wisdom of the ages and a sweet sadness, mixed with an overflowing compassion and a never ending capacity for giving. From the moment we met it was like I'd always known her, and never knew her at the same time. Her love flowed from the inside, totally undiminished, pure and unfettered.
I now understood that I had to leave. I hoped in time she would come to understand that I left because I love her and had to go places that could hurt her. I hope she can forgive me. I wonder if I can forgive myself.
Life, the one game everyone plays and there are absolutely no winners. Your best hope is to be MVP, but there are no reenlistment bonuses. It's a one shot deal, no second chances. May as well not even look back because time is gaining on you. Your best bet is to get on with living, that's all you really have. Life doesn't give prizes for runner ups, and death gives no prizes at all. You don't even get a chance to pick a number. You can be playing pitch with your son this evening and lose a bet with a bus tomorrow morning.
By Delahay
Summary: A man named Jim, who is suffering from PTSD, is having strange dreams, or nightmares, where he is someone he does not recognize. Someone who goes by a different name and has different thoughts. He thinks his time spent in Viet Nam during the war has affected him. He calls his wife Patience, though that is not her name, because of her calm and patient manner. In a previous chapter he is awakened from a dream, or so he thinks, by a phone call from someone who calls him Randy.
Once you tell your story you might as well stick to it, because it's all anyone will believe afterwards. You can't deny, change, or add to it. Anyone else can though. They have final editorial rights to embellish, downplay, or substitute anything you have previously said. It's like once you've said something it has a life of it's own.
I remember the spring of '69 as being a moment of undecided individualism. Everyone was fighting for a cause, or because there was a cause, or just because. Rag-tag middle income hippies displaying the uniform of the decade to show their individualism. The rule of the road was to trash the previous decade, and things regressed from there.
It was about that time I looked around and realized that I didn't fit into any particular clique. I started thinking in terms of my own French Foreign Legion. It was after watching the movie "Catch 22", made from Joseph Heller's novel, that I decided to join the Air Force. I knew there was a good chance I'd get drafted so I decided to try to join the service on my own terms.
It was during basic, and a few following advanced courses, I learned important things about being a soldier. Things like how to cut sand, paint rocks, swim in mud, blow things up, dodge bullets and like pain. Oh yes, and how to kill people, and the importance of staying alive. I also learned joining the armed service was like signing a bail bond and organ donor card at the same time. I couldn't seem to take the whole fiasco seriously, so I actually managed to have fun. At least until I was sent in country. There they were really trying to hit us with real bullets, and we were really trying to kill them. Holding onto the handles on a mini gun, I almost felt sorry for Charlie. A single guy on a hill was shooting at our Huey with an AK 47 when the co-pilot's head exploded, spraying everyone with the remains. A single burst from the mini gun vaporized the lone gunman.
There are two things I learned in the military. One, there are no winners and no runners-up. Two, when it's your word against someone with more stripes or, God forbid, an officer, you are wrong. Then there was the time I was busted back to airman and given an article fifteen for getting a sunburn. You see, by doing so I had damaged government property.
Back in the real world, or at least I thought it was, I was beginning to have my doubts, I was staring in the mirror, wondering who was the old guy looking back at me, and thinking how much he looked like my dad. Except this guy looked demented. The memory of that phone call, the one where some guy called me Randy, came back to me. Who the hell is Randy? What does he have to do with me? Was that just another part of the dream? I checked my phone and found there were no incoming calls. This kind of thing had happened before, more times than I can remember.
The shrinks at the V.A. hospital all tell me there is nothing wrong with me, I just need to readjust to civilian life. That's easy for them to say. They can't see what is happening inside my head. The dreams I've been having lately have been really scary. The military teaches us to kill for our country, to preserve our freedom, to defend our constitution and our way of life, it's our job, but can it take away a person's humanity? Can it take a person down to the point where they will kill people for other reasons? People they've seen in a picture, been given an address for and a time and place where they will be? That's not me is it? That is the dream I've been having lately. I've seen myself as a hunter. A hunter of the top predator in the world, human beings.
My eyes looked like a road map with red lines painted over the white background. Patience tells me I look tired and should try to get some sleep. How do I tell her that I'm afraid to go to sleep, that sleep does not mean rest?
| Author Notes |
An article fifteen is a court marshal. There are different degrees of court marshal and the penalty varies for each one. The penalty can range anywhere from a few days incarceration, to a reduction in rank, or a firing squad
The part about being in trouble for getting a sunburn, for damaging government property is true. This really happened to me. Does anyone know if hell (in "who the hell") is suppose to be capitalized? |
By Delahay
Summary: Jim is a Viet Nam war vet who is suffering from PTSD with nightmares and memory loses. He calls his wife Patience, though that is not her name, because of her calm and patient manner. He has decided he should leave home because he is afraid his nightmares and erratic behavior may somehow harm his wife.
Since I had made the decision to leave, thinking it would be the best for everyone concerned, I thought I'd spend the next week fixing things up around the house. I guess I felt guilty about leaving and wanted to do what I could to help out before I disappeared.
I grabbed my tool box and headed up to the attic. I hadn't been up there in a few years, I'm ashamed to say. I climbed the stairs and turned the corner only to come face to face with the biggest spider I'd ever seen. I think it must have been a tarantula. Being a big, strong, manly type, I immediately jumped back and whacked my head on a low hanging rafter. After the stars cleared from my vision I picked up a loose 2x4 and crushed the spider.
When I looked down I noticed that by picking up the board I had exposed an open space in the floor and the objects hidden inside. After seeing the contents I wondered if I should call the cops, then realized that would be an insanely stupid thing to do considering it was my house. Law enforcement types have no sense of humor about these things.
I found an AR- 15, with several full magazines, a 1911 M1A with a silencer, an assortment of grenades, binoculars, a manila envelope filled with pictures of people I'd never seen before, several military I.Ds and four passports. The passports all had my picture but only one was in my name. One of them was for a Randolf M. Johnston. There was also an o.d. green mechanic's tool bag with over $150.000 U.S. and a log listing the numbers for several off shore bank accounts with a ledger showing fairly regular large deposits. I also found some keys. Some looked like they were for safety deposit boxes and others had labels listing storage facilities and locker numbers. There was also a note book with a list of names and phone numbers.
Finding this cache made me look around for other loose floorboards. After my first find It wasn't anywhere near as surprising to discover a claymore with all the parts, including a remote setup, and a three pound can of calcium carbide. Some fragments of memories and dreams now made a little more sense but also brought up some very interesting questions.
When I was in the service I had been a regular airman first class with three years of R.O.T.C. with an F.A.A. Airframe license and an avionics certificate. I had been in the Air Force, in country, for less than a year when I received a visit from a guy in a suit. A strange sight in the jungle. He wasted no time relaying his message. It seemed he had a proposition for me if I wanted to go home faster.
He told me he worked for Air America. A nice, friendly sounding name for a group of people working for a particular branch of the U.S. government. Some people call them "The Company". Some say spooks. Some just say C.I.A.
This guy said he was looking for someone who could keep large aircraft flying and knew how to use firearms, if necessary, and wasn't adverse to using them. If I took him up on his offer I could be stateside again in less than a year. You know the old saying about if something that sounds too good to be true. I was too young and stupid to have learned the lesson yet, and there was no one around I could ask for advice.
As I sat on the floor of the attic I could feel myself sliding down the rabbit hole, and about that time I felt as if I was beginning to understand what might be going on. I couldn't fight it any longer. I had the presence of mind to quickly put everything back where it had been before I was overcome by a dizzy, sickening feeling as the walls around me began spinning. Then everything faded to black. I don't know how long I was out when I heard a voice calling me. "Jim, Jimmy, are you up there? Are you o.k. I've been looking everywhere for you. What are you doing up here.?"
I wrapped my arms around Patience as if she was the only thing holding me in place and wondered what I could tell her.
| Author Notes |
The part about being an airman in country in Viet Nam and being approached by a "representative of a government agency" is true. I was young and stupid enough to take the guy up on his offer.
"In country" was a phrase commonly used by military personnel during the Viet Nam war. It refers to the time spent physically in the country a person was posted to as opposed to time spent in the military anywhere else. The AR-15 was the standard rifle issued to service personnel during the war in Viet Nam A 1911 M1A is an automatic handgun and was also standard issue to military personnel. O.d. green is olive drab green. A common color for items in the military. A claymore is a commonly used anti personnel mine. R.O.T.C. stands for Reserved Officers Training Corp. Students in high school and college in the U.S. can take this class then enter the military and be at a higher rating after basic training than those who did not go through it. If one finishes R.O.T.C. and has four years of college he/she can enter the military as an officer and have a higher rank than those who did not go through the course. Calcium Carbide is a volatile chemical used in improvised explosives. Airman first class is equivalent to private first class in other branches of the U.S. military. Avionics has to do with the electrical and instrument systems on aircraft. Air America was real . There was a movie called Air America set in Viet Nam. The movie was called a comedy. There was nothing funny about it in real life. This is what Wikipedea says about it. Air America was an American passenger and cargo airline covertly owned by the United States Government as a dummy corporation for CIA intelligence operations. The CIA did not have enough work to keep the asset afloat and the National Security Council farmed the airline out to various government entities that included the USAF, U.S. Army, USAID and for a brief time the French Republic. Essentially, Air America was used by the U.S. Government covertly to conduct military operations, posing as a civilian air carrier, in areas the U.S. Armed forces could not go due to treaty restraints contained in the 1954 and 1962 Geneva Accords. |
By Delahay
Jim, Viet Nam vet with PTSD is having an identity crisis. He is having dreams and memories about an alter ego who is in a dangerous career. While stationed in Viet Nam he was approached by an representative for a clandestine government agency about working for Air America, the C.I.A.'s air support in Southeast Asia.
Every story starts somewhere, or it should. I'm not quite sure about this one.
I was in 'Nam, my wife, who I call Patience, was in the States. I had grown sick of the lies
and death of this micro-managed war where we could not take out a SAM (surface to air missile) site we could see being built because there may be a Russian adviser in the way, and we wouldn't want to bring the Russians in on this mess. In a week it would be taking down our fighters, bombers, and anything else they could fire on. I couldn't understand the logic. If we took out a Russian adviser, wouldn't the Russians have to explain what he was doing there if they were going to make something of the incident?
It was situations like this that made me decide to take Mr. Green up on his offer. Mr. Green was the name the government suit gave me when he approached me with his offer to work for Air America. I just had to put in a year with them and I'd be back home with an early discharge from the military. What is that they say about if something is too good to be true? It probably is.
There is another saying about the devil being in the details, such as the ones I didn't pay attention to at the time. Like, who exactly were the good guys in this scenario? Another little detail that was left out, would I really be a free agent when I got home? Would I be free from any further obligations to Mr. Green and his friends?
It was ten years ago that I was approached by Mr. Green with his offer. I would have done just about anything at that point if it got me home any sooner.
I spent the next year in Laos and Cambodia, two countries our government swore we never sent any of our people to. Maybe I should have read that non disclosure letter a little closer before I signed on. I was no longer wearing a uniform, plausible deniability being a government phrase I would become all too familiar with, but it meant that if I was captured I could be immediately executed as a spy. Even assuming anyone was playing by Geneva Convention rules.
During that year I spent much of my time as a forward observer, emplacing laser designators for guiding payloads for bombers. The bombers we never flew over Cambodia or Laos. Our bombs are a lot smarter now and don't need as much guidance as they once did. Too bad for me to have been in the wrong war.
There was this one day I will remember for the rest of my life. I had gone back to our base to get some equipment I needed and left my friend Randy out in the field setting up the laser. As I started over a hill I heard the gunfire. I dropped down and crept forward to see what was going on. I got to the top just in time to see about forty V.C. coming over the next hill toward the spot I had last seen Randy. As I watched, one of them put a bullet right through his head. I never realized before then that a round from an AK47 could take someone's head right off. I wish I had never found out that little piece of information.
I don't know how I managed to get out of there in one piece. I don't remember much about the next two days. That's how long it took me to get back to friendly real estate, only to find out that I was the only survivor of a twelve man patrol.
Little things like that can change a person. I don't know exactly at what point I stopped being the person that went to Viet Nam and became the person that came home.
Mr. Green did keep his promise. I was sent home after only another year in country, with an honorable discharge, with a DD-214 that looked like a public copy of the Warren Commission's report on the Kennedy Assassination. It was mostly made up of black lines with an occasional "and" or "the" or maybe a verb thrown in here or there. It certainly didn't take long to read. I discovered soon enough, though, that I had indeed made a deal with the devil. My life and soul were no longer my own. I just didn't know it yet.
When I told Patience what I had done to get sent home early I was surprised at her reaction. She was not exactly happy and encouraging about the deal. I don't know where she may have learned anything about Air America or the people who ran it, but she seemed to have an idea that I had made a bad choice.
I began to have doubts myself the next time I tried to contact my friend Mr. Green. The number he gave me had been disconnected with no explanation or information forthcoming. I started thinking about Robert Johnson and the deal he made. I started thinking back and wondering if there had been a crossroad nearby when I had first met Mr. Green
| Author Notes |
In Viet Nam we were not allowed to fire on SAM sites as they were being built. This really was because we knew that there were Russian military advisers on site and we didn't want the cold war to heat up. It always seemed to me that if they were there, and the Russians claimed they weren't, then they couldn't get too upset if their non existent people were killed.
A DD-214 I a record of what a person did while they were in the military. It should have details about all the training the person had gone through and all the missions they took part in. Mine did indeed look just as described here. It was thoroughly redacted, also know as edited, but with a black magic marker, until it said precisely nothing. This was done, "For the good of the service". I could have been anything from military police, to a doctor, or a pilot, with the information that was in my records. No one could have disputed my version of what I did because no one, including me, could get a copy of my records. Despite these tidbits this is not an autobiography. I"m just adding in parts that I can relate to. |
By Delahay
Summary: A Viet Nam vet with P.T.S.D. and memory lapses has found evidence that his life is not always what he thinks it is.
In a bug-out bag I came across in the attic, along with various weapons, I found an envelope. In it was a contract with my name and signature on it. It mentioned an E. F. Green, field agent for Air America, U.S.A.. A limited liability Corp. There was also a letter from the D.O.D. denying any contracts with, or responsibility for the actions of, Air America. The documents seemed to state that Mr. Green had no legal authority to make contracts in their name or to issue any orders in their name. In other words, Mr. Green was what is known as a rogue agent and he was his own benefactor. I had no way of knowing this when I met him. Mr. Green had failed to mention these details when I went to work for him. At the time I had every reason to believe I was still serving my country.
I didn't remember where I had come into possession of these document,s but they made clear the stark reality of my situation.
So where did that leave me? A.W.O.L.? A criminal, a murderer? I felt as dirty as McNamara or Nixon. Why do I keep doing what I'm doing? It's like the mob, it's a one way door.
Looking through these documents, and thinking about everything else I had found, I had a sudden memory of my first assignment for Mr. Green in the U.S.
I had followed Mr. Bennett for nearly four weeks. During that time, I learned more about him than I wanted to. He cheated on his wife, and everyone else he knew. He seemed to enjoy beating his wife. He was also very friendly, too friendly, with his fourteen year old daughter. I had discovered as well that he had sold and supplied weapon to the Viet Cong. Basically he had done enough to make me feel good about my life.
I found he had a fondness for wine and champagne, so did the ladies he liked to spend time with. This gave me the perfect way to do away with him. I took two champagne bottles and gently pulled the corks out, then poured the contents into another container. I then refilled the bottles two thirds of the way with a mixture of gasoline, motor oil, and sulfuric acid. Then I poured a layer of paraffin over the mix and finished filling them with the original content and re-corked and resealed them. I turned the bottle over and packed the concaved bottoms with potassium chlorate. When the bottles went through the windshield of his Porsche, the sulfuric acid ignited the gelled gas mixture. Even the Feds would have a hard time figuring that one out, and I had them to thank for the recipe. If everything went well it would look like his car had caught fire after a drunk driving accident. There would be no reason for the police to investigate and all the evidence would have burned away. Broken champagne bottles would strengthen the drunk driving idea. His family would lose him, and maybe even miss him, but I have no doubt they would be better off without him.
After taking care of business, I visited the family of a buddy of mine from the service, Edward Craven. I had promised Ed that if I ever made it to Cleveland I would stop by to meet them. I don't keep very many promises but this one didn't require too much effort. It also provided somewhat of a cover story, if I ever needed one, for why I was there in the first place. I didn't know what kind of reception to expect from Eddie's family, since he hadn't made it home, not even in a body bag.
Eddie must have written home telling his family good things about me because his uncle acted like I was a long-lost prodigal son. Yeah, sometimes I feel like a freaking saint. I can make the lame see, the blind walk, dogs do tricks, and parrots talk. I feel like Oral Roberts and Charles Manson rolled together. Sorry, sometimes I forget to feel proud of my livelihood. I would ask God to forgive me, but I've never met the guy. You can't lose faith unless you have it in the first place. Then again, if you have Patience, you can lose her. No matter how much love there is. I found that out the hard way.
Sometimes I feel like that kid in the comics who always has that black cloud over his head, keeping him in some sort of perpetual shadow. Or maybe the man in the iron mask. I just seem to miss the bright spots in life. The only bright aspect in my life is my work. I'm good at it. Maybe because I forget who I am sometimes, maybe because I have no real friends. I heard once that a friend will help you move, a real friend will help you move a body. I've also heard that two people can keep a secret, if one of them is dead. Having no friends is safer. Having no family ties is even better. No one to sell me out or to be used against me. Career necessities for the successful contract killer.
I remember a time when my Aunt Ethel said she thought I would make a great doctor. God I'm glad she has no idea what became of me. She thinks I'm MIA in 'Nam. Patience never asked, never pointed fingers. I think, however, she was smart enough to know, or suspect that I wasn't the person I claimed to be. Then again, I wasn't always sure exactly who that was. I think my propensity to take the easy way out has raised its ugly head to bite me in the ass.
| Author Notes |
Bug out bag: Supplies stored in a bag for the purpose of making sudden trips out of one's immediate area.
A.W.O.L.: Absent With Out Leave |
By Delahay
Summary: A man returns from Viet Nam and embarks on a new career as a hit man. His new career started when he was recruited in country by a representative of Air America, a C.I.A. operation in Indochina. He suffers memory lapses and is not always sure who he is or what he has been doing. He calls his wife Patience, though that is not her name, because of her calm and patient nature. He has flashbacks to events that occurred in Viet Nam.
Sometimes it seems hope has made a big change and happiness is headed your way. Anyone with half a brain would never buy into that bet. Changes are just the calm before the storm. It reminds me of a time we were north of the triangle when a big black wall cloud suddenly appeared directly in front of the helicopter I was in. This was before every Huey in the sky had weather radar; more like one- in-ten. That was bad enough, then the jungle below abruptly lit up with RPG-7's. We were trying to maintain an altitude of at least five thousand feet in case the lightening or one of the RPGs took us down. That way we would at least have a chance to auto-rotate and maybe make it dirtside with all the big pieces still attached. There would even be a chance that we would be able to walk away from the chopper afterwards. It happened sometimes.
I was just thinking that maybe we had managed to get out of range of the RPGs when I saw a streak of fire race across the sky and all hell broke loose. I heard someone yelling "Mayday!" and couldn't tell if it was coming over the radio or if the pilot in one of the other birds was screaming loud enough I could hear him without electronic assistance. I saw the lead chopper go down hard and fast with smoke trailing from the engine. It started spinning in circles as the pilot lost control of the tail rotor. We followed him down along with the other helicopters and made a box around him in case there were any unfriendlies close enough to pay a visit when they hit the ground. With a storm coming in there was no chance of any A-4s being around to watch our backs and keep Charlie busy so we were on our own as far as air support. Or, in other words, business as usual.
Even with the rice paddies filling up, the bird that went down managed not to shuck a blade when it hit. We caught some fire from the tree line as we approached the crash site but our door gunners were able to keep the gooks busy with our M-60s as we landed. Two of us hopped out of our Huey and ran to the other copter to check on the crew. Most of the guys were already unstrapping and getting the hell out of there but one guy was fragged pretty bad. We got him on a stretcher and carried him to our bird while the others climbed on board another.
As we got it in gear and made tracks out of there, I left a present for any of our little friends who might decide they wanted to check out the Huey we were leaving behind. I tossed a couple of satchel charges, with a five minute delay on the ignition, in what was left of the chopper and we got airborne again before the first V.C. cleared the tree line. As we reached altitude again I saw a fireball erupt from the wreckage. I guess someone got the booby prize.
| Author Notes |
RPG = Rocket Propelled Grenade. A projectile launched from a shoulder held tube. Actually more like a small missile. Capable of taking down low flying aircraft.
Charlie was the American soldier's name for the Viet Cong. Unfriendlies: Pretty self evident who they are, they are the ones trying to kill you. Auto-rotate: If a helicopter's engine fails it is possible, if it has enough altitude, to get the rotor blades spinning fast enough to somewhat control the landing. It could be anywhere from a marginally controlled crash to a perfect landing. Depending on how much skill and/or luck the pilot has. V.C = Viet Cong |
By Delahay
A Viet Nam vet with P.T.S.D. has been a hit man for a shady C.I.A. agent who recruited him out of the service. He has memory problems and is not always sure who he is or what he has been doing. He calls his wife Patience, though that is not her name, because of her calm and serene nature.
Nothing is as empty as a vacant life. When everything you thought you knew ends up being just sound bites and lies, you find you have burned all the bridges back to the truths you could count on. Happiness has become a sad memory with a large, gloomy darkness looming over you.
For the last hit, I was dressed as a priest. I said my first and last prayer that morning. I prayed Patience would find happiness and joy. I prayed she would find the person who deserved her and would treat her well. Strangely, I felt convinced that she heard me, and my mind was at peace for the first time in many years.
I could smell the sweet fragrance of mimosa flowing through the courtyard as the sun bore down with the brightest light I had ever seen. Somewhere within the compound I heard someone playing Fur Elise on a piano. Everything became crystal clear to me. I understood why I was here, why my life had become what it was.
I sat quietly in the second row in my cassock and white collar as a real priest read the eulogy from the podium. It felt kind of odd knowing the man in the coffin had been taken out by my mark.
When I saw the picture I had been sent, I knew that either some mystic from the future was trying to tell me something, or Mr. Green was sending me a pink slip. There were two pictures stuck together, and I was sure I was never meant to see the second one. I imagine a copy of that one had been sent to someone just like me. I realized then that I probably was the only one who could sit in a witness chair and tell my story to a jury and send him to a firing squad.
I knew I now had a target on my own back. I figured my only way out, the only way to square things with Mr. Green, was to take him with me. I knew he would be at the next hit to be sure thing went to his specifications.
This was an unusual hit, considering the way Mr. Green usually set things up. This hit was to take place at a funeral. How ironic this was until I found that second photo. It was then it hit me. I knew exactly who the second mark would be.
When the priest giving the eulogy said "Let us pray", I looked down at my cell phone and saw the reflection of the scopes on the roofs. Under the phone I held my ruger. I quickly pulled it out and shot the man in front of me in the back of the head. The next thing I did was take out the priest leading us in prayer, the one wearing Mr. Green' face, shooting him just to the left of his left eye. Then I began to feel the strangest sensation, as if I was floating in slow motion. Everything had taken on a red tint. I didn't know I was falling but I felt myself hit the ground. I could see someone taking the gun out of the other Green's hand, his robes covered in red.
Then there was death.
"Corporal"
"Aye, Sarge?"
"You bagging that one? Any I.D.?"
"No Sir."
"Tats?"
"A wolf's head."
"Hmm. A wolf's head? Back of the right hand?"
"Yes sir. That's right."
"The only time I've seen that was on Col. Green. I heard he went down in 'Nam! He was up for the Silver Star."
" Wonder what happened here. Who was that guy up on the podium? The priest giving the eulogy?"
"My guess is some patsy. I remember Col. Green. He was the one who started project P.A.T.I.E.N.C.E. Some black ops., spook kind of thing. He recruited a buddy of mine. I wonder if he had something going on here."
The End
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