| General Fiction posted September 5, 2018 | Chapters: |
...3 4 -5- 6... 
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More men are found to be eligible to join Baker.
A chapter in the book Baker's Dozen
Bauxers and Breefs
by Bill Schott
| Background Ben Baker, a low-level cabinet worker on the White House staff, has been sentenced to fight for his life in a northeastern forest. He must find and eliminate twelve others, before they kill him. |
FLASHBACK
Years before Ben Baker had been dropped into a wooded area in the northeast, the framework for this ordeal had been laid out in the humid, deadly fields of Vietnam.
North Vietnam DMZ 1973
POW interrogation
Two Viet Cong interrogators, two VC guards, and two American soldiers stood or kneeled in the center of an elevated grass hut. A captured American soldier, Corporal G.I. Joseph, crouched before a flimsy wooden table. His arms were tied together behind him and attached to his ankles. He was naked, other than an assembly of leaves woven on his head. Guards were spread eight feet apart, the width of the hut, while two interrogators sat in flimsy chairs on each side of the soldier. Directly in front of him was another soldier. He was dressed in a t-shirt and trousers. His name was First Lieutenant C.C. Connors.
An interrogator on his left spoke first, "Ban ten gi?"
Lt. Connors leaned in. "He asked your name, soldier."
"You speak their lingo, el tee?"
"Just answer, dipshit, before he kills you."
"Corporal Gregory Ira Joseph. United States Army. Serial number 37 --“
"Cut that bullshit, corporal," said the lieutenant. "Just your name. Now, which unit are you from?"
"Who's askin' questions, sir? You or these zips?"
The interrogator on the right asked, "Ong tu dau den?"
"He wants to know your unit."
"This is horse shit, Lieutenant. I ain't tellin' them nothin'!"
" You will soldier," said the officer.
"You're collaboratin' with the enemy, Lieutenant."
"Actually, Corporal, they're helping ME. I'm leaving this hole in one piece -- as a hero. Turds like you will end up here."
The corporal spit on the floor, "I'll eat fish heads and sit in a cage 'til we kill all these devils."
"No, Corporal," said the Lieutenant. "They've got a game for you to play. If you win, you go free."
"What game?"
Smiling, the company grade officer knelt down to the other man's level.
"They'll send you and a few other prisoners out with a bayonet or a machete to kill each other. The winner goes home with me."
"That some crazy VC game?" asked Joseph.
"Actually, it was my idea. We played something like it at the academy."
"You killed each other at the academy?"
"Not for real, Corporal Joseph. That's why it wasn't much fun. Here, the winning is real, and the losing is for keeps."
"You're bat shit crazy and a traitor, Lieutenant. I'll survive this and see you shot."
"I know I'll survive, soldier. My plans are to be a politician. I'm going keep this war going for twenty years."
"Why?!"
"Peace is for queers, Corporal."
Corporal Joseph hardened his expression. "I ain't tellin' them nothin' and I ain't playin' your friggin' game!"
The lieutenant sighed and stood. Nodding to the guards he said, "Lam ngon tay cua manh." (Do his finger.)
With that, the guards grabbed the corporal's hands and isolated his smallest finger. Pushing it down on a table, a knife point was placed above the quick on the nail and pressure applied. The corporal screamed and defecated.
The lieutenant kneeled in again. "That was a tiny point on a little spot, hero. Tell me everything you know, or even suspect, or they will make that pain seem like a feather tickle."
"Go to hell!"
"Okay Joseph," said Connors. "When they're done with you, you will have told them where everyone is and where you buried your pet hamster when you were ten years old."
Three hours of torture revealed nothing.
Finally, the lieutenant had them stop. "Anh ta khong biet ga ca."
(He doesn't know anything.)
The guards dragged the corporal out of the hut and threw him down into a rice paddy. A heavy object landed next to him wrapped in a sateen shirt. It was a bayonet.
"Len duong binh an," said the lieutenant. (Have a good journey.)
"Where do I go?" asked the weak and trembling corporal.
"Head south, soldier. In about an hour, you'll meet up with someone like yourself. He'll be expecting you. You'll kill him or he'll kill you. Whoever is still alive will get a nice cage to sit in and all the worms you can dig up."
"I'll find you lieutenant and you'll pay."
"You'll find me in the White House, Joseph. I'll be your damn President."
North Vietnam DMZ 1973
POW interrogation
Two Viet Cong interrogators, two VC guards, and two American soldiers stood or kneeled in the center of an elevated grass hut. A captured American soldier, Corporal G.I. Joseph, crouched before a flimsy wooden table. His arms were tied together behind him and attached to his ankles. He was naked, other than an assembly of leaves woven on his head. Guards were spread eight feet apart, the width of the hut, while two interrogators sat in flimsy chairs on each side of the soldier. Directly in front of him was another soldier. He was dressed in a t-shirt and trousers. His name was First Lieutenant C.C. Connors.
An interrogator on his left spoke first, "Ban ten gi?"
Lt. Connors leaned in. "He asked your name, soldier."
"You speak their lingo, el tee?"
"Just answer, dipshit, before he kills you."
"Corporal Gregory Ira Joseph. United States Army. Serial number 37 --“
"Cut that bullshit, corporal," said the lieutenant. "Just your name. Now, which unit are you from?"
"Who's askin' questions, sir? You or these zips?"
The interrogator on the right asked, "Ong tu dau den?"
"He wants to know your unit."
"This is horse shit, Lieutenant. I ain't tellin' them nothin'!"
" You will soldier," said the officer.
"You're collaboratin' with the enemy, Lieutenant."
"Actually, Corporal, they're helping ME. I'm leaving this hole in one piece -- as a hero. Turds like you will end up here."
The corporal spit on the floor, "I'll eat fish heads and sit in a cage 'til we kill all these devils."
"No, Corporal," said the Lieutenant. "They've got a game for you to play. If you win, you go free."
"What game?"
Smiling, the company grade officer knelt down to the other man's level.
"They'll send you and a few other prisoners out with a bayonet or a machete to kill each other. The winner goes home with me."
"That some crazy VC game?" asked Joseph.
"Actually, it was my idea. We played something like it at the academy."
"You killed each other at the academy?"
"Not for real, Corporal Joseph. That's why it wasn't much fun. Here, the winning is real, and the losing is for keeps."
"You're bat shit crazy and a traitor, Lieutenant. I'll survive this and see you shot."
"I know I'll survive, soldier. My plans are to be a politician. I'm going keep this war going for twenty years."
"Why?!"
"Peace is for queers, Corporal."
Corporal Joseph hardened his expression. "I ain't tellin' them nothin' and I ain't playin' your friggin' game!"
The lieutenant sighed and stood. Nodding to the guards he said, "Lam ngon tay cua manh." (Do his finger.)
With that, the guards grabbed the corporal's hands and isolated his smallest finger. Pushing it down on a table, a knife point was placed above the quick on the nail and pressure applied. The corporal screamed and defecated.
The lieutenant kneeled in again. "That was a tiny point on a little spot, hero. Tell me everything you know, or even suspect, or they will make that pain seem like a feather tickle."
"Go to hell!"
"Okay Joseph," said Connors. "When they're done with you, you will have told them where everyone is and where you buried your pet hamster when you were ten years old."
Three hours of torture revealed nothing.
Finally, the lieutenant had them stop. "Anh ta khong biet ga ca."
(He doesn't know anything.)
The guards dragged the corporal out of the hut and threw him down into a rice paddy. A heavy object landed next to him wrapped in a sateen shirt. It was a bayonet.
"Len duong binh an," said the lieutenant. (Have a good journey.)
"Where do I go?" asked the weak and trembling corporal.
"Head south, soldier. In about an hour, you'll meet up with someone like yourself. He'll be expecting you. You'll kill him or he'll kill you. Whoever is still alive will get a nice cage to sit in and all the worms you can dig up."
"I'll find you lieutenant and you'll pay."
"You'll find me in the White House, Joseph. I'll be your damn President."
=====================================================
PRESENT DAY
The President's Chief of Staff has a way of eliminating traitors to the president. He sends them on a fight or die, capture or kill mission where they will most likely fail. The participants are being added hourly.
"Orr! Do you think he knows?" asked B. B. Bauxers, Assistant to the Assistant Secretary of Agriculture.
"I hope not," replied the Assistant to the Assistant of the Communications Secretary.
The two men scurried down the hallway in the left wing of the White House. They were headed for a meeting with the Chief of Staff , C.C. Connors.
Reaching Connors' door, they met up with the Undersecretary of Cabinet Affairs, Rusty Pipes.
"How's it hangin', Orrin?" addressing the Communications Secretary.
"Give you a hint -- I lost a leg in Bosnia."
Both men began laughing as Bauxers stared blankly at Pipes.
"Why are we here?" he asked.
"Right to it, huh?" replied Pipes, half grinning as he reached back for the door knob. "Let's chat."
The three men entered the office and were startled to find two other men standing face to face. The Chief of Staff was holding a spoon in his right hand and running it down the left side of the other man's face. In profile, Connors looked like a skeleton with skin and muscle painted on his frame. His alopecia and sickly pale skin gave him the look of Death himself. He didn't really look like a man of seventy.
"Oh!" he said, smiling with a toothy grin that tightened sphincters all over Washington.
Addressing the nearer man, "You must be B.B. Bauxers."
"Orr Breefs," he corrected."
"Suddenly I'm thinking of dancing fruit," said Connors, continuing to grin as if practicing making his clenched teeth seem friendly.
Looking back to the other man, standing naked with a Colt 45 caliber pistol in his hand, he snapped his fingers. The man turned and walked to the far corner of the room and sat on the floor.
Returning his attention to the new guests, "You might recognize Mr. Post. He works for the Gazette."
Orrin Breefs did indeed recognize the man. He had passed some vital intelligence about the President's connection to a drug cartel in Mexico. There was no smoking gun, put some bodies piling up who MAY have been contract killings.
"I've never met Mr. -- er -- Post? Was it?" said Bauxers, lying with the grace of a barf bag.
Connors turned to face Bauxers. "Well, BB, here's the thing -- we have pictures."
"What do you want from us, Mr. Conners?"
For the next thirty minutes, the Chief of Staff told a story of ascension. It was his own trek from the killing fields of Vietnam, through the failed attempts running for the House of Representatives.
"You need balls, gentlemen. Balls, connections, spiel, and looks. If you're short one of those four elements, you'll need to use the others to your maximum advantage."
"What are you doing with Post?" asked Breefs.
"I'm considering sending him with you two on your trip," he replied.
Bauxers and Breefs gave each other a questioning stare.
"Yes! He'll go with you."
"Where are we go --"
"Please let me go!" said Post, suddenly crying and moving towards the group. It was now evident that he had several bruises on his ribs and chest. There were also dark rings under his eyes with dried blood under the left.
"Post!" said Connors, smiling, seeming unperturbed. Post returned to the corner.
"I have been demonstrating how to defend oneself with a spoon. Post has taken several jabs to the ribcage and abdomen. I even showed him how to dislodge an eye from its socket with a little pressure in the right area. We got it back in though.”
"What in the name of --"
Conners cut Breefs off with a raised hand.
"Look fellows. Rusty here is going to drive the three of you up north a ways. There's a government facility where Congressmen go to hunt and fish. There's a world class golf course, tennis courts, and hot and cold running influence peddling."
"We're going fishing?" asked Bauxers, trying to understand how this would be punishment.
"No, BB. You're going hunting."
"Orr! Do you think he knows?" asked B. B. Bauxers, Assistant to the Assistant Secretary of Agriculture.
"I hope not," replied the Assistant to the Assistant of the Communications Secretary.
The two men scurried down the hallway in the left wing of the White House. They were headed for a meeting with the Chief of Staff , C.C. Connors.
Reaching Connors' door, they met up with the Undersecretary of Cabinet Affairs, Rusty Pipes.
"How's it hangin', Orrin?" addressing the Communications Secretary.
"Give you a hint -- I lost a leg in Bosnia."
Both men began laughing as Bauxers stared blankly at Pipes.
"Why are we here?" he asked.
"Right to it, huh?" replied Pipes, half grinning as he reached back for the door knob. "Let's chat."
The three men entered the office and were startled to find two other men standing face to face. The Chief of Staff was holding a spoon in his right hand and running it down the left side of the other man's face. In profile, Connors looked like a skeleton with skin and muscle painted on his frame. His alopecia and sickly pale skin gave him the look of Death himself. He didn't really look like a man of seventy.
"Oh!" he said, smiling with a toothy grin that tightened sphincters all over Washington.
Addressing the nearer man, "You must be B.B. Bauxers."
"Orr Breefs," he corrected."
"Suddenly I'm thinking of dancing fruit," said Connors, continuing to grin as if practicing making his clenched teeth seem friendly.
Looking back to the other man, standing naked with a Colt 45 caliber pistol in his hand, he snapped his fingers. The man turned and walked to the far corner of the room and sat on the floor.
Returning his attention to the new guests, "You might recognize Mr. Post. He works for the Gazette."
Orrin Breefs did indeed recognize the man. He had passed some vital intelligence about the President's connection to a drug cartel in Mexico. There was no smoking gun, put some bodies piling up who MAY have been contract killings.
"I've never met Mr. -- er -- Post? Was it?" said Bauxers, lying with the grace of a barf bag.
Connors turned to face Bauxers. "Well, BB, here's the thing -- we have pictures."
"What do you want from us, Mr. Conners?"
For the next thirty minutes, the Chief of Staff told a story of ascension. It was his own trek from the killing fields of Vietnam, through the failed attempts running for the House of Representatives.
"You need balls, gentlemen. Balls, connections, spiel, and looks. If you're short one of those four elements, you'll need to use the others to your maximum advantage."
"What are you doing with Post?" asked Breefs.
"I'm considering sending him with you two on your trip," he replied.
Bauxers and Breefs gave each other a questioning stare.
"Yes! He'll go with you."
"Where are we go --"
"Please let me go!" said Post, suddenly crying and moving towards the group. It was now evident that he had several bruises on his ribs and chest. There were also dark rings under his eyes with dried blood under the left.
"Post!" said Connors, smiling, seeming unperturbed. Post returned to the corner.
"I have been demonstrating how to defend oneself with a spoon. Post has taken several jabs to the ribcage and abdomen. I even showed him how to dislodge an eye from its socket with a little pressure in the right area. We got it back in though.”
"What in the name of --"
Conners cut Breefs off with a raised hand.
"Look fellows. Rusty here is going to drive the three of you up north a ways. There's a government facility where Congressmen go to hunt and fish. There's a world class golf course, tennis courts, and hot and cold running influence peddling."
"We're going fishing?" asked Bauxers, trying to understand how this would be punishment.
"No, BB. You're going hunting."
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