I'll Talk

31.

I have time to get updates from TOM and the Hospital as we speed towards the safe house. The confiscated computer contained some interesting files, but mostly surveillance video of Team Five, indicating that they were gathering intel. When asked TOM replies in the negative about any other files that might point up the chain of command. Who are these guys working for or who hired them? And of course the bigger question, why? The Hospital reports that security has been assigned to Cap and the civilian. They also report that in cleaning Saunders’ room they found traces of dried blood on the bed frame and in the bathroom. They collected samples and await instructions authorizing lab work. I am putting the pieces of this new information together as one might work a jigsaw puzzle. I remember the swab sample and check my pocket to affirm its presence. We are passing the Hospital en route to the safe house. I give the sample to Drysdale and instruct him to deliver it and have the lab’s forensics run it along with the samples they have gathered. Also to check in with Cap, Old Floyd and Dr. Hamsten - in that order.

I drop him at the Hospital, reset the GPS for the quickest route to the safe house and power-up my com. Davis is pressing the perp fairly hard, telling him that they already have them on grand theft auto and fraud. He makes the next calculated move and asks if that is enough for one days work or if he would like to add a significant amount of emergency dental work to the list. I smile as I listen. Bad cop, using the threat of enhanced interrogation so early in the game!

“You can’t do that. I want a lawyer,” the perp whines, starting to sweat.

“Yes I can, yes I will and you don’t get a lawyer until you provide us with the information we want. Matter of fact, here is the deal: You give us the name of your handlers and you walk, no need for a lawyer …or a dentist.” Davis barks.

“I am going to give you five minutes to think it over.” I hear Davis leave the room, slam the door and walk towards the kitchen for water.

“Nice work,” I say, “you think he’ll take it?”

“I do, they’re bottom feeders, as low on the food-chain as you can get. They’ll sing, rat-out and run, hope whoever hired them never connects the dots.” Davis says. “Where are you?”

“Be there in five.”

Davis goes back into the interrogation room tapping Drysdale’s Louisville Slugger P89XL on the floor as he goes. The perp, his hands shackled to his chair behind him, has two options: Be a hero and bleed, or sing and run. He looks deep into Davis’s eyes and sees that this is no bluff, Subconsciously he licks his lips.

“Fuck you.”

Davis, instead of bashing the perp's teeth, slams the bat across the cheap wood table breaking it into several pieces. He repeats his kindling chops with loud and intimidating yells, the ‘kihap’ of the Samurai in battle. The perp is terrified at the performance grimacing with every chop. Suddenly Davis stops. He looks at the perp, smiles and once again leaves the room.

I arrive just as Davis makes his exit. Davis head points to the room where the other perp is being held. I walk in and see him shaking like a puppy dog passing peach pits.

“I’ll talk. Just keep that maniac outta here.”

Break a Leg

30.

Satisfied that the driver, by telling the truth, is probably innocent, I move towards the two, asking if they were aware of a call to move a chair-bound patient from Community General less than an hour ago. They driver responds that he heard the call on the radio but since it didn’t involve them, he paid little attention. I take a deep breath and ask the local officers to run them through the data base. I ask for the name of their supervisor and tell Drysdale to cut the snaps. 

The check comes back with a “both clean” response. I walk to the driver and read him and his partner the confessional version of their Miranda rights, apologizing for the mistaken identity and excessive use of force, explaining in the process the urgency and importance of our actions. They seem to understand and although visibly shaken, not particularly stirred. 

We have two options. One is to retrace our steps and hunt for clues and two is to press the pair currently in our custody. Wanting to cover all the bases I use my cell to call the supervisor of the ambulance company. We can do that on the move as the retrace will move us closer to the safe house simultaneously. 

I get the super on the line and apologize again for the interruption of their service but explain the bigger picture issue of national security. He reluctantly accepts the premise and says there was only one other call from Community General in the specific time frame and that they have completed the move and are currently on their way back to base, nothing unusual, status quo and ten-eight. I thank him and ask that he keep me informed should anything change.

Drysdale looks at me asking with his eyes what is next. 

I open the com and ask Davis the status of the two perps. 

“As requested, they are icing in adjacent rooms, waiting for your instructions on how to proceed.” 

“Have we any ID or info from TOM on the computer files?” I ask.

“Very little so far, looks like both of them had some inside help in cleaning their records, not a thing, no priors, no convictions, not even any parking tickets. And no tax records, no history of employment, no medical records, nothing.” 

“Cartel, mercenaries or CIA,” I suggest, “Any tats or anything on possession we can use?”

“Nothing.” 

“OK, we crapped out with the ambulance, pick the weaker looking one and start a GCBC play. Take it easy, nothing that will show our hand. Name, rank, social security number. And remember the better you are as the bad cop the more productive my good cop might be.” 

“Interesting role reversal, we’ll get started immediately.” Davis affirms. 

“We are twenty minutes out. Try to wrap your questioning up just as we arrive, keep your com open. I want to know where you left off as we arrive.” I say.

“These two are our only leads?” Davis asks.

“There are. The grab of Saunders was a professional operation. We need to know if they are related. Fast.” 

“Copy that. I am ready to start.”

“Break a leg Davis.” 

Snake Eyes

29.

Without hesitation I make the hard right onto the side street, trusting that Drysdale has already determined the risky move to be a necessary navigational tactic. He tells me to take a left at the next street and then a quick right. This maneuvering should put us in a position to meet the ambulance as it passes in about thirty seconds. Quickly I confirm their current position from our eyes in the sky. We are a go. We will intercept. 

We will have to take a few chances, make an assumption, and then roll the dice hoping like hell to get lucky. I ask traffic control to send local police backup to the intended intercept location, pull the rig into a blocking position in the middle of the road and flip on the Christmas lights. Drysdale, weapon out and up, starts walking in the direction of the ambulance, the only vehicle on the road and approaching fast. I do likewise, a few seconds behind and to his right. 

This could get ugly I think scanning for an exit strategy should the ambulance make a run for it. The ambulance is on us and brakes to a halt. In addition to the driver we can see one other person. Drysdale goes to the passenger side and I to the drivers. With my Glock making the official statement of intent I command them to put their hands on top of their heads and not to move a muscle. Carefully I open the door, make a quick visual assessment and pull the driver from the vehicle. I force him to the pavement and immobilize his hands with the plastic snap-ties. Drysdale has done likewise with the other and is walking him to where the driver lies kissing the asphalt. I tell Drysdale to stay put and watch the two as I inch towards the rear of the ambulance. 

“Come out of the rear door with your hands high,” I yell. 

Nothing. Nada. No sound. 

A local black and white screeches to a stop in front of our rig, essentially blocking traffic from both directions. The officers hustle to where Drysdale stands and assume secure positions acting as cover for my next move. 

“There isn’t anyone in there.” The driver yells. 

I look at him and consider if he might be lying. “You’re alone?” I ask.

“Yes” 

“Where was your last stop?”

“We were headed to Community General but called away at the last minute, and then re-routed to a pick up in Chester.”

I reach to open the dual rear-doors of the ambulance already knowing what I am about to find. 

No patient, no wheel-chair and definitely no Saunders. 

Snake Eyes. 

RIGHT HERE

28.

“We didn’t know how many hostiles were aboard,” Davis tries as his opening defense. 

I exhale audibly in a gesture of acknowledgement and frustration intended to spare him from a lecture in protocol application. 

“How did you get that intel so fast?” Davis asks.

“We are monitoring the local emergency frequency. Wasn’t too difficult to connect the dots, especially when the first responders reported that the scene looked like a para-military hit,” I say finishing with an “initial report is that it is a jacked rig with hot plates. What is your transport status, how many and what did you find in the van?”

Davis responds with a condensed report: “Two perps and a laptop, we are five from HQ.”

“Put them on ice, separated, and coordinate with TOM directly about transfer protocols for the laptops files. We are tracking Saunders.” I say.

“Roger. Good to have you back on board.”

I sign off with forced informality.

Drysdale updates his position at the Emergency Entrance. The hospital security team calls to alert us to the most recent video surveillance activity showing an unidentified male nurse escorting a patient in a wheel-chair. The video shows them getting into a contractor ambulance and leaving the premises just four minutes prior. They have no official records of any patient transfers including Saunders. 

“I’ll be there in five,” I tell Drysdale. 

The Emergency Entrance is at the rear of the building. I am there in three minutes and Drysdale hops in. I have initiated a local search for aerial recon on ambulance movement around the hospital in the last ten minutes. On the cell I call hospital security and provide as much information as necessary for them to add 24/7 security for Cap and the the civilian. They comply seemingly interested in their active duty role in all the drama. Drysdale pulls up the local GPS grid and we quickly determine the main arteries most likely taken by the ambulance, assuming they are planning a long-distance move. They could also have a local site, there is no way to tell at this point.

I consider the options: We can stay in the hunt and hope to get aerial assistance, head back to the safe house and initiate interrogation or split up and do both. Saunders is still the key so I decide to push the pace and press. I hit the gas, trying to assume the mind-set of a rogue kidnapping wheel-man in a stolen ambulance. He would play it safe, not wanting to attract police attention, and get out of sight asap. They may have even dumped the ambulance and switched vehicles by now. They had a five to ten minute head-start so it could either of those. I also consider if the two are related. Does the ambulance have intel on the van grab? My suspicion is that they are part of the same operation. If that is the case we are in a hostage stand-off, we have two of theirs and they one of ours. 

Ours however is a Queen, and theirs probably a pair of pawns.  

A voice breaks the radio silence alerting us that a contractor ambulance has been sighted heading west on Route 23, almost to the County Line. 

“Roger that Traffic Control, please keep us updated of changes in their position, we are closing.” 

Drysdale updates the GPS coordinates, says we are five minutes away from them, and…

“Quick, take a right here.”

Interrogation Will Tell

27.

Team Five is down to three, Davis, Neumann and Calahan. Davis does the math, a real-time inventory to determine their next move. Cap is down, Saunders missing, Drysdale partnered with Bogart and Bromden on his way back from the crash site cleanup. He opens his log book and calls Newmann from his lookout and Calahan from his bunk. He addresses them in a serious, precise manner. 

“This is an extract. Usually done with four, two per vehicle. We are going to have to do it with three. Let’s take a minute to review Live Extract Bravo protocol. Calahan will take the lead block, Neumann and I in the rear extract vehicle. One shot, one canister, tie and tag.” The two listen intently ‘seeing’ the operation in detailed steps as they listen for further instructions.

Davis continues: “We need them able to talk. Let’s assume there are four. They will roll out either from left or right side, probably two and two. I’ll take the starboard and Neumann the port side. Get them tied and into the follow vehicle as fast as possible. Calahan will provide cover. Once they are secure, Neumann will transport back as Calahan and I do a quick gear sweep. Do not attempt to remove them until we are back and able to assist.” 

Davis looks at his watch. “They should be coming around in ten minutes. Any questions?”

Both Neumann and Calahan take deep breaths but stay silent. They know the drill.

“Let’s get ready to roll, we go in five.” Davis stands and puts a clenched fist between them. His gesture is mirrored by the others in a short and symbolic ceremony of solidarity. 

“Show time.”

Calahan brings the first Expedition from the garage while placing his assault rifle on the passenger side. Newmann checks his weapon as they ease from the driveway ten meters behind. Davis sits shotgun with a grenade launcher. He is changing out the payload from explosive to smoke. The canister also contains a non-lethal dose of a chemical eye, nose and throat irritant. The flash, smoke and toxins all but paralyze anyone unfortunate enough for it to be used upon. They call them stingers. 

They round the first corner where Calahan pulls to the curb behind a Dodge SUV. From this position the van will pass the intersection at a T. With the engine running he reaches into his pack, pulls out the gas mask and slides it over his head. Newman finds a spot about four cars lengths behind. Neumann and Davis mask up. It is now wait and hope. Wait for the purps and hope there is limited civilian interference.

The wait is a short one. 

The van shows right on time. Both drivers check their sixes and ease into drive. The van passes the intersection and Calahan stomps it. Newmann follows a second later. Calahan hard lefts and is instantly in front of the van. Once centered he slams the brakes, sets park, grabs his rifle and paints a red dot on the van’s tinted windshield. Newman is a second behind but already on the rear bumper of the suddenly immobilized van. Davis jumps and takes his shot. It enters crashing the rear window and sending a blinding light into and then out of the van. Neumann moves quickly to the drivers side, weapon and snap-ties drawn. Davis tosses the launcher into the Expedition, grabs his rifle, and moves to the van’s right side in five purposeful, graceful strides. 

The drivers side door opens with a creak, smoke pushing the driver to the street as he coughs. He is met by Neumann and hog-tied. The passenger door opens next showing another coughing perp trying to decide whether to cover his eyes or raise his hands. Davis ties. Davis is waiting for the next hitter as the pair are escorted to the follow vehicle for transport. Nothing. No movement. Davis inches closer trying to see through the smoke. It will completely dissipate in another minute or so, but the chances are good that someone, a neighbor, or the driver of the Buick Regal that passed them, have called 911. They have to clear the area. Davis pulls the side door of the van open. Nobody left. He signals for Calahan to transport giving the ‘clear’ sign. He steps into the van and sees a low-budget surveillance system tethered to a laptop. He grabs the computer and heads to the lead vehicle. As he turns the corner an Emergency Response vehicle screams towards the site. 

Davis is already thinking that for just two guys Live Extract Bravo might have been overkill. 

Interrogation will tell, he thinks as his cell phone indicates an inbound from Bogart. 

We Need Them Alive

26.

I carefully insert my ear piece as Drysdale does likewise. He initiates the com check with the base unit in the safe house. We are wired. We are informed that the van license plate check has come up empty, but analysis indicates a high probability that the plates are stolen, and most likely the van as well. We are ten minutes from the hospital.

My plan, as I share with Drysdale, is to play our visit as a routine check on injured company personnel. We will ask for Dr. Hamsten, gather medical prognosis on the three in order of importance, Saunders, Cap and the driver of the vehicle. We will then ask for his assistance in the quick transfer of Saunders using the guise of needing a local specialist for additional critical and immediate examination. Follow my lead and keep your ID visible. Drysdale nods in the affirmative. 

There is no security gate when we arrive so we park in a Load/Unload zone close to the main entrance. We walk through the automated glass doors and straight to the front desk where we queue up behind an elderly woman. As we wait I look around and spot a Doctor. 

“Excuse me Doctor I am looking for Dr. Hamsten, if you could help us quickly locate him that would be helpful.” The Doctor glances at my ID, hung from my neck, mutters a “Sure” and walks around the circular front admissions area to a computer. He enters a few keystrokes and looks up over his trifocals to announce, “Funny, he has checked out early for the day.” 

“Could you tell us where Saunders, the emergency airlift patient from this morning is?”

He returns to the computer and says ICU fifth floor, room eight. 

“Please call Security and have them meet us there in three minutes.”

He looks again at our credentials and picks up a phone. We are already half-way to the elevator as we hear him affirm that Security is on the way. 

As always the wait for the elevator to close and initiate its lift causes me to think that we could have taken the five flights of stairs faster. I glance at Drysdale as we ascend still assessing his skill. The elevator doors open revealing a sign indicating Intensive Care. Authorized Only personnel are required to check in. A sign tells us that rooms one to nine are to the left, and rooms ten through nineteen are to the right. We head left bypassing the check-in desk and the flustered receptionist. I can hear from behind us as Security has also arrived.

We get to room eight and enter. 

The room is empty. 

As we scramble for immediate clues, two security officers enter in sloppy rent-a-cop uniforms. 

“Bed still warm.” Drysdale calls.

I face the security officers and command, “Lock the Hospital down NOW. Nobody leaves.” Turning to Drysdale, “Get to the Emergency Entrance.” And finally, via com to Safe House, “Saunders has been grabbed, do we have access to security cameras in a five block radius of the hospital?” 

I start to run towards the main entrance when I see what appears to be a drop of blood on the linoleum floor. I grab a tissue from the bedside stand and swab it, tucking the tissue into my pocket. Through the com I learn they are checking for local surveillance cameras and to stand by. I stop. I run the files. Time to gamble. 

“Put Davis on.” Pause.

“Davis”

“Take the van.” Pause.

“That a roger and a wilco.”

“Davis.”

“Sir?” Pause.

“We need them alive.” 

Bring the Heat

25.

We touch down, taxi briefly and come to complete stop. The Gulfstream’s door opens with a familiar woosh, releasing the pressure built of almost four hours at five hundred mph. Time, speed and distance. The attendant escorts me from my work station to the door, parting company with a crisp salute and cordial farewell. Waiting at the bottom of the stairs is a black Ford Expedition Max. Next to the driver side door stands a young man, maybe twenty-eight or twenty-nine, in a LA Dodgers ball cap and aviator shades. He is holding the keys to the rig that needs no introduction as a police vehicle. 

“Even without the CIA or FBI logo, this baby shouts that the cops are here.” I quip. I introduce myself and take the keys. “Hop in let’s go.”

We squeal a one-eighty and head towards a gate I assume is the exit. I look to the computer and program the GPS coordinates. I am informed that the destination is thirty-nine minutes away via the displayed suggested route. 

“You are part of Team Five?” I ask the kid with as calm a demeanor as I can muster. 

“Yes sir, they call me Drysdale, sir.” I look at his cap and smile recognizing and appreciating the nuance. 

“Do we have any updates? Particularly regarding Saunders, or the possibility that your cover is blown?” 

“Not on Saunders, she is recuperating in post op. We have noticed what appears to be a surveillance van circling the safe house at fairly regular intervals. Dark tinted windows and obscured license plates, hard to ID. But we have some video that is in the process of being analyzed.” 

“How far from the Hospital is the Safe House.”

“About thirty miles. Took me 27:43 to get here.” He consulted his watch for the precision time in transit answer. “They are very similar in distance from the Safe House.”

“Davis is point?”

“Yes, sir, a very capable leader. The rest of us are in good shape.” 

“Is there a communications package in the back?”

“Yes sir.”

“Can you get to it as we move?”

“I can, sir.”

He releases himself from the harness as instantly verified by the sound of an elevator bell from the console. He climbs over the passenger seat, removes the rear cushion and enters a four digit code to the security box built-in below the rear compartment seats. 

“Drysdale.”

“Sir?”

“I’ll take a Glock Nine and two fifteen round clips while you’re there.”

“Yes. sir.” 

“Drysdale. Can I assume that you are carrying one as well.”

“You can and I am, sir. That is how I got the nickname.”

Descending Eagle

24.

With two of the three done, a delicious fast-food treat and a liter of water, I recline the seat to an almost horizontal level. The third is rest. I close my eyes but they refuse to stay shut. Too much to consider and too little time. The attendant has announced the updated arrival time to be less an hour. 

This will be the quintessential power nap, a necessity because at some point the effects of sleeplessness will manifest in the form of an error in judgment, a missed opportunity or a physical failure to perform. None of those are options. I take a deep breath and lower the curtains over my eyes on the exhale. This forced relaxation technique involves what is known as counting breaths. It serves a dual purpose of calming an imbalanced flow of hormones aroused by the external circumstances and forcing the body into a relaxed state. We have been trained to still the mind in the heat of battle, this tactic being one practiced and perfected under enormous duress. As good as I should be at it by now, the first few attempts always fail. It takes four or five efforts, returning to the start after each lesson, to reach the goal. I recognize success when two seemingly unrelated concepts appear on the heads-up display of my subconsciousness. 

Gratitude and forgiveness.

I feel a wave of respect, an almost angelic emotional appreciation of the here and now, no matter how dire, dangerous or disgusting it may be. This is my choice, my challenge and my salvation. I am grateful for the opportunity to serve in this capacity. I am honored by the trust that highly influential people, organizations and entire administrations have provided. I recognize that I am one of a handful of people currently walking the planet with the skill, experience, talent, gumption and desire to do this. I reaffirm the belief that while this line of work has a dark side, an underbelly of potential corruption, greed, deceit and can be profoundly immoral, I wear the white hat of justice and peace. In this I find solace, comfort and inspiration. Somebody has to stand up to terror, or we all suffer the ravages of tyranny and enslavement. I recall a powerful statement replayed on yesterday's news about how “Right Matters.” It does. 

The second element is forgiveness. I am breathing smoothly now, deeply and calm. I send awareness to my feet, relaxing them well past ordinary levels. I bring the focus up my body, feeling ankles, knees, glutes, quads and hamstrings, all still in recovery mode from the aborted hill repeat session. I feel my heartbeat and lungs expand. I let go of the stress I hold in my shoulders and neck. It occurs to me that no sentient being could remain agitated or angry in this condition. Let it go. Relax. Forgive. Forgive everyone. Forgive betrayal. Forgive the ignorance. Forgive the racism. Forgive the fraud. Forgive the violence. Forgive yourself for your non-forgiveness tendencies. This is not about revenge. 

The exercise has taken me to a place of silver repose. I feel as an eagle might soaring effortlessly with gentle thermals, lost in the bliss of a moving canvass painted with peace, truth and beauty. I see verdant fields, mountains of snow and rivers hurrying downstream. I see my brothers and sisters. And then a fire. I see her face.

TOM crashes the vision with a jarring crackle of distorted urgency. 

“We have an update from County General.” TOM announces, “Cap is critical, massive head trauma, coup-countercoup diffuse axonal from impact. He remains in a coma. Saunders is in post-op, fractured acetabulofemora joint and hip disambiguation. She will be fine but we need to get her to a secure location and debrief. Davis has the Team Five at the safe house, he thinks they are under surveillance. There is significant International chatter of strike. It appears we have might have been caught napping” 

“Again.” I say, unable to resist the irony. 

“Fast rope this Bogart. A fully prepped vehicle will meet you upon landing, GPS set. Get Saunders out and get her talking. We need some answers. Quick.”

“I will do my best sir.”

“We are grateful to have you on our side. Ask no permission, we will beg forgiveness afterwords.” 

“Roger that sir.”

I see the planets in perfect alignment as the eagle begins his descent. 

A Single Cannoli

23. 

Tilting upwards I close my eyes and relax into the headrest. A thousand questions swirl in my mind like a desert dust-devil. In an attempt to categorize the intel into manageable sub-sets I choose the usual approach: Two columns, one with the header ‘What we do know” and the other “What we don’t know.” The latter fills the page instantly. 

The imbalance prompts an inquiry. I begin with the basics, columns A + B. We know that cell-networks are the life-blood of insurgents. We know that Team Five’s mission was to plant Saunders into deep cover with an insurgent cell. Which one? What intel does Five have on cell specifics? Does the imminent time frame indicate continued propaganda or terrorism? Where do the dots of the aircraft build-up point? Is this politically motivated or just a business transaction? 

TOM is right. The first order is to debrief Saunders and see what she knows. 

I rub my eyes with the intention of taking a break. It has long been my experience that answers or solutions are often formed when ‘walking away’ from the core issue. Immediately I recognize I am now dealing with the big three: I am tired, hungry and thirsty. Multi-tasking the response I open the tan cardboard box, peek inside, and smile. 

Somebody has done their homework. With great ceremony I cradle the tuna sandwich and admire its perfection, swatting away the notion that the seedy whole-wheat bread might be tastier lightly toasted. As I take the delightful first bite I see in the box three thick green dolmas lined up like sea lions sunbathing on a rock. I savor the sandwich but can’t help but imagine the eggplant, zucchini, peppers and olive about to follow. Absorbed in this blissful Mediterranean gourmet moment I reach to inspect the thin white pastry wrapping that hides dessert. I coyly do so with one finger to delay the gratification. There she sits. A single cannoli. 

I press the service button and the attendant appears as if I had rubbed the side of an Arabian brass lamp. 

“Sir?”

“Would the possibility exist that the galley holds a small pot of coffee?”

“Cream and sugar sir?”

This is Not a Drill

22.

One last snapshot and we trot the short distance between the maneuverability of the chopper and the speed of the Gulfstream G200. She can cruise at 450 knots with range of 3K, or non-stop anywhere on the Atlantic to anywhere on the Pacific in less than four hours. She is pointed west into a light breeze as I climb the five steps into her sleek fuselage. 

I am invited to sit in the operations section, fore and port side by an attendant wearing a dark blue flight-suit. I recognize the patch over his left breast, an eagle toting lightening bolts of missile tipped arrows in both talons as those of PATRON 12. He advises me to buckle up for take-off and quickly disappears. I click into the harness as the g-force pins me to the back of the seat fabric, a sensation that I have always enjoyed. Inside of a minute I can tell by the climb rate were are at altitude, leveling off. The attendant returns, asks if I need food or water and hands me a remote control unit for the TV monitor opening on the bulkhead in front of me. A headset appears from the side storage compartment and a desktop slides into place perfectly positioned above my knees. The attendant places a cardboard box on the desktop along with a bottle of ‘smart’ water, points to a button labeled ‘service’ and pulls a curtain to provide a private, secure environment. Being the only passenger on the flight I am a little surprised at the level of security. I push the power-up icon of the remote unit and open the bottle of smart water. 

In my headset I hear TOM in a monotone Churchill-esque narration cut right to the chase: “These are the latest satellite images of Navy and Marine facilities in Pensacola, Barksdale and Pendleton. You will see an interesting commonality in each recon photo.” I strain to focus as the images are placed side by side on the screen. “Correct,” he continues, giving me credit for unraveling the mystery prior to being told, “there is a far greater than normal line of assault aircraft assembled and apparently ready for deployment.” 

“Not sure I understand, sir”

“They are not part of any advance directive. There is no active situation, no emergency response and nothing to suggest a pre-emptive build up scenario.” 

“That is a lot of firepower centered in three locations, all on the Southern border, with no administrative knowledge.” 

“Quite so.” 

The screen images are replaced by three others of similar resolution obviously taken on the same satellite pass as the first. TOM identifies them as Cuba, Venezuela and Guadalajara, Mexico. TOM suggests that it is odd that these three have an equal number of aircraft assembled and under flimsy camouflage as the US bases. 

“Chatter is suggesting something in the works, but we think this buildup of activity is a misdirect. International drug trade is the obvious and easiest assumption. This is where they want us to look.”

I am trying to keep up, wondering who ‘they’ are, scratching notes on the tabletop with a mechanical pencil and recalling the text message highlighting a top priority insurgency with Saunders as point of contact, when another image comes on the screen. It is also a satellite image. There is an old truck burning, a fire truck en-route and thermal images of what appears to be a small group of what? scouts, soldiers, mercenaries? All seemingly in emergency response mode. Two of them are down, as a chopper enters the scene from the south. 

Close-ups appear on the screen of Cap, Saunders and Davis. 

“They were assigned to infiltrate a suspicious insurgent group, Saunders being inserted as deep cover. They were either ambushed or victims of an extremely unlucky accident.” 

“Cap and Saunders are in County General Hospital, he for life-threatening head trauma and she for a hip fracture and internal injuries. These as a result of a vehicular collusion with the truck you see in flames. The driver appears to be an unwitting civilian, but that may be a cover as well. As you know Davis is now leading the remaining company to our base location.”

“We think there is a larger strategy involved with a significantly more valuable target. And we obviously have a mole somewhere, hence the joint operation.”

“Get to Saunders and debrief with as much precaution as you can. Our contact at the hospital is a Dr. Hamsten. He can be trusted to level four. Get his updated prognosis and get Saunders out as quickly as possible. If this was indeed just a stroke of bad luck, her cover remains intact.” 

TOM continues, “Once you have Saunders get to the rendezvous location and regroup with the team and Davis.”

There is a pause.

“The clock is running on this one, until we have additional intel the assumption is that aggression of some sort is imminent.” 

Another pause.

“Bogart?”

“Yes sir?”

“This is not a drill.”

Superman's Mortality

21.

A small but violent thermal shakes me back. I twist left to see Jules responding calmly to the sudden blast of invisible wind. She wears a face of complete control and confidence, the exact visage of how I have long remembered her. Satisfied with the situation she turns to meet my gaze.

“We’re thirty-three minutes out, there is water under the seat and you look like you could use a nap. I’ll try to keep her steady.”

“Yeah, thanks, I guess I drifted off a little, sorry.” 

“You OK?”

“Trying, unsuccessfully for now, to connect some historical dots and come up with a solution and a win/win strategy to move forward. But yeah, I’m OK, thanks.”

“If it helps any, your reputation is legendary with the company. TOM will candidly tell anyone who asks that you are the top gun. It that is one of your dots, you should consider erasing it.”

I look at her with non-judgmental empathy and immediately lie, “For once, ego isn’t a part of it. Might actually be the opposite, a little doubt, some unfamiliar fears and an altogether new definition of purpose and meaning. Things are changing fast.”

“Are you feeling your mortality Superman?”

I look at her. She holds my eyes unblinkingly. She knows me too well to consider a bluff. I wonder if she wants to be soft and supportive or hard and professional. Completely unsure of how to respond I feel saved when a familiar voice crackles through the silence with an Alpha code transponder open. 

“Bravo Hotel Five, this is Tango Oscar Mike do you read?”

“Bravo Five, we copy Tango Mike, go ahead.”

“Please advise passenger to review operation file transmitting now.” 

“Copy Tango.”

“Tango out.”

Less than five seconds after the ‘transmitting now’ update I feel the phone vibrate in my left front pocket. The digital ETA display on the choppers dash reads 11:47:02. As much as I want to extend the conversation with Jules, perhaps even share my vulnerabilities and building insecurities, I know that this secure transmission has automatic delete encryption. From the time file is opened I have four minutes to scan, review and mentally file the communication. 

Jules begins initial descent as I note the time on my phone and open the file. I see the bold first, as intended:

IMMEDIATE ACTION REQUIRED.

TOP PRIORITY.

COUNTER INSURGENCY. 

POC SAUNDERS. 

Julie sets the bird down with elegant grace and fluidity. We are thirty feet from the Gulfstream. It is ready for take-off. A crew member is running towards us to assist. 

I look at Julie. She is solid, staid and steady. I don’t know what to say. 

“Good luck Bogie.”

I start to stammer something but she cuts me off extending her arm for a fist bump.

“It’ll be OK.”

“Yeah.” I say, meeting her halfway.

“And Bogie.”

I tilt my head in acknowledgement.

“We all feel that way.”

You Walked In

20.

We ride in silence. Anything conversationally deeper than our casual opening greetings, exchange of pertinent information and updated situation reports would include the emotional unease of the past. I am not ready to go there, and judging from her silent focus on the task at hand, neither is she. I do however drift into a still and reflective state, partially to relax and partially to reflect. 

Her innocent question: “Are you two still at it?” has exposed my weakness, pouring a truck-load of sea-salt into the emotional wounds of the past quarter of a century. I try once again to appease the relentless proddings of guilt as the retrospective replay of events grinds away in my mind. This should be something that I, we, have resolved. Resolved completely and long ago. The simple fact that I continue to struggle with it illustrates the depth of its insidiousness. Why I cannot let it go, set it free and move on with the lesson as a learning experience, haunts me to this very day. It is the demon that accompanies every trip I take, every move I make. 

Davis and I go way back. We played High School football together. He the star pass catcher always on the receiving end of my often inaccurate spirals. He the top student in the class as I worked my tail off to be number two. He the handsome and popular kid with the head cheerleader on his arm. His Dad bought him the ’65 Mustang as I worked weekends to repay Mom for my ancient VW Bug. 

Despite the almost comical differences between us, we nonetheless developed a healthy rivalry that pushed us to strive for excellence and achievement. We won a lot of games and set a lot of records as well as grading out at the very top of the class when scholastic aptitude testing. It seemed a natural progression when both West Point, Annapolis and the Air Force Academy came knocking at graduation. After all there were quotas to fill and officers required. 

It became quickly apparent that our world was no longer solely about football, girls and cars. Our responsibilities took a quantum leap towards accelerated maturity and dedication to a code, the not-so-subtle shift in attitude that comes with becoming a warrior. Our rivalry continued as we learned, studied and practiced individual improvement and coordinated teamwork. In the classroom, on the field, simulated and real, we began to feel with every living cell, the power and potential contained in a totally focused, committed and empowered human fighting machine.  There were times when we confessed to each other that it was getting a little scary, almost too hard to handle. Our commitment to each other was to never allow this secret to leak. 

We made it through and were eventually assigned to lead our enlisted brothers into battle against an opponent that had for a decade demonstrated an even greater degree of courage in defending their homeland against foreign aggression. With perhaps more destiny than irony we both decided that our talents pointed in the direction of volunteering for special assignment into the elite fighting units known for being ‘the best of the best.’ 

And another round of competition began, this time with a significantly reduced margin of error. 

As if the demands of calibrated intensity, the endless testing and training, the relentless stresses placed upon our emotional, physical and intellectual capabilities wasn’t enough, as the world stood at the crossroads of global conflict with both sides armed with enough nuclear firepower to eradicate the entire population, into this scene of personal growth and worldwide drama…

You walked in. 

Still At It

19.

The sudden change of light from parking garage darkness to the unfiltered sunlight of the rooftop is dramatic. I consider the obvious solution but decide to wait till airborne. The chopper’s starboard side door is already open as I arrive, tossing in the pack, settling into my set and reaching for the headset. I glance at the pilot and see Julie smiling at me. 

“Long time Bogie. How are ya?” With syncopated fluidity she lifts the bird as my door seals closed. In the headset I can now hear the two-way conversation between pilot and ground control, the all-clear, wind direction, flight plan and estimated time of arrival. I wait until the exchange ends and look at her. Even with her helmet concealing most of her face, her eyes and smile have enough wattage to light a small stadium.

I raise my helmet mic with blatant symbolism and return her initial question. “Hello Jules, ready and willing. Seattle around ’94 wasn’t it?” 

“’93 but who’s counting?” As she speaks she scans her field of view and I do likewise. Unlimited visibility and following winds. She reaches up to make a small adjustment to the tail pitch and I notice her ring finger is bare. There is however a tan line suggesting that once there was a band but recently removed. She notices my notice. 

“Any intel on the situation?” I ask, shaking myself back to the urgent reality of the present tense. 

“Only that a Gulfstream is fueling and scrambling a crew.” 

“But I also got wind of Team Six in a mixer with civilians and that Cap and Saunders are in ER. That is all I know, sorry.” 

“That’s plenty, thanks.” I plead. 

“Oh, and one more thing.”

I look over at her with raised brows. 

“Davis has the con.” 

“Yes I know. TOM advised me to get to HQ pronto and to cram all the diplomacy I could fit in my pack.”

“Are you two still at it?”

I try a coy grin, not wanting to play the victim, but knowing that she had a major role in the back-story.

“When weren’t we?” 

4Runner Ruby

18.

I take the key fob from the pack’s zippered front pouch and press the keyless remote system button. I now appreciate the effort it took several months ago to program a second press to start the engine and open the driver side door. This, as they say, isn’t your grandmother’s Toyota 4Runner. 

We, Ruby the Toyota and I, are off. She is so intuitively dialed-in that by the first interaction we have displayed GPS coordinates and three choices for fastest route to destination as determined by local traffic, road construction and any number of other circumstances, such as number of traffic cams and proximity to police radar systems along the twenty-five miles from current location to destination. I use the system to update my ETA to HQ of twenty-four minutes. They reply with a return code of “Roger, bird is fueling.” 

I can feel the adrenalin flowing. Cars, trucks, buses, a couple of kids on BMX bikes all share this stretch of road. The goal of speed is essential, but nowhere near the responsibility of connecting the dots between the current location and that of its termination, without incident. I assume the immediate challenge of keeping my presence in hyper-aware mode. A chore made exponentially more difficult when extended to the others along this path. Every driver in every car. All the kids on their bikes and each inch of every mile. This includes - demands - the skill of anticipation. A prescience of the actions of others, finding the flow in one’s self and the supporting cast in this scene, one that now includes a purpose and a running clock. Relax, watch, flow, anticipate. 

I take an inventory of myself, my emotions, my status as we slide through a yellow light at 60. A bored gentleman, real-estate salesman or CPA I guess, follows Ruby through the intersection with his eyes reddened with apathetic boredom. I wonder if he wonders. Ruby beeps an update showing a traffic bottle-neck a mile ahead and recommends an immediate right onto an arterial side street. I have ten seconds to react and respond. As I move to the right lane for the turn I see a woman talking on a cell phone about the cross the intersection from the opposite direction. I can brake, cut her off or continue on and take the next street. I continue on, passing her as she trades cellular gossip totally oblivious of her physical reality. 

We update HQ to an eleven minute arrival. Roger Bogart is the two-word coded response, followed by their update of bird ready for flight. 

I feel comfortable enough to multitask a review of the next few steps. Have ID ready at the gate, drop Ruby in the upper parking lot, grab the field bag from the hidden storage locker under the spare tire, leave the key fob on the front seat, and trot to the bird. Make it look like this was all a piece of cake. 

And should the chopper pilot be one of the regulars, make him think that we got this under complete control. Inspire confidence in others I recall once telling Davis. 

I take the final right turn into the lot of a very pedestrian looking ten-story building. There is a medium sized, nondescript concrete sign welcoming visitors to Petersen Controls with a sub identifier as Petersen Controls being an AMBRIT COMPANY. 

I flash high-beams at the security guard and stop briefly as he raises the gate. I reach for my ID but he gives me the go-ahead with a chin jerk and nod. We spiral up the ten floors with rubber screeching. I see the parking spot and dive in. Grabbing the pack and tossing the keys on the seat I compliment Ruby on her skill and grace under fire. 

Softly the horn sounds twice in reciprocal appreciation. 

Hill Repeats

17.

We are about to finish the last of our ten hill repeats. The nine have been a challenging mixture of intensity, elevation gain and endurance. The key focus of the drill is to build confidence in one’s ability to endure. I might have used a dozen variations of ‘relax your focus into the reality of the present moment’ theme. We stand at the bottom of the hill in frantic recovery, gulping air as a dog might lap water after a long dry spell. I can feel the effort my heart is making to keep adequate blood flow surging to stressed muscles and depleted organs. Its rate might be within a beat or two of max. No wonder they call these Hell repeats.

My watch vibrates indicating an inbound call. As I glance I see it is almost time to begin the final rep.

“Last one, I gotta call, so I owe ya one. Ready in 3..2..1..GO.”

There are several guffaws as I am accused of subterfuge, a cheap excuse to bail on the last effort. In response I put both hands up, palms facing outward in the signal that, although humorous, the accusations are blatantly false.

The group turns to attack the hill, all with fingers on chronometers to time their tenth lap. I return to my backpack, fish my water bottle and fumble for the phone. I enter the code and hear TOM say, “We have a situation.” Pause.

“There is a local bird waiting. It will take you to the airstrip where we will scramble Gulfstream 6. I will provide details and objectives once you are in the air.”

“Copy that sir.”

“Oh, and Bogart,”

“Yes sir?”

“Be advised that you will be assisting Davis on this mission. Please be sure to pack sufficient tact and additional diplomacy will you?”

“Yes sir, not a problem, plenty of room sir.”

“Get going, we’ll talk soon.”

I put the phone back in my pack and hear the sounds of the return portion of the tenth repeated out and back. They are cheering the group effort, proud and pleased. I walk towards them and make the announcement that I am awed at the group performance and how honored I am to be a part of this exceptional collection of individuals. There is a collective hurrah.

“But…I gotta go, and I am not sure when I will be back. In that interim Duke will assume responsibilities as my proxy. Keep your cover and continue your practice. I hope to be back soon. Good luck.”

The silence is as think as cold clover honey as I turn to go. Grabbing my backpack and running down the hill towards my rig, I detail the outline of my next few moves. Get to HQ fast, grab the road pack, get to rooftop and on the bird, forty-five minutes to the strip and...

…Davis?

As Time Goes By

16.

TOM is the acronym long used by the score of operatives under his complete command, The Old Man, where T is pronounced Thee, rather than the softer colloquial version. The connotation is that there is only one. Legend has it that he has been in his omnipotent position since the ignoble quasi-ending of the Korean conflict. Nobody really knows but the power he wields and the connections established make him not only their unquestioned leader but most valuable resource as well. Taking a circumstance up the chain of command to the height of TOM meant, unmistakably, that a good amount of shit has hit the propellers at full power. It was their equivalent of a code red, five-alarm SOS.

Davis’ phone vibrates once.

“Sir, we have a situation.”

“It would seem that you do,” TOM calmly replies. “We have the hospital contained, they are conducting Diffuse Axonal Injury testing using computer tomography as we speak. Our cover is intact. So far. What is your status?”

“Saunders is sedated under general anesthesia with what appears to be a dislocated hip and internal injuries. She has lost a lot of blood. Local Fire & Rescue just left, truck fire contained. It is our understanding that the chopper will return for Saunders in,” he looks at his watch, “approximately eight minutes. All other personnel remain operational.”

“You are a team of army reserves on a covert training exercise. That is your cover. We have complete cooperation from the local agencies. Be prepared to load Saunders to the chopper and then continue to the original base location and await further instructions. I am sending Bogart to clean up.”

“Yes sir.”

“And Davis,” TOM adds matter-of-factly, “Nice work.”

“Thank you sir.”

Davis terminates the communication and relays the improvised directive to the team. As they prep Saunders for transport he wonders why TOM would send in, of all people, Bogart as fixer.

His internal jukebox is playing a scratchy As Time Goes By.

May One

15.

Even a director with entry level visual skills would love this, thinks Davis as they pull the inanimate Saunders fully into the brush just as the fire truck rounds the corner. As much as he would love to yell ‘cut and wrap’ their work is a long way from done. 

He looks opposite the road to see if the two others are also safely concealed and considers the odds - and in turn his response - should one of the first responders find the cell phone as it lays in the road contrasted as a lump of coal might on a field of fresh snow. 

The three firefighters waste no time in extinguishing the truck fire. Davis takes advantage of the commotion to fish his cell from his backpack and hit speed-dial number one. He enters the text: May One. He checks Saunders’ condition and, satisfied, returns his focus to the situation. The fire contained, two of the responders begin clean-up as the third is taking field notes. He is looking around putting pieces of the puzzle together, looking, thinking, writing.  “He is going to find the cell phone,” thinks Davis.

From their camouflaged cover Davis can hear the fire truck radio, a loud cacophony of static and distortion. The responder HAS to be connecting the dots between the truck, the fire and the obvious absence of a driver or any casual clue; skid marks in the dirt, broken whiskey bottles, blood. He is now looking in the brush walking directly towards them, maybe ten meters away. The only thing between them is the phone and a lifetime’s worth of karma. 

Davis hears the radio screech alerting the fire truck with updated info: “Unit 3 we have been alerted that driver of the vehicle, a dog and an unknown male have been airlifted to Community General.” The responder stops to listen less than three steps from their position. He considers the intel and looks back at the truck. In doing so he turns his body one hundred eighty degrees missing the cell phone visual. He returns to the truck, grabs the mic and announces that the site is secure and that he copies the updated info. He finishes with a returning to base sign-off. 

Davis releases the breath he has been holding and sighs as the truck departs the area, crushing the cell phone under its massive red load as it slowly rumbles home. 

Davis feels the buzz of his phone. 

Caller id: TOM. 

Middle of the Road

14.1

The last thing she hears is Davis telling her not to fight it. 

The pain emulating, as far as she can tell, from her left side feels worse than anything she can remember. Worse than basic, worse than the drills and tests specifically designed to increase ones tolerance for suffering, worse than her pair of broken arms and worse even, and she feels herself slightly giggle, than that root canal or even the birth of her daughter. 

“This is a sonofabitch.” 

She is drifting past silent clouds, falling into a funneled darkness of synthetic distraction. Her senses are rapidly numbing as she fights to stay with the task at hand. She is torn between the responsibilities of her position and her deep, cellular need to escape the intense physical agony. There is also a spiritual component at play, a light shinning way to the port-side periphery attracting her attention as she digs her fingers into the dirt to stay grounded. ’Not yet, not now,’ she hears herself command, ‘we aren’t done here.’

Davis looks at his watch. With Cap, Old Floyd and Earl aboard the chopper heading towards the emergency facility, he estimates the return time to be less than twenty minutes. That, assuming everything goes smoothly. There would be complications, questions. Questions with dubious answers coming from a seriously injured civilian in army fatigues without id, numb from morphine and suffering from head and internal trauma. Davis would have to report to TOM. Quickly. 

Team Five consisted of seven highly trained and capable individuals. Cap and Saunders, running the point at the time of the incident, are down, one out of commission and the other about to join. Davis is now in command of the remaining five. The squad now consists of himself, specialists in communications, munitions, the EMT, and the new kid, young, raw, inexperienced, full of piss and vinegar, the basic grunt. 

The sirens announce with piercing emphasis that they are about to enter the picture. 

“Clean up fast and evacuate the scene,” Davis yells. “Get into the bush, and don’t move till I give the all-clear. Bryant give me a hand.” 

The communications officer Bryant scrambles to assist in the dragging of Saunders, now untethered from the ground, into the camouflage of thick Oregon Grape, Surge Laurel, Western Red Cedar and young hemlock. The others quickly do the same into the opposite side of the gravel road leaving Old Floyd’s smoldering pick-up as the only inorganic artifact. 

Old Floyd’s smoldering pickup…

And what appears to be Saunders’s cell phone not quite in the middle of the road. 

Either Way

14.

The captain is loaded into the chopper first. As the damage report is being processed it is up to her, as highest ranking officer, to make the call. Old Floyd is given a sedative for pain relief and Earl is on watch at his side, appearing to be none the worse for wear. The truck fire is smoldering 90% contained. Everyone else is assisting with the medevac. But there is a problem.

There is room for only one additional person aboard the tiny Bell 26 chopper. It was the only one available at the time with capability to get to the crash site in the time frames required and with the additional logistical challenge involved. ‘A little bit of something is better than a lot of nothin’, Davis thinks as he prepares Saunders for transport. 

She is conscious but in obvious pain from what Davis fears is a dislocated hip with possible internal damage. He hadn’t even considered a plan other than getting her aboard the chopper with Cap ASAP. 

She is laying in the dirt asking questions about the current status. She gets the picture fast, adds them together and reaches her solution.

“Load the old man.”

Aghast, Davis updates her: “He is fine, a broken arm and some scratches, he is stable and the injuries are not life threatening. You go.” 

“I am fine, we need to keep all this in a tight circle. You see the ramifications? How is Cap?” 

“He took on some head trauma and has what I suspect are broken ribs. Other than that we’ll have to get him to a facility for emergency evaluation and treatment. We need to get him in the air. His pulse is still weak.”

“Get the old man in there with him and get outta here. Once you have them secured come back for me.”

Davis begins another round of debate, but is cut off by her command voice insisting he obey what is now being vociferously called a direct order. 

Davis turns to shout compliant orders. When he is satisfied he returns to Saunders telling her about the dog. 

“Dog won’t leave his side.”

“Take him too.”

Davis hurries over to supervise the loading of Old Floyd and Earl onto the gurney and then into the chopper. 

The chopper blades spin fanning the flames of the truck fire, sending the smoke away from them. Davis returns to Saunders to provide whatever comfort he can as they prepare to wait for the choppers return trip. Could be twenty minutes he tells her, hang in there. 

They hear a siren in the distance. 

“Is that fire, rescue or police?” she asks.

“Either way, we gotta get outta here.” 

Not a Moment Too Soon

He is unresponsive, not breathing. In the ten seconds it took for the group to reach the accident site, she has crawled to his side and has her index and middle fingers on his carotid artery. As the group responds to the situation, reminding them of an IED ambush in Fallujah, they move with efficiency and coordinated speed. Saunders begins CPR, moving her interlaced palms steadily up and down to the disco beat of Stayin Alive. 

She hears commands somewhere outside her immediate focus, a call for triage, clear from the fire, call in coordinates, get a chopper here fast and somebody shoot that fucking dog. The unit’s EMT makes his way to where they lay in the road and takes over. Still no response. 

“Are you OK?” He asks her. 

“Yes, I’m fine, we need an AED.”

“No got. But I have something better.” 

As she watches he pulls off his backpack finding a small black kit inside. She looks around. Old Floyd’s truck is completely engulfed in swirling flames turning from yellow, orange and red to black as the rubber and upholstery burn. There is the smell of death in the air; blood, fire and fear. 

She wipes away the sweat from her eyes and sees the EMT draw what she knows must be epinephrine into a syringe and inject it into the captains neck. She hears more shouts and what sounds like the wack-wack-wack of a helicopter off in the distance, maybe a mile out. 

Old Floyd has a broken arm, a concussion and enough cuts and scrapes to make Mary Shelly’s monster look like a model. He lays at the side of the road under the care of Davis and Neumann. He is calling for Earl, himself a little shook up but now calm and running towards them with a limp.  

“What a fucking mess.” Neumann says to Davis as they wrap the wounds and put a temporary splint on Old Floyd’s compound fractured left arm.

Remembering his favorite line from No Country for Old Men, Davis can’t resist the opportunity to respond with a Tommy Lee Jones-like, “Well if this isn’t a mess, it’ll do to the real one shows up.” They look at each other choking back grins. 

They are finishing up with Old Floyd when they hear the unmistakable sound of a helicopter about to set down. Very close. Davis puts Newmann in charge, quickly packs his gear and runs ahead, his hand on his hat, towards the landing location. He gets there to see the EMT pulling the second dose of epinephrine from the captain’s neck. 

He looks at Saunders recognizing the ‘face’. It is half-fear and half-hope. An extreme dedication to duty in the line of fire. She looks up at him expecting a damage report and he sees her struggling to stay upright from her kneeling position alongside the captain and the EMT. As they access each other, she sways way right, and then overcorrects, finally falling left, face first into the dirt. It is only then as Davis sees her blood-soaked side, that the mystery unfolds. The truck, the old man, the two at the point down, the blind corner. Did somebody shout a warning? 

Davis moves to assist and as he does the captain springs bolt upright with the look of someone snapping out of a nightmare. The chopper has landed and two paramedics are hustling towards them with an opened gurney. Old Floyd's golf ball finally melts releasing the remaining gas into the mix with a concussive blast of flame. Everyone including Earl instinctively duck.

But the cavalry has arrived. And not a moment too soon. 

Old Floyd

11.

The locals claim that Old Floyd Cooper’s 1958 Chevy half-ton pickup is on its third engine. Body half rust and half plastered red-dirt Bondo, the rig is a marvel of after-market mechanical engineering. Legend has it that Old Floyd has personally changed-out, replaced, machined, jury-rigged and makeshift repaired every moving part at least twice. Barroom tales have it that he once used a sawed in half golf ball, a roll of baling wire and a wad of Bazooka bubble gum to plug a punctured gas tank, and that his mileage actually increased as a result.

His arthritic Australian Sheppard, Earl, sits shotgun watching every passing movement with ears flapping in the breeze. Old Floyd and Earl are making the morning rounds, 'driving fence' as Old Floyd calls it, inspecting the barbed-wire barrier that keeps his cows his. They have done this every morning since the Eisenhower administration, always ending at Maggie’s Diner in town for coffee and a slice of pie.

To say that Old Floyd knows these roads is like saying that Elvis could sing. Old Floyd reaches over to the truck radio to add some volume as Burning Love tests the amplitude modulation. This momentary distraction coupled with a rare bark from Earl happens just as they are about to round the corner. By the time that Old Floyd has returned his attention to the road he sees they are moving way too fast and tries an emergency brake correction.

It is too late.

He is astonished to see two people dressed in what appears to be army cammo fatigues running directly towards him. He stomps on the brakes and pulls the huge steering wheel hard left. Earl is thrown out the window just before impact as the truck is now fish-tailing out of control, two wheels on the ground and a pair in the air.

Saunders sees it, hears it rather, first. She is alerted by Earl's bark seconds before the they hit the half-way point in the arc of the turn and instinctively moves to the right, as far from harm’s way as one heart-beat will allow. She has time enough to shout a shrill "LOOK OUT," before the truck sideswipes them, rear bumper twisting ahead of the front right quarter panel like a drunken bull whip.

She takes a glancing side-blow as momentum carries her past Old Floyd’s now rolling wreck. She hears what sounds like a vintage Elvis oldie. Quickly gathering composure, she self-assesses the damage and besides a throbbing left hip finds she is OK. Looking up from the side of the road she sees the carnage now showing a downed captain, a pickup on its side - wheels still turning - and a dog barking at the panicked arrival of the team. An old man is staggering across the road drenched in blood.

"FUCK."

Slide the Bishop

10.

At double-time cadence one had to be extraordinary fit to carry a two-way conversation. This they both knew. Always the social scientist, he looks for clues into her character. What is her weakness, when is her default triggered, at what point is her heel of Achilles revealed? 

“You mentioned accomplishment as one of the key elements...”

“To having fun?” she cuts him off mid sentence, already two chess moves ahead.

“Yes.” He was playing the standard ‘ask open ended questions’ gambit, and she knew it, but decided to counter with a play of her own with the goal of both adding her opinion and keeping the hectic pace. 

“I think, and this is based upon my research and personal experience, that anyone wishing to up their game, test themselves and provide value to their team, must relentlessly push the envelope in the direction of personal challenge.” She paused to inhale as much oxygen as her lungs would allow. “After a period of deep introspection to establish purpose, should one decide to accept the responsibility, one must educate themselves, train their bodies and minds, and commit to the discipline required for achievement of their goals.”

He is alternating breaths with sharp glances at her as they speed down the dirt road, opening a twenty meter gap between them and the rest of the group. It was almost as if they were racing.

“Go on.”

“And then something interesting happens. At the intersection of commitment and continual improvement, at the crossroads of progress and accomplishment, once sees another option. It is a hidden path, unseen by most, not really a road, and certainly not a shortcut, but more a vision, a feeling, a third sense.” She pauses again for air. He wonders if the hunter has been captured by the game as suddenly it appears that the student has become the teacher. He decides to bring the heavy artillery into play and slides his favorite piece, the Bishop to the conversational fire-fight. 

“Tell me about this hidden path.” He sees that just ahead the road takes a blind ninety-degree turn. 

She nods her head in appreciation of his move and continues, “After all the effort, struggle, progress and set-backs, once one’s appreciation and awareness are merged to reality, one sees the path clearly. It was always there and always here. It is difficult to capsulize but the basic idea is that in order to sustain the trajectory of improvement and successful wholistic adaptation, one must find a way to…”

LOOK OUT. 

Saunders by Surprise

9.

Saunders was taken by surprise. She hadn’t seen this side of him before. As the ‘pep talk’ concluded, she tried her best to fit the square peg of her current understanding of ‘meaning’ into the round hole of possibility. It was like walking into a dark room and switching on a thousand neon lights. The idea he had presented for their consideration was unlike anything he had ever said before. To this point it had always been direct orders, commands, standard operating procedures, protocols or principals. But this? This was philosophy, metaphysics and borderline new-age, feel-good psycho-babble. A-Holes Fables, she laughed. 

The meaning of fun? Get outta here.

It was almost a relief, a return to the formality they had all grown to appreciate when it was loudly announced the break would end in five minutes and the return trek would commence in double-time cadence. She quickly wrapped up her nutrition and hydration tasks making sure that no trace of the activities remained behind. 

She considered the parable again, this time from a completely different angle. The part of the story that impacted her the most, that presented the dramatic shock, was the connection between the concept of ‘fun’ being not so much about the absence of challenge, but more about the absence of anger.  She considered that fear might be a better emotion than anger to use in this theorem.  She wondered if they were interchangeable, synonyms of the same etymological origin. Fear and anger. Using her background in rhetoric and calculus she played with the formula ending with a back of the envelope equation suggesting that Fun equals the empty set of Fear and Anger.  Or that once Fear and/or Anger were subtracted, removed,  from the equation, only fun, or its subsets of accomplishment, joy, reward, value and victory remained. Like a microwave taking all the cold out of a glass of water, leaving only the hot. Was this what he was suggesting?

Or not?

As they shouldered backpacks and slung gear preparing for the return trip she recognized an old and familiar pattern. She loved the challenge of a new problem. This one, the parable at the turn as she was now calling it, had turbo-charged her imagination. ‘Para’ meaning ‘along-side’,  a companion to something greater, larger or more urgent. An esoteric variation with immediate utility. 

They began their hike, she at the point. 

“Are we having fun yet?” He asked joining her.