 
### The Knighting

### The Oath Keeper Trilogy

### Book One

by R.D. SEXTON

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 R.D. SEXTON

#### * * * *

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# COPYRIGHT

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The Knighting – The Oath Keeper Trilogy – Book One

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2014 by R.D. Sexton. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Cover Art: Produced by Typhoonski©, Dreamstime.com.

Version 2014.01.00

#  TABLE OF CONTENTS

DEDICATION

Author's Introduction

Oath, n.

Diary

Chapter 1: Aedan O'Neall

Chapter 2: Combat Training

Chapter 3: Absent Without Leave

Chapter 4: Swede's Covert School

Chapter 5: Dr. Kimoni Chirchir

Chapter 6: Mack Langley

Chapter 7: One of Those Cases

Chapter 8: Maggie MacFayden

Chapter 9: Senator Martin Palmer III

Chapter 10: Chirchir

Chapter 11: Axle

Chapter 12: Temper Issue

Chapter 13: First Covert Assignment

Chapter 14: General Maximillian Lattermore

Chapter 15: Vietnam Bound

Chapter 16: Phillip Edward Crowley

Chapter 17: Maggie

Chapter 18: Last Warning

Chapter 19: Chirchir

Chapter 20: Vietnam Arrival

Chapter 21: Senator Palmer

Chapter 22: Swede

Chapter 23: Cal Him Irish

Chapter 24: President Lyndon Johnson

Chapter 25: Carlos

Chapter 26: Maggie

Chapter 27: Christmas With Ann Margaret

Chapter 28: Langley

Chapter 29: Axle

Chapter 30: Ambush in II Corps

Chapter 31: Traitors

Chapter 32: Drooling Village Idiot

Chapter 33: Senator Palmer's Committee

Chapter 34: Gibbon's Sheila

Chapter 35: Chirchir

Chapter 36: Priceless

Chapter 37: The Interrogation

Chapter 38: Maggie

Chapter 39: Langley

Chapter 40: Silver Star

Chapter 41: Senator Palmer

Chapter 42: O'Neall's MARCAD Plan

Chapter 43: White Innocent, Black Guilty

Chapter 44: Major Daniel McKennon

Chapter 45: Swede

Chapter 46: Bangkok Package

Chapter 47: No Forgiveness

Chapter 48: Axle

Chapter 49: Cubi Point Delivery

Chapter 50: Swede

Chapter 51: Completely Voluntary

Chapter 52: Langley

Chapter 53: Lattermore

Chapter 54: Down in the Heavy Brush

Chapter 55: Chirchir

Chapter 56: Secret Order of Men

Chapter 57: The Letter

Chapter 58: Homeward Bound

Chapter 59: The Apology

Chapter 60: Wen Leu

Chapter 61: The Blacksheep

Chapter 62: Chirchir

Chapter 63: Maggie Arrives

Chapter 64: Chirchir

Chapter 65: Boeing

Chapter 66: Maggie

Chapter 67: Movie Making and The Hell's Angels

About the Author

Discover Other Titles by R.D. Sexton at Smashwords.com

Connect to R.D. Sexton Online

#  DEDICATION

This is the first book of a series of The Oath Keeper. Although this storyline is entirely fictional, great effort was made to insure historical accuracy for major events that occur. Although all of the characters are fictional, the United States Marine Corps is a backdrop to this first book and many Marines have influenced the story's characters.

Because the Vietnam War was not solely fought by the United States Marine Corps or other U.S. military service branches, close allies like Australia deserve more acclaim than I could possibly include in the work. I want to thank the following Australians who remind me of the gallantry contributed by their country to the war effort:

Bob "Bomber" Gibson, Dave Sabbens and Harry Smith. Like our U.S. Marines, these "Diggers" offered up their lives for their country and to free the South Vietnamese from communism.

R.D. SEXTON

_"Greater love has no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends."_

_Holy Bible, John 15:13_

#  Author's Introduction

Mine was probably the last generation taught that life could be categorized in only two ways: right or wrong. Things are either black or white. There is no grey. The good guys wear white hats and the bad guys wear black ones. As children, we read stories designed to teach specific moral values. Fairy tales like Snow White taught little girls that they might someday be carried off to a life of wonder by a Prince Charming, a wise and handsome young man. The story of King Arthur and the Knights of the Roundtable shaped little boys minds to believe that life, in fact, did have strong male heroes and they might, one day, become one.

Of course, by the time they reach adulthood, they have put away most of their childish thoughts and dreams. They come to understand that Knights in shining armor, Prince Charming, the Calvary or Superman probably won't ride into their lives to save the day or solve the dilemma.

Or is that really true?

History has always been close to my heart, probably because it does include stories of real knights in shining armor, real princes charming, actual cavalry heroes and men as close to superhuman as God would allow. Along the way, I discovered the incredible men whom Americans refer to as their Founding Fathers, men who risked everything to give America two of the most earth shattering documents ever penned, the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution of the United States. Although these men came from very different personal, economic and educational backgrounds, they somehow managed to forge these incredible documents, each of which was unique in all of human history. Until that time, men did not govern themselves, they owned nothing and they were led by kings, potentates, emperors and dictators who made decisions for them. Until these two documents were created, men were not free.

The Founding Fathers drafted two simple, very brief documents and formed a unique government the likes of which the world had never seen. It was not a democracy but a republic formed by and for the people to be governed by them. It was not going to be easy and the founders knew it. Each of them had studied history and they were aware of how all governments eventually mutate into something worse. Therein was the problem.

As I studied their words in history books and the conversations they had in letters between one another, it became obvious they must have had a plan for the distant future, a plan to insure that all that they had created would have its best chance for survival. After all, every one of these men paid a heavy price and many lost their lives as well as their fortunes. In my mind there was no way that they could assume that the system, itself, would guaranty its own safety. No. They must have created something else to protect it.

The Oath Keeper reveals how they may have provided for its survival.

#  Oath, n.

A solemn affirmation or declaration, made with an appeal to God for the truth of what is affirmed. The appeal to God in an oath implies that the person imprecates His [God's] vengeance and renounces His [God's] favor if the declaration is false, or if the declaration is a promise, the person invokes the vengeance of God [upon himself] if he should fail to fulfill it. A false oath is called perjury. --Noah Webster Dictionary – 1828

## The Knight's Oath

I do solemnly swear by the Almighty Creator and in His Name, to serve as a Knight of the Way. I do swear by the Eternal Power of Jehovah to obey orders of my Commandant and those who lead me, to aide brother knights, and to aide my countrymen against those who would usurp the freedom guaranteed by the Constitution of the United States. I will be loyal of hands and mouth, and serve every man as best I may, seeking the fellowship of good men and hearken to their words and remember them. I will be humble and courteous wherever I go, boasting not nor talking overmuch. I will see that no lady or damsel or woman be in reproach despite her station or quality in life. If I fall into company where men speak with disrespect of any woman, I will show by gracious words it pleaseth me not and I will depart from them. This oath do I give of my own free will, without coercion, so help me God.

#  DIARY

## September 30, 1796

To Members of the Committee:

With your full attention on September 17th, you suffered through my farewell address to the good people of these United States. Over the past few years, the Committee of Secret Correspondence, of which we are members, has discussed important matters related to the future of our new nation and the effects they might have on its survival.

I have already estimated to you the danger of parties in the State, with particular reference to the founding of them on geographical discrimination. This spirit of party, unfortunately, is inseparable from our nature, having its root in the strongest passions of the human mind. It exists more or less stifled, controlled, or repressed; but in those of the popular form it is seen in its greatest rankness, and is truly their worst enemy. It serves always to distract the public councils, and enfeeble the public administration. It agitates the community with ill-founded jealousies and false alarms; kindles the animosity of one part against another, foments occasionally riot and insurrection. It opens the doors to foreign influence and corruption, which find a facilitated access to the government itself through the channels of party passions. Thus, the policy and the will of one country are subjected to the policy and will of another.

Gentlemen of the Committee, I find it impossible to imagine that the combination of party and the minds of men seeking political power for personal gain will permit the survival of so delicate a Nation's founding on Constitutional principles laid down by God Himself. Let us, then, devise a means of circumventing such future travesty.

As you recall, the so called Culper Spy Ring I worked to create during the war was extremely successful against the British. The intelligence skills they developed in covert operations, ciphers and codes and propaganda have given us a framework to follow. In past discussions, we agreed the Nation might do well by an order of men dedicated to protect and defend our Constitution and our way of life. Our citizen Army demonstrated that it has the ability to protect the nation against foreign invasion. These men, however, are not able to defend our nation against despots who may rise to power through machinations developed by political parties at their worst. What, then, may we do to defend our Constitution from enemies within our own country or its government?

We have imagined an order of knights not unlike the Knights Templar raised and dedicated to defend the church. Not only must these men possess strong faith in our Creator but also they must be ruthless in defense of our Constitution and way of life. Unlike Templars, however, our knights will take an oath to defend our way. They will not be nobility, for we have striven to avoid having a classed society. They will operate in complete secrecy outside the halls of our government and outside the control of party politics. They will operate autonomously, be self-supporting, and they must be guided exclusively by our Constitution and our Declaration of Independence. This order of men will not be related to any other order or organization, and particularly not any organization of illuminated men whose primary purpose is not, I emphasize, is not to protect our Constitution and our way of life.

After you read this, please destroy it. I have a copy for future reference. If the committee agrees with these recommendations and to my ramblings to the best of my ability, whereby I restated what we have for months discussed, then answer my letter with the word YES.

GEORGE WASHINGTON

MOUNT VERNON

#  CHAPTER 1 – Aedan O'Neall

## 1965

## Marine Corps Recruit Depot (MCRD)

## San Diego, California

The screaming Marine pointed at the yellow footprints painted on the black asphalt under the spotlights.

"Feet on the footprints! Stand at attention!" he yelled.

I shuffled my feet on to the bright yellow prints and straightened my body to its full height. In a few seconds, he yelled again.

"When I call your name, last name first, first name, middle name last, you maggots will roar back at me Aye-ayes sir! This will always be your response to any order given. It is your acknowledgement that you have received an order, you understand the order, and will comply with it immediately. If you are asked a question that require a simple Yes or No, your correct response will always be either Sir, yes sir, or Sir, no sir.

A few seconds passed and impatience erupted from his face.

"Do you friggin' maggots understand me!"

"Sir, yes sir!" we yelled back. And so began the question-response programming the Marine Corps used since commissioned by the Continental Congress on 10 November, 1775. He called names off in alphabetical order so it took him a while to reach the Os.

"O'Neall, Aedan!"

"Aye-aye sir!" I responded as loudly as possible while wondering if this might have been a mistake. Mistake or not, I would not return home a failure, despite my old man's parting words. I would die first.

Twenty-minutes earlier at around midnight, the olive-drab military bus picked us up at the airport and dropped us off at Marine Corps Recruit Depot, San Diego, California. Most of us were already in trouble. My recruiter, Lieutenant Mitchell, was not kidding when he said the process would be as much psychological as physical.

"There are no individuals in the United States Marine Corps," Mitchell said. "You will learn to be a significant cog in the world's most aggressive and feared killing machine. In WWI at the Battle Belleau Woods near Paris, the German army called us Teufelshunde or dogs of the devil or hounds of hell, but even those labels do not begin to describe what Marines are capable of when provoked."

At three a.m., they shaved our heads. Ten minutes later, we dressed in our new green utility uniforms and black combat boots, and then we tagged and bagged our civilian clothes and personal belongings to be sent home. It is the process also followed when a Marine is killed-in-action.

We met our drill instructors who, apparently, had escaped from a mental institution. They herded us towards a large asphalt parade ground surrounded by hundreds of half-round metal buildings separated by wide asphalt sidewalks.

"Halt!" our drill instructor yelled. Some recruits continued to stumble along.

"Halt means stop, dumbasses!" He pointed at the little metal buildings. "For the next twelve weeks, your home will be in one of those Quonset huts. Just as soon as you learn how to march like Marines, you will get to sleep in one."

Over the next half-hour, we learned the proper way to march. One recruit could not remember which foot was his left foot so the DI stomped on it then screamed, "Step off on the foot that hurts!"

When it looked like our platoon could march in a column with all the same feet moving the same direction at the same time, they steered us to our new metal Quonset hut homes and put us to bed.

The lights went out and the hut was quiet for a few minutes.

"Oaths suck," Private Cramer whispered from the top bunk. Ever take one when you were a kid?"

"Yeah. Boy Scouts."

"On my honor," Cramer began, "I will do my best, to do my duty to God and my country, and to obey – "

"Cramer! "Don't repeat the whole damned thing to me. I got it."

"Okay, okay."

"It wasn't as serious as this last one, was it?"

"Go the hell to sleep."

A few minutes later, Cramer started snoring. It really pissed me off he had to dredge up the subject of oaths. It reminded me of the more recent oath that got my ass in this place. My mind replayed the event like an action movie clip.

I spent three hours with a hundred other recruits at the Houston military induction center where demented doctors probed and prodded us to see if our bodies were acceptable to the military. At least I hoped that was the reason. Afterwards, Lt. Fred Mitchell drove me back to his recruiting office where I gave my second oath. When we arrived and walked inside, he sat down behind his desk with me standing in front of it.

"Aedan, when you enlist in the United States Marine Corps, you must raise your right hand and swear that you will bear true faith and allegiance to the United States of America; that you will serve them honestly and faithfully against all their enemies whomsoever. This is a sacred oath, Aedan, taken by you of your own free will. There is a great trust placed in you by the people of America that you honor your oath, cherish it as only free Americans can, and fulfill it both in spirit and letter. Do you understand this?"

"Yes sir. I do."

"Then please hold up your right hand extended and open, fingers together then repeat after me using your own name."

"I, Aedan O'Neall, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic, that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same and that I will obey the lawful orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to the regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God."

What was I thinking? Obviously, I was not.

Cramer's snoring dropped to an acceptable level so my mind drifted off to sleep. About the time my brain adjusted to what the experts call REM sleep, Sergeant Ames, the assistant platoon commander, roused us from our one-hour nap with a screaming tirade while running a piece of steel pipe around inside a ribbed, steel garbage can. He reminded me a lot of my old man. Five minutes to dress, make our racks then reach the windy, fifty-degree platoon street standing at attention. Who would have thought we would be freezing our asses off in California?

We marched to the Mess Hall and stood at attention outside. A few seconds later, Ames told us to read the sign nailed over the door. A few recruits failed to read the sign's message, Take all you want but eat all you take. They suffered later. They had no idea part of our training required mess-men servers to continue piling food on our trays until we pulled them away.

The first day of boot camp was going to be a time to remember, if we survived. Our first class of the morning was Marine Corps History and Tradition. Our instructor, Corporal Smyth, rolled it off his tongue as if he was an encyclopedia.

"The Marine Corps is part of the U.S. Navy. It has been so since its creation on 10 November, 1775 at a pub named Tun Tavern, meeting place of the first Masonic Lodge in the United States," he said with military precision.

He told us about heroic Marines from distant wars forward to the present. Finally, Smyth taught us a new language Marines learned from sea-going men throughout history.

"We refer to a wall as the bulkhead, the floor as the deck, left as port, right as starboard and the bathroom as the head," he said. "Soldiers dig fox holes, Marines dig fighting holes. Soldiers are stationed at forts, Marines are stationed at camps. Soldiers are trained to defend while Marines are trained to attack. You will learn to think of time in twenty-four hour days instead of a.m. or p.m." He continued with a long list of unusual words that, without further explanation, would have been meaningless. Our drill instructors forced us to learn this new vernacular faster than we thought our brains could process it.

After noon chow, we marched to a legal training session. We learned about our financial responsibilities and managing our pay. If the Marine Corps wants you to have a wife, they said, one will be issued. We learned that the Uniform Code of Military Justice would rule over us and we memorized its provisions in summary form. Finally, we memorized the rules a sentry must follow while on guard duty including the necessity of passwords. Other recruits had trouble committing all of it to memory. I did not. I was like my old man, information was iron shavings and my brain was a magnet. Even so, by seventeen-hundred, my brain was fried.

The Marine Corps loves diversity and is an expert at pounding it into a completely new race of beings called Marines. Platoon 2010 was white, black, brown and yellow. We were tall and short, fat and skinny, handsome or so ugly others might look away. Some had money but most were poor so I fit right in with the group. Some were introverts, unable to look anyone in the eyes, while others were extroverted to the point of obnoxiousness. Most of us understood the Corps was about taking care of each other but one recruit from Houston, a football jock named Seth Harmon, enjoyed picking on smaller recruits. Back in our hut that evening, we were about to hit the rack when one of our smallest recruits, Private Lester Ty, yelled,

"Keep your hands off me!"

Private Harmon slapped Ty on the side of his head while laughing at him. Ty's eyes clouded up, his teeth clenched, and his little legs started to shake below his green skivvy shorts. I wondered what kind of recruiter pushed Ty into this program. Maybe a desperate one. Harmon laughed, then forced Ty down on the floor and used his large foot to roll Ty up against one of the bunk legs. My body started to shake as rage flashed through my body projecting me towards Harmon and I shoved him into another bunk.

"Leave him alone," I said.

For a moment, he laid motionless with surprise, then leaped to his feet and stepped towards me. "What's wrong with our Irish wimp? Am I hurting his lover?" He shoved both his arms forward with his palms facing me, believing he would knock me down.

My right hand deflected both of his and I grabbed the middle of Harmon's skivvy shirt and jerked him towards me. I kneed him a couple of times in the groin. Maybe he was bigger than me or anyone else in the hut but the bigger they are the harder they fall. Well, Harmon's ass hit the floor and he was holding his crotch with both hands. His face turned a shade of red and he clenched his teeth and glared at me.

"Just you wait, you carrot-top son-of-a-bitch, we aren't done by a long shot!"

"You want more?"

He put his hand on the deck to lift himself then he stood scowling at me.

"Not tonight, sonny-boy. Another time." His gate was just a little different on the way back to his own bunk, probably because his nuts hurt.

Private Joseph Delgado took a couple of steps my direction and stopped a few feet away. He was the platoon's only recruit fitted with uniforms and boots designed for a man too big to get into any full size American car. I first laid eyes on him when a frowning, screaming drill instructor shoved us into the MCRD bus at the airport. Just before barbers shaved his head, Delgado had long, straight, shiny black hair braided half way down his back. He could not hide the fact that he was a Native American. He looked like he might want to say something.

"I would have ripped his arms off," he whispered.

I stared into his hard, dark blue eyes set in recessed sockets above a burn-scarred face and broken nose. "I hate bullies."

"I got that impression."

After lights-out, the hut got quiet except for the sound of recruits turning in their racks trying to get comfortable or the occasional fart that brought muted laughter. Some began to snore almost immediately. Not me. My adrenalin stayed in the same semi-active state it always did after I got into a fight or physical confrontation. My adversaries never knew it, but abject fear drove me into a kind of insanity. Early in life, I learned that fear can be controlled and channeled to work for you. There were many others before Harmon, but all of them were just like him, cut from the same whole cloth of arrogance and an overwhelming desire to dominate weaker human beings like my old man.

The next morning when we returned to our platoon street from morning chow, Sergeant Ames walked over to me.

"Private O'Neall, get into the duty hut on the double. Gunnery Sergeant Westman wants to see you."

"Aye-aye sir," I said while wondering what our platoon commander wanted to see me about. My recruiter told me to avoid drawing attention to myself. Once the drill instructors focused on you, trouble followed. A few seconds later, I pounded on the Duty Hut door three times as required.

"Sir! Private O'Neall requests permission to enter the duty hut, sir!"

"Enter!"

Westman sat behind his desk almost at attention with his hands in front of him, one resting on the top of the other. On first glance, he looked almost like a statue. On second glance, he looked like a bear trap about to snap shut.

"Sir, Private O'Neall reporting as ordered, sir!"

"What was that little scuffle with Private Harmon about last night?" he asked softly.

"Sir, a misunderstanding, sir."

GySgt. Westman rose slowly from behind his desk and walked around it with his hands behind his back. He was a Korean War Marine with a leathery face and eyes that lasered through me. I had no idea what he was about to do but I thought it might involve pain. I waited. He stopped very close on my right side. He was a good two inches taller than me. He leaned his face close to mine and I felt heat from his skin.

"Private O'Neall, I know a lot about you just by looking at you. Judging from the little twist in your nose, I am sure you have had a few fights. Am I right?"

"Sir, yes sir."

"But I know a lot more than that. Before any of you arrived, I studied every recruit's file. Yours told me you are a fairly bright young man," he said, while walking around to my left side. "Most civilians think Marines are stupid. Quite the contrary. We seek out intelligent young men. By that, I do not necessarily mean schoolroom intelligent. What I do mean is hungry to learn and a capacity to do so. That is one of the reasons we recruited you. When the young, hotheaded, Aedan O'Neall stepped on my yellow footprints the night he arrived, I planned to kill him off and replace him with a recruit worthy of the title, U.S. Marine. About a third of this platoon will not make it through my process. It is damned hard for some men to change how they think and how they respond, even if they are physically qualified to become Marines." He leaned within an inch of my face.

"It is my fucking job to make Marines out of whatever God has sent to me. Private Ty is a perfect example. You were trying to protect Private Ty from Private Harmon. O'Neall, it is not your job to protect or defend anyone at any time while you are here at MCRD. That is my job! I will teach Private Ty how to defend himself, not you! You might think that is not possible, judging from his small size and fearful demeanor, but you would be wrong. I believe he is here because he wants to be a Marine more than anyone else in this damned platoon. Do you read me?"

"Sir, yes sir!"

He turned and walked back around his desk and sat down, then leaned on the desk. "Here is what I want you to do. You go back outside and get into formation. From this point forward, you do not worry about any other person but yourself because this training is not going to be a piece of cake even for you. Another thing, if for some reason, God forbid, you are back here again for anymore bullshit, the next time will not be one of these touchy-feely conversations. Do you understand me, Private O'Neall?"

"Sir, yes sir!"

"One other thing, O'Neall. I want you to report to the corporal-of-the-guard at twenty-one-hundred for guard duty."

"Sir, yes sir!"

"Get the hell out of my sight!"

All day long, my mind returned to GySgt. Weston, his conversation, and the guard duty lined up for me while the rest of my platoon got to sleep. Three hours before midnight, I pounded on the Duty Hut door. "Sir, Private Aedan O'Neall reporting to the corporal-of-the-guard, sir!"

"Enter!"

When I marched in and stood at attention in front of Corporal Larkin, he grinned at me.

"Boy, you ready for your first guard duty?"

"Sir, yes sir."

"You got them rules memorized?"

"Sir, yes sir."

"Repeat 'em."

After the shock treatment was over, I marched outside with the unloaded M-14 at port-arms until I reached my sentry spot at the end of our platoon street. Before lights out, our entire platoon had been given that night's password. It changed every night. If they wanted to get past me to get to the head or to get a drink of water, they better remember the friggin' password. Otherwise, to me they would be the enemy. Not knowing the password would yield punishment. No one mentioned what kind of punishment. If a sentry was caught sleeping, the punishment would be worse.

The cool night air whiffed through my utilities. Stars filled the sky and a light wind carried the nearby Pacific's clean smell past me. I started my slow sentry march down the black asphalt walkway running perpendicular to our platoon street. A commercial jet hummed overhead while the pilot jockeyed into the landing pattern for the nearby San Diego Airport. My ears picked up the sound of traffic on the nearby highway running through the city. I got to the end of my assigned sentry area and stopped, then did an about face to pace back the other direction.

One of the recruits in my hut visited San Diego with his dad a couple of years ago. He said he liked the city and enjoyed time at the beach. Mexico was south of San Diego and his dad took him down there for some souvenirs. I did not think the beach or Mexico would be on our itinerary.

Some distance to my left, a large chain-link fence separated us from the Navy Boot camp. I wondered if some sailor recruit was practicing sentry duty too.

At zero-two-hundred, a screaming man ran out from behind the head causing my heart to leap into my throat.

Jesus Christ! I thought.

"Halt! Who goes there?" I yelled, my M-14 pointed directly at him.

He stopped but said nothing.

"Who goes there?" I repeated.

"Your worst nightmare."

"What is the password?" I asked.

"Stick your password up your ass."

"Put your hands behind your head now!" I ordered.

He did as I ordered.

"I waived my rifle toward our platoon street. "Walk that direction, now!"

He walked ahead of me at a slow pace, his hands still behind his head. When he reached the Duty Hut, I ordered him to halt. He kept walking so I kicked my foot against the joint behind his left knee throwing him off balance. I grabbed the back of his collar and yanked him backwards to the ground. No sooner had he slammed on the asphalt then he started to stand.

"Get your ass down on the ground, face down! Then put your hands behind your back or I'll break your friggin' neck because my damned M-14 is empty!"

He complied. I walked behind his feet and pounded on the Duty Hut.

"Sir, Private Aedan O'Neall requests the Corporal of the Guard's assistance!"

The door swung out almost knocking me to the ground.

"What the hell do you want, O'Neall?"

I pointed to the man on the ground. "Sir, this man attempted to charge me and would not identify himself or give the password."

"Christ, private, what the hell did you do to him?"

"Sir?"

He pointed at the man on the ground. "That there is Pfc. Martin Jones. He's with the base Military Police security test team."

Jones stood up and faced me. "You did good, O'Neall. I could have been the real deal, just like in combat. I had the impression you would have shot my ass if the M-14 was loaded. Is that so?"

"Sir, in a heartbeat, sir."

"Would you have broken my neck?"

"Sir, if the private first class had not complied with my order, yes sir."

He glanced at Larkin. "He's a keeper."

Apparently, my being a keeper was not enough to convince Larkin I didn't need to spend an hour doing calisthenics in the sandpit after my guard shift ended.

#### * * * *

During the first three weeks, we were incommunicado. We could not write home and we could not receive any letters from home. I felt like a new monk in a monastery forced to contemplate my future without outside influences. We didn't walk, we ran everywhere. We learned to march to cadence and to handle our rifles as if they were twirler's batons. Our precision improved each day and the platoon marched more like a single object rather than a bunch of uncoordinated idiots. They force-fed us Marine Corps history and tradition, general orders, health and hygiene, and all the things Marines need to know until it ran out of our ass. One Saturday morning after chow, we marched back to our platoon street and halted in formation. Sgt. Ames stood facing us.

"Listen up! Scuttlebutt told me you pussies are getting homesick," he said, "so, today you will write letters to your mommies and daddies. Get into your huts, grab your writing gear and return back here immediately."

In a few minutes, we were back out on the platoon street lined up on each side standing at attention with our writing gear.

"You will write that we are taking good care of you, that you are enjoying your stay at MCRD. You will tell your mommies and daddies or your wives or anyone who might write back to you that they must not send any type of candy, cookies or other sweet goodies. We call that pogey bait. Be advised that you or forbidden to have pogey bait in your possession. If you receive it or have it in your possession, God help you."

I hate writing letters. I prefer to speak to others face-to-face so I know they understand. That is particularly true when it comes to my girlfriend, Maggie MacFayden. It is both easy and hard to write her – easy because she makes my body ache just thinking about her, hard because she was steamed I joined the Marines without consulting her first. The fact that young men surround her right now does not help.

I wrote four letters home summarizing my arrival at MCRD, a little about my drill instructors and our training, and some about the other recruits, also begging them not to send any candy, brownies, cake or anything else sweet. I left off my confrontation with Harmon and my come-to-Jesus meeting with my platoon commander. I ended the letters to my parents, my brother and to Doctor and Mrs. Chirchir with the words, Missing You, Aedan. My letter to Maggie ended with, All my Love and Kisses, Aedan. I started to scratch out the and Kisses part but decided to leave it thinking that, maybe, she would not let anyone else read it.

A week later, Private Jimmy Torres received a three-pound box of brownies from his mother. We stood at attention in formation and watched Torres eat the entire box while assistant drill instructor Amos Larkin continued screaming in his face. Torres started to puke but Larkin screamed that he would make Torres lick it up off the ground if he did. Corporal Larkin's veins stood out on his neck and spit flew out of his mouth with every word. My guess is that Private Torres would never again eat brownies for the rest of his natural life. It did not register with me that this was punishment until someone explained it to me later. I thought the drill instructor was simply providing Torres with a learning experience like my old man did with me. Go figure.

The following Saturday morning, Sgt. Ames told us to line up on the platoon street for our first mail call. A few minutes later, he yelled my name.

"Private O'Neall! Three letters. Get them!"

"Aye-aye sir!" I ran up, grabbed them, and ran back to my spot in line. One letter from Ma, another from Dr. Chirchir, and one from Colonel Thamus. Nothing from Maggie.

Ma's letter had tearstains on it. She didn't know what to do without me around and my old man was acting like his usual bear's ass. She apologized for what he had said the day I left. He called me a wimp. He said the Marine Corps would send me home as unsuitable. She said my younger brother, Arthur, stayed out late after school to avoid the old man's moods.

Doctor Chirchir wrote to congratulate me for joining the Marines and said he and Zena missed me a lot. It was difficult to hear any praise coming from him. If he knew what role I played in his son's death, things would be very different. It took every ounce of my being to push that nightmare back down into its box.

The letter from our preacher, Colonel Thamus, surprised me. When I was younger, Thamus reprimanded me in front of the church on more than one occasion, probably because I often interrupted his sermon with my fits of laughter. I could have killed Jimmy Tinsley for telling the jokes that made me laugh but he was one funny son-of-a-bitch. He liked to get me into trouble. I am sure he didn't know my old man beat the crap out of me when we got home from church. Thamus told me to write him sometime.

Man, maybe joining the Marine Corps was helping to erase a bad start in life.

One Saturday morning after chow, Sergeant Ames told us to get our dress shoes out of our footlockers and take them out on our platoon street. He wanted us to spit-shin them every Saturday morning so they would be ready for graduation. In my judgment, he might be overly optimistic that any of us will survive long enough to make it that far.

I found a spot along the platoon street and sat down to get started. The damned shoes were a flat black and I had no clue as to how I could make them shine like glass. About that time, I glanced up to see Private Delgado standing there staring down at me. God, he was big. Maybe six-foot-eight, two-hundred-ninety pounds. If the burn scars were gone, his nose fixed, and the missing front teeth replaced, he might be quite the ladies' man. If he learned how to smile.

"What's up, Delgado?"

He pointed to the spot next to me. "Okay if I sit?"

"Sure."

He lowered himself to the ground and crossed his legs. His boots were huge.

"Say, Delgado, think we'll ever get these things shiny?"

"Do not call me Delgado."

Crap. I have insulted the one guy on earth I should not insult. I took a deep breath. "That's your name, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"What should I call you?"

"Black Eagle."

That probably would not have been one of my guesses.

"Okay. Black Eagle it is."

"You married?" he asked.

"No."

"Girlfriend?"

"I had one when I left home. I'm not sure now. How about you?"

"With this face?"

I wouldn't respond to that question for any amount of money, I thought.

For the next few minutes, we sat silently next to each other while attempting to bring out a glossy shine on our new, yet-to-be-worn black dress shoes. Black Eagle was a real mystery man. I liked him.

"You here to prove something to your father?" he asked.

I frowned. "No. What do you mean?"

He pointed at my nose. "He did that, didn't he?"

"It's none of your fucking business."

He nodded while rubbing black wax on the toe of his right dress shoe. "Easy, O'Neall. Easy. Half of this platoon is here for the same reason. Me too."

"Okay. Yeah, partly, anyway. We are Irish. He is a tough bastard. Obsessed about manhood and doing your best. Relentless, you know? He fought in World War II with the British First Army and never let me forget it. How about you?"

"My father was a –"

"Do you ladies have a problem?" Sgt. Ames screamed while standing a few feet from us. "Both of you get down on your faces now! I want two-hundred push-ups followed by two-hundred squat-thrusts! If you miss a single one, I want two-hundred more each! Do it! Do it! Do it!"

That night in the rack, I didn't know how Black Eagle felt, but my arms and legs were throbbing so badly I almost couldn't move them.

#### * * * *

We spent a week learning the nomenclature of the M-14 rifle and how to take it apart and put it back together almost blindfolded. Next, they force-marched us forty miles up the Pacific coast beach from MCRD San Diego to Edson Range at Camp Pendleton. The three-week stay at Edson included two weeks of marksmanship training followed by a week of infantry field skills. When we arrived at the range, our legs were tired. Corporal Larkin stopped us in formation then he told us to make a right face towards him.

"At ease, men! Listen up! This is Edson Range. It opened August 21, 1964 at the same time Camp Calvin B. Matthews closed. This camp was named after Marine Red Mike Edson. Here you must qualify to use a rifle and pistol or we will send you home. Every Marine, no matter his occupational specialty, is first and foremost a Rifleman. Marines kill the enemy with rifles. Marines defend this country with rifles. If you cannot properly handle and accurately shoot a rifle, you can not be a Marine."

Okay. Maybe I know at least something about this one area.

At the age of twelve, my old man took me rabbit hunting one weekend. By Sunday night, I had killed two dozen rabbits with a twenty-two rifle. By the time I was eighteen, my shooting skills were better than his.

We spent two days snapping in to the shooter's positions – standing, off-hand, sitting and prone. By the time we were permitted to load the 7.62 mm ammo into our M-14 rifle magazines, it felt like we had been doing it all of our lives.

Platoons competed against one another. Our instructors split our platoon in half. One group climbed down into the pit behind the targets and moved them up and down while the other group tried to hit the bull's eye. The instructors' burned their orders into our brains:

"All ready on the right! All ready on the left! All ready on the firing line! Shooters watch your targets!"

A chorus of exploding 7.62 mm rounds and the smell of gunpowder followed.

We stood at the bottom of a long pit, our heads a few feet below the surface. My hands gripped a rope draped on a pulley connected to a metal frame holding a large paper target. Each time the instructor yelled pull targets, my group would drop the used targets and replace them with fresh ones. When they gave us the order, my group climbed out of the pit and the shooters replaced us. It was our turn to shoot the targets.

Our platoon did well. My score was two-forty-five out of two-fifty qualifying me as Expert, top choice for sniper training. However, it appeared that my MOS plate was already full. The training was demanding, particularly for anyone who had never picked up a rifle. Everyone in my platoon managed to qualify. At night, we recited the Marines Rifle Creed:

This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine.

My rifle is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life.

My rifle, without me, is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless. I must fire my rifle true. I must shoot straighter than my enemy who is trying to kill me. I must shoot him before he shoots me. I will.

My rifle and myself know that what counts in this war is not the rounds we fire, the noise of our burst, nor the smoke we make. We know that it is the hits that count. We will hit.

My rifle is human, even as I, because it is my life. Thus, I will learn it as a brother. I will learn its weaknesses, its strength, its parts, its accessories, its sights and its barrel. I will ever guard it against the ravages of weather and damage as I will ever guard my legs, my arms, my eyes and my heart against damage. I will keep my rifle clean and ready. We will become part of each other. We will.

Before God, I swear this creed. My rifle and myself are the defenders of my country. We are the masters of our enemy. We are the saviors of my life.

So be it, until there is no enemy, but peace!

#### * * * *

Back at MCRD, we all felt a little different, a little more confident, a little more like we might almost be Marines. On our third day back from the range, more mail finally arrived from home.

"Private O'Neall! I am holding ten perfume-soaked letters that have smelled up my platoon's mail. Come get them now!" Sergeant Ames yelled.

"Aye-aye sir!" After running up and grabbing it, I returned to my spot holding the backlog of mail from Maggie against my face. God, they smelled good. The odor immediately formed a picture of my little firebrand in my head. When the last recruit grabbed his mail, DI Ames said:

"Sit! You have five minutes to read your mail!"

I should have taken that damned speed-reading course in junior college.

I crossed my legs and shuffled Maggie's letters into date order, oldest first, then tore the first one open. The letter was a kind of daily narrative of what she had been doing at college sprinkled with how much she missed me and ending with, _I Love You!_ Okay, I felt a lot better now. The next nine letters followed the same pattern and some ended with little hearts and kisses followed by _I Love You!_

This is definitely going to mess with my head.

#### * * * *

After we returned from noon chow, Sgt. Ames told us we were going to the pool. They were going to teach us how to abandon a ship safely. Almost immediately, I began to sweat and my face felt clammy.

No way was I going into any kind of pool. Not now. Not ever.

As our platoon began to march down our platoon street headed to the base Olympic swimming pool, my mind burned circuits trying to think of an escape. Maybe I could slip out of formation and hide until dark, then escape over one of the fences? Yeah right. Five minutes later, we were inside the fence that surrounded the pool. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest and ears. I could not look at the water.

"Listen up." He pointed at the latter that rose into the sky with the tiny diving board in view. It was not actually tiny, just so high up that it looked that way.

"Our diving board is high enough to simulate the height of a ship's deck above the water. Should you be aboard a ship that is sinking, you must be able to jump off the deck into the water to survive. Marines are part of the Navy so most of you will frequently be on ships or other Naval vessels. Therefore, if you can not pass this test, you can not be a Marine."

_Holy shit. My recruiter said nothing about this_.

Since I was a boy, any body of water scared me. Who knew what was down under it? Although I could not put my finger on when the aversion began, the process usually paralyzed me. Okay, this is a swimming pool, right? What could be under the water? Anything, dammit. But that is not rational. So I am not rational. What the hell.

The platoon lined up in a single file with the first man standing at attention in front of the God-awful ladder. I watched him began the long climb and felt his fear with each step up the ladder. He stopped a few times and glanced down.

"Don't look down, shit bird! Get your ass up the damned ladder," Ames hollered.

I was mesmerized when he walked out to the end of the diving board. He looked so small. He raised his hands above his head and then jumped straight out and crossed his legs, then fell straight down into the pool.

Vomit rose in my throat and clammy sweat sealed my utility shirt against my chest. It was then I noticed that little, Private Ty was climbing up the ladder. He was moving fast and did not glance back. It was as if he was on a mission for God. I could not take my eyes off him. It was amazing to watch this little, wimpy recruit take on the challenge. If he can do this, why can't I?

As the line slowly moved forward, I watched the others climb and jump. In the meantime, I started to take slow, deep breaths while trying to relax my mind. Finally, it was my turn. I started up the ladder trying to emulate Private Ty while thinking that if Ty could do it, I damned sure could do it. I did not look down until I was up on the diving board. I placed my arms straight up over my head, then leaped out and crossed my legs. God help me.

Okay. So now I can abandon ship. Please, God, do not put me on a ship.

The next morning, a tailor fitted us with two sets of uniforms issued to every recruit, one lightweight uniform for summer and one heavy wool uniform for winter. The only thing missing from the issue was the globe and anchor. On graduation day, they would give us two pairs, one set for each uniform. That night when we hit the rack, we were starting to get excited about the possibility we might actually become Marines.

Around zero-two-hundred, I was not the only one who heard the strange noise. It sounded as if someone was dragging something heavy along our platoon street just outside the hatch. The sound was neither metallic nor wooden.

"What the fuck is that sound outside?" one of the recruits whispered loud enough for most of us to hear him. No sooner had he spoken those words than our Quonset hut hatch flew open.

"Get out here on my platoon street on the double! Line up in two single lines on each side of my street!"

By now, we recognized Sgt. Ames voice. Recruits' feet slapped down on the deck followed by a flurry of noise as we sprinted for the hatch to get outside. As we scrambled out on to the platoon street and sprinted for a spot on each side, our eyes caught sight of what appeared to be a mattress lying in the middle of the street.

"I want both lines to face each other! Stand at attention! Do it now!" Ames yelled.

Although my eyes appeared to remain straight ahead, my peripheral vision noticed something terribly wrong with the mattress. Ames walked slowly past the mattress one direction, then turned and walked back the other way, his eyes sweeping our faces as he passed. He suddenly stopped and pointed down at the mattress.

"Do you ladies see this mattress? Do you see that it is red and swollen in the middle? Do you have any idea what has happened to this mattress?"

We had no idea if we should respond or even how to respond.

"This mattress was used by Private Eddie Napster until two hours ago. Everyone thought Private Napster was asleep on the top bunk but he was not asleep. He was dead. Private Napster missed his mommy and daddy so much that he just could not take this man's Marine Corps training any longer. He used a razor blade to cut both of his wrists, and then he shoved his hands between his back and the mattress. We found out what he had done because his blood soaked the mattress and dripped all over Private Sergmont laying on the bottom bunk.

"As you can imagine, Sergmont got a little upset when he discovered what was running all over his face. Now, I want all of you to get a real good look at Napster's mattress. If any of you are contemplating doing this to yourself, please come down to the duty hut and knock on my door to let me know. That way, I can help you get safely home and, in the process, you won't fuck up another one of our mattresses."

None of us slept well the rest of that night.

#### * * * *

Hand-to-hand combat training was on the agenda. Since my old man first broke my nose, I loved to fight. Fighting another man is close combat. Two men pit against each other with only one goal. Domination. To physically dominate another man, you must make him believe you will kill him unless he relents. Nothing less will do. To win, a man must learn that the only fair fight is one he walks away from rather than his opponent.

After WWII ended, Marines returned to the U.S. with knowledge of the very effective Japanese close combat techniques used against them. As a result, the Corps began training its recruits in similar forms of hand-to-hand combat based on judo, jujitsu and other martial arts designed to kill the enemy as quickly as possible with or without a weapon. Early the first morning, our drill instructors demonstrated a specific fighting technique and then paired us up to practice it.

While we stood in a wide circle watching the instructor, I noticed that Private Seth Harmon was scowling at me and nodding. Although I forgot about stopping Harmon from bullying Private Ty, it was still fresh in his mind. Black Eagle stood some six inches above Harmon. Most of us thought Sergeant Ames would pair them in a fight. We guessed wrong. Ames paired Harmon off with me, probably at the request of my platoon commander, GySgt. Westman. As we faced off, Harmon told me he was going to kick my ass.

A minute into the match, Ames called for a Navy Corpsman because I fractured Harmon's left arm in three places and snapped his left leg between the knee and ankle. He was rolling on the ground, his face red and contorted. My left eyelid started to swell along with my bottom lip. I felt neither because my adrenaline was pumped to max.

He screamed at me, "I'll get you back! I'll get you back!"

Threats or not, Harmon would not pick on anyone again. I glanced over at Black Eagle and his wide grin exposed the two missing upper front teeth.

"You are full of surprises, O'Neall," he said. "Better put something cold on that eye and lip."

"O'Neall! Get your ass down to sickbay and have them fix that eye and mouth! Do it now!"

"Aye-aye sir!"

Three days later, Private Delgado got ill and they sent him to sickbay. Whatever was wrong with him, he did not return. I was really going to miss Black Eagle and so was the rest of our platoon.

On the last day of the first six weeks of intense training with Second Battalion, Platoon 2010, we were running the Corps' infamous obstacle course. It was designed to test and develop physical agility, to simulate combat situations, and to help recruits develop the skill-set necessary to survive and help others do so. I just finished the rope climb with full pack and equipment to simulate another survival skill and to increase upper body strength. My time up the rope and back down was fast and Platoon Commander Westman, complimented me with, "Way to go, O'Neall!" I ran back to the line for the last event and Westman walked over and slapped my backpack.

"O'Neall – take off for sick bay. Check in with a Sergeant Danberry."

"Sir! The private requests permission to speak to the Platoon Commander, sir!" They taught us to address others by rank or title rather than to use the word, you. That word sounded like Ewe, the word for a female sheep. Those in charge did not like to be referred to as female sheep.

"Speak!"

"Sir, the private is not sick, sir!"

"Private O'Neall, I don't give a shit if you feel like running fifty miles. Get your ass over to sickbay on the double! Ask for Sergeant Danberry.

"Aye-aye sir!"

I did my best right face and double-timed towards sickbay with no clue what this was about. When I arrived inside with my cover under my right arm, I asked for Sergeant Danberry.

The navy corpsmen pointed over his shoulder to one of the doors in the back of the room. "He's back there in the room with the C painted in the middle of the door." After going through the usual drill, I was standing at attention in front of Danberry.

"At ease private. Take a seat, please."

"Yes sir!" I said while dropping into the chair. Glancing at him, I noticed that his face was scarred on both sides as if something very sharp had slashed it. He looked to be in his late thirties, so that would make him a Korean War era Marine. His blue eyes focused directly at me.

"Tell me about Private Seth Harmon."

"Sir?"

"The private you put in the hospital in hand-to-hand combat class."

"Sir, Private O'Neall doesn't know much about Private Harmon other than the fact that he is a bully."

"So, let me get this straight, you damned near killed him because he's a bully?"

"Sir, no sir. The private hurt Private Harmon because he told the private he was going to kick the private's ass."

"Son, we had to give Private Harmon a medical discharge. A friggin' medical discharge. That means that he will get a disability check from the Marine Corps the rest of his natural life. Did you know that?"

"Sir, no sir."

"You are from Texas, right?"

"Sir, yes sir."

"Then you have heard the name Harry S. Harmon?"

"Sir, the name is familiar but, at the moment, the private can't place it."

"Here's a clue. State Representative Harry S. Harmon, retired Texas Ranger Harry S. Harmon. Seth Harmon's father."

"Sir, the private is very sorry, sir."

"Headquarters, Marine Corps, has already heard from him. At the moment, the storm has settled but with a man in his position, you never know what the fall-out might be or when it might happen."

Okay. This is the point at which I am in very serious trouble.

Sergeant Danberry leaned forward on his desk and stared at me.

"Private O'Neall, we do two things in the Marine Corps, we break things and we kill people. We break things that belong to the enemy. We hurt the enemy out of necessity and we kill the bastards if we have to. We do not kill each other, at least not on purpose. I understand that Harmon is a bully and none of us like bullies. However, we usually do not kill bullies unless they are trying to kill us. Threatening to kick someone's ass is not worthy of killing them. Is it?"

"Sir, no sir."

"Private O'Neall, it is very important that you learn to manage your temper and it is of paramount importance that you understand the difference between the enemy and assholes. We do not – let me be very clear about this – we do not kill assholes, at least not unless they actually try to kill us. Is that clear?"

"Sir, loud and clear, sir."

He leaned forward on his desk. "Look, O'Neall, I know this isn't entirely your fault. You did not match yourself up with Harmon that day. Sgt. Ames put the two of you together. He knew that Harmon wanted that fight. I'm not so sure he knew how it would turn out. Despite all of this, you must master your temper or it will eventually ruin you."

"Sir, understood, sir."

"Good. That wasn't the reason you were sent to me."

"Sir?"

"You were recruited by Lieutenant Fred Mitchell. Is that correct?"

"Sir, yes sir."

"The test that you took at the induction center indicates that you are extremely well suited for intelligence work. Is that correct?"

"Sir, yes sir."

"You were, however, asked to select an MOS in aviation structural mechanics. Is that also correct?"

"Lieutenant Mitchell suggested that the Corps needed the private in that field."

He nodded. "Yes, we do. We will train you in Aviation structural mechanics. However, because of your aptitude in intelligence, the Corps feels that it needs you in that area, too."

My brain started to swim. The sergeant could see it in my eyes.

"The Marine Corps does not allow a Marine to have more than one MOS at a time. Policy will not permit us to send you to aviation school while also sending you to our Basic Covert School. However, although you will be trained in aviation structural mechanics and that is the field to which you will be assigned, you will, from time to time, do covert work for us – covert intelligence work."

"Sir, may the private asked the sergeant a question, sir?"

"Shoot."

"Sir, the private knows nothing about covert intelligence. How is it possible that the private can provide good covert work without the proper training? Also, why can't the private attend the intelligence school for that MOS rather than the aviation school?"

"The short answer is that we want you to have a cover MOS so that you may work covertly. Therefore, in all appearances you will be a typical Marine Air Wing aircraft structural mechanic. No one but us will know of your covert work, not your fellow Marines or those who supervise you. Not even your family."

As I processed that new information, I put on my best face of confidence and nodded my head. "Sir, the private understands, sir." I had no clue about what I was consenting to. None.

"This is your choice. If you decide not to go this route, no further mention will be made of this nor will your decision have any effect on your future with the Marine Corps. Yes or no. What is it?"

"Sir, yes sir." It was obvious to me that my mouth was running with no counsel from my brain.

"Good. I have a stack of papers and forms for you to sign. I will go over the meaning of each paper and form so you understand what you are signing. Then, at zero-five-hundred tomorrow morning, we will transport you to Camp Pendleton for two weeks of special intelligence training while you are laid up in sickbay, as the story goes, until the thumb you fractured on the rope climb heals up. Oh, another thing, O'Neall –"

"Sir?"

"You did extremely well at the range. Congratulations."

"Sir, the private wants to thank the sergeant." _So why didn't you bastards send me to sniper school?_ Irreverently ran through my mind.

"Don't mention it."

Later, after all the security clearance forms were completed, I stretched out on the sickbay bunk with my perfectly good right thumb splinted and bandaged while my mind ran wild over the possibilities of this new adventure. It did not take long for reality to knock on my head. Contemplating tomorrow and the next two weeks, it dawned on me I would not be able to complete boot camp with my platoon 2010 but, rather, I would be assigned to another platoon after this special training. That also meant the new platoon would treat me like shit because all platoons hate to take in a recruit who did not start with them. In addition, I would have to write my family and my girl explaining that my injury would delay my arrival home.

That would be my first of many, many lies and acts of deception.

#### * * * *

## Basic Covert School

## Marine Corps Base (MCB) Camp Pendleton

## Oceanside, California

At zero-five-hundred the next morning, a jeep picked me up at sickbay and drove me the roughly forty-mile trip north to Camp Pendleton. It is the Marine Corps primary amphibious warfare-training site in the U.S.

Riding to Pendleton in a Jeep instead of being force-marched as had been done for rifle range, was an extreme improvement. I felt like an executive or someone important. We breezed through the front gate and a half-hour passed as the Jeep sped through the hills before we finally arrived at a row of wooden buildings nestled back in a heavily wooded area surrounded by razor wire. I glanced around while I listened. The forest was almost dead silent. It was simultaneously pleasant and scary. My stomach knotted and my mouth dried up.

The Marine private first class driver pointed at one of the buildings. "Okay, Private O'Neall, they're waiting for you inside, first building on the left."

I grabbed my sea-bag and lugged it towards my new home wondering who they were and what was about to happen. I knocked on the door as I had been instructed.

"Enter!"

I walked inside and found myself standing in a very small room facing a desk with a closed door to the right of it. Behind the desk was a master gunnery sergeant. I stepped in front of his desk and stood at attention with my eyes fixed on the wall directly above his head.

"Sir, Private Aedan O'Neall reporting as ordered, sir!"

He was sitting at attention with his arms resting on the desk and his hands placed one over the other just as my platoon commander had been sitting. "Private O'Neall, I am Gunnery Sergeant Rex Melloncamp. I am glad to have you aboard. From this point forward, you are simply Number 7359829 during your entire stay here with us. Do you understand?"

"Aye, aye sir. Private Aedan O'Neall is Number 7359829, sir!"

"Good. He pointed to the door behind him to his left. "Go inside. Others are waiting in a formation at parade rest. Do not speak or say a word to the others. If you do so, you will immediately be terminated from this program."

I pushed through the door into the other room. It was about thirty by thirty feet and some two dozen other Marine recruits were standing at parade rest in three rows. I glanced at their faces as I moved to the rear line. No one was smiling. The room was so quite all I could hear was their breathing and mine. After about ten minutes, the door opened. Gunnery Sergeant Melloncamp walked in followed by two other men, one a captain, the other a corporal. Melloncamp addressed us.

"Behind me to my left is Captain Nixon. He commands this program and would like to speak to you now." The captain stepped forward.

"You men have been selected for this program based on an exam you took and the evaluation of you by other Marines part of this process. As you know, the United States Marine Corps is a small, elite force whose mission differs from other branches of the United States military. Not everyone who enlists in the Marine Corps is capable of earning the Globe and Anchor. As our recruitment posters say, we are The Few, The Proud, The United States Marines. This group is even smaller and more elite. In addition, we are covert. We are covert in every sense of that word and you must keep that in your minds." He paced to the end of the front row then returned and paced the other direction stopping at the end.

"While you are here in this program, you are only a number. We will not use your name. You will not use your name. If you address another recruit, it will be by his number only. As Gunnery Sergeant Melloncamp said when you arrived, you will not speak to anyone unless asked to do so. Should you fail to follow this simple order, we will immediately eject you from the program. Should you graduate from our program, you will not mention anything about us or what roll you play with us. Later on during your tour in the Marine Corps, if you happen to stumble across each other anywhere, you will act as if you are strangers and avoid all contact unless it is a life or death situation. What you do, what we do, must remain a secret. Burn into your minds what I am about to tell you because this is no joke.

"Should you voluntarily reveal anything about us, about this program, you will be terminated. By this, I do not mean we will kick you out of the Marine Corps. I do mean that we will kill you with the extreme prejudice. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

"Aye, aye sir!" all of us yelled.

Holy shit.

"Good," he said. He glanced at the gunnery sergeant then back at us. "I will turn you over to Gunny Melloncamp. He and Corporal Thiel will handle your training. Good luck to each of you."

Melloncamp stepped up in the front. "Men, this program is fast-track basic covert training. If you get through this program, there will be more advanced training in the future. That training will prepare you for covert work in one of several fields such as combat messenger, signal intelligence, linguistic intelligence or some combination of these, depending upon your own unique situation and our needs."

The next two weeks were spent at the Basic Covert School with twenty-four other recruits learning about what to say, when to say it and what never to say. They taught us how to use cameras that looked like accountant's erasers, how and where to hide things big and small, and how to create a quick disguise if needed. They covered a brief history of signals and cryptology and the various ways to encrypt or code messages so the enemy could not decipher or decrypt them.

We learned the vocabulary of espionage such as dead drop, cutout, handler, courier, gatherer, steganography and a hundred other words, some of which most of us had only read in novels or learned about in movies. We mastered some memory skills related to names, numbers and other information that seemed to stretch our brains beyond their intended limits.

They showed us how to breach military and civilian security measures, should it be necessary. They also taught us how to tell a story if anyone wanted to know what we were doing and how to escape them if the story did not take.

Finally, we spent some sixteen hours learning about interrogations. The first hour of each session, we listened to a lecture on a particular interrogation technique followed by an hour watching a film that demonstrated that technique on an actual prisoner. In the third hour, our instructor paired us up to roll-play so we could practice the interrogation technique of that lesson. In every lesson, they emphasized that when interrogating a prisoner, we should always cause the least amount of pain possible to extract the information sought. The final session focused on hardcore torture. The training film was real and graphic. It was not for the squeamish. To a limited extent, we practice torture on each other. It was painful.

Staying alert at all times was an overall message of the program. Failure to remain alert could result in our own deaths. They told us that after we completed boot camp and advanced combat training, someone would contact us for further instructions. That someone would be our covert contact, a person who would know everything about us. His job would be to assign work to us on an as needed basis. My contact would identify himself with the words, "Someone told me you liked the music of Raphael Mendez, the trumpeter." For each of us it would be different. Finally, they assured us that our work would be relatively safe.

Yeah. Right.

It was at that moment I started to pay very close attention to every word anyone used when communicating with me. The word relatively was the first of such words to which I wanted to pay particular attention. After the covert training, they returned me to MCRD San Diego assigned to platoon 2019.

#### * * * *

## MCRD

## San Diego, California

I stood at attention in front of drill instructor Sgt. W. Salmond, a black Marine who could fit on any Marine Corps recruiting poster, listening to him explain that I would not screw up 2019's outstanding record or I'd be a dead recruit. Although he looked a lot like Dr. Chirchir, his demeanor was very different. From the looks on the faces of recruits in his platoon, Salmond might be right about me dying. My mind contemplated the horrors planned for me over the next few weeks.

Now two weeks behind in the twelve-week boot camp, platoon 2019 had a new shit-bird until I could prove myself otherwise. Drill instructors dominated my time with harassment in their attempt to get me to quit and go home. Every other day, the DIs ordered me to run around the one-hundred acre asphalt parade deck for an hour holding my rifle over my head while I screamed I am a shit-bird!

At night, the DIs put me on either guard duty or fire watch. Every other night, I spent hours in the sand pit doing calisthenics until I almost passed out. All of it just pissed me off and made me try even harder to show the bastards Private Aedan O'Neall had what it took to be a Marine.

One morning in the head, I was brushing my teeth at the sink with a line of six recruits behind me waiting for their turn.

"How do you like that sand pit?" the recruit behind me asked.

I spit out a mouthful of water and toothpaste and glanced back at him.

"Got my own private, health club down there. You see any fat on my body?"

On Friday night, I sat on my bunk with my pencil in my left hand and my Marine Corps writing paper on my lap. I was trying to think what words would be appropriate in my letter to Colonel Thamus. Although a very tough man, he was an intellectual with four years of seminary training in Greek, Hebrew and Aramaic under his belt. I felt almost illiterate when considering how he might perceive my words. He did not like crybabies and he did not like men who whined. Fortunately, I was neither. What I wanted from him was some confirmation from God's word that what I was doing was okay. My main problem was how to ask the right questions without revealing anything I have sworn not to reveal.

I really did not want to contemplate being killed with extreme prejudice.

#  Chapter 2 – Combat Training

## 1966

## MCRD

## San Diego, California

Dressed for the first time in my new, green wool winter uniform, black shoes glossy from weeks of spit-shining, I stood at attention with my platoon in front of our commanding general, Major General Bruno A. Hochmuth. He shifted back and forth behind a lectern on the platform stage as his eyes focused on us while he recited a moving speech he had made many, many time to young men who came before us. He congratulated us for surviving boot camp then he conferred upon each of us the title United States Marine.

After many months, we had finally earned the coveted Globe & Anchor and we wore it proudly on our covers and lapels. It is hard to explain why such a small piece of black metal can mean so much to all of us. I cannot begin to explain the feeling that washed over me. The Holy-Roller preachers say that when the Holy Spirit enters the body, the sensation is otherworldly. At that moment, I felt otherworldly.

At dismissal, our formations fell out. Families began to run towards their new Marines. Some Marines headed over to the PX for some non-Marine Corps food. I decided to take a walk around the parade field on which I had circled many time running and exclaiming I was a shit-bird. I wanted to try to wrap my head around what I had just been through these past many months.

"Hey, Marine!"

I jerked my head towards the sound and spotted a tall, lanky man with a rugged face and long, straight red hair hanging down his back. He was wearing a cowboy hat, western shirt, boots and faded blue jeans held up by a wide leather belt sporting a large, silver Texas buckle. He was also holding what appeared to be an expensive, professional camera and he was looking directly at me. He sounded Irish.

"You talking to me?" I asked.

"Yes I am," he said, taking a few more steps towards me. "Would you mind if I took your picture?"

"Don't have any money so I can't pay you for the pictures."

"I do not want your money, Marine. I only want your picture."

"You a news guy?"

"In a matter of speaking." He moved the camera up towards his face and said, "Smile!"

I managed to stand at attention but could not muster a smile for a complete stranger. He clicked the camera button and that was that.

"Thank you," he said. "Congratulations on earning your new title, Marine. Good luck."

He turned around and walked away towards the visitors' parking area. I started my walk around the parade field with the smile he did not get.

Many of the recruits were fortunate enough to have their families present at the ceremony. The radical changes made in us in such a short time stunned their loved ones. There were few dry eyes in the crowd. At no other time in my life had anything been experienced like it. They say, "Once a Marine, Always a Marine" and I came, eventually, to believe it.

The next day we were back in our green combat utility uniforms, now starched and creased along with our starched and blocked covers and our spit-shined boots. We boarded buses bound for Camp Pendleton and four weeks of advanced combat training. For me the place was not entirely a new experience.

#### * * * *

## MCB Camp Pendleton

## Oceanside, California

There was a delay in assigning us to a training company so they put us on several weeks of Mess Duty. For Marines, Mess Duty is the equivalent of the Army's KP but in a much more hostile environment. A sergeant told us that a Marine who dined there two days before our arrival died from viral meningitis. Most of us were not sure what meningitis was but the word viral was self-explanatory. They ordered us to turn the entire building inside-out and sanitize everything. It took three days to clean everything and we were dizzy from using Clorox all day, every day.

After the meningitis scare was over, our jobs lapsed into a kind of routine getting meals ready and cleaning up afterward. Just after noon chow on Wednesday of the second week, Mess Sergeant Devlin walked over to me.

"O'Neall, your barracks sergeant phoned and said to get over there on the double. He's behind the barracks and needs your help."

"Aye, aye sir."

I jogged the two blocks back to the barracks wondering why my barracks sergeant wanted my help. As far as I knew, I was only a name on the barracks roster. Most of the barracks at Pendleton were usually empty from morning to evening because Marines would be out training during daylight hours. When I reached my barracks, no one was around. Even though the sun was out and the air was still, the lack of noise and people seemed spooky.

I slowed to a walk and headed around back where my mess sergeant said I should go. My barracks backed up to woods and it was still and quite. I didn't see the sergeant so I walked towards the back door. Before I reached it, the door opened and two big Marine corporals walked out. I did not recognize either of them.

"Say, corporals, have you seen Sergeant Hackworth? I'm supposed to meet him back here."

Neither man spoke. The expression on their faces told me whoever called my mess sergeant, it was not my barracks sergeant. By that time, they had closed the distance between us. One moved to my left, the other to my right. My mind seemed to switch everything into slow motion, kind of like when you are about to have an accident and you can see it coming and your brain is doing its calculations, planning to survive whatever was about to happen.

"We're here to teach you a lesson, O'Neall."

They know my name. Looks like this is something personal.

The one on my left moved in first and kicked at my left knee. My right foot blocked his kick then I rocked back and drove my right heel into the chest of the man on my right. I rolled back away as the one on the left grabbed for my arm. As I rebalanced, I drove my right fist into his throat and then slammed the side of my left hand down on the bridge of the other Marine's nose breaking it. Both corporals were slightly stunned but moved towards me again. This time I kicked one in the groin then snapped the other Marine's left leg at the knee. He was down. The one with the groin pain attempted to grab me again so I drove my left heal into his rib cage breaking several of them. When he hit the ground, I kicked him in the head, and then did the same to the other Marine. I stood back to survey my handy work. They both looked like they might need a corpsman. I squatted down between them.

"Would you men like to tell me who put you up to this?" All I got was blank stares. "Okay. Suit yourself."

I might have looked like the winner but I was shaking and in a cold sweat. My legs felt bruised and I am sure I tore a tendon in my right shoulder. Maybe it wasn't too bad. As I walked away without looking back, I figured they would not say anything about what happened, at least not enough to reveal my name. Whoever wanted them to do this must have paid them so this probably was not the end of the story. From now on, I had better keep my eyes open and my mouth shut to avoid bringing attention to myself. I prayed my bruises would not show.

For the rest of the week, I stayed on edge wondering when the MPs would come into the Mess Hall to arrest me. It did not happen. At night, I kept my ears open in case someone else came after me. The weekend was quiet. Late Sunday, they released us from Mess Duty.

Monday morning, they assigned us to a training company. They moved us to our new company's barracks located a half mile from the Mess Hall and our old barracks. When we arrived, they assigned me to the first floor. I glanced up and spotted Private Joseph Delgado walking towards me grinning. I could not believe my eyes. I thought he died or they gave him a medical discharge.

"Hey, O'Neall. Want to share a bunk?"

"Damn, Black Eagle – I wondered what the hell happened to you."

"Got real sick so they kept me away from everybody until I got better. You want to be bunk-buddies?"

I glanced at the steel bunk and back at him. There was no way I was going to sleep on the bottom bunk with a man the size of a large refrigerator testing the strength of the materials above me.

"Sounds good, I said. Do you want the bottom bunk?"

"Works for me."

We were putting sheets and blankets on our mattresses when Delgado cleared his throat. "I was reading the base paper and you popped into my head."

I glanced at him. "Me? Why?"

"The article about the assaults."

A funny feeling ran up my spine. "What assaults?"

"The two Marine corporals jumped by some guys last week. Got their wallets stolen by some civilians. Happened right here on base."

"Why did I pop into your head?"

"You're the only guy I know, other than me, who would take on two guys."

"So you can read?"

"You are a funny Irishman. I graduated from Harvard when I turned seventeen."

"Harvard High?"

"No, numb nuts. Harvard University. I'd make a good spy, right?"

"Delusional, too."

"You get out of high school?"

"One year of college, Injin. One whole, friggin' year. Can't you tell it by my excellent language skills and professional bearing?"

That night I was lying on my bunk listening to Delgado snore like a hippopotamus with sleep apnea while I tried to think about home, my family, Maggie, and those two bastards who jumped me. A picture of Dr. Chirchir popped into my head and I suddenly thought about the Arabic and Kenyan Swahili that he spent so much time trying to drill into my head. I could not sleep so I ran phrases and words through my mind trying to get all of it back in the front of my brain.

#### * * * *

Over the course of the next four weeks, we ran through the mountains, learned about weapons that are more advanced, practiced squad and platoon combat tactics, experienced simulated but damned real capture and torture by the enemy and they gave us a good dose of now-familiar harassment on a much grander scale than experienced in boot camp. I was ready to get this crap behind me.

In the middle of the second week of training, they gave us our first opportunity to visit the Post Exchange or PX, the Marine Corps version of a convenience store on steroids. Before he released us from formation, our company commander advised us that we could buy anything that we could afford but not pogey bait. Sweets, like in boot camp, were completely off limits. In my opinion, that was almost un-American. After they dismissed us from formation, the company headed over to the PX.

I picked up some post cards with colored photos of Camp Pendleton and a couple of Marine Corps tee shirts. I also grabbed a ham and cheese sandwich and downed it a few moments after I paid the clerk.

That night after chow, we walked back to the barracks to take our showers and get ready to hit the rack. Taps played over the loudspeakers and ten minutes later I started to drift off to sleep when the barrack lights switched on and the company commander ran down the middle of the barracks screaming "Get up! Get up! Get up!"

I jumped down from my bunk and Delgado lumbered up. The barracks came alive and every Marine stood at attention wondering what the hell was up. No matter how often this type of thing happens, your stomach never gets used to it. The commander was pacing back and forth in front of us with a scowl that could melt cheese.

"I want to know, right now, which one of you dip-shits brought pogey bait back from the PX!"

My first thought was, who would be so stupid to do what they told us not to do?

He paced some more and stopped. "I found a Snickers wrapper in front of our barracks. Without another second passing, I want the responsible party to step forward. Now!"

No one moved and no one spoke up. It was hard to imagine that there was not a single Marine in our company who did not see who bought the candy bar at the PX. On the other hand, it was inconceivable that any Marine would reveal who he saw buy or eat it.

The commander paced some more and glanced at his watch. He stopped and faced us. "When I give the word, I want this company out in front of this barracks in formation at attention." He glanced back and forth waiting for the culprit to step forward but it did not happen.

"Go!"

We ran out of the barracks as if our asses were on fire. Everyone fell into place in formation at attention. The temperature had dropped to fifty-degrees and the wind was blowing through our skivvies as if we were naked. A moment later, rain started a slow drizzle hinting at a downpour.

Crap.

The commander was now facing our formation and water was running off the brim of his campaign hat. His eyebrows bunched up and his face moved into a frown.

"One last chance for our pogey bait eater to step forward."

He waited. Nothing.

"No one here with balls?"

No one moved or spoke.

"All right. Have it your way. If the culprit will not own-up and the rest of you will not speak up, then all of you will receive his punishment. Get down in the mud and give me a hundred push-ups. Now!"

We dropped to the mud and it squished through my fingers and bare toes. My skivvies were soaked and every time my chest hit the ground, the cold mud smeared into my shirt and mashed through my shorts into my crotch. This really sucked but no Marine was willing to rat on a brother. We struggled to finish the one-hundred push-ups but finally reached the count.

"Get up! Get to attention!" he screamed.

The wind made the rain and the mud on or skivvies cold and uncomfortable. We waited for whatever was going to happen next.

"I ask you once more – who ate the pogey bait?"

We waited but none of us believed anyone would step forward and no one would identify the culprit.

"Okay, Marines. I want you back down in the mud. Give me one-hundred squat-thrusts. Do it now!"

The punishment continued until zero-five-hundred, the time we were supposed to get up for morning chow.

"Up! Get up! I want this company to get into the barracks, get your showers, get into uniform, and then be back out here in formation in ten minutes. Do it!" he screamed.

We all managed the ten-minute time frame and were back out in formation still sore and damned tired. Thankfully, the rain stopped. The company commander was back in front of us again.

"You men passed my test." He walked down the first line of Marines, then back the other way.

What friggin' test? I thought.

"It is imperative that a Marine be loyal to his brother Marines. Although I did find a pogey bait wrapper last night and it would have been honorable for the man who ate it to step forward, the important thing is that you men protected one another. The fact that you accepted his punishment also tells me that later, some or all of you will meet with him and show him the error of his ways. When you do this, please remember that it was about pogey bait and not something life-threatening to the rest of you."

Seven damned hours of PT in the cold rain in our skivvies is not life threatening?

Training the rest of that day was hard because all of us were tired from no sleep. I understand that Private Stiltmeyer had some type of accident on the mountain. He got some bad bruises and scrapes that required some attention at sickbay, but he will live. He probably will not eat candy anymore for a long time.

When the four weeks finally ended, the ceremony was almost anti-climactic.

My orders stated that, prior to my reporting to the Naval Air Technical Training Center in Memphis, Tennessee, they approved five days leave so I could return to my family. Almost five months had passed since my arrival at MCRD and I was more than ready to get back to my family and Maggie. When I glanced at the mirror in the barrack's head to check the knot in my tie, the young man who stared back at me was not the same anymore. Why would he be?

_This Marine Corps is some violent shit_.

#  Chapter 3 – Absent Without Leave

## Houston, Texas

The flight from San Diego allowed me some of the sleep boot camp and combat training didn't. Around midnight, we filed out of the aircraft and down the stairs at Hobby Airport looking like a heard of half-asleep zombies. The tarmac was still wet from a recent rain shower and a worker was busy hitching the aircraft's nose wheel to a tow truck while the baggage crew emptied the aircraft of our luggage.

When I followed the other passengers through the door, I leaned to one side and spotted my family and girlfriend standing with others waiting for their loved ones. Even though still very tired, I was excited to see all of them and, of course, they were looking at a completely new, vastly improved version of Aedan O'Neall. Dressed in my Marine Corps winter green uniform with tan shirt and tie and spit shined black dress shoes, my hair cut down to a buzz cut, I looked confident and grinned back at them while they gawked at me.

"Boyo! Ya' look terrific," my old man remarked. His words and proud grin disarmed me while he pumped my hand as if I had been away for years. I was not sure if this was my old man or a stand-in double.

He nudged my mother's arm. "Kate, he looks great!"

She ignored him. "Aedan, ya' left a boy and came back a man," Ma said. She stood on her toes and reached around my neck to hug me. She glance back at Maggie and knew it was time to get out of the way.

Maggie was grinning at me and, suddenly, sprung forward and grabbed my hands. "I missed my Leatherneck." She kissed me on the lips and her warm breath seared through me like a cutting torch. I could not take my eyes off her. A large, brown plastic clip gathered her thick, long red hair towards the back. Her face looked and felt as soft as I remembered and her emerald eyes were large above her small nose and dimpled chin. Judging by her tan, I guessed she was spending a lot of time working her father's cattle in the fields.

My brother, Artie, quiet as usual, shook my hand. "Bubba, it looks like boot camp really changed you. I'm sure glad you're back."

"Me too. You have changed, too. Football must be a bitch."

"Yeah."

The long drive home was noisy as we all talked at once and I tried to explain where I had been and what I had been through, although careful to avoid the special training. It was the first time that I remember my old man smiling so much. It was scary and unexpected. I sensed a great difference in how he now perceived me – no longer a boy but an equal. A new relationship of trust and respect replaced the natural chasm between father and teenage son. Maybe he would not want to fight me anymore. Maybe he no longer thought I was a wimp and a failure. At least I hoped so.

At home, we all sat around the kitchen table drinking coffee as we continued our conversations. About zero-four-hundred, I glanced at my watch.

"I better drive Maggie home before she passes out or her old man shows up with a shotgun. We can talk more tomorrow."

We spent a half-hour parked in front of her house in my 1950 Chevy pickup catching up on the time we had been apart. One of her father's bulls was grazing nearby and he bumped up against the truck. He scared the crap out of us. Maggie opened her door and got him to move away.

"You're pretty good handling those big boys. Do you still plan on becoming a veterinarian?"

She glanced at me. "Sure. I was born for it."

"Where do you think you might practice?"

"Well, Dr. Leander owns the Cut and Shoot Animal Hospital. He is a good friend of my family. He wants me to work for him when I graduate. He handles large animals like horses and cattle but prefers smaller ones like dogs and cats. My love is the big animals so he thinks I'd make a good fit in his practice."

"Incredible." I pulled her to me and we kissed. A few minutes later, the temperature inside the truck got hot and it had little to do with the weather. Maggie drove me crazy.

"I really missed you," she said.

"Judging from the few letters I got from you, it was hard to tell."

She punched my arm. "You ass!"

My drive back home without her felt lonely.

The next morning after we finished breakfast, I decided to drive over to see Colonel Thamus at the Cut in Shoot Bible Church. If his routine were still the same, he would be studying Biblical doctrine for his next week's nightly Bible classes.

I pulled in behind the church next to his twenty-year-old Ford half-ton pickup and hurried inside.

His office door was closed so I knocked on it. "Colonel Thamus? It's Aedan O'Neall."

"Come on inside, son," he said in that deeply resonate voice I had learned to love.

When I walked through the door, he was standing behind his desk leaning on his hands. He wore a sleeveless t-shirt and his muscular arms revealed a man with the physique of someone twenty-years his junior. Although his short hair was grey, his face retained the youthful strength of a young man punctuated by the lines only war can bring.

"Private O'Neall, you are a most welcome addition to this morning's hard study of the Book of Romans!" He walked around the desk and shook my hand with a hard-as-steel grip.

"Let me look at you!" he said when he grabbed both of my shoulders with his arms stretched out and he stared into my eyes. "God knows how to pick good men, son. He really does."

"Sir, I'm not so sure about that."

"Aedan, you've become a man. God and I are extremely proud of you." He released me and pointed to the chair. "Sit your butt down. Let's talk."

I grabbed the hardback chair, pulled it closer to his desk and sat down.

"Aedan, the letter you sent me was good and honest. In the Marine Corps, as with all branches of the military, we learn there are things about which we can and cannot talk. That does present a problem, sometimes. Fortunately, God always provides answers for every situation. God has a Divine interest in the military. War moves God's plans forward. He is keenly interested in what men like you do in those plans."

"Sir, I'm sorry I bothered you with that letter. At the time I wrote it, my mind was not thinking clearly. Before my training, I didn't know this world existed."

"Aedan, you have occupied a pew in our church many week nights and Sunday's since you were a small boy." He laughed and shook his head. "Yes, you were one of the young ones that took a while to steer in the right direction, but God has lots of time to make that happen. Did you not learn over those many thousands of hours that there is real good and real evil?"

"Yes sir. However, I learned those words as hypotheticals. I'm a man now and this is real."

"Son, my teachings are not hypotheticals. They are about real situations every human being will face throughout life. I pumped Biblical Doctrine into your head, hopefully, to help you deal with these things when they happen to you. You are a United States Marine in the greatest, most free nation on earth. God blesses us because our nation began by recognizing His providence. He gave us great men to found this country and they managed to provide freedom, not from religion but freedom to worship Him unhampered by government. He has charged you with the responsibility of protecting us; of protecting this fragile thing called freedom. Aedan, you fight on God's side. Whatever is required of you by the Marine Corps is His will."

For another hour, we talked about my next destination. He gave me an outline from his recent sermons on the military and advised me to study the books and verses when I could do so. When I drove away from the church, I felt better.

Over the next five days, Maggie and I visited friends, watched part of a movie at the Crighton Drive-in Theater near Conroe, and ate dinner with her family one night and mine the next. The days passed too quickly and we were about to head in different directions. College was Maggie's destination and training was mine.

As I was learning, happiness for a Marine comes in small bites separated by long periods of boredom and fear.

#### * * * *

## Naval Air Technical Center (NATTC)

## Memphis, Tennessee

Monday morning before sun-up, I boarded a flight out of Hobby Airport bound for Memphis, Tennessee. Seated next to me by the window was an attractive fortyish, businesswoman reading the Wall Street Journal. For some reason, older women make me nervous and this one glanced my way several times without smiling or speaking. I was not sure whether to speak or not, remembering what one of my high school teachers said.

It is better to remain silent and thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt.

When I was about to say something, she glanced at me again and smiled.

"Are you getting off in Memphis?"

"Yes, ma'am. The Marine Corps has me scheduled for some training at the Naval Air Technical Training Center."

She smiled again. "My goodness! Memphis was my husband's first duty station years ago."

"Is he still in the Marine Corps?"

"Yes he is. He's a master gunnery sergeant, Tom leads Marines into battle."

"Is he stationed in Memphis?"

"I wish that he was. He is on his second tour in Vietnam. My husband loves war."

"Coming home soon?"

"In a couple of months. I am counting the days. He gets depressed before he returns," she said.

"Tell him Semper Fi for me."

"I will."

She returned to her reading and I leaned back in my seat trying to nap. Whatever brand of perfume she was wearing, it was having an effect on me that I really did not need at this point in my life.

We arrived at the Memphis Airport around zero-nine-hundred and made the usual hike to the baggage department, hopefully to recover our luggage or sea bags as the case may be. I walked out front of the terminal with my sea bag on my shoulder. The Memphis Naval Air Technical Training Center ran buses from the base to the airport every couple of hours and the next one picked me up almost immediately. Three sailors followed me up the stairs on the bus. The drive was not bad and the passengers remained quite, probably because, like me, they were tired and a little depressed about being far from home.

After the bus dropped me off at the reception center, I walked inside to the desk and a Navy clerk grabbed my orders. As I stood there waiting, the now familiar smell of floor wax and pine-o-pine whiffed in my nose reminding me that I was definitely in the Marine Corps. He finished his forms then gave me directions to a barracks that would be my home for the next twelve weeks. That particular time frame reminded me too much of the twelve week boot camp that turned into a much longer stay. No sooner had that thought crossed my mind than he informed me that my class would not start for two weeks.

"They will put you on mess duty," he said with a twisted grin on his face.

Damn!

My plan to breeze through the school and get back home to Maggie was crushed. Today's lesson was that the Marine Corps has its own timetable and you cannot interfere with it.

My barracks was okay even though built back in 1932. The grey linoleum floor glowed with a mirror shine and double rows of bunk beds stood along both sides of the walkway running from one end of the squad bay to the other. Sitting in the middle of the barracks was a large iron stove exactly like the one in my Quonset hut back at boot camp. It appeared that fire-watch would remain on the itinerary here too. Maybe I would not get that job tonight.

Because NATTC was a major training facility, Marines, Sailors, and even Coast Guard members all bunked in the same barracks. We were a mixed bunch and virtually every aviation MOS was represented. It would be our first experience in working with others outside our own military branch.

On day three, while I was walking back to the barracks from noon chow, a Navy seaman stopped me.

"Are you Private O'Neall?"

"Yes."

"Colonel Brandenworth wants to see you right away. His office is at the headquarters building."

My worry antenna jacked up. "About what?"

The sailor shook his head. "Can't rightly say."

As I sprinted towards the headquarters building, my mind raced as it envisioned some tragedy at home. The sailor behind the counter pointed to an office down the hall to his right. I knocked three times.

"Sir, Private Aedan O'Neall reporting as ordered, sir!"

After Colonel Brandenworth said "Enter!" I marched inside and stood at attention in front of his desk.

"Have a seat, O'Neall. Son, you are a full-fledged Marine now. The Corps designed boot camp to mold your mind and your actions. Although you will always address officers as Sir and non-commissioned officers by their rank, you no longer need to punctuate your sentences with the word Sir except for Aye aye, sir. Otherwise, one Sir when we meet is enough."

"Aye, aye sir."

"I understand you like the music of Raphael Mendez, the trumpeter."

My mind tried to grasp what he had just said and it did not seem to register. Suddenly the words spoken to me at the Pendleton basic covert school flooded my memory.

"What can I do for you?"

"I want you to go AWOL," he said, while gazing at me without blinking.

"Absent Without Leave?"

"That's about the size of it."

"That's a court-martial offense. AWOL is a violation of the Uniform Code of Military Justice."

"You will be court marshaled."

I frowned and was not sure how to respond.

"Listen, this is the only way we can give you the advanced intelligence training skills you need without blowing your cover as an aviation structures student. We have a very intense training program for you and it is necessary you attend. Are you with me?"

My heart rate jumped a couple of notches and I took a deep breath trying to process this new information. "I am."

The lesson was not lost on me that this was the second time I agreed to do something potentially dangerous without thinking it through.

"Good. This evening I want you to get a shore pass from your barracks Duty Sergeant. Dress in your civilian clothes. Take the center's bus into Memphis. Now, here is the tricky part – I want you to make the bus trip back home or to your girlfriend's college, whichever way you want to do it. Make up whatever story you want to explain why you went AWOL, but do not breathe a word about this training. Do not stay longer than a couple of days. Early the third day, you must fly to Chicago's O'Hare. A red 1964 Chevy Impala two door will be waiting at the entrance. The driver will ask you, How is the weather in Egypt? Your reply should be, Hot as a mother. He will take you to a motel on the outskirts of town. Check in to room 401. The next morning at zero-five-thirty, a man will knock on your door. His name is Swede. He will provide your training. Think that you can remember all of that?"

"Not a problem, sir."

Around midnight, I climbed on a Greyhound bus. On my way to the back, I counted nine passengers in various stages of sleep or stupor. I found a vacant section then plopped down and kicked the seat back into the nap position. Bus travel was not high on my list, particularly tonight. The air conditioning was cool but the bus smelled stale, as if they had not cleaned it recently. The bus was pulling away from the terminal and the big diesel engine in the back was screaming its power as it pushed us forward towards a freeway. When I closed my eyes, a man three seats ahead started to snore so loud I thought he might hurt himself.

My life is moving fast, now, and I hardly have time to consider the possibility that my current situation might cause me a lot of grief. One the other hand, I feel some confidence that I am working on the right side of things. I hope.

The bus stopped thirteen times so those of us headed to Texas could catch connecting rides and new passengers could climb aboard. We arrived at Texarkana, Arkansas at seventeen-forty-five that afternoon and had a half-hour layover. I walked in the busy terminal and grabbed a cup of coffee at the canteen. Around eighteen-hundred, we transferred to another bus and left for Shreveport, Louisiana. A little after twenty-hundred, we crossed in to Texas headed for Marshall. I felt like I was home.

For those who live in places like Rhode Island or Connecticut or West Virginia, once they cross the state line, home is only a short distance. Not for a Texan. Home is usually hours away. Five hours later, my bus arrived in Huntsville, Texas where Sam Houston State College is located. I glanced at my watch and it was zero-one-hundred in the morning. Outside the terminal, the air was hot and wet from Texas humidity. The familiar smell of Texas pine trees put me at ease.

Inside, I felt a growing unease about this visit. Maggie was her father's daughter and she loved him very much. Mr. MacFayden and I discussed the military numerous times, and he had firm opinions about it. As a highly decorated British Army colonel, his definition of honor was about as narrow as you could find. If he learned about this AWOL thing, I am not sure what effect it will have on Maggie. My gut told me the covert door I walked through closed behind me for good. Back in the 50's when I was a kid, we watched a science fiction television series call The Twilight Zone. Now, I felt like I was in it.

The wind kicked up and the street was dark when I thumbed a ride to the campus. When the driver dropped me off next to a phone booth near Maggie's dormitory, I called her. The hour was late and the campus grounds were vacant except for me. It seemed lonely, like me. My eyes focused on the front door to her dorm until she walked out and met me in her robe. She wasn't smiling when she sat down on the bench next to me. I grabbed her hand.

"Are you alright?" She asked.

"Yeah," I said, thinking how damned beautiful she was even with no makeup.

"Why are you here? You're supposed to be in training."

"I know. I got sick. They thought I was faking it so they wouldn't let me go to sickbay."

"So you just left?"

Her tone seemed damning and I realized how weak my story sounded. Hell, I didn't even believe it. Her eyes told me she was not buying it either.

We sat on a bench in the dark and talked for an hour, me trying to avoid the truth. It was obvious she was very unhappy with what I had done. The fabricated story was the first of many that put me in a less than perfect light and, as time passed, would add a layer of pain to my life.

"Aedan, I've got to get back to my room," she said when a misting rain started to fall. "If they find out I've been outside, I'll get into trouble." She squeezed my hand and kissed me on the cheek, then ran back to the dorm. It appeared she wanted to put distance between herself and a loser.

For a minute, I stood there staring at the door that had closed behind her. The wind and the rain picked up while I walked a half-mile down the road towards a motel to get a room for the night. Down deep, I felt like I was in a bad dream, somewhere between my old self as a kid and someone entirely different. As I approached the motel, the large, neon sign blinked off and on with the words Comfort Motel, making me feel like I was part of a B-rate movie. A type of loneliness washed over me never experience before.

No sleep came as my mind contemplated the reality of what I had done.

Around zero-six-thirty, I checked out of my room and thumbed a ride back to Cut and Shoot. An Atlas Furniture truck stopped and picked me up. Along the way, I caught four more rides while thinking about how the small town in Northeast Montgomery County, Texas got its name.

My sophomore year in my high school English class, we were required to write a paper on something historical. I picked my hometown and found a Master's Thesis written by a man named William Harley Gandy titled A History of Montgomery County, Texas he wrote at the University of Houston in 1952.

Before 1912, a group of Baptist and Methodist members who settled in the area met to discuss building a community center where their members could meet for social and civic occasions. One stipulation was that no Mormon or Apostolic group would be allowed to use the building. Sometime thereafter in 1912, an apostolic preacher named Stamps announced that members of his church planned to meet in the building and spend the day socializing. Hearing about Stamp's plans, members of the Baptists and Methodists decided to lock Stamps and his group out of the building.

When the Apostolics heard of their intentions, they rushed to the building armed with guns and knives under the seats of their buggies. Shortly thereafter, the Baptists and Methodists arrived with their guns and knives and a wild argument began. One of the young boys yelled that he was scared and that he was going to "cut around the corner and shoot through the bushes in a minute." Although no shooting or cutting occurred and the fight was resolved in court, the words cut and shoot later stuck to the little community. Eventually, the community adopted the name, Cut and Shoot.

My folks settled there when we arrived from Ireland. My old man liked the idea of settling in a community that had some of that Irish fighting spirit, particular because citizens are highly patriotic and many residents are veterans.

After the last ride dropped me off two-miles from home, I walked the rest of the way trying to form the words to use with my family. It dawned on me that it might not be possible to do this job and have a conscience. After lying to Maggie and realizing she may not have believed me, I had no confidence my family would either. As I approached the back door, I took a deep breath and walked inside.

"Ma? I'm home."

"Baby! What are you doin' home?"

She rushed into the kitchen alternately frowning and smiling. She grabbed me around the neck and kissed my cheek. She listened to my story then started to cry. No matter how hard I tried, no words came to comfort her. One thing I figured out about ma was that when things around her started to fall apart she usually started to cook something. That was what she was doing now. I left her alone in the kitchen and walked out to the front porch to sit in the rocker.

We lived at the end of a black top road back in the woods away from people and traffic. The sky was clear and the air warm and my ears picked up the sound of a dog barking in the woods, probably chasing a small animal. Even though things were calm, I was not. I put my head back and dozed off, my body trying to catch up for the bad night with no sleep. An hour later, my eyes snapped open when I heard the sound of my old man's car moving up the driveway. Ma must have called him. He walked up the porch steps.

"Boy'o, your ma told me ya went AWOL. What in the hell are ya doin' here?"

I didn't even have the guts to repeat my sorry-assed story to him. It was obvious he had lost all respect for me. This was harder than anything I could imagine. He brushed past me and slammed through the front door. Oddly, I longed for him to take a swing at me as he used to do. At least then, I would know that he was over being mad or disappointed in me.

Ma's dinner was her usual spread of dishes no man could turn down. I picked at my food but my appetite was in the toilet. Maybe I would not ever have an appetite again. That evening, my old man drove me to the airport without speaking a word. About twenty-hundred, he dropped me off at the Hobby Airport and I ran inside to try to catch a flight to Chicago. My stomach was churning and I felt like a criminal after what I had told my family.

I was not sure I could do this.

#  Chapter 4 – Swede's Covert School

## Chicago, Illinois

Over the next two weeks Swede, a very muscular, very articulate, very patient man in his mid-forties, introduced me to the advanced skills of an intelligence agent. Using the roll playing technique, I learned to follow strangers on foot and in the car without them detecting me. Well, actually the first day almost everyone I followed caught on damned fast and I started to get concerned one of them might call a cop to say I was stalking him. However, Swede's patience paid off and I finally got the hang of it.

Picking up the necessary telephone skills was a little easier. Using the Chicago white page telephone directory, I phoned several hundred strangers and pretended to be a salesman, a cop, an FBI agent, and a dozen other things that I was not. With Swede sitting next to me – sometimes smiling, sometimes laughing and sometimes showing a level of anger not seen in the faces of my boot camp drill instructors – I practiced these new skills for at least three days.

Then I dressed in a series of appropriate disguises and Swede dropped me off in several neighborhoods where I acted like a salesman for an encyclopedia publisher, a street preacher seeking converts, a magazine salesman, and representative for a political candidate. Although I felt burned out pretending to be someone else, Swede intensified the program.

I walked into at least twenty-five Chicago businesses asking to use the phone in a private office. I rifled through desks or cabinets looking for pretend, top-secret documents I could photograph. Next, he made me enter nearby businesses acting like a private investigator asking specific information about make-believe individuals. Finally, Swede wanted me to go into businesses begging for money for any number of plausible reasons.

He spent a week showing me how to open most types of locks with or without professional lock picks, how to disable building telephone systems, how to tap into telephone systems, how to install listening devices and recorders, how to plant tiny recording devices on individuals; and several dozen other things involving technology I formerly thought were only fictional.

Finally, Swede drove me into downtown, Chicago and pulled up next to the curb.

"For the past ten minutes, a hostile agent has been following us," he said. He handed me a large folder. "Get out and guard this with your life. Do not let him catch you."

I grabbed the folder and jumped out. He sped away and I sprinted down the sidewalk through the afternoon crowd while my eyes scanned the buildings looking for an exit. I needed a place to hide. My blood pressure kicked up a notch even though I knew my situation was not real. Swede's movie script called for me to play many rolls. So far, I succeeded. This last scene looked easy. Simply running and hiding for two days seemed like a no-brainer. As it turned out, I was not as good as I believed. Swede's enemy agent caught me in a dead-end alley.

We rolled on the ground a few minutes until he lost his grip on me. I jumped up and ran for a fence at the end of the alley. He tackled me and put something over my mouth and I blacked out. A few hours later, I woke up in an unfamiliar room with my feet duct-taped to a folding chair and my hands tied behind the chair back. While my head continued to swim from the drug he used on me, I noticed two things.

First, I was as naked as the day I was born. Fear placed a layer of sweat on my skin and the cold air felt uncomfortable. Second, a car battery sat on the floor between my feet. Standing directly in front of me, a man was holding jumper cables between my legs. He was big and hairy. A nasty scar ran down his right cheek and another across one side of his throat. He moved his face close to mine.

"Do you understand that you made a horrible mistake trying to escape in that alley?" he said in measured words.

"Yes sir. I sure do," I remarked as my eyeballs bulged down at the jumper cables.

"As you look at me now, do you understand the gravity of your predicament if this was not a training situation? Do you have any idea on what part of your body that I would use these jumper cables?"

I glanced down between my legs and back up. "Yes sir."

"Then is it apparent to you that, should you find yourself in this same situation for real, that whatever you knew you would gladly tell me?"

"Absolutely," I said. My balls had already drawn up into my body trying to survive what might have happened.

"Good. Then think! Think! Think! Use one of those two brain cells in your skull before you act! Should enemy agents get their hands on you, it is highly unlikely you would escape. It ain't like the movies, boy. They would torture you until they got bored and then just kill your young ass."

After it was over, he untied me and left. I really hoped we would not cross paths again.

Between the intense training sessions, Swede and I would sit and talk. The training was extremely exciting for me but I had endless questions about this new field of work. One evening we were back in the motel sitting at the little table drinking Cokes.

"Say, Swede, is this work always this exciting?"

"O'Neall, this job requires the patience of Job and a lot of thinking and planning. Hollywood movies to the contrary, this work is, more-often-than-not, damned boring. The excitement comes from meeting new people, learning new skills and, for most of us, the frequent opportunities we get to pretend we are someone else. It is kind of like you get this terrific acting career but with really crappy pay and absolutely no applause. Think you can handle it?"

"I can handle it."

At the end of the two weeks, Swede shook my hand and slapped me on the back.

"O'Neall, you did pretty damned good. You are going to do just fine. Another thing – Until further notice, I will be your primary handler. At my direction, other contacts will give you assignments. If anyone fails to say Swede said you like hot-rods and that person wants you to do anything remotely like what you have been trained to do, get away from them as quickly as possible and phone me at the toll-free number I gave you this morning."

I caught a bus back to Memphis to report in as AWOL.

#### * * * *

## NATTC

## Memphis, Tennessee

It was late and the NATTC entrance was lit up like a beacon. I turned myself in at the front gate and the smartly dressed sentry phoned the MPs. The Military Police truck picked me up and delivered me to headquarters. The horrible pain of deception and lies I had told my family remained with me. Words cannot describe how you feel when those you love believe you have done something terrible and you cannot tell them, ever, it is not the truth.

I stood at attention before Colonel Brandenworth and it seemed that we had never met.

"Private O'Neall, do you understand that you have been absent without leave, that you left this military base without a valid pass, and therefore you have an unauthorized absence?"

"Yes sir."

"Private O'Neall, when you left this base, did you intend to return?"

"Yes sir."

"Then it is my judgment that you shall be disciplined in accordance with Article 15 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Under Article 15, as commanding officer, I have wide latitude with respect to your punishment. It is my decision, therefore, to sentence you to six weeks of hard labor at the base brig. Furthermore, I deny you promotion to private first class for a period of not less than six months. Any other infraction will result in a Bad Conduct Discharge. Do you understand?"

#### * * * *

Although allowed to return to my assigned barracks, every morning at zero-five-hundred I reported to the base brig and stood at attention in a platoon of real criminals, Marines awaiting court martial for anything from petty theft to armed robbery or worse. Yeah, not all Marines are good. As the saying goes, _The Marine Corps makes good men better. It cannot make bad men good_.

Every morning after roll call, a brig chaser led us in an hour of physical training followed by a three-mile run while carrying five-gallon paint buckets filled with water in each hand. When we got back to the brig, my arms were numb. They segregated us into small work details. For the next ten hours, we picked up trash, cut grass, washed officers' vehicles, cleaned toilets in the heads of every barracks, polished doorknobs, mopped and waxed floors or we performed any other menial task they could concoct. Each day, one of the prisoners was led away either to a less than Honorable Discharge, to trial or to Portsmouth Naval Prison. The guards told us Portsmouth Naval Prison is not a fun place.

Every evening at mail call, I waited for a letter from Maggie. Ma and Artie both sent letters a couple of times a week but nothing came from her. It appeared that her father might have learned about my going AWOL and counseled her against me, but I had no confirmation one way or the other. I wrote her anyway hoping she might write back.

I started to think that I had made a big, big mistake. However, I survived the six weeks punishment and Colonel Brandenworth shook my hand and wished me well.

"You are an honorable young man, Private O'Neall. Good luck on the rest of your journey."

#### * * * *

My release was just in time to start aircraft structural mechanics school. The initial phase was an introduction to aviation spent climbing in and out of helicopters and fixed wing aircraft while learning the nomenclature of both. One day after class, Private Singer suggested the four of us drive into town to do some hell raising. He was the only person in the class with a car so we agreed. Singer climbed behind the wheel and I sat on the passenger's side. Privates Bimpton and Lately climbed in the back seat of Singer's four door, 1954 Dodge sedan.

On the way into Memphis, it dawned on us that in Tennessee we were too young to buy alcoholic beverages. Bimpton suggested we drive south into Mississippi where the drinking age was eighteen. When we crossed into Mississippi on I-61, we spotted a giant billboard sign with a picture of country singer Conway Twitty touting his dance hall on Moon Lake. We drove straight there. When we pulled into the almost full parking lot, Singer said, "That car behind us has been tailing us since we left the base."

"Who would do that?" Private Bimpton asked from the backseat.

"Don't worry about it, Bimp," Private Lately said. "It's probably guys from the base like us looking for some fun."

We got out and walked towards the building. The long line at the door didn't look too inviting. Ten minutes into the wait, we were midway to the door when two rednecks tried to cut in front of me.

"Hey, get to the back of the line. Wait like the rest of us," I said.

The bigger of the two tried to push in anyway. I grabbed his arm and cranked it up behind him, then shoved him away from me. "I said go to the back of the line."

He turned towards me and just stared. His friend grabbed his arm.

"Come on, we'll catch him later."

We got inside and had to squint our eyes to see through the smoke and dim lighting. However, it was hard not to notice all the good-looking women surrounding us.

A band on the stage was pumping out the latest country-western sounds. We meandered through the room between tables, couples dancing, and waitresses taking orders or delivering drinks. We found an empty table in the back corner. A couple of minutes later, a hot, twenty-something blond waitress stopped at our table and took our drink orders.

The band was good and the dance-floor crowd was really getting into the music. The blond returned with frosty mugs and a big pitcher of beer. In no time, it was empty and Singer signaled the waitress for a refill. Feeling a little on the uninhibited side, my eye caught a young dark-haired lass two tables over facing me at her table. She smiled and I got up headed her direction. In a second, I was standing beside her looking down and she was smiling up at me.

"Any chance you'll dance with me?"

She ignored the stares of her three girlfriends seated around the table and stood. "Sure."

We walked out to the dance floor and I slipped my hands around her small waist above her very tight blue jeans. Her button-up western shirt had a pair of nice sized breasts projecting and they fit nicely against my mid-section as we rocked back-and-forth to the slow music. Her face was beautiful, the smooth skin tanned and supple. Her small hands gripped the middle of my back and it felt electric. She nestled her head against my shoulder and I felt a masculine surge rise through me but tried to suppress the thought of it. Her perfume was hypnotizing but a picture of Maggie jumped into my head.

"Are you in the service?"

"Yeah. Marines."

"I thought so," she said.

We danced two more dances and I figured I had better sit back down before things got out of hand. Even though I had not heard from Maggie, she haunted me like a good angel.

"Hey," I said. "I enjoyed the dances."

She put her arms around my neck and moved her face close to mine. "Did you come here with those other guys at your table?"

"Yeah," I said. Her hot breath and perfume had already started working on me.

"In your car?"

"No. It belongs to one of them."

"Well, my car is outside. Maybe we could leave and go someplace."

God help me because my strength is just about all gone.

I smiled at her and gently removed her arms from my neck. "Honey, in another life, I would jump at the opportunity but I can't."

"You're spoken for?"

"Yeah."

"Too bad. We could really have some fun."

"I'm certain that we would."

She smiled back at me. "You're a good dancer."

We walked back to her table then I returned to mine wondering if I was really spoken for.

In a few minutes, our waitress returned with our third round. By then, I was feeling pretty good. All of us were feeling good. It seemed like no time at all before there were six empty pitchers and another on the way. Over the past couple of hours, we managed to solve most of the world's problems, at least in our own minds. Before the cute waitress returned with the seventh pitcher, the guy who tried to cut in front of me when we arrived – I call him Redneck #1 – appeared next to me. He leaned down.

"Okay, dickhead, come on outside with me. I want to finish what you started."

I smiled up at him. "Are you the asshole who cut in line earlier? You do look a little bit like him."

"Like I said, come on outside so you and me can talk."

I stood up and pointed towards the door. "Ladies first," I said with an uncharacteristic slur. I glanced at my friends. "I'll be right back. Hold my spot. We'll need another pitcher." I was really feeling no pain.

He headed towards the door with me a few feet behind him. I noticed that Redneck #2 was following behind me.

As I stepped outside, I noticed it was dark except for pole lights between the building and the parking lot. I shifted to the left at an angle so I could see #2 better. He was only a few feet away as I followed #1 towards the parked cars. My fear adrenaline shot up into the atmosphere followed by the usual gut twinge of nausea. I ignored the flight side of the fight or flight equation. Just as #1 passed the first line of cars, he stopped and turned but #2 was already up to me and grabbed me from behind. #1 moved in so I rocked backwards, lifted both legs and came down on the instep of number #2's feet. #1 had already started into a roundhouse with his fist so I leaned forward and he hit #2 in the nose driving him backward. I pulled away and drove my fist into number #1's stomach. As he bent forward, I slammed both fists down on the base of his skull. #2 grabbed for me again and I twisted and kicked into his chest driving him back against one of the parked cars. He turned towards me about to take a swing and I drove my left heal into his face snapping him backwards. He bounced off the car and smashed to the pavement. By this time, #1 had regained consciousness. I grabbed him around the neck from behind and pulled his head backwards towards me.

"What is this really all about? If you don't tell me, I'm going to snap your neck."

"Jezzus, don't! He didn't pay me enough for that!"

"Who didn't pay you enough?"

"Some guy from Texas!"

"What's his name?"

"Jezzus, I don't know his name!"

"Okay. Tell _Jezzus_ you are coming back to him!"

"No! I swear in the name of all that's Holy, I don't know the guy's name!"

"How did you know where to find me?"

"He told me! He said you had to be punished for what you'd done!"

"Okay. Here is the plan. I am going to release you. I want your driver's license and your friend's driver's license. You go drag your friend back to your car. I want the two of you to disappear."

"Yes sir!"

He grabbed his wallet out of his back pocket and handed me his driver's license. Then he reached under his friend, removed his wallet, and tossed the driver's license to me.

I stood back and watched him pick up his friend and jog back to the car with him draped over his shoulders.

Who was this guy from Texas that spent money to get them to beat in my brains? Was he connected to the two Marines who tried to do the same thing at Pendleton? About that time, my Marine brothers walked out into the parking lot.

"We started to follow you outside but figured you had it under control," Private Bimpton said.

"Yeah, thanks. Next time when you are in trouble, I'll keep that in mind."

About that time, we heard sirens. Someone probably saw the fight and called the police. I don't know about my friends but the last thing I needed was to get into trouble. Colonel Brandenworth made that perfectly clear.

"Let's get out of here right now!" I said.

We passed a police car on our way out of the parking lot. Singer headed back towards Memphis. When we reached the halfway point, we decided we needed coffee and maybe something to eat. He pulled into an all-night diner that looked packed.

I walked through the door first and the place was almost as loud as Twitty's place. Suddenly it got very quiet and I noticed that truckers at the counter were turning around to look our direction. The other customers seated at booths stared too. I saw the restroom sign at the other end of the building and headed that direction. When I got inside on my way to the urinal, I glanced at the mirror over the sink to my right.

Holy crap!

Now I understood why people were staring at me. Blood was all over the upper front of my shirt. My blood. Some of it was caked under my nose. One of the Rednecks got a good one on me.

Later we found ourselves at a tattoo parlor in downtown Memphis. The next morning I woke up with a huge hangover, bruised knuckles and ribs, and a bloody bulldog wearing a helmet with the letters U.S.M.C. above him on my left arm between my shoulder and elbow.

God, what had I done?

At roll call, as usual, we were all standing at attention as the barracks sergeant walked past us. He stopped at me when he spotted the new, currently not-yet-healed tattoo.

"Get that last night, did you, Private O'Neall?"

"Yes sergeant."

"Anyone else get a tattoo last night?" he asked looking over the rest of the men standing in formation. Three reluctant hands moved up, all belonging to my group the previous night.

"Let me be very, very clear about this to all of you. We put tattoos in the category of destruction of government property. We own your asses and we don't appreciate it when you deface our property. If any of you end up in sickbay with an infected tattoo, you can be sure that I will bring court martial charges against you. Is that understood?"

"Yes sergeant!" all of us repeated. My mind burned cells trying to figure out where I could get some antibiotic ointment as quickly as possible.

There was no way I was getting a Bad Conduct Discharge for a damned tattoo infection.

#### * * * *

The hanger door was open and bright sunlight heated the air around us while each of us worked on repair assignments for that morning's lesson. Parked on the concrete ramp outside, an F-8 Crusader sat quietly next to an older A-4 Skyhawk, both listening to the twin-engine roar of a WWII vintage C-117, Navy version of the civilian DC-3 parked next to them.

Avionics students were inside the C-117 studying the instruments and the engines were running at such high RPMs that the propellers were almost invisible. I started to glance back down at my work when my peripheral vision caught view of a student moving towards the C-117. My breath caught when I realized he was staring off to the left at an F-4 Phantom taking off. He was headed directly towards one of the aircraft's engines. Voices screamed at him but the noise was too loud and he did not hear anything. I froze and watched him take four more steps before he turned and walked through the port side prop and his body disappeared in a horrific spray of blood, skin and bone.

I was not the only student that puked his guts all over the immaculately clean, grey painted hanger deck.

That afternoon, I received a letter from ma but nothing from my old man. Nothing from Maggie, either. I wrote her a brief letter but left out the C-117 accident. It was too fresh in my mind, like the sailor shredded by the propeller. I tacked on a P.S. with Please write me soon. Two other letters came, one from Naz's mother, the other from his father. Dr. Chirchir was still making trips to the mid-east on a regular basis. Naz's death floated back up from the dark place so I pushed it back down again. I judged myself guilty of not writing to any of them regularly.

The next phase was in the classroom spending hours learning the mathematics necessary to deal with the technical level of maintenance all of us would need later. In the final phase, instructors separated us into our own maintenance specialties of electronic repairs (avionics), structural mechanics (airframes) or power plant repairs (both turbine and reciprocating engines). All of it was intense and extremely demanding and we, for the most part, learned to put together and take apart aircraft practically blindfolded. I finally graduated as a full-fledged Aircraft Structural Mechanic. I wrote Maggie to tell her I would be home in a couple of days and I hoped to see her.

On graduation day in June, each class stood at attention in its own separate formation the base commander ordered us to stand At Ease. He thanked us for our service then talked about our future in the Corps. After the ceremony ended, he gave the command:

"Dismissed!"

My eyes suddenly focused on a cowboy standing on the edge of the parade field to the right of our commander. He was the same man who took my picture at MCRD. Now, he had his camera pointed at me again.

What is it with this character?

I started to walk towards him but my formation of Marines scattered around me and I lost sight of the cowboy. When the Marines thinned out, he was gone.

We wandered back to our barracks to pack and ready for a five-day shore pass home starting tomorrow. I walked down to the pay phone to call Maggie. A girl told me Maggie was at the library. I asked the girl to tell Maggie I would be home for a short week. She promised to give Maggie the message.

#### * * * *

## Cut and Shoot, Texas

Once again, a Boeing 707 delivered me back to Houston's Hobby Airport at noon where my parents waited to pick me up. The drive home was quiet and that suited me just fine. Artie was in school and I could not reach Maggie.

That evening, my old man remained stoic and I came to believe that he would never forgive me for the AWOL. Ma and Artie were anxious for me to fill in the gaps my letters to them had not covered. Ma cooked meatloaf, mashed potatoes and green peas for dinner and my eyes were almost popping out when I sat down to eat. Table chatter ended abruptly. I glanced up to see them all staring at my left arm, now exposed below my short sleeve shirt. My newly tattooed arm was the object of their attention.

"Aedan!" ma said. "What on earth have you done?" At the same time, my old man got that pissed look on his face. Artie, however, stared down at his plate with a major grin on his face. I knew that no explanation would get me through this one.

The next morning I put on my summer khaki uniform. To make sure it was properly positioned, I looked closely at the black metal globe and anchor fixed on the side near the front of my garrison hat the Marines referred to as a pisscutter. The pisscutter looked good. I glanced down at my spit-shined dress shoes with approval. At zero-eight-hundred, I climbed in my pickup and headed for Sam Houston State hoping Maggie would see me.

When I arrived around zero-ten-hundred, a girl walked out to my truck and leaned in the passenger side window.

"You're Aedan O'Neall, right?"

"Yeah. Do you know Maggie?"

She nodded. "I'm Jean Santarsiere. My room is next to Maggie's room."

"Would you mind telling her I'm out her?"

"She knew that you were coming but she has the flu. She is running a fever and has been vomiting."

"God! Can I do anything?"

"No. I don't think so."

"Can I go up to see her?"

"That wouldn't be a good idea."

I felt like someone had punched me in the gut but I tried to hide it. "Please tell her that I miss her very much and hope she gets better soon."

"I'll tell her."

Walking down the sidewalk to my pickup, I glanced back and Jean was still standing there, now with her arms crossed. I waved to her, then got in my truck and drove away with my attitude in the toilet.

If I could just see her and have a few minutes of conversation, maybe I could change things. How, I had no idea.

The drive back to Cut and Shoot seemed twice as long as the trip to Huntsville.

That afternoon, Ma and I talked and drank coffee until my old man got home from work around eighteen-hundred. Artie and I walked outside and shot baskets for a half hour. Around twenty-hundred, after I had showered and put on my civvies, I drove to the high school and parked next to the football stadium. Nothing had changed since my graduation. I watched a couple of boys running laps around the track but my mind was stuck on Maggie. Even though I knew she was the only one for me, it seemed hopeless that she would ever believe it. I drove to our church and walked inside, found a seat in one of the pews and stared at the podium where Colonel Thamus always stood to deliver his sermons. The quiet allowed me to think about what I had gotten myself into and how I could regain Maggie's confidence and my family's respect.

No answer came.

At breakfast the next morning, ma believed my lie about taking Maggie to the movies and I wondered what possessed me to lie to her. It was impossible for me to tell her that my actions had driven the only girl I had ever loved away from me. The ball of despair in my stomach just would not leave. Around noon, I phoned Maggie at college but no one answered. When I called her house, her mother said that she was out.

Three days later, my old man drove me to the bus station in town. On the way, he said very little. After purchasing my ticket, I walked back over where he was standing.

"Well, father, guess this is my cue. I'll miss you."

He nodded at me and we shook hands. His shake was like that of a stranger. A minute later, I climbed on the big Greyhound and sat next to a window seat so I could wave bye to him. My throat had an enormously tight knot in it and that terrible, lonely feeling set on me.

The sixteen-hour bus ride to a place called Beaufort, South Carolina was a real bitch.

My mind was in a bad place.

# Chapter 5 – Dr. Kimoni Chirchir

## Office of Nicholas, Mullan and Elwood (NM&E)

## Gulf Building

## Houston, Texas

A handsome man, Dr. Kimoni Chirchir's tall, muscular body covered with skin blue-black like the color of a rifle barrel excited some women and scared some men. A happy marriage prevented him from chasing other women. His current position prevented him from responding to aggressive men. Others in the organization handled such problems if they arose.

Standing next to his office window, he stared at the black and white framed photo on the corner of his desk. He snapped the photo of his boy, Shahnaz, at Naz's twelfth birthday party. Naz was the nickname his young friend, Aedan O'Neall, gave him. Shahnaz liked it and so did he. He glanced out the window of his 27th floor office in the Gulf Building and the cloudless-blue sky cleared his mind.

"Dr. Chirchir," his receptionist blurted over the intercom.

"Yes, Ellen?"

"Captain Mitchell has arrived."

"Thank you. Please send him in."

Chirchir reached in his desk for the box of Havana cigars just before the door opened. He glanced up at the tall Marine officer wearing his dress blue uniform trousers and four rows of ribbons over the left pocket of his tan, short-sleeve shirt.

"Fred, I'm so glad you could come. Over the past few months, I have been pre-occupied with business so we have not had a chance to meet again."

Mitchell reached across the desk to shake hands. "Not a problem, sir. You look fit. How are you?"

"Excellent. I run three times a week. It helps body and mind. I know a year has past since your ordeal, but how's that wounded leg?"

"Good. I'm back to running again. Well, actually jogging. When my platoon was ambushed and I was sprawled out in that Vietnam field with the bullet next to my spine, I didn't think I would ever run again, let alone live."

"I'm glad things have worked out. Back when it happened, I got a message that several of your men were killed. I'm so sorry about that."

"Me too. They all fought hard and died honorably. My toughest job was to notify their families."

"That is a job no one wants. It is a little late to say congratulations on the promotion to captain."

"Thank you, sir. In all honesty, I can't say it has made me feel much different. Pay is better, though."

"I hear the recruiting business is good."

"For this combat Marine, it beats the hell out of the usual desk job most of us wounded jarheads get. It still may take a while to get the sounds of war out of my head. The time at home has given me a good start, but you didn't ask me here to talk about myself, did you?"

"No captain. I did not. Young Aedan O'Neall is the topic. Now that he's a ways into his journey, do you think he will succeed?"

"If he learns to hold his temper."

Chirchir raised his eyebrows. "How do you know about his temper?"

"All the times we saw him in church, you never noticed?"

"Not that I recall. Not at church. If he's had problems, why the hell haven't you told me?"

"Sir, I didn't think it was that important."

"Please don't ever make such a judgment call again. Tell me what you know."

Mitchell leaned forward on the edge of the desk. "Do you remember that I was a camp counselor at the church's Camp Yahweh?"

"Of course. You worked there during the summers while in high school."

"When Aedan was in seventh or eighth grade, he stayed at the camp one summer and took care of the horses. There was an incident."

"Naz stayed at the camp with O'Neall one summer. I don't recall him mentioning anything out of the ordinary."

"One of my duties as camp counselor was to monitor the boys assigned to take care of the horses and clean the stables. One day, I walked over to the stables to see how the boys were doing. I found Aedan beating the hell out of another boy. It was a vicious beating and Aedan looked completely out-of-control. The other boy's eyes were black, his lip was busted and his nose was bleeding."

"Naz never mentioned anything. How did it start?"

"Aedan told me the older boy kicked one of the horses. Aedan grabbed the boy's arm and told him to stop and the boy pushed him. Aedan reacted and took him down."

"An older boy?"

"Probably a couple of years older and a good bit larger. After the other boy walked back to the bunkhouse, I asked Aedan how he learned to fight so well. He said that his father taught him."

Chirchir nodded. "Captain, this is why you should never assume anything. Bits and pieces of information drawn together help in the decision making process. Here is what I mean. I've known about his temper for some time, at least after he got into high school. I'm starting to understand what's going on with him."

"What's that?"

"When he was a boy, he would often come over to our house for dinner. On weekends, he and Naz would sometimes camp out in the back yard and sleep in a tent. On a number of occasions, he showed up at our house with a black eye or his face would be red and swollen on one side or the other. Naz told me that Aedan's father was very strict. He would slap or hit him on the slightest provocation. I believed it because I knew Rogan O'Neall well. He was a tough man with a hot temper."

"I had no idea. I only spoke to his father a few times and he seemed nice enough. Certainly he didn't appear to be the abusive type."

"That's why I should even be kept informed about small details. A boy raised by an abusive father sometimes develops a similar temperament but I believe Aedan will grow out of it. The Marine Corps has a way of putting hotheaded young men on the right path. "

"I hope so."

"Tell me about Joseph Delgado."

"He was in the same platoon as O'Neall."

"They should not have been placed together in the same covert program."

"No sir. They weren't."

"Good. Bye the way, didn't you tell me Delgado was a Native American?"

"Yes sir."

"Delgado is an odd name for a Native American. Sounds Mexican or Spanish."

"I asked him about that. His father told him their name was traced back to the tribe's first chief."

"What tribe?"

"Karankawa."

"Never heard of them."

"Few people have. Delgado told me, according to his father, the tribe existed only in Texas and lived down near the Gulf. I did a little research on the tribe and found not much is known about them, other than that they stood between six and seven feet tall, lived in villages near the Gulf Coast, were fishermen, and traded hand-made crafts with other tribes. The Spanish and Mexicans tried to Christianize them without success. There seems to be a lot of myth. Delgado said the tribe was, for the most part, extinct. Only a handful of them left."

"Well, from what you and others have told me about him, I believe he's a good candidate for us."

"I agree."

Chirchir lifted the box lid of Havana Presidential cigars and grabbed one. He leaned across the desk extending it towards Mitchell.

"Thank you. sir. My wife would kill me if she knew I smoked one of these."

"Thankfully, she isn't here." Chirchir lit his own cigar and puffed on it.

"Tell me, how are our other men doing over there? Although I do get a wealth of information about the war from our knights inside the National Security Agency and the Central Intelligence Agency, it is sterile to the point of lacking human interest. There's nothing like hearing it from someone face-to-face."

Mitchell sat down and held the cigar up. "Okay if I light this monster?"

"That was my plan."

After he got it lit and puffed a couple of times, then removed it from his lips. "Everyone is on his toes and keeps on top of what's going on, sir. You know better than anyone how difficult this dual life is for all of us. But the men are taking care of business so our country doesn't get caught with its pants down."

"Good to know. We've got a lot of things happening around the world that has negative implications for our country, not to mention a growing number of our politicians who will trade their souls to the devil for money and power."

Mitchell puffed again and blew out the smoke. "Things are changing in ways most Americans won't understand until it's too late."

"It doesn't look good."

"No sir."

The two men talked for another twenty-minutes and Mitchell finally stubbed out his cigar in Chirchir's ashtray.

"Guess I better head out of here, sir."

"Fred, keep me posted if you run across any new recruit prospects."

After Mitchell left, Chirchir remembered he needed to phone Axle about Crowley. When Axle picked up the phone, Chirchir waited for the usual unorthodox response.

"So much for my beauty rest," Axle said.

"Good morning would be a lot more appropriate."

"Kim, you know that my birth was inappropriate."

"Can we talk seriously?"

"Serious is my middle name. Should I be packing for a trip?"

"For God sakes, no. Aren't you suppose to give me an update on that state department employee, Phillip Crowley? Are things in place to take care of him?"

"Pardon my attitude but you are way, too impatient. Last week I said you would get my status report the middle of next week. That would be on Wednesday which is tomorrow."

"So I'm one damned day early. What is the status?"

Plan's in motion."

"Good. Let me know if anything changes."

"You will be the first."

Chirchir hung up the phone wondering why his assistant was so damned edgy. After almost ten years with Axle at his side, he understood that the man turned to sarcasm when the pressure of his duties reached some imaginary red line in his psychological makeup. Should Chirchir be incapacitated or die, Axle would automatically assume his position in both organizations. That would make anyone nervous.

He made several phone calls then sat quietly thinking about his visit with Captain Mitchell. The young man had turned out just as he had expected years ago. There were so many like him. More than any American could hope for.

His mind switched to the meeting at the castle tomorrow. His senior knights would be making difficult decisions about other men's lives. This team started their five-year obligation in 1962 and he remembered it like it was yesterday. That first meeting for them was their first experience at deciding if four men should live or die. None of them hesitated after reading the hard evidence. Two CIA handlers had sold information to East German, Soviet and Cuban agents resulting in the deaths of many, many foreign agents working in their own countries on behalf of the CIA to protect America. An FBI agent had taken bribes. A State Department employee had sold information to the enemy. No knight liked this part of the job, but someone had to do it.

He breathed deeply and walked over to put on his suit coat. He headed out the door for the drive to the airport.

#### * * * *

## The Castle

## Campos do Jordão, Brazil

Chirchir liked everything about the municipality of Campos do Jordão, aptly nicknamed Suiça Brasileira or Brazilian Switzerland. Cradled in the Mantiqueira Mountains, the town sits at around five-thousand feet above sea level with the castle even higher. Touted as the most popular city in the state of São Paulo, some fifty-thousand Brazilians of Hispanic and European descent visit throughout the year. Local residents believe the castle to be a corporate retreat for NM&E as did many of NM&E's executives. Only some of the Order's knights are aware of its real purpose, a protocol Chirchir intended to continue.

They all stood to attention when he walked into the room.

"Be seated, gentlemen. Thank you for traveling so great a distance from your homes and families."

The twelve men, dressed in conservative business suits, had been studying the materials he left on the table for them before they arrived. One was a medical doctor, another one a lawyer. Two were accountants, two were insurance agents, one was a state legislator and another was a member of the U.S. House of Representatives. One was a senior manager with the National Security Agency while another was a retired intelligence operative from the Central Intelligence Agency. The last two men owned large trucking companies. Between all of them, their ages ranged from forty to sixty. None of them looked older than half their actual years. They met infrequently and only on occasions such as this one. No one, not co-workers, friends or even family members knew anything about this part of their lives.

He glance down at the folder in front of him, then back up.

"As you men have found from reading the materials before you, there are serious matters that require immediate decisions. Your file includes the names of four men who, individually, threaten our way of life.

"Two of these men are leaders in drug cartels operating in the United States who have caused immense pain, suffering and loss of life over the course of the last five years. Our government has shielded them in return for promises to help with other cases.

"The third man is a member of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the person responsible for shielding these drug dealers in return for bribes. Based on interrogations we have performed on criminals who have worked under the agent, it is apparent he will do anything for money.

"The fourth individual spent a dozen years with the U.S. State Department and has spied, off and on, for the Soviet Union. At least fifty intelligence agents who worked for our government have been tortured to death because he revealed their names in return for money.

"Our research concludes that, despite repeated warnings about these men, no federal or state intelligence or law enforcement agency has made any effort to prosecute these individuals or even bring them to justice. As a result, allowing such men to live puts other American's in extreme danger.

"Historically, we have executed such men in one of four ways: staged their suicide, created conditions in which their death appears to be a of natural causes, set up another guilty party to kill them, or—in the most extreme circumstances—we have sent one of our knights to execute them. Fortunately, you men do not have to make that part of the decision.

"As our rules require, I will pass the box of black and white balls around the table. For each individual under consideration, we will repeat this process. When you receive the box, choose the ball you believe bests judges the individual and place it in the hole. No one can see your hand inside the box and no one will know your decision. A white ball is innocent. A black ball is guilty. All balls must be black to execute the individual."

#### * * * *

## Tomball, Texas

"Ladies and gentlemen, please buckle your seatbelts," the pilot announced while the aircraft bucked inside the storm just south of the U.S. border. Dr. Chirchir didn't like to fly commercial aircraft but the company jet was in for repairs so that was that.

He cinched the seatbelt tighter and leaned back in his first class seat wondering if the flight would make it back to Houston. An hour later, the weather cleared and he fell asleep. By the time the plane landed at Hobby Airport, bad weather was out of his mind. He made the long drive home to Tomball hoping Zena would be waiting.

When he walked into his house, Chirchir noticed the note on the small desk in the entryway. He glanced down at it. Zena was reminding him that she was playing bridge with friends from her Sunday school class. She would not be back until ten-o'clock. He wandered back to his office, laid his suit coat over the side chair and sat down to look through the mail Zena left for him to read. About that time, his phone rang.

"Sir, this is Sergeant Danbury. Sorry about calling at this late hour."

"Sergeant, how are you?"

"Fine. I hope I didn't interrupt anything."

"Not at all. What can I do for you?"

"Something has happened I thought you needed to know about."

"What is it?"

"It's about Private O'Neall. He seriously injured another recruit during hand-to-hand combat training. A recruit named Seth Harmon. We had to give him a medical discharge."

"Why are you telling me this now? Good God, man, O'Neall is already on his way to his first duty station."

"I'm sorry but we had no idea this situation would go any further."

"Sergeant, under no circumstance do I ever want to hear that you or any other knight has made some assumption that a situation of this magnitude may or may not go any further. I will be the judge of such things. Do you understand me?"

"It won't happen again, sir."

"Tell me exactly what occurred."

"During his first few weeks of boot camp, O'Neall caught another recruit named Harmon beating up a smaller recruit so O'Neall stepped in to help. Weeks later during hand-to-hand combat training, the drill instructor paired O'Neall and Harmon up and Harmon was ready to get back at O'Neall. Of course, Harmon didn't know what O'Neall was capable of."

"So what's the problem now?"

"The name, sir. Harmon."

Chirchir leaned back in his chair. "We've got a state senator named Harmon. Formerly a Texas Ranger, I believe."

"Same Harmon. The recruit is his son."

"Did this Senator Harmon bring charges against O'Neall?"

"Not that we know about. However, I did get a call from one of our covert Marines at Pendleton about another incident."

"Involving Private O'Neall?"

"Yes sir. One of my teams has been on top of it. They have monitored the senator's phone calls. His conversations indicate that he wants revenge for the injuries O'Neall gave his son. We'll do everything in our power to keep O'Neall out of harm's way."

"I tell you, Sergeant Danbury, I'm actually afraid of what O'Neall might do to anyone the senator sends after him."

"You might be a little late on that one, sir."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, the story put out by Pendleton security was that two Marines were attacked and robbed by some civilians."

"I get the impression you aren't buying the story."

"Not one bit."

"Why?"

"One of our other recruits said Aedan was told to meet his barracks sergeant behind the barracks. Two Marines showed up and tried to assault him."

"Oh, so the two Marines told security that they were assaulted and robbed by civilians?"

"Correct."

"You think Senator Harmon had something to do with this?"

"Positively."

"What are we doing about it?"

"We've got it under control. I'll keep you posted."

"Make sure that you do. I do not want anymore surprises."

#  Chapter 6 – Mack Langley

## Washington, D.C.

At dusk, the black Lincoln Continental, traveling at a high rate of speed through downtown Washington D.C., swerved and slammed into the rear end of a large box truck parked at the curb. The car twisted and went airborne, then rolled nine times and burst into flames, finally sliding on its crushed roof to a rest between the sidewalk and the front door of a coffee shop closed an hour before. Just fifty feet ahead of where the burning car stopped, a homeless man seated on the curb heard screams from inside the car. He stood and staggered to the other side of the street where he squatted down next to the building, his eyes glued to the twisted, burning car with the screaming person trapped inside. In less than a minute, heat from the flames caused the coffee shop's front door to explode and flames shot inside, melting the red and white checkered vinyl tile floor in their wake. The shop's fire alarm started to blare while sending automated calls to local fire and police stations.

Five minutes later, a hook-and-ladder fire truck slid to a stop ten yards from the burning car and firemen jumped down to begin their programmed procedures to fight the fire and extricate the victim. While several firefighters sprayed foam on the burning vehicle to prevent the gas tank from exploding, two firefighters attempted to saw the side of the car open in an effort to remove whomever was inside. When they ripped the door open, they found only one person inside. It was hard to tell whether he died from injuries related to the accident or from the flames.

#### * * * *

Glasses clattered through the noisy pub while patrons ignored the deafening rise and fall of conversations and laughter common to the Capitol's favorite watering hole for politicians, government officials, news hounds and political activists. At Mahoney's Irish Pub, it was rare for any bar stool to be empty or tables not to be surrounded by customers in various stages of inebriation.

A short, muscular man with a square jaw wearing a wrinkled blue suit and a Colt 45 holstered in the small of his back walked through the door. He stopped to adjust his vision to the smoky room then glanced around. Detective Dan Little's eyes moved to the back corner and he spotted Mack Langley so he walked that direction. He grinned while thinking about Langley.

Although people sitting near Langley would naturally assume the tall, balding, unshaven forty-six year old man was a hardcore drinker with a problem, Detective Little knew Mack was actually a former CIA Intelligence Researcher who spent twenty years developing a persona substantially the opposite of Langley's own. The man had a mind built for solving unsolvable cases.

"Hey, Mack," Little said. "You look extra tired tonight."

"Keep waking up all hours of the night thinking about my work."

Little nodded. "I know what you mean." He pulled out a chair and sat down across from Langley. He twisted back towards a waitress standing two tables over and he held up his hand and extended two of his fingers like a V. She smiled and nodded.

"So, Dan, how's the cop work?"

"Bad decision leaving the CIA, Mack. Things seemed to make more sense back then. My position as a homicide detective provides many questions but few answers that help solve anything. Hell, maybe I should have stayed in the Marine Corps and retired like I started out to do."

Langley downed the balance of his beer then grinned. "Yeah? Well, you would have missed all that fun working with me at the company, wouldn't you?"

"Probably."

The waitress stopped at their table. She placed two pitchers of beer between them along with a frosty mug for each man.

"Thanks, Babs," Langley said. He pushed a five-dollar bill towards her hand. She grabbed him around the wrist and ran her fingers back along it as she smiled into his eyes.

He grinned. "Wanna meet me for coffee when you get off?"

"See you after ten, Mackie." She stuffed the bill in her blouse down between her heavy breasts and headed back to the bar.

He reached for his pitcher and Little grabbed his own. They took long swallows from their mugs. Little fished inside his suit coat pocket, pulled out a cigar and placed it in his mouth. Langley reached across the table with his lighter and torched Little's illegal Cuban cigar.

He puffed on it until the tip turned bright red, then blew out a large stream of smoke.

"You and Babs have been meeting for coffee for a year. Isn't it about time you took it to the next level?"

"Dan, this is my next level."

Little shrugged and sipped his beer again. "Alright. New subject. You never told me why you decided to open a detective agency after you retired from the company in 1959."

"It wasn't like I had a plan, you know. Leaving the company was something I needed to do. The company surrounded me with men who were either apolitical, or progressive. That's not me. I have firm opinions about almost everything. Hell, you know that. Of course, I will change them if the other person has facts that will set me straight. But he better not hand me emotional bullshit and label it facts."

"What about me? I didn't fit their profile either."

"Yeah. We think a lot alike."

Little nodded. "Although I haven't thought about it, I probably left the company for the same reason. So, I'll ask you one more time, why did you get into this private investigation line of work?"

Couldn't shake the need to try and figure out why things happen the way they do."

"I suspected as much. You know, Mack, you were probably the best intelligence research agent the company had on the payroll. I will not admit this to anyone else, but I learned a lot from you. No one else I knew possessed the unique intuition and bulldog tenacity needed to identify those behind political assassinations and obscure, unsolved intelligence related activities or cases. You always gave me enough information so my teams could track them down." He reached in his coat again and handed Langley a cigar.

Langley lit it and puffed without responding to the complement.

Little leaned forward on the table and stared at him. "You aren't going to let up on this obsession, are you?"

Langley jerked the cigar out of his mouth and frowned. "Dan, it's not an obsession. It is a damned mission. There is a difference."

"Look, I understand better than anyone that you loved your work with the company. However, you retired from that line of work. You started this new venture as a private detective helping citizens resolve personal issues. Then you took a few contract jobs with the company and the FBI, but only on a part-time basis. My guess is that working with them was a big mistake because of the fire it lit under your ass. Now you are spending your own money and time looking into things neither agency has contracted with you to do. If you keep this up, you're going to end up broke."

Langley filled his mug again and sucked it all down, then used the side of his forearm to wipe some of the beer running down the dimple in his chin. "Yeah, but I'm having a shit-load of fun doing it." He took a few puffs off his cigar and leaned back in his chair.

"So, Dan, what happened to give you such a suck-ass attitude?"

"A weird accident."

"All accidents are weird. However, you are a homicide detective, not an accident investigator."

"I know. I know. My friend, Billy Lestman, is our senior accident investigator. He was telling me about this accident and it caught my attention."

"And you tell me I'm obsessive. You do think like me. Okay, what got your interest?"

Little poured another mug full and took a sip. "One night last week, a guy who worked for the State Department had a horrific accident and burned up in his car."

"So what makes his accident weird?"

"I don't know. I've just got a gut feeling that it wasn't an accident."

"What makes you draw that conclusion?"

"He was high on drugs and his brakes failed."

Langley shook his head. "Sounds like an open and shut case. Maybe you should have stayed in the Marine Corps."

"I talked to a few people who knew him well. They were adamant he never used drugs."

"Okay. Maybe he just had a bad day and someone provided him a way to deal with it."

Little shook his head. "I don't think so."

"Was he driving an old car?"

"Hell no. It was a brand new Lincoln Continental."

"And the brakes failed? Could it have been some kind of manufacturer's defect?"

"Nope."

"Then why did they fail?"

"The break hoses were about twenty years old."

Langley's body lunged forward against the table. "Dan, this is one of those cases."

#  Chapter 7 – One of Those Cases

Mack Langley's heart was about to explode while he lay on the bed in his trailer thinking about Dan Little's revelation about the car accident. It was definitely one of those cases. His first such case, right after he left the CIA, was back in 1962 when a CIA intelligence manager named Dustin Harkin phoned him about the recent deaths of three of Harkin's handlers. Although they worked for him, they knew nothing about each other nor had they ever made contact with one another. One man was based in Texas, another in Chicago and the third in Florida. Each man managed six field operatives, none of whom knew each other. Their deaths were days apart and resulted from what appeared to be either accidents or natural causes. No foul play seemed evident. Langley spent six months investigating their deaths.

He began the process by reviewing medical and law enforcement reports on their deaths. The handler in Texas, Karl Thompson, had a massive heart attack one Saturday around noon while walking back to the house from his mailbox. Although he was only slightly overweight, his medical records indicated the twenty-nine year old man had low blood pressure and all his tests supported the conclusion he was in good physical and mental condition. An autopsy supported those facts.

The handler in Chicago, Pete Brilmont, died from massive internal injuries resulting from stepping in front of a city bus traveling at thirty miles per hour in downtown Chicago. Under normal circumstances, Brilmont was very careful and observant about everything going on around him.

The handler in Florida, Lance Cortez, stopped at an Academy store in Orlando to pick up some fishing tackle. On his way home while driving at a high rate of speed, his Corvette's right front tire blew out and he swerved into a concrete pillar supporting a freeway overpass.

Langley decided to investigate deeper. He drove to Texas and met with the doctor who performed the autopsy on Karl Thompson. The dissected heart appeared to be free of any degeneration or blockage. There was no evidence of blood clots and Thompson had no drugs in his system. The doctor did admit that, because of Thompson's overall good health, the death appeared curious but he found no evidence of foul play and had to declare it death by natural causes.

The Chicago police officer who investigated Pete Brilmont's death told Langley that three witnesses said that Brilmont stepped off in front of the moving bus. A fourth witness said she thought she saw someone push him off the curb in front of the bus although no one else could confirm it. Langley made a note to see if he could meet with her. A week later, Elisa Panu, the witness, met Langley at a coffee house on the outskirts of Chicago. She told him she absolutely saw a tall black man in a blue business suit push Brilmont off the curb, just as the bus was about to pass him. The black man was bald, he wore black-framed sunglasses, and he may have been wearing a hearing aid.

The Florida state trooper who investigated Lance Cortez's death at the accident scene said he could not understand why Cortez's Corvette tire blew out. The car was only a month old and the tires were new and designed for high speed and excessive heat. The trooper said he found nothing near the accident that might have punctured the tire or caused its failure. He agreed to let Langley take the tire back to D.C. for further investigation. A few days later, the lab told him that the tire had a weak spot about the size of a baseball in the middle of the tread-line. In the area of the weak spot, they found traces of an oil based chemical substance. It was impossible, however, to determine if the tire picked up the chemical on the road or someone applied it on purpose.

When he first started with the CIA, many of his cases seemed to defy logic. One uniquely successful technique he developed was to simply ignore the evidence and go with his gut instincts. He began by asking himself logical questions about these cases.

Why would someone want to kill these men?

He decided to go back to their manager, Dustin Harkin, to find out what each team member had been working on and with whom each member had associated.

Harkin said that Thompson spent the previous two years handling a team of covert operatives who had infiltrated a U.S. based company operated by a Russian KGB agent. Langley interrogated the operatives about Thompson. One of them said he saw Thompson meeting with the Russian agent and it appeared that they were friends. Although the operative did not report this at the time, it remained a point of interest to Langley. After speaking to the operative, Langley concluded the operative had nothing to do with Thompson's death. He also had an alibi the day Thompson died.

Brilmont's team was investigating a Chicago-based German-American organization operated by East German intelligence agents. Langley discovered that Brilmont's brother-in-law was spending a lot of time making and receiving phone calls with one of the East German agents. Langley investigated Brilmont's operatives who also all had alibis on the day of his death. None of the operatives had knowledge of Brilmont's brother-in-law, nor were they aware of whether Brilmont had been working together with the East German agents.

Cortez's team had infiltrated a Florida-based Cuban organization run by some of Castro's communist agents. One of those agents was married to Cortez's cousin. None of Cortez's operatives knew about his cousin's husband nor were they anywhere near Cortez at the time of his death.

The only factor common among Thomson, Brilmont and Cortez was that each man was associated directly or indirectly with communist agents. Who might have knowledge of this? Harkin, their manager? Langley didn't think so. Someone else within the CIA? Maybe. Someone outside the CIA or government? Who? Why?

Langley went back to the drawing board. Who, other than Harkin, might know about Thompson, Brilmont and Cortez? Under no circumstances would Harkin have revealed to others anything about his handlers or those whom they handled. Mack learned that Harkin worked in a CIA front company based in Oklahoma. The company was a legitimate oil field service business with some fifty employees, most of whom worked in field operations and were seldom at the office. The company's chairman of the board and chief operating officer was, like Harkin, a senior manager with the CIA. So was his vice president of operations. Langley needed more information about others who worked in the office. One morning he met Harkin for coffee to talk more about it.

Langley smiled at the sexy waitress pouring their coffee. Harkin sipped his coffee then put it down on the table. "Looks pretty bleak. You know, I kind of did my own investigation before I first called you about this situation."

"I know," Langley said. He leaned back in his chair, took a deep breath and let it out. "Ever use subcontractors in the business?"

"Intelligence agents?" Harkin asked.

"No. Civilians."

"Nope."

"Okay. What about consultants?"

"Who doesn't use consultants?"

"What kind of consultants does the company use?"

"Let's see. We often use outside geologists. Outside companies service most of our equipment. Sometimes we bring in financial advisors to get us back on track. Of course, we have an outside accounting firm that prepares our income, franchise and property tax returns. They are usually here for the first week after the end of each quarter."

"That's it?"

Harkin's head leaned back and he stared at the ceiling for a few seconds, then he glanced back at Langley. "I almost forgot one man. I guess it is because he is almost like one of our employees. Yeah. Bradley Chisom is a CPA. He's our acting controller."

"Is he self-employed?"

"I believe so."

"Can you put me in touch with him?"

"Don't think so."

Langley frowned. "Why?"

"He disappeared."

After he remembered when his obsession began, he rested his head back on the pillow, his body much more relaxed.

Langley spent the next day on the phone with his contacts at the State Department. He followed up by paying a visit to a CIA operative who had started with him in the OSS during the war. He was going to get the bottom of why Phillip Edward Crowley, former State Department employee, died in that fiery car crash.

#  Chapter 8 – Maggie MacFayden

## Sam Houston State College

## Huntsville, Texas

Hey, Maggie! Maggie MacFayden!" the tall young man yelled. She was some fifty yards ahead of him walking towards her dormitory.

She stopped, glanced back then smiled. "What is it Peter? Need more Trig help?"

He caught up with her and stopped, nervously scratching his head. "I didn't mean to delay you. Uh, I was just wondering if you'd like to join me later for a burger over at the Canteen."

"You are asking me out on a date?" Peter was not bad looking, she thought, not for a young man who was six-six and the basketball team's star player. She knew he had been hot to get her out on a date since the first day in Trig class. He was not quite as bright as the other male students she tutored but he managed Cs.

"Well, yeah. Sort of." His face flushed.

She frowned. "You know that I tutor every evening because I need the money, right?"

"Yes."

"You also know that I'm on academic scholarship so I've got to maintain a four-point-o average to keep it, right?"

"Sure, I know."

"I tell you what, Peter, you get the date thing out of your mind and maybe I might say yes."

He grinned. "Sure! You bet. Just a meal together. That's it."

She nodded. "Okay. I will meet you at the Canteen at five-o'clock. I will be leaving the Canteen by five-thirty."

"Great! See you at five!"

Maggie walked into the dorm foyer headed for the stairs while trying to remember the name of the person she was supposed to tutor tonight.

"You little huzzie!"

Maggie stopped and turned towards the voice. It was Sheila Keymaker.

"And, why, pray tell, am I now a huzzie? And what business is it of yours, anyway?"

"I walked by you when you were talking to the jock. I heard you say you'd meet him at the Canteen."

"So that qualifies me as a huzzie?"

"What about your Marine, Aedan? Aren't you guys going steady?"

"I tell you, Shelia, if eating a burger with a friend, who just happens to be a guy, qualifies me as a huzzie in your eyes, then you're pretty simple minded. As for Aedan, he's my business, not yours."

"I'm sorry, Maggie. I was just kidding."

"Sure you were."

#### * * * *

She returned to her dorm room after nine that night, her slacks and blouse soaking wet. Thunderstorms engulfed the area and heavy rain battered the dorm roof and windows while Maggie sat at her desk trying to study for an exam. The academic scholarship kept her on edge and forced her to maximize every minute to maintain a four-point-o average. But her grades and the bad weather were not her main problem. Aedan was. She eyes shifted to the window when thunder cracked and the sky lit up. Trying to study was useless because the lights kept blinking off.

She glanced at her roommate, Ellen, now wrapped in a blanket up to her ears, huddled in her chair in the corner with her feet pulled up to her chest.

"Ellen, you don't much like thunder and lightning, do you?"

"No! I hate it!"

"Why does it affect you this way?"

"Back in South Florida we get storms all the time. I've been through two hurricanes and a dozen tropical storms so none of it sets well with me."

"Sorry. Maybe it will be over soon."

"I hope so."

They listened to the thunder for a while and Maggie decided she could not concentrate until this thing moved off somewhere else. She got up from her chair and walked over to lie on her bed.

"You never showed me his picture, you know," Ellen said.

"Whose picture?" Maggie said when she laid down and folded her pillow behind her neck.

"Your boyfriend."

"Sorry. I've been preoccupied studying lately."

Maggie reached over to the desk, grabbed her small wallet, fished out the photo, and turned her eyes away from it. Over the past few weeks, she managed to put him out of her thoughts by focusing on her studies. She reached towards Ellen with the photo in her hand. "Here it is."

Ellen hopped up, stepped close to Maggie and grabbed the photo. She stared at the small black and white picture of Maggie's boyfriend. She glanced up. "He's handsome but rough looking."

She was sorry she showed Ellen his photo because now Ellen was going to drag her into a conversation about him.

"Rough looking? You mean like a rough piece of wood or maybe an end table made out of an apple crate? Rough looking?"

"You know what I mean. He looks like an outdoors kind of person. He looks like he can take care of himself."

She took a deep breath and let it out. "He can."

"Is he hard to get along with?"

Maggie shook her head wanting to turn and run out of the room knowing that she couldn't. "Aedan O'Neall is the gentlest guy I've ever known. In the history books, they used to refer to his type as chivalrous."

"Not many of those left."

"I know," she said in a small whisper.

"How did the two of you meet?"

She did not want to tell Ellen the story. Speaking the words would bring all of it back up to the surface where she wanted none of it. Speaking the words would erase some of the depression she felt was necessary in her situation.

"You won't believe it."

"Try me."

"Aedan came home from junior college one Friday so he could watch his younger brother play in a football game. It was a home game and our high school was playing a nearby rival team. Aedan saw me and the other cheerleaders doing our routines. When he got back to college he wrote his brother and asked who I was and wanted my address. A week later, I got a letter of introduction from him and he wanted to meet me on a Saturday in a couple of weeks."

"So, you get this letter from a guy you have never met and you agreed to meet him?"

"Sounds pretty crazy, doesn't it?"

"It sounds like a made for TV romance story."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Well, it does!"

"Maybe."

"So what happened when he showed up?"

"It was a Saturday morning around ten o'clock. I was sitting in our front porch swing with my father. My mother was in her rocker and my little brother was playing with our dog on the sidewalk when this Chevy pickup pulled up to our fence. The sun was shining on the windshield so I couldn't see who was driving. The truck just sat there for a few minutes and I was beginning to think it might not be him. Finally, the driver side door opened and out steps this good-looking young man with a wide grin. He looked straight at me."

"Don't keep me in suspense! What did he say?"

"He said, 'Maggie?'"

"And?"

"Well, I finally unglued myself from the swing and managed to walk out to meet him."

"And then?"

"I opened the gate, shook his hand, and told him to come up to the porch to meet my family."

"You shook his hand? Who shakes hands?"

"Stunned little girls who don't know what else to do."

"I don't picture you as a stunned little girl. You dated other guys, right?"

"A few Texas Aggies when I was in the tenth and eleventh grade."

"And this guy made you feel like a stunned little girl?"

"In every way possible."

"What did your family think about him?"

"They liked him."

"What happened next?"

"He ate lunch with us and that night, he took me to the movies."

"Then you started dating?"

"He took me to my senior prom." Maggie started laughing.

"What's so funny?"

"I'm sorry. I was thinking about what happened at the prom."

"What? What?"

"Aedan was wearing a rented tux. A bright blue, sequined coat with black pants. It was the last one the store had to rent and it was two sizes too big. Under his tux coat, he had pinned his trousers in the back to keep them up."

"So?"

"We were out on the dance floor fast dancing. When he swung me around, his pin popped off and his tux pants fell down to his ankles."

"You are kidding me," Ellen said, suddenly laughing so hard she could not stop.

Maggie shook her head and grinned at Ellen. "I thought it was pretty funny, too."

"Okay. So, after the prom, you guys started going steady?"

"We started dating regularly after that."

Ellen shook her head. "You've got to send this story to Readers' Digest."

"Okay, let's don't get crazy now."

"How is Aedan doing?"

Maggie didn't say anything for a few seconds. Her mind was trying to cope with the fact that she temporarily got over what he had done. No one at the college knew Aedan had gone AWOL and she wanted to keep it that way. When he showed up it scared her. When he told her what he did, she was angry with him and feared what might happen when he returned to his base. The day they first met, she knew there was something special about him. She felt comfortable and safe when he was around. He also sent heat waves through her body and dampened her inhibitions past reason.

Now she wondered what the future held for them, particularly after the conversation she had with her father. In all the years she was growing up, her father's advice had always been good and things worked out just as he said. He told her that young men like Aedan, who could not follow military rules, were destined for failure. Men like him only brought heartache to those who loved them.

"He's doing fine," was all that she could think to say. Aedan's letters revealed a different kind of person than her father described.

"You haven't gotten many letters from him, have you?"

Maggie shook her head. "Not many," she lied.

"Are you'all serious?"

"Depends on what you mean by serious."

"You know, are you about to get engaged?"

"I don't know about that."

#### * * * *

## Cut and Shoot, Texas

Friday after her last class, Maggie caught a ride with some classmates back to Cut and Shoot. When she arrived, her mother was in the kitchen cooking dinner.

"Mom, what smells so good?"

Her mother turned around, wiped her hands on her apron, then walked over and hugged Maggie. "Honey, I'm so glad you could get home this weekend!"

She kissed her mother on the cheek and glanced back at the stove. "Is company coming over?"

"Why?"

"That's a lot of food."

She grinned. "I guess you've forgotten how much my brood eats."

"But that was when we were all at home, mother. Sis is living in Dallas and James is supposed to be on a camping trip this weekend."

"Judith is in the shower and James decided not to go camping. Looks like you'll have to spend the weekend with your father and me and your brother and sister."

"Oh!"

#### * * * *

After dinner, Maggie's sister helped her mother wash dishes and James was working on his homework so she joined her father on the porch. She sat down beside him on the swing like she used to do when she was a child. He lit his pipe and she smelled the sweet aroma of his tobacco, a fond memory that had slipped her mind over the past few years. The swing moved slowly back and forth issuing its little squeak and they sat there without speaking, just listening to the crickets and the occasional sound of a car passing on the highway.

She felt safe beside her father. He was the first man in her life and was one of the best men she had even known. Her life was changing in ways she wasn't sure she liked. Becoming an adult was a little like opening a Pandora 's Box. Once you get the lid off, there is no putting it back. She noticed that he pulled his pipe from his mouth, a signal that he was about to speak.

"Mags, ya know I really miss you. I surely do. Your mother and I have watched you grow and blossom into this beautiful young lassie. I can't say that I don't miss the little girl ya once was. I surely do."

"I know, father. I miss being that little girl more than you could know."

"Hum," he said, then returned his pipe to his mouth. He puffed it a couple of time, then pulled it out and used his thumb to push the tobacco tightly down into the bowl so he would not lose the fire.

"I miss the aroma of your tobacco, father," she said. He put his arm around her shoulder and hugged her to him.

The swing continued its movement for a while more and they were quite. Finally, he removed his pipe again.

"That discussion we had about Aedan O'Neall. Did it help?"

She glanced at him.

"I honestly don't know, father."

"You are a young woman now. All I can do is give advice. I don't think he's good for you but it's time you made these important decisions on your own. What is it that you like about him?"

She leaned over against her father's shoulder. "Except for this AWOL thing, he reminds me of you."

"Some of my friends tell me Aedan was always fightin' when he was in high school. I was never like that."

"Father, I didn't know him then but I do know, from others, that Aedan never started any fights. And, no, I don't believe you fought back in high school."

Well, just the same, I don't see anything about him that is like me."

"Father, he's good, kind and sweet like you."

"Hummf."

#  Chapter 9 – Senator Martin Palmer III

## Washington, D.C.

Senator Martin Palmer III poured himself another shot of Bourbon while seated in the back of his limousine. It is impossible for any man, he repeated in his own mind, to avoid the delusions of grandeur that comes with U.S. congressional service. The experience is like a drug that forces you to do whatever is necessary to hold on to it. The true measure of success is to do it without exposing your increasing greed not only for money and power, but also for every kind of lust known to man. The downside is that the lust eventually becomes insatiable. He glanced at U.S. Army Lt. General Maximillian Lattermore seated across from him.

"Max, the opportunity to make immense amounts of money is knocking at the door."

"Martin, I wouldn't be sitting across from you if that wasn't the case. Tell me more."

Palmer leaned forward. "President Johnson has made it clear that if we can extend this war, investment in certain industries will make those investors extremely wealthy. I am doing my part on the Armed Services Committee. Now it is your turn. In a few months, they will transfer you to South Vietnam as advisor to the Americal Division's helicopter units recently placed there. After you arrive, your real job will be to provide the North Vietnamese with enough military intelligence information to give them the advantage. I do not care how you do it. Just get it done."

For a few seconds, the general stared at the senator without responding. Finally, he nodded. "Martin, we've known each other for years. We also know details about each other neither of us wants anyone else alive to know about. Our trust rests on that foundation. Consider it done."

After the driver dropped the general off at the parking lot where he was picked up earlier, the limo headed back to the senator's office. Palmer poured himself another drink, then reached in the compartment and grabbed one of the special Honduras cigars and the cutter. He clipped off just the right amount of the cigar, then picked up the lighter and watched the end catch fire while drawing on the cigar with just the right amount of suction. A good day's work, he believed, always called for a good smoke.

General Lattermore was a career soldier, a blue blood like himself, a man with dollar signs and the hope for power controlling his every decision. Having started as a chopper pilot, now in a position to control the Army's air support in South Vietnam, Max was more than Palmer could ever hope to have under his control. He sipped his drink and thought about himself.

Even though he grew up with money, life had not been without difficulty. Trying to follow the footsteps of his father and grandfather was no easy task. Both men had, from one time to another, worked for British intelligence spying on the United States. Although he traced his family roots back to the nation's beginning, they were pro-British from the start. The new nation ultimately became only a tool for power and wealth. They had no love for its constitution or its people.

Martin came to believe, early on, that his roll would be to accomplish three things: increase the family wealth, gain more power, and help move the United States into a world government. Along the way, he hoped to impart these values to his six-year-old son by his third wife. Little Martin was his third son in so many marriages. He failed miserably on the others. This time he hoped to be a much better father and mentor. Maybe this son would enter manhood grounded in his father's values, ready to face the hard challenges of life.

He grinned as he thought about that very perceptive statement someone once repeated to him.

Once you get past integrity, life is a party.

#  Chapter 10 - Chirchir

## NM&E

## Gulf Building

## Houston, Texas

Chirchir held the phone to his ear and listened to the dial tone until the line connected with Axle. The day was a long one, consisting of a string of decisions required of him no matter how he felt. He was beginning to feel his age. He glanced at the oil painting on the wall across from his desk of General George Washington seated on his horse. He breathed deeply. No matter how often he stared at that picture, it never ceased to impress him that such men every actually existed. Even now, Washington seemed mythical.

He started to hang up just as Axle picked up the phone.

"On the toilet, Kim, but also on the job. What can I do for you?"

Chirchir frowned at the thought of talking to anyone who was on the toilet. "I know you are headed back to Houston in a couple of days, but this can't wait."

"Where have I heard those words before?"

"One of these days your sarcasm is going to piss me off. Let's discuss that situation we talked about involving Senator Harmon's son."

"Maybe we should talk about your old employer first."

"Why? Something new happening at the NSA?"

"Looks like it."

Chirchir glanced at his watch. "Let's talk about them later. Right now, I need to focus on Senator Harmon."

#### * * * *

## Tomball, Texas

Dr. Chirchir sat across from his wife and watched her fill his dinner plate. Zena was still very beautiful, he thought, very beautiful. Her ebony skin remained smooth and taught like when she was young. He had managed, over these many years, to hide from her the other life to which he had committed himself while still a U.S. Marine. Like the others chosen before him, he had no idea one day he would not only become leader of the world's oldest covert operations still in existence, but also be the first black man to hold that position. Still he did not feel worthy of the position in which he found himself. He could not imagine what this wonderful woman would think if she leaned about this other life. He would do whatever it took to protect her from the harm that would come if others learned of his organization.

She smiled when she finally sat down. Her eyes held his and she blushed at his stare. "Why do you stare at me, love?"

Suddenly, he passed gas. "I was thinking about how lucky I am to have you as my wife."

She shook her head. "You have a very funny way of showing it."

His face reddened. "Sorry."

"Accepted. But only this once. Obviously, I am no longer the school girl you married."

"You are, still."

"Eat your dinner you old, smelly romantic!" She picked at her food for a minute then glanced back up at him. "Another letter from Aedan came today."

"How is he?"

"His letter says that he is doing very well. Boot camp was not as difficult as he thought it might be and his advanced combat training at Camp Pendleton went well. He is on his way to Beaufort for his first duty assignment. He is such a wonderful young man, isn't he?"

"Yes, love."

After dinner, he leaned on the table and stared at her. "No one cooks as good as you do."

She jabbed her finger at his plate. "You didn't touch the cauliflower and cheese. I thought you would love it."

"We all make mistakes love."

She grabbed his plate and jerked it away. "I will get the dishes, Kim. Get back to your study and take care of your business."

He sat down at his desk and leaned back in his chair thinking that he should eat new things for her even if he did not like them. Most women took things too seriously and Zena was not any different. In the future, he would be a little more careful about his manners and comments.

His job was difficult, no doubt about it. The consulting firm was doing well, as it had always done for over a century and a half. In the grand scheme of things, he was the new kid in charge and sometimes it was hard to juggle the balls so they all stayed in the air, as they should. Moreover, managing the Order was an immense challenge and extremely dangerous for him, his wife and all those whom he led. He was responsible for making decisions about other men's futures and some men's lives and all of it weighed heavily on him.

In retrospect, selecting Aedan for this process may have been a mistake. He was too close to the young man and the relationship may have clouded his judgment. Aedan was only one of fifty young men currently under consideration and the others did not weigh on his mind like this one.

He took a deep breath hoping to clear these thoughts.

Other men preceded Chirchir in this adventure as commandant. He drew comfort knowing they managed to carry out similar responsibilities. He bowed his head, as he had done every night at this time, to thank God for his many blessings. He prayed God would continue to bless America and would continue to give him the strength he needed for so difficult a list of responsibilities.

#  Chapter 11 - Axle

## Houston, Texas

Steam clouds filled the shower and bathroom when Axle's phone rang. Fortunately, he had just rinsed the soap out of his hair so he stepped out on the rug and grabbed his towel. The phone rang two more times before he reached the nightstand and grabbed it.

"Yes?"

"It's Jason Story, sir. Sorry to bother you. I know it's late."

"You sick or hurt?"

"No sir."

"Someone die?"

"Uh, no. I don't think so."

"Then what's the emergency?"

"It's about Crowley's death."

"Okay. Now I'm listening."

"While monitoring U.S. State Department activities today, I found out a private detective in D.C. has taken some interest in Crowley."

Axle sat down on the bed. "Got a name?"

"Langley. Mack Langley."

What's he looking for?"

"He snooped around at State looking for anything they might be willing to reveal about Crowley's activities. They are not saying much to anyone. Langley also touched base with someone at CIA he worked with at OSS in the old days."

"If CIA knew anything about Crowley, we would have heard something already," Axle said. "Anything else?"

"No sir."

"Jason, just keep an eye on him. Let me know if anything noteworthy happens."

After he hung up the phone, Axle leaned back against the bed's headboard. That call was one of those he really did not like. He shook his head and reached back for the phone to call Chirchir.

He picked it up on the second ring. "Shouldn't you be in bed getting that beauty rest?"

"Yeah, yeah. Got time to chat?" Axle said.

"Sure."

"A while back, you told me about a man you worked with at OSS during the war. Mack Langley."

"That name brings back memories. What made you think of him?"

"He's looking into Crowley's death." There was a long pause on the other end and Axle knew Chirchir's computer-like brain was churning the possibilities.

"We are, up to a point, insulated on that situation."

"Up to a point. We set a drug dealer up who did the job because he had a grudge against Crowley."

"I remember. Wasn't this drug dealer also a paid informant for the FBI? Had some kind of immunity from prosecution?"

"Yeah."

Why are you worried?"

"Because, from what you told me about Langley, he's a Pit Bull when he decides to look in to something."

#  Chapter 12 – Temper Issue

## NM&E

## Gulf Building

## Houston, Texas

"Colonel Brandenworth, do you have a minute?" Chirchir cradled the phone between his shoulder and ear. He leaned back in his chair and put his right foot on the corner of his desk. Zena would kill him if he even entertained such an action at home.

"Certainly, Dr. Chirchir. Sorry to keep you on hold so long. I was tied up on a call to Washington. Did you receive those two drivers' licenses I sent from Private O'Neall?"

"Axle is working on them as we speak. I am concerned about O'Neall. What do you think?"

"Sir, he handled the first part of his ordeal well. We have other candidates just as well qualified. If you ignore his propensity to make short-tempered decisions, he does have some unique qualities. Overall, he is a good candidate. Of course, time will tell."

"The temper thing seems to be an issue."

"I think so," Brandenworth said.

"Do you remember your ordeal, colonel? I certainly remember mine."

"I wasn't sure that I had what it took."

"Colonel, I can assure you that we all felt that same way."

"Assuming Private O'Neall continues to progress, where do you think he will fit?"

Chirchir leaned forward in his chair and took a deep breath, then let it out. "Right at this moment, I honestly can't say. I think it is too early to assume O'Neall will fit at all."

#  Chapter 13 – First Covert Assignment

## Marine Corps Air Station (MCAS)

## Beaufort, South Carolina

Summer arrived and Marine Corps Air Station, Beaufort, South Carolina, my first duty station. Referred to as Fighter Town East by Marine aviators, it was home to Marine Air Group 31 (MAG-31) fixed wing jet squadrons composed of F-8 Crusaders, F-4 Phantoms and A-4 Skyhawks. Having just turned twenty, I successfully completed boot camp, advanced combat training and the schooling needed to work on complex military fixed and rotary wing aircraft. I felt the first real sense of having accomplished something worthwhile in my life. I had finally made my own choices while suffering some failures in the process. I was on the road to becoming my own man. I was ten-foot-tall-and-bullet-proof, or so I thought. Yet the question remained, why had my handler not contacted me since my release from my non-judicial punishment? In my mind, my own actions had marked me as somewhat of a failure and it would follow me the rest of my life.

I need to bury these negative thoughts before they eat me alive.

Except for my recent trip to California and MCRD, Beaufort, South Carolina was about as far from home as I had traveled. Although the little southern town was quiet, you would not know it from where I was standing next to the runway that day, three months before I got the notice.

Screaming F-4 Phantoms called Stovepipes by Marines, thundered off the runway just feet apart while I watched. A new pride was growing inside and I felt like I was in the cockpit with those men headed off to fight. It was my first chance to see, close up, actual operating military aircraft the Corps recently trained me to repair. Vietnam was hot on my mind and so was my curiosity about my next covert gig.

That night in the barracks, we talked about 'Nam and when we might be going over. Beaufort Squadrons, we heard, were on the rotation list for the war. Several scenarios surfaced. Headquarters & Maintenance Squadron might get orders attaching it to a carrier. We would board, make the long trip to 'Nam, then the aircraft would fly off to a land-based field and we'd follow in choppers or by boat. In another scenario, we would board a large military aircraft and fly directly to 'Nam, sucking fuel from tankers until we arrived in country.

All of this useless Scuttlebutt did nothing more than tantalize those of us who wanted to go and taunt those who did not. Even though I looked forward to joining the war, thoughts of Maggie continually tugged at my emotions, as did any thought of what father believed about me.

Like the others, I enjoyed killing time playing poker. A good card game to a Marine is serious business, particularly when all new enlisted Marines earn is around eighty dollars a month. Although I did not count cards like some sharks did, my eye was keen for reading other players. More often than not, I was able to rake the pot over to my side. Even so, it was obvious none of us could retire on our pots.

"Okay, O'Neall, where the hell did you learn to play cards so damned good?" Private Daniel Goolsby asked.

I glanced up from staring at the cards in my hand. "When I was a kid, my parents played poker with friends almost every weekend. I watched and listened to them."

"O'Neall, you're gonna have to get stupid pretty damned fast or the rest of us are gonna run out of friggin' money and have to find somethin' else to do."

In the meantime, the Corps kept us busy with frequent inspections – boots and shoes polished like mirrors, utilities starched and our covers blocked and starched, bunk blankets so tight a dropped penny would spring to the ceiling – and guard duty for those of us with rank down at whale-shit level.

They finally assigned me work repairing and maintaining the A-4 Skyhawk aircraft. We learned what happens if the ejection seat rocket goes off while you are in the cockpit inside the hanger. A young Marine splattered all over a steel beam supporting the hanger roof, guts and blood hanging and dripping down to the deck. he forgot to disarm the rocket. It was not a pretty sight.

We were lucky enough to get Friday nights off for an excursion into town. Marines formally refer to these little breaks as a Shore Pass. Beaufort was a small, quaint southern town with a rich history that included siding with the Confederacy during the War Between the States. It was laid-back, typical for small, southern towns. The people were friendly despite the fact that Marines can sometimes get rowdy. I suppose, over the years, they got use to it. The Corps, however, took a dim view of misfit Marines who would attempt to sully its image with local folks, so it wasted no time in disciplining them. Each time we ventured into town, our eyes naturally searched for Marine MPs never far from sight or earshot.

On my fourth such trip to town, we visited a bar on the outskirts. I was just about to sip my first beer of the day when a Marine MP tapped me on the shoulder with his nightstick.

"Hey, Marine – are you O'Neall"?

Oh my God, what have I done? Crap. Here I am drinking and not yet legal age.

I put my beer down gently on the bar and faced the MP.

"Yes Sergeant. What can I do for you?"

"Come with me. Captain Brown asked me to pick you up."

"Why?"

"Bud, mine is not to reason why. Mine is but to do or die. The captain wants to see you so let's go."

The ride back to base with me locked in the back of the smelly MP van was not what I saw myself doing that evening – not in any way, shape or form. About fifteen minutes later the van checked through the security gate and a minute later we pulled up to the Naval Intelligence building. The MP opened the back door to let me out. I jumped out and breathed deeply remembering from my own punishment at NATTC exactly how convicts feel.

The MP followed me inside to the reception desk that was, at this hour, empty. He pointed down the hall to the third door.

"Captain Brown is down in that room waiting for you. Don't keep him waiting."

"Aye, aye Sergeant." My ass was starting to pucker. I knocked on the door three times.

"Sir, Private O'Neall requests permission to enter the captain's office, sir!"

"Come on in."

As in similar situations, I stood at attention in front of the desk with my eyes focused over the head of the officer/NCO/Anyone with more authority and said: "Private O'Neall reporting as ordered, sir!"

"At ease, O'Neall. Grab a chair. Didn't anyone tell you to knock off that shit?"

"Sorry. Force of habit."

He nodded. "Swede said you like hot-rods. Is that right?"

Standing there like a dork caught in brain freeze, I finally grasped what he said.

"I'm at the captain's disposal."

He leaned forward on his desk. "When I need something done, I will contact you. Your job will focus almost entirely on courier work. If something important must be delivered in person, you will deliver it. As you were instructed by Swede, you will not fail."

He leaned down to pick up a briefcase and he set it on the desk while snapping the top open. He pulled out two sheets of paper and laid them on his desk then put his hands together and laced his fingers.

"I've got some information that needs to be delivered tomorrow night."

I glanced down at the two sheets of typing paper, both full with single-spaced paragraphs of information that included numbers and dates. He pushed the two pages towards me.

"Study these. You have twenty minutes to get this information into your head then return the pages to me. Here's a twenty-four hour pass starting at sixteen-hundred tomorrow when you will change into your civilian clothes. Leave your Marine Corps ID card in your footlocker. This means that when you return without it, they will not let you in so you will have to break into the base without security catching you. It also means that if you do not pull this job off, you will have no identification. Security will arrest you as a deserter."

"That might not look good considering I've already been punished for AWOL."

He nodded. "Yeah. I know. Keep that firmly in your mind."

He pushed the small pass card across the desk to me. "Take this pass with you and catch a ride into town to the bus station. Get a round-trip ticket to Charleston and go to the Old South hotel. Have the cabbie drop you a half-block past the hotel. Around twenty-two-hundred, a black Cadillac Limo with Florida plates will stop and ask for directions. Repeat the information to him that you studied and then walk away."

"Is that all, sir?"

"Son, that's it. Take a cab back to the bus station and catch the next bus back to Beaufort."

"What about my squadron? I'm due at work at zero-seven-hundred the next day."

"That is under control, O'Neall. Tomorrow, I will contact your first sergeant to let him know that you helped save one of our MPs in a bar room brawl between some Marines he was trying to break up. Your first sergeant will believe you will be with me for a few hours while we are taking depositions related to that fight."

That night I was a little edgy so I put on my running shorts and combat boots and ran around the base perimeter road until I covered six miles, then returned to the barracks. After a quick shower, I hit the rack feeling relaxed and ready for whatever was headed my way.

#### * * * *

## Charleston, South Carolina

After work, I followed the captain's instructions. The bus ride was uneventful but I was still very nervous. This was my first courier job. Even though the captain did not express the possibility of danger, I was still some uneasy about it. As I had already learned, words mean things.

The cab dropped me a ways past the hotel. I paid him and stepped back on the curb near the streetlight while glancing at my watch. It was just after twenty-one-thirty and I was alone on a street with no cars in sight. A little chill in the air forced my hands into my pockets, something a Marine will never do in uniform. About five minutes later, a rusty Pontiac four-door with loud exhaust pipes swung around the corner down the block headed my direction. The rear tires smoked as they spun against the asphalt pavement. It slowed to a crawl as if the driver was looking for something. As it moved closer, the driver steered towards my curb. He braked and leaned over towards me with the passenger window down. He was unshaven, very muscular, and appeared dirty.

"Hey, man. I'm lost. I need directions."

"Yes sir. Where are you headed?"

"I don't know. You've got some information for me, right?"

I stepped back away from the car. It was not the Cadillac limo I was told about.

_Okay. This is not the plan and this is not the person who is supposed to get the information_.

The driver scowled as he slipped his hand to his side and I thought I saw a pistol. My adrenal gland kicked into overdrive so I turned and ran for the building behind me and the safety behind it.

The Pontiac's tires burned rubber in reverse, the driver jammed it into drive and the front tires bounced when the car hit the curb headed for me as I madly ran towards the side of the building. The Pontiac door slammed as the driver jumped out to run after me. At a full sprint, my body bound up to grab the top of a ten-foot chain link fence but my assailant caught up with me and grabbed my feet. I couldn't shake him so I kicked my body backwards trying to drop down on top of him. I missed and hit the ground. By then a pistol was in his right hand so I twisted my body and swung a hard kick knocking the pistol away.

He threw himself down on me but I rolled away, sprung up and threw a hard punch to his stomach, then swung my right fist directly into his nose. He doubled over and I hit him hard at the base of his skull. He was out cold so I rolled him over and reached into his back pocket for his wallet hoping to identify him. He had no wallet. I grabbed his pistol and shoved it in my belt. Maybe it was time to leave.

I jumped up on the fence, swung my legs over the top, then I dropped to the grass in the back of the building. I glanced back to see if he had regained consciousness. His head started to move so I ran for the tree line, then stopped and glanced back but he was gone. My first inclination was to wait for him, then do my own little interrogation to find out more. However, my training told me I should run away with the undelivered information to avoid any more confrontation unless cornered with no way out. Okay, it was time to put distance between the two of us.

Running through heavy brush, I stumbled on to an asphalt pathway cut through the woods and headed East, away from where I had entered the trees. I continued to run for about a half mile then turned South through the trees, back towards the street where this all started.

Finally reaching the edge of the woods, I could see the street across an empty lot. The Pontiac was not in sight nor was its sound within earshot. My pulse was high but started back down after I squatted down on the ground between some bushes to wait. The only sounds were the tree frogs and my breathing. An hour passed, the Pontiac had not returned and there was no sign or sound of its driver on foot. Finally, the sound of another car coming up the street caught my attention. It looked like a black Caddy limo.

The Pontiac was nowhere in sight so I jogged for the curb to deliver the message.

#### * * * *

## MCAS

## Beaufort, South Carolina

Twelve hours later, I was back at the base. I followed the fence line towards a wooded area near the back trying to find a spot to get over the fence without someone seeing me. If I could prevent it, I did not plan to be charged for AWOL again and certainly not desertion. When I reached a point thick with trees, I glanced at the ten-foot fence with a double string of barbed wire installed in a V at the top of the fence. Quickly taking off my shirt, I folded it up and started up the chain link fence. While gripping the upper part of the fence with one hand, I reached up and placed my shirt over the closest string of barbed wire. I gripped the wire through my shirt, swung my feet up over the wire, and then moved the shirt to the second string. Immediately, I kicked my legs over the wire and dropped the ten feet back to the ground bending my knees when I hit to soften the blow.

Although the message delivery was successful, I learned a new, very important lesson. Never expect anything to be routine or go as planned. Never. I returned to see the captain in his office. My story about how things happened did not seem to bother him at all. He shook my hand.

"Welcome to the world of the covert courier, O'Neall. Your job last night was only a test. Although I thought you might not engage the man chasing you, you managed to handle it very well. You did beat the holy crap out of Staff Sergeant Youngblood. He said that you broke his nose and possibly a rib or two. Looks like you picked up a nice shiner on that left eye, too. Next time will be the real thing. Keep thinking on your feet and you'll be fine."

"Aye, aye sir. Sorry I hurt him. I really mean it. He connected with me once, didn't he?

"He certainly did."

When can I expect a real assignment?"

"Can't say. Maybe next week. Maybe in six months. Just don't know."

"I'll be ready." I started to walk out and remembered something. I turned around after grabbing the pistol from the back of my belt under my shirt.

"Sir, I'm pretty sure Staff Sergeant Youngblood would like to have this back. I took the liberty of emptying out the rounds."

#  Chapter 14 – General Maximillian Lattermore

## I-Corps Area

## The Republic of South Vietnam

General Lattermore mopped the sweat off his forehead while he paced the width of his large tent.

"Lieutenant Toole, God damn this country! We should be down in Saigon in an air-conditioned hotel where we could escape this oppressive heat and humidity."

"Yes sir. It would be a good change."

Lattermore reached to the back off his cotton summer uniform shirt trying to pull it away from his sweat soaked back. He glanced at the photo of his son on the desk and suddenly missed him very much. This was the first son for whom he felt true love and it was painful to be so far away. Little Maximillian would follow in his father's West Point footsteps so, for now, that was more important than anything else. His left hand wiped the stream of sweat running down his face again. He puffed on his cigar and glanced back at his aide.

"Okay, continue."

"Yes sir. As I was saying, I met with North Vietnamese General Thieu late last night. I gave him the bank account information he needed."

"Was he happy?"

"Delighted."

"How delighted?"

"He said the gold would be moved into your Swiss account early this morning."

Lattermore smiled. "Sam, you do good work. We are a good team." He paced across the tent and back, he then stopped in front of the lieutenant.

"I will transfer your share to your account tomorrow."

"Thank you, sir."

After the lieutenant walked out of the tent, Lattermore sat down at his desk, placed his feet on it and leaned back in his chair. He sucked hard on his cigar and blew out the smoke.

"This is going to be easier than I'd thought," he repeated quietly to himself.

#  Chapter 15 – Vietnam Bound

## MCAS

## Beaufort, South Carolina

"O'Neall, there is something that I'd like you to do right away," Capt. Brown said, leaning forward with his forearms on his desk.

"What is that, sir?"

"Go down to your squadron's admin and volunteer for Vietnam."

I cocked my head to one side. "Scuttlebutt is that our squadron will be rotating to Vietnam pretty soon."

"That's right. However, we need you to go right away. We cannot wait for the entire squadron to rotate. Separate orders will put you where we need you."

"I'll go volunteer tomorrow morning."

"One other thing. You learned a lot of intelligence vocabulary in your training sessions. You need to understand, in your own mind, what you will be doing for us from now on."

"What will I be doing?"

"Whatever we need you to do."

#### * * * *

At zero-six-hundred, I walked over to the Mess Hall for a delightful breakfast Marines refer to as shit-on-a-shingle or SOS – a kind of chipped-beef gravy poured over toast – with a side order of grits, eggs over easy and a cup of black coffee. Afterward, I headed to Admin to volunteer for the war. The clerk shook his head.

"I've already been there, O'Neall. It is not a good place to be. You're nuts."

I nodded my head and grinned. It really does not matter. They need me there, I thought.

He typed my name on the list with others requesting separate orders for the war. Apparently, a dozen Marines, myself included, itched to fight. We didn't have long to wait. It was just as well because the routine was starting to get to me. Captain Brown's comments that they were going to put me where they needed me got my juices flowing.

Before I hit the rack, I sat down and wrote Maggie another letter.

My dearest Maggie,

I hope you read my letters and did not think they were too long or boring. Each day, I learn more about this serious business of war and my role in preparing for it. Some Marines in my squadron are back from their tour in Vietnam. Others, like me, remain anxious about when we will take our turn in this new war. As I have said repeatedly, I miss you greatly, hope you are okay and wish you would write me, just once. I know that my going AWOL hurt you and everyone else that I love. I cannot change the past. I still love you more than ever. I work each day to be the best Marine that I can be. I hope to earn the respect I have lost from you and my family.

Love, Aedan

On 2 November, admin told me they were processing my orders for Vietnam. Have you ever made a decision and later wished you could change your mind? That sensation hit me hard. That same feeling hit me back when my recruiter had me sign enlistment forms and swear the oath, then told me to "get your ass off my desk, Private O'Neall." Of course, Lieutenant Mitchell was grinning when he said those words so I knew that he was just laying it on thickly for fun. Even so, my decision to volunteer to go to Vietnam gave me a little uneasy feeling. Maybe my decision had been too hasty. The feeling left as quickly as it came.

That night in the barracks, I was lying on my bunk with my hands behind my head trying to gather my thoughts. One of the things I got out of this military experience is the knowledge that everything in life is temporary, no matter how permanent it may seem now. This was probably the last time I would be in this barracks on this base ever again. Others before me probably had these same thoughts, many who later died in their own adventures. I was learning, very quickly, that every decision I make, moment by moment, changes my future in some way. My decision to go to Vietnam would definitely alter my little piece of the world, probably in ways I cannot begin to imagine.

"Hey, O'Neall," Private First Class Kenworth hollered. "I hear you volunteered for Vietnam. Is'at right?"

I glanced over at him. "Yeah. I had to do something to get-the-hell away from you guys."

"Well, I can't say we're sorry to see you go. None of us much like losin' our money to you playin' poker."

#### * * * *

On 9 November, my orders arrived for Vietnam with my thirty-day leave to begin on the 15th. I phoned Maggie but her mother said she was gone shopping with her sister, Judith.

_She doesn't want to talk to me_ , I thought. _Maybe our relationship is over._

When I phoned home, ma answered. She was excited to hear my voice and learn I would be home soon. I didn't tell her about Vietnam.

The next evening of 10 November, I joined the rest of the Marines at the enlisted club to celebrate the Marine Corps birthday. When the bartender slid my first beer down the bar to me, a salty gunnery sergeant raised his beer mug.

"Marines! Operation Blue Marlin just began at Chu Lai, South Vietnam and our 3rd Battalion Marine Brigade is kicking the shit out of the Viet Cong. I want to toast those good men on our most hallowed day!"

We raised our bottles and mugs and joined in his toast to our brothers in combat.

"Oorah! Oorah! Oorah!" shook the room.

From the 10th to the 15th while Blue Marlin raged, the Corps processed my transfer paperwork and travel orders.

Older Marines back from the war gave me advice about their experiences. After stuffing my gear in my sea bag, I readied myself for leave home before flying to 'Nam. We would eat Thanksgiving Dinner together but Christmas was out. My orders were to report to the Marine Liaison Non-commissioned Officer on 12 December at Travis Air Force Base, Fairfield, California for further transfer to The Republic of South Vietnam.

#### * * * *

## Cut and Shoot, Texas

I flew home to spend time with my family and to drop the bombshell. It was going to be a hard sell because my parents had not wanted me to join the Corps in the first place, and they did not want me to go to Vietnam. Lord, they were still trying to deal with the idea that I had gotten a tattoo. On a good note, however, Artie loved it.

Maggie remained unavailable and unreachable. Not being able to see are talk to her was difficult. I continued to hold out hope that she would eventually make contact with me before I left for Vietnam.

My guts were churning and my family was depressed. The frustration of not being able to tell them about my intelligence work weighed heavily on me. Thanksgiving, 1966, was probably the first time I had not enjoyed that holiday. I was nervous about my destination and so was everyone else. My folks did not say much. Things were not setting well with them because the news media continued to splash the Vietnam conflict all over television every night. Artie and I went to a couple of movies. We spent a few hours in the woods shooting our rifles at some old targets. One day I handed him the key to my pickup.

"What's this, Bubba?" he asked.

"Your new wheels. My truck will turn to shit if I just let her sit around for a year."

He grinned. "You're going to let me drive your truck? What the hell have you been smoking?"

"Just take the damned key before I change my mind."

"I'll take good care of her!"

"You better."

_I got myself into this Green Machine and was now paying the price_.

A couple of days before I was to leave, Artie joined me on a brief Christmas shopping trip. I found a music box I though Maggie might like. The shop wrapped it for me and I mailed it to her with a Christmas card. I phoned her house several times but her mother said she was staying with Judith in Dallas. I visited a few of my high school friends and tried to forget what was coming.

On the evening of 11 December, my parents drove me to the airport. Artie was in back with me sitting next to the passenger side window. We didn't talk much on the way. When my old man parked the car in the airport garage, you would have thought we were going to a funeral. Inside the terminal, my gate was packed and most of the young passengers were headed to war like me. I walked over to the window to look out at the planes and my old man followed me. I stood there looking through the tinted glass and he cleared his throat.

"Ya' know, boy'o, ya' made a holy show of ya'self leavin' the Marines without permission. Are they sendin' ya' over because ya' went AWOL?" he asked.

"No sir," I said. "I'm going because I volunteered like you did in WWII."

It seemed that some emotion stirred in his eyes but he didn't say anything. After kissing ma goodbye and shaking Artie's hand, I boarded the aircraft without looking back. Had it been possible for me to tell my old man exactly what else the Marine Corps had trained me to do and the truth about going AWOL, maybe the black cloud hanging over me might have disappeared.

The cabin was crowded but I was alone in my thoughts. After realizing I had no contact with Maggie before I left, my heart was knotted. My mind tried to envision what was ahead. I remembered the look on my old man's face at the airport. He had gone off to war once too. He understood the consequences of war. No sleep came during the flight and our landing near San Francisco was almost a welcome relief.

I was one step closer to the war.

#### * * * *

## Travis Air Force Base

## Fairfield, California

I deplaned mid-afternoon at San Francisco International Airport and hundreds of us climbed on Air Force buses bound for Travis Air Force Base. When we arrived, the place was crawling with members of all branches of the military. Except for a few Sailors dressed in white, the place was a sea of green. Travis was a staging area for the Southeast Asian war and it looked every bit the part. Outside the base, anti-war protesters were marching with signs and screaming at our buses as we passed them. We growled back like caged animals ready to kill anything that moved.

Once inside the base, our adrenaline-rush diminished while they processed us like cattle then escorted us to temporary barracks awaiting departure. Reality was beginning to set in. The unfamiliar environment, new smells in the air, and the now somber prospect of war sunk in like a bad dream. At the end of the barracks, a handful of Marines were singing Christmas carols but most of the hundred or so men sat on their bunks not smiling, most talking quietly about what was ahead. Although we were strangers, we all felt a bond, suspecting some would not be back.

Glancing at the large clock on the wall at the end of the barracks, I felt as if time had somehow slowed down to further stretch the tension and apprehension all of us held just below the surface of our minds. I stretched out on a bare bunk mattress and tried to catnap, although the noise and the you-are-about-to-go-to-war mind trip kept me from doing so. At regular intervals, a young, baby-faced Air Force officer would show up with a clipboard and read off names. Those men would jump up and grab their gear, then head out the door glancing back to say only, "See ya." When I was about to go nuts from the waiting, a Marine lieutenant walked in and called my name. The fight or flight rush coursed through my veins. I was on my way to Vietnam! So I thought.

When I got outside of the barracks, the Marine officer pointed to his Jeep.

"Come with me."

When we reached his Jeep, he turned around and faced me. "Swede said you like hot-rods."

Wow. Here we go again.

"Yes sir, I do."

He reached in the passenger side seat and pulled out a very thick envelope with a red seal on it. "Take this with you. When you get to your final destination, someone will pick you up and drive you to his headquarters. Hand this package only to the XO in charge, Major Bradley. You got that?"

I grabbed the package. "Yes sir. Got it."

He returned my salute and I walked back inside. One hour later, someone called my. This time it was for the long trip over to the war.

We climbed aboard a commercial flight. Counting backward, I figured this would be only the fourth time in my young life that I had ever boarded a jet. When I sat down, I glanced out the window wishing Maggie and my family would be there to see me off. Luggage doors snapping-to outside the aircraft followed by jet engines screaming into order jarred my mind causing me to cinch my seat belt a notch tighter.

"We're on our way, Bro!" screamed the young, black private seated next to me.

"I'm Aedan O'Neall," I said.

He glanced at me. "Name's Joe Washington. I'm black and you're Irish."

"What was it, my name or my red hair and striking good looks?"

He grinned. "Maybe all of it. You remind me a little of an Irish fighter I saw in the ring at the New Orleans' Athletic Club in the French Quarter."

"What's the odds of a black and a white minority member sitting next to each other bound for war?"

We both laughed, probably to break the psychological trauma of our destination.

"Where you from, Washington?"

"New Orleans, man. Mardi Gras capital of the world. How about you?"

"Cut and Shoot."

"Cut and what?"

"Scary name, huh? Little town North of Houston, Texas."

"What's your MOS?"

"I'm an aircraft structural mechanic. How about you?"

"Grunt, man. That's where they put the stupid ones."

"Washington, don't you believe it. In my books, all grunt are heroes."

He grinned. "You think so?"

"Hell, Joe, I know so. There can be no fucking wars without grunts. The rest of us are around just to make sure you guys get what you need to do your job."

"O'Neall, what'd you do before you joined?"

"College. That is why I am so fucking articulate. How about you?"

He grinned. "Man, I play with the ivories and sing. Piano, man. I've played some down on Bourbon Street. Once at O'Brian's Piano Bar to a full house. A couple of times at Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop."

"Where'd you learn to play?"

"One of my mamma's regular johns. He sings down at O'Brian's. Early some mornings before business started, he would sit down next to me at the piano and teach me."

"I'll bet you're good."

"Some say I'm James Booker and Henry Butler rolled up together."

"Why the hell did you join the Marine Corps?"

"I wanna do something for my country."

"Good man, Washington. I hope we both make it back so we can finish our lives."

"Me too, O'Neall."

All of us were on what they referred to as separate orders. The Corps discovered it was not possible to rotate complete squadrons into and out of Vietnam without suffering loss of cohesiveness in the war effort. By shuffling Marines into 'Nam in small gulps the Corps was able to bring us new guys on line without jeopardizing aircraft maintenance effectiveness. The downside was we had little connection with one another, other than the fact that we were all Marines. When a single squadron rotated to the war, the original team of Marines had a much better mindset, having the camaraderie of well-known friends to support them in transit. We did not have that luxury.

It was my first flight over endless ocean and I was not sure how I would feel about it. Twenty minutes into the flight, I managed to relax. For most of the trip, the Marines remained quiet while a somber attitude engulfed the aircraft. Reality, like the quiet on Prison's Death Row, settled around us. Five or six hours later, we touched down in Hawaii for fuel.

The sight of land and a temporary stopover moved the Marines to muted conversation. There was only time to go inside the terminal for a few minutes and then we were back inside the plane. We strapped in for the long flight to Okinawa where we would be loaded on Marine transport planes bound for South Vietnam.

#### * * * *

## Marine Corps Base, Camp Smedley D. Butler

## Okinawa

## (300 miles south of mainland Japan)

Late evening, our jet burped down on the Okinawa runway. It was my first taste of the Orient and all my senses burned. The Marines jealously maintained a presence there, probably to remember the 82-day battle they fought to take it from the Japanese from April to June of 1945. It was the largest assault made against the enemy during WWII. In that three-month period, over Almost thirty-five-hundred Marines died and over fifteen-thousand were injured. The Japanese lost over one-hundred-seven thousand soldiers. Okinawa lost over one-third of its citizens in the battle. Two months later, the U.S. nuked the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki and the Japanese surrendered.

Olive-green military buses moved us from the airport to one of the dozens of Marine facilities and satellite installations on the island. All we could do was stare out the window at the light-dotted night. The bus windows were open and the wind blew in with a different kind of smell, something earthy but not precisely like the earthy smell of a farm. It wasn't exactly bad but it wasn't good either.

We arrived at the base and a sharply dressed Marine guard waved us through the brightly lit gate. They checked us into a temporary barracks where a corporal told us to wait until after midnight. We meandered around finding bunks we could sleep on. We were tired but the nervous anticipation kept most of us from even closing our eyes.

It felt a little like boot camp all over again.

#  Chapter 16 – Phillip Edward Crowley

## Washington, D.C.

The thirty-five foot travel trailer sat in the back corner of Henson's Lakeside Park, home to migrant workers, some illegal aliens, and a dozen Americans between jobs just trying to survive. The trailer's paint was faded and siding dented here and there, and the threadbare tires revealed a hard life on the road. Inside, Mack Langley leaned on the small table he used to eat his dinner and run his business. He was quietly staring down at the information gathered on this State Department employee named Phillip Edward Crowley.

Over the past six months, he had put the case on hold while he worked for clients who actually paid him for his services. He did not expect a lot of money for his services but he did need enough to keep the lights on, gas in the pickup, beer in the refrigerator, and an occasional meal. Of course, a date with Babs was a win-win because she did not have high expectations for his monetary success.

All the evidence told him this Crowley guy was just another government employee earning a decent living and looking forward to a handsome retirement down the road after putting in his twenty years at State. He leaned back in his seat and stared at the colored print of General George Patton hanging on the wall across from him. Old Blood and Guts faced almost insurmountable problems during the war, yet he managed to get the job done. Langley met him once in North Africa during the war. He came to believe the general was a god when it came to war. Why in the hell was this little case so damned hard to figure out?

He walked to his small refrigerator, opened the door and pulled out his last six-pack of Budweiser beer, then slammed the door and walked back to sit down. The first ice-cold can felt good in his hand. He grabbed the opener and punched the triangular hole in the top, his mouth ready for that first, good swig. For most people, beer was an acquired taste. He could not remember a time when it was not the best thing he ever swallowed. Sometimes Bud helped clear his mind so he could re-run a case and maybe get a little different take on it. At this point, he was ready to try anything to kick this can down the road.

While he sat there nursing his Bud, his mind wandered back to 1963. As long as he lived, he would never forget Friday, 22 November of that year. His favorite president of all time and fellow Catholic, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, was murdered in Dallas, Texas. That was another one of those cases. The kind his gut told him did not go down the way everyone else on earth believed or was told that it went down. He knew, deep down in his heart of hearts, Lee Harvey Oswald was not and could not have been the man who put those bullets in the president's head. Langley's gut told him factions working for his former employer took Kennedy down. No one would ever prove it but he knew that was the God's truth. He sipped on his beer and continued the thought.

He had come to believe that all of these big cases had something to do with pure good or pure evil, nothing in between. Maybe that is another reason he left the company. He did not believe in grey areas. There was white and there was black. Good and evil. Nothing else. The problem is that most people are more interested in emotions than in facts. He sipped his beer and then glanced down at the papers again.

Let me study the facts one more time.

By sundown, Langley was still sitting at the table and the six-pack was long gone. His eyes and his mind were burning from looking at and thinking about this damned case. He got up and walked back to the bathroom to wash his face and clean up some. Maybe he would drive into D.C. and see if Little would be at the pub. Little's company made him happy.

#### * * * *

Sitting in the back corner of the pub, Detective Dan Little was starting his first beer when Langley walked inside. Little signaled Babs for the usual two pitchers of beer while his friend worked his way through the crowd. No sooner had Mack sat down than Babs returned with the beer.

"Where you been, honey?" She asked Langley.

"The usual."

Mackie, you work too hard. Take it easy some, why don't you?"

He nodded. "Maybe."

"I'll see ya later, Okay?"

He smiled and nodded. His eyes followed her supple behind while she walked back to the bar. Langley grabbed his beer.

"Hey! Mack! Dan! Good to see you two guys!"

They both glanced towards the booming baritone voice that could only come from Baxter Simmons, a senior executive with Bell Telephone Company.

Langley grabbed Baxter's hand and shook it. Little did the same. "Grab a chair, Bax and I'll get you a beer," Langley said.

Baxter sat down while Langley signaled Babs to bring another pitcher and mug.

"When are you guys going to get us cops some phones for our cars that work better than those damned two-way radios?" Little said.

Baxter grinned. "You have no idea what's coming down the road in a few years, do you?"

"Humor us," Langley said. "What's coming down the road?"

"Phones you can put in your pocket that work just like the land lines."

"Yeah?" Little said. "I heard we were going to be wearing tiny little phones like wrist watches."

"Okay, now you are getting smart-assed," Baxter said.

Langley sipped his beer and grinned at Little. "He's right. I read some articles about this new technology. It's coming."

"Yeah, after we're retired or dead," Little remarked.

Over the next hour, their conversation moved from business, to politics, to religion and back to business. Baxter sucked down his fourth mug of beer and glanced at his watch.

"Guys, I hate to break up this party but my wife called earlier and wants me to take her out to dinner. If I don't do it, I'm going to be sleeping on the couch tonight."

"Go!" Langley and Little said in unison. They watched Baxter walk away, and then both started working on their half-empty pitchers of beer.

"How's that obsession working out for you?" Little asked.

Langley put his beer down. "Not so good, Dan. Not so good."

"You've been stumped before. You'll get it to break loose pretty soon."

"Maybe I'm losing it, Dan. I just don't know anymore." He sipped his beer and put it back on the table. "You used to work with me at the company. We stumbled on to a few cases involving government employees who were caught doing something they should not have been doing. Do you think this Phillip Crowley was involved in something he shouldn't have been?"

Little got an odd expression on his face as if he might have smelled something bad or had just swallowed some soured milk. "Maybe. It crossed my mind. The facts do not support it. Drugs and bad brakes did it for him. That's what the facts show."

Langley took another swig off his beer while staring at his friend. "I wish I could buy it."

"I know," Little said. He drank more of his beer, then pulled out another cigar and lit it. "Want one?"

"Naw. Not tonight. I've got to figure out a way to get this damned stuff out of my head."

"Good luck on that. Nothing has ever worked for me." He stood up and reached for his mug to finish it off.

"I just got here not an hour ago, Dan. Where are you going?" Langley asked.

"Got to get up early tomorrow morning so I can drive up to see my daughter graduate from college."

"The ex going to be there?"

"What do you think?"

Langley reached in his back pocket and fished out his fat wallet. He pulled out three crisp one-hundred dollar bills and handed them to Little. "You tell that little girl of yours that Uncle Langley said, Hi and Congratulations. Give her this little token for what she has accomplished."

Little smiled and took the money. "Thanks Mack. I will give her your love. She will appreciate the cash, believe me."

Langley watched his friend walk out the door but his mind already switched back to Crowley and his accidental death. _Somewhere in this pile of shit_ , he thought, _there has to be a pony_.

#  Chapter 17 - Maggie

## Cut and Shoot, Texas

Maggie, why so long in the face?" Megan MacFayden asked. She stopped stirring the pot of stew long enough to see why her youngest daughter was so depressed.

Maggie stared down at the floor. "I don't know, mom, just a little exhausted from studying."

"This wouldn't have anything to do with Aedan, would it?"

"Your stew smells wonderful, as usual."

"Dear, over the years I've learned that whenever you don't want to answer my questions, you usually change the subject." Megan stared at her daughter but got no response. "I ran into his mother at the post office the other day. She said he left for Vietnam."

Maggie stared past her mother out the kitchen window over the sink but said nothing.

"Does he write you?"

"Yes."

"Do you write back to him?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I can't."

"Honey, that is the dumbest thing I've ever heard you say."

Maggie sat down at the kitchen table and leaned both arms on it. "What father says makes sense. If Aedan can't be true to his own country, how can he possibly be true to me?"

Megan set her stirring spoon down on the stovetop, wiped both her hands on her apron, then walked back to the table and sat across from Maggie. "Is he still in the Marine Corps?"

"Of course he is."

"His mother told me Aedan volunteered to go to Vietnam. Is that so?"

"Yes he did."

"So how is it that he's not being true to his own country?"

Maggie put her hands over her face. "Mother, I don't know! I just don't know!"

"Even if you don't care about him, you ought to at least write him. Where he's headed, he will need all the moral support he can get."

#  Chapter 18 – Last Warning

## Marine Corps Base, Camp Smedley D. Butler

## Okinawa

At zero-two-thirty, a jet transport from Vietnam was supposed to pick us up. I felt extremely tired and about ready to puke, much like I did when I my old man forced me along on his daily four a.m. newspaper route to help wrap and throw newspapers into his customers' driveways. I was eight years old for Christ's sake. All I could take out of that experience was perseverance.

At the designated time, a truck picked us up and headed for the field with the cold, humid wind blowing through our utilities and us hanging on for dear life. When we arrived, sleepy and a little irritable, an officer walked over to meet us.

"Marines! Listen up! There will be a delay. Viet Cong shot down your aircraft when it took off from Da Nang, South Vietnam. Another flight will not arrive here until noon today."

While our young minds had a chance to chew on that little twist in the reality of war, trucks carried us back to the barracks. We napped until zero-six-hundred. Reveille blasted us out of bed so I hot-paced down to the head to shave and take my morning constitutional before it got too crowded. We were in never-never land, some temporary mythical spot where they left you until the war gods decided to move you elsewhere. When I walked out of the head, a black lance corporal came in and pointed to the small group of Marines in my area, including me.

"You! Marines! Come with me outside. You're on a trash detail!" he ordered.

Crap. When would it end?

I followed the others out and we climbed on a Six-by truck that, for some reason, the Army referred to as a deuce-and-a-half. I glanced down and noticed a dozen rakes lying next to the cab. We spent the next hour jumping on and off the truck to pick up trash along the highway at the front of the base. Then it happened. I bent over to pick something up and the back of my utility trousers gave way with a loud r-i-p!

When I straightened up and grabbed my butt the black Marine in charge of our detail started laughing.

"Lookee that! See the white boy's ass showin'!"

I was tired, sick to my stomach, and more than a little irritable. In short, at that point I did not want anyone messing with me. I threw down my rake, turned around and took two quick steps his direction, then swung a hard left into the middle of his face sending him into the ditch. Before I could move, two Marines grabbed me and two grabbed him. Detail was over.

We headed back to the barracks, my hand hurting and the lance corporal's mouth yelling obscenities. A half hour after we got back to the barracks, I was lying on my bunk when the duty sergeant walked up.

"Private O'Neall?"

"Yes sergeant?"

"Come with me."

Oh, God. I should not have hit that lance corporal.

I followed the sergeant over to the headquarters building and I knew trouble was waiting. The sergeant walked into an office with me behind him. A colonel seated at the desk glanced up.

"Private O'Neall, have a seat." He glanced over my shoulder. "Sergeant thanks. You can leave us alone."

"Aye, aye sir."

When the door closed, the colonel leaned forward. "Private, I'm Colonel Foxweather. I understand that you broke a lance corporal's nose."

"Sir, I didn't know I broke it."

"What was the fight about?"

"Sir, the lance corporal made a disparaging remark to me."

"What provoked him to make such a remark?"

"Sir, I was bending over and the seat of my trousers ripped out."

"And what, exactly, did the lance corporal say to you?"

"Sir, it was something like look at the white boy's ass showing."

The colonel shook his head. "Private, I want you to listen up and I mean listen up good. You are in the unique position of having two Marine Corps' jobs, one overt, the other covert. Marines in your situation must hold their tempers at all times. If a covert Marine loses his temper, he might end up dead and his work and the entire operation exposed. As long as I am breathing, that is not going to happen on my watch. Not if I can help it. O'Neall, this is the last time anyone is going to talk to you about your temper. I am not shitting you. The next time you have one of these episodes, I will make damned sure they kick your ass out of this man's Marine Corps. You can damned well take that to the bank. Do you read me?"

"Yes sir."

"Private, here's what you do. The next time one of these situations pops up, you just step back, take a real deep breath, count to twenty-five or fifty or some fucking number that gets your blood pressure back to normal. Then do something outlandish like say something nice to the other person. I do not give a diddly what you say, just anything nice. Think that you can handle that?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. Then get your ass back to the barracks and I don't want to see your face again unless you earn the Medal of Honor."

I got up, saluted, did an about face, then I jogged back to the barracks with my ass feeling like a Pit Bull had tried to tear it off.

After catching three hours sleep, some of us walked down to the Mess Hall to see if we could hold down a little breakfast. The SOS looked edible so I let the cook pile four of five ladles on to my metal tray. After grabbing a cup of black coffee and some hard biscuits, I sat down at one of the tables with six other Marines and we ate what we had taken. None of us was too talkative but we introduced ourselves. Three of the six were Texans, one was from San Diego, one from Miami, and the last from Brooklyn. Just about the time we finished, a message blared over the loud speaker for us to get out to the buses.

#  Chapter 19 - Chirchir

## NM&E

## Gulf Building

## Houston, Texas

Chirchir spent the afternoon in the conference room meeting with Axle. On average, he spent two afternoons a week reviewing counter-intelligence information produced by Axle's intelligence team. He was not happy to learn that someone was compromising U.S. military operations in Vietnam.

"The Army's Americal Division is getting the shit kicked out of it," Axle said. "Ambushes are up and their chopper air-support is getting nailed every time it shows up to help the troops under fire."

"What about our Marines?"

"Whatever is going on, it is starting to affect our Marines operating in the I-Corp area. Army intelligence is clueless and the Defense Department seems to have its head stuck in the sand."

"What do you propose?" Chirchir asked.

"With your permission, I want one of our teams to sift through every source available. I want to know how the North Vietnamese know so damned much about our combat operations in South Vietnam."

"Do it."

"Before we wrap up this session, is there anything else we need to talk about?" Axle asked.

"We never finished that conversation about my old employer."

"Damn, Kim. You know I have a lot on my plate. When I broach a subject with you, it would be helpful if we could talk about it then. Not weeks later."

"So noted. I will try harder in the future. So, if you still remember, please tell me now."

"NSA has been moving towards gathering more information faster and finding ways to store and manipulate it."

"If memory serves me, President Truman signed orders for NSA's creation for that very reason."

"They are well on the way to accomplishing their dreams."

"How?"

"Have you heard the name Seymour Cray?"

"Isn't he the guy who builds mainframe computers?"

"Like no one else on earth. He is currently building a super computer. His company is Control Data Corporation."

"Super computer? Super in what way?"

"Let's just say that what he's building for NSA would dwarf the computing power and speed of anything anyone has ever heard of."

"So what is your concern?"

"We need to latch on to this technology before NSA gets away from us."

"I will take it under consideration. The order has survived because we have adapted to change. However, I am not ready to jump into the deep end with this technology. Everything has a downside and I would prefer that NSA take that downhill slide first."

When he got off the phone and was about to step out of the office for a moment, the phone rang. It was Colonel Foxweather.

"How are things down there in Okinawa, colonel?"

"Raining. Damned nasty mess."

"What can I do for you?"

"It's about Private O'Neall."

Chirchir's eyes widened. "What has he done?"

"He was in a fist fight before he left for Vietnam. Another Marine, one senior to Private O'Neall, provoked it. I talked to him about it and gave him our last warning."

"He disappoints me, colonel. I thought he had this temper situation under control. What was his response?"

"It appeared that I scared him straight. I just don't know. My hope is that he has learned his lesson. I will be the first to say that we can not allow any hot-headed Marine to continue this process."

#  Chapter 20 – Vietnam Arrival

## Da Nang Air Base

## The Republic of South Vietnam

## (85 miles southeast of North Vietnam)

We arrived at Da Nang on a Wednesday morning. As I attempted to calculate what day it was, it dawned on me that due to the time change, we arrived in Vietnam the same day and about the same time we left home.

My God! I had actually lost a whole day!

Although it was November, the hot air was a bitch and it was raining buckets. I read a book by a Marine pilot by the name of John Trotti, a Phantom driver (Marine pilots are often referred to as drivers). His impression of Vietnam's air the day he arrived in country was of how heavy the air felt, "as if it were a semisolid made of water vapor and construction dust with jet fumes acting as a catalyst for the glop."

I fully agreed.

When we climbed off the plane, the rain stopped and the humid air hit us like hot exhaust fumes. Some of it probably was because runways on both sides of ours had Air Force fighter jets taking off, one after the other, engines screaming at lift off. My head snapped toward the mountain range when I heard the very distinct sounds of heavy artillery shelling. I remembered the sounds because we experienced them at Camp Pendleton during combat training. However, this was not play combat, it was real. It kind of sounds like thunder but you know it isn't. War's tangibility sank in like a falling brick.

We spent the night in another temporary barracks. It was impossible to sleep because of the constant sound of jets taking off and landing, and the new sounds of incoming mortar rounds. Morning came none too soon.

A Marine gunnery sergeant herded us into weather-beaten trucks that sped off to a giant asphalt terminal area dotted with a thousand men in combat gear. Some of them were stretched out on the asphalt taking naps. Others were sitting trying to write letters. Our group unloaded and a sergeant pointed towards an open area in the mass of Marines staged for assignments. He said to stay there until someone gave us further orders. Sweat poured down my face and my sea bag felt like a load of firewood. I struggled over to where the sergeant had pointed, dropped my bag on the deck and squatted down.

My mind had serious jet-lag and my emotional state stood somewhere between extreme depression and the desire to kill the first person who looked at me wrong, a reaction that my mind told me had to be changed immediately if I planned to stay in the Marine Corps. It appeared as if it was going to be a long day and I had no idea where I would end up. Not knowing what is going to happen next allows the untrained imagination to enter areas best left alone, a technique I believe the Marine Corps had mastered and was thoughtfully using on us now. It started to rain again, too, so I dug inside my sea-bag for my Poncho. By the time I found it, I was already soaked.

A half hour later, the rain stopped and a jeep raced up. A young Marine Second Lieutenant holding a clipboard jumped out. We stopped talking and sprung to our feet wondering what was about to happen. He began to bark out names along with unit assignments. As he called each Marine's name, that Marine moved away from our group and into a formation. Some of the Marines were headed to infantry combat units in the field. We referred to them as ground-ponders or grunts.

Those with an aviation MOS were assigned to helicopter units as gunners and mechanics. They chose others for openings with fixed-wing units, jets or reciprocating aircraft, located at air bases throughout Vietnam. As usual, to my chagrin, the lieutenant called our names off in alphabetical order. When he finally got to the Os, I was practically foaming at the mouth.

"O'Neall! Marine Air Base, Chu Lai!"

Oh, goodie.

I grabbed my sea-bag and moved with the others. Mud-caked trucks drove up and we climbed on them, my eyes glancing at what looked like bullet holes or shrapnel damage on our truck's passenger side door. The men all around me were uncommonly quiet. They were lost in thought, like me. Many were smoking and it looked tempting if for no other reason than to have some minor diversion. Shortly our trucks sped back toward large Marine transport jets running up their engines. I climbed aboard the one designated for Chu Lai, a C-130 Hercules. It was a high wing, four turbo-prop engine troop carrier with ominous flat-black paint and smoking tires that looked like they needed another good recap job.

Packed inside like cattle on the way to the slaughterhouse, we were seated in nylon-webbed jump seats facing toward the rear of the aircraft. The plane captain, a Marine in charge of all maintenance of the aircraft, was a corporal wearing faded utilities and a crumpled cover.

"Marines! Buckle up! Takeoff is going to be a bitch!" he yelled over the engines.

I glanced around the inside of the aircraft, drinking in the experience. The floor was rough with a black, well-worn sandpaper-like finish. The aircraft had no passenger windows, a real problem for anyone with claustrophobia. There was no lining on the inside of the walls, just exposed hydraulic lines that hissed and popped with disturbing frequency. While engines screamed, the takeoff was mind jarring as the aircraft climbed at a steep angle of attack necessary to clear the nearby mountains.

The Hercules leveled at five-thousand feet and the inside air temperature dropped from one-hundred to ninety. The ten-degree drop almost felt like air-conditioning. The turbine engines hummed at a steady roar and muted conversation flowed through the aircraft. It dawned on me that I had to piss but I didn't see a head anywhere. My eyes followed the portside bulkhead from the back forward. I noticed what looked like a very small, deep sink built into the bulkhead four feet up from the deck. A step was built into the wall below it and a handle stuck out of the bulkhead above it.

My peripheral vision caught movement to my left. A Marine was headed to the rear. I watched him glance to his left at the little sink up on the bulkhead and he turned that direction. He walked up to it then turned his head back towards all of us facing his direction. He shook his head then unzipped his pants and pulled out his penis. His left hand grabbed the handle on the wall above and he placed his feet on the step below, then grabbed his penis and started urinating into the little sink while the rest of us tried not to watch. All of us tightened our bladders praying the damned Hercules landed quickly so we could find a place to do our business in private. We knew, of course, that wasn't in the plan.

#### * * * *

## Marine Corps Air Base

## Chu Lai, South Vietnam

We screeched down on the runway with a pounding thud and the engines roared as if about to explode. We were now about fifty miles south of Da Nang and maybe three-quarters of a mile from the South China Sea beach. Swimming was not on the agenda.

Marine Airbase Chu Lai was less than five-miles long north to south, stretching beside the South China Sea, wedged between a crescent-shaped bay to the North and surrounded by bigger-than-life hills (we Texans called them mountains) bathed in deep greens on three sides. In addition to providing close air support for our troops in the field and bombing runs into North Vietnam, Chu Lai provided I Corps' frequent nighttime Steel Tiger missions into Laos and other out-of-country locations that were harboring North Vietnam's war of aggression against the South. While waiting my turn to exit the aircraft, I could not help but notice the haze outside. If California thought it had a smog problem, obviously they had not seen the real thing yet.

The air outside seemed even hotter than before, so hot it burned when you inhaled. The skin on my face felt like I had put it too close to an open fire. Two F-4 Phantoms taxied by, lumbering under the weight of wings and underbelly fully loaded with heavy ordinance, apparently headed out to pay a visit to Charlie. The lead Marine aviator, his canopy open and oxygen mask hanging down, stared our direction and I could have sworn that he was shaking his head. The noise around us, mostly from aircraft taking off and landing, was deafening. Marine choppers were everywhere and the air was thick with their whop-whop sounds.

A company-sized group of Marine grunts dressed in full battle gear marched by, led to the now familiar sing-song cadence of, "Le-O, Ri-e-e-t, Lef-f . . . Le-O, Ri-e-e-t, Lef-f . . ." None of those Marines looked too happy.

Truck picked us up and drove us to an area very much like the one I would left at Da Nang. We got off the trucks and joined half a hundred others waiting for assignments. My mind contemplated what my job would be while glancing up at a chopper and its grinning door gunner who symbolically drew his finger across his throat for our benefit. My training included a rotary aircraft phase. Would they stick me in one of those things?

I noticed the large group of Marines across the runway from us. Some stood casually smoking while others squatted on the ground and stared off into the distance. Something was different about them. First off, they were dressed differently. Our group was wearing standard issue, green cotton utilities. Our boots were polished and our utility covers were starched and properly shaped. Those Marines were wearing some type of lightweight utilities, mostly faded and worn out, with dozens of pockets. Some of them wore utility covers like ours, but no starch. Others wore jungle hats. Their boots were different too. The sides were green, like they were made of cloth or something other than leather. Some were carrying rifles I did not recognize either. Their faces were tanned and hard. None was smiling but some were staring back at us and one suddenly grinned as he pointed our direction.

"Who the hell or those guys?" I remarked to no one in particular.

"Short-timers," son, a staff sergeant said. "They've finished their tours and are headed home. They are waiting for flights out."

I suddenly understood why the salty Marine in formation had grinned and pointed at us. We were the new, green cannon fodder.

While sitting down my legs started to cramp so I stood to stretch. About then I heard a very familiar voice.

"Hey! O'Neall! What are you doing over there with the newbies?"

I stared into the crowd of Marines headed home and spotted Delgado towering above the others.

"Jesus, if it isn't the biggest damned Marine I've ever known," I said as I jogged towards him. "Black Eagle, how did you get over here before me?"

He grabbed me in a bear hug and lifted me up off the ground. Although his thirteen-month tour trimmed his body down to hard, lean muscle, he was still a tank. "You are a sight for sore eyes, O'Neall. Man, they sent me on to recon school and then a grunt company headed over here. My thirteen is up. Going home now."

I spotted the three-up with crossed rifles chevrons on his collars. "How the hell did you make sergeant, Black Eagle?"

He grinned. Two perfect teeth now occupied the vacant spaces he had while in boot camp. "They had to promote at least one dumb Indian. I was it."

"Bullshit! They don't give out sergeant's stripes to just anyone. You got it because you earned it."

We talked for a half-hour until I heard my name.

"O'Neall! Headquarters & Maintenance Squadron!"

Lord, didn't that sound familiar?

No choppers for me, or so I thought.

I grabbed Delgado's hand and shook it.

"Black Eagle, maybe we'll meet up again in a year or so."

"Yeah. Hope so. You keep your head down and be careful where you step."

A minute later, a jeep picked me up. A young lance corporal drove me some three miles away to Marine Air Group 12, a small specialty airfield equipped with Chu Lai's original airstrip and the first aircraft carrier catapult ever used on land. It would be my home for the next thirteen months.

The wide red clay road was muddy, bumpy and heavy with traffic. Our Jeep fishtailed a few times trying to negotiate turns. Trucks loaded with Marines in combat gear passed us constantly, and dreary looking Marines wearing worn out, mud-caked uniforms and mud-caked boots lumbered along the highway carrying machine guns, their backs straining under loads of field equipment. One truck passed by loaded with a large pile of black plastic bags, each bag full of something. I asked the lance corporal about them.

"Marines," he said without expression. "Marines going home."

His grim words were my first dose of war's result. It would not be the last. He glanced at me.

"You know anything about Chu Lai?"

"A little. According to my sergeant major back at Beaufort, it was named after Lieutenant General Krulak, only in Chinese."

He nodded. "Eighteen months ago, this place was just loose sand."

"Can't tell it now."

"Took less than thirty days to build it."

"That's got to be a record."

As we drove over to get me checked in with my new squadron, the contrasts between Vietnam's paradise deep green foliage set against rugged hills and the harsh, deadly serious sights and sounds of war bombarded all my senses.

"We had another mortar attack at zero-two-hundred this morning!" my duty driver yelled over the straining Jeep engine. "Ten VC were killed on the beach trying to get to us!"

I just nodded and grinned. It would not be long until I understood what that experience felt like. In a few minutes, he slowed the Jeep as we approached a wooden building with a metal roof on our right. Out front of the building, a four-by-eight foot piece of plywood on posts stood facing the road. Painted on the sign was the insignia for Headquarters and Maintenance Squadron 12, an overhead shot of an A-4 Skyhawk with the letters H&MS-12 over it and the word Outlaws below it.

I jumped out and grabbed my sea bag. "Thanks for the ride, lance corporal."

"You take it easy."

The temperature was about the same inside when the screen door slammed behind me. The duty administration clerk glanced up from his typewriter. "Hey, private. What can I do for you?"

I looked at the name and rank on his desk. "Just got here, Corporal Conner, so I guess I need to check in. Here's my travel papers." I handed them to him.

He glanced down at the top travel manifest then back up. "Welcome to Chu Lai, Private O'Neall. I'll get these papers processed and we'll walk down to your new hut."

"Sounds good to me."

When finished, Conner glanced up at me.

"Okay, O'Neall. It is a wrap. How about we ease on down to your hut?"

"I need to see the XO."

He frowned. "Our XO? Major Bradley? You want to see Major Ed Bradley?"

"That's right."

He nodded and stood up. "Just a minute. I'll be right back."

A few minutes later, I was standing at attention in front of the major and his desk.

"At ease, Private O'Neall. I have been waiting for your delivery. Glad to have you aboard."

I handed over the package. "Thank you, sir. Glad to finally be here."

He grabbed the package and dropped it in one of his desk drawers while staring at me. "I understand that you volunteered for this tour?"

"Yes sir. Just following my father's lead."

"Marine Corps?"

"No sir. British Army during WWII. Ireland remained neutral but my father felt strongly about the German and Japanese threats so he volunteered anyway."

"Son, I'm real glad to have a young man like you on my team. The Corps has had good luck with Irish Marines."

"We learned about them in boot camp. I'm Irish, sir, but I'm not the heroic type."

"Don't be so sure, Private O'Neall. You've only begun."

He picked up a file off the corner of his desk and flipped it open. His eyes scanned down the first page and he looked up.

"Your file tells me about the AWOL situation and your punishment. I want you to know that, just as soon as this six-month no-promotion period passes, I will make damned sure we catch you up on rank. Understood?"

"Aye-aye sir."

Major Bradley leaned forward. "Off and on I will need your assistance. To avoid bringing any attention to this, I will call on you for various types of duty to pull you away from your squadron. It might be mess duty, guard duty, motor transport duty or even shit-detail. Unfortunately, your peers will come to believe you are marked as a shit-bird, something you experienced in boot camp. I am extremely sorry this must happen. I have others in positions of authority that are part of this covert system. It is not necessary for you to know who these men are, but you will not have to think up any excuses or reasons for doing what I will have you do. Understand?"

"Yes sir."

He sent me back to the Admin Clerk. I followed Cpl. Conner over to the Armory to pick up my M-14 rifle. To me it looked like an old friend. The Corps introduced us, intimately, at the rifle range. The little goody weighs in around eleven pounds and loves the 7.62-millimeter NATO round. She's magazine-fed, gas operated, air-cooled, and semi-automatic and can reach out and touch someone with a muzzle velocity of twenty-eight-hundred feet per second. Although her listed maximum effective range shows five-hundred-forty-seven yards, she can kill at a much greater distance. This little lady is not to be trifled with. However, she had something important missing.

"What about my ammo?" I asked.

"At the moment none of us get ammo. The big-wigs at Defense are afraid we might start some type of incident."

While I stewed over that little tidbit, Cpl. Conner walked me over to my new home.

"Our neighborhood consists of two dozen tin-roofed, screen-sided frame structures referred to as hooches or huts on concrete blocks," Conner said while pointing at the surrounding buildings. "They look crude beach-houses, don't they?"

"Sure do."

"These babies are only months old. When I got here, we lived in those damned hard-back tents." He pointed down. "How do you like our wooden shipping pallet walkway?"

"Good idea. Beats walking on that damned sand."

I followed Conner through the door of one of the huts. Inside, the living arrangement was informal, not like barracks life, probably one of the few benefits of war only a Marine could appreciate.

"Ten guys in your hut, including you," Conner said.

"Looks like private quarters."

"Damned straight. I hate those stateside barracks you gotta share with a hundred Marines."

"Looks like no one is home right now."

I dropped my sea-bag on a cot and glanced around. The hut-space had been segregated into little areas by the current tenants, each area neat but different. Each man had built himself a small desk and locker from crate materials, a couple had small refrigerators, and almost everyone had family photos or centerfolds taped or nailed up. The air, even in the hooch, was still and hot and none too comfortable. The humidity made it seem even hotter.

"Let's go, Marine. I gotta get you down to the hanger so you can meet your new boss, Gunnery Sergeant Donald McCleary and his maintenance team."

"Sounds good to me."

"Two-thousand VC regulars are staging for an attack somewhere just the other side of the hills surrounding Chu Lai," he said with me following behind him. "Last night, Hanoi radio broadcasted they are going to eat Christmas dinner at Chu Lai."

Oh, fantastic.

We started across the muddy, slippery road and I glanced down at my boots, the shin now covered with grey mud. "Is the road always like this?"

"Only when it rains."

"How often does it rain?"

"Most of the time."

The first thing I noticed on the other side of the road was a long row of serious-looking, green Quonset huts, half-moon shaped metal buildings used by the Corps for aircraft hangers. We lived in smaller versions of them at boot camp. We worked in them at Beaufort so the environment would not be entirely new.

Conner pointed at the hanger in front of us. "This is MAG-12's major repairs and maintenance site for the Douglas A-4 Skyhawk in all of its variations."

I followed Conner around to the front of the hanger. On the other side of the parking ramp, two F-8 Crusaders were screaming down the metal-planked runway and a couple of Skyhawks moved slowly down the taxiway to the on-ramp to join them. A row of maintenance hangers faced the taxiway and a dozen A-4s were parked on the ramp between the taxiway and the hangers. Some gleamed with fresh paint while others pulled apart into two sections waited for newly repaired jet engines or other internal maintenance and repairs by the half-dozen Marines working on them.

Standing there for a moment, I watched a Skyhawk looking like some jet-propelled grasshopper attempting to carry a peanut, lift off the runway, its landing gear about to snap back into the nose and wings. Off in the distance a thick haze hung in the air like gauze, almost obstructing the view of the ten-thousand foot conventional concrete runway and taxiways just completed two months before my arrival. It was now whistle thundering with F-4 Phantoms taking off.

"Come on, O'Neall. You've got over a year to watch those mother fuckers take off and land."

Inside the hanger, Marines with utility sleeves rolled up were climbing all over two A-4 Skyhawks. The rat-tat-tat of rivet guns and screaming air drills filled the air as those Marines repaired damage done by the enemy.

No one much noticed me except for Gunnery Sergeant McCleary, a wiry, weather-beaten, Korean War vintage Marine sitting behind a rusty, grey metal desk wedged in the back corner of the hanger. Tacked to the wall behind him was a two-foot-by-two-foot piece of white paper with the words _Do It Wrong and I'll Kick Your Ass!_ printed in large, angry black letters. While sweat rivulets poured down his forehead from his shaved head, his expression revealed a man on a mission who would complete it or kill everyone else while trying. He accepted my file from the clerk, scribbled his signature in the appropriate places then glanced up.

"Glad to have another hand, Private O'Neall. Our work is big time backlogged. I hope to God that you learned something in Memphis and Beaufort because we have to catch up, yesterday. At this minute there are Marines in the field getting the shit kicked out of them and they desperately need these pieces-of-crap, Navy hand-me-down aircraft in full support mode."

"Good luck, O'Neall," Cpl. Conner said as he walked away.

The gunny walked me around to the other Marines, making casual introductions. Everyone had that look in their eyes frequently seen on the faces of shoppers in a meat market. I was the fresh meat. A few minutes later the gunny had me under a wing starting my first combat repair job. It was not bad, really, except for the KARUMP! KARUMP! Sounds coming from the nearby hills. Those ominous sounds made my heart kick into high gear.

#  Chapter 21 – Senator Palmer

## Washington, DC

Senator Martin Palmer III rested his fit, well-tanned body on the chase lounge next to his pool and took another sip of his Wild Turkey 101, a bourbon that still managed to retain the same kick provided back in 1869 when first developed, probably because the 101 refers to its 50.5 percent alcohol content. His mind was on the good General Lattermore. So far, the general had managed to carry his end of the bargain. He sipped the Turkey again and his eyes gazed at the blue water before him. Now, he felt better than he had ever felt in his life. Maybe it was the fact that he was a very successful, very well respected United States senator. On the other hand, maybe it was of this little project Lattermore was helping him with in Vietnam.

The good general's latest message was that the North Vietnamese had moved the gold into the proper accounts and U.S. military efforts had been slowed. The result, as calculated, was an increase in U.S. troops being sent to the war. That, of course, resulted in an increase in demand for materials and supplies to support the war effort followed by a rise in value of the stock of those companies providing those materials and supplies. If American's were capable of understanding how all of this worked, well, he would be in what some call deep do-do.

He poured himself another glass of well-deserved Turkey and sipped it once more. Mrs. Palmer was at a ladies' tea and his son was staying over with a friend so no one was home but him. He laughed loudly and it felt so good. If his father could only see him now!

#  Chapter 22 - Swede

## Chicago, Illinois

Swede dropped a twenty-percent tip on the cafe table and walked out to his pickup. It was five in the morning on Saturday, the end of another workweek for him. He just wrapped up another three-week training session with a covert recruit and he was tired. He planned to meet Colonel Brandenworth at the lake around seven for a day of fishing, something neither of them had done for some time.

He pointed his 1956 Ford pickup in the right direction and turned on the radio. It did not matter what station it was on because he only needed the noise. He always seemed to think best on the road. Over the last ten years, there had been many, many covert recruits under his tutelage. Not all of them had made the cut. He was, generally, the last security checkpoint in his sector. There were others just like him in other sectors, all good men. Many of them he had met at one time or another, but that was rare. Security was always an issue and none of them wanted to jeopardize the organization so they remained, for the most part, loners. That was probably why his wife divorced him. Maybe. He was never sure.

An hour later, he reached the entrance to the fishing camp. When he drove through the gate, he spotted the colonel's Jeep, an original used by Marines in WWII. It was possible that the colonel's choice of transportation was one of the reasons why Swede liked him. He parked and walked around to the dock where the colonel was supposed to be waiting in Swede's boat.

"Hey, Brandi! I told you I'd be early," Swede said. When he reached the boat, he stepped on the side and dropped down inside a few feet from the colonel. "You got the bait?"

Brandenworth grinned. "I've got it but I don't think you are going to catch anything with it."

"Yeah. We'll see."

Fifteen minutes later, Swede slowed the twenty foot boat in the area he usually caught most of his fish. He glanced back at the colonel who was working on his third beer. "Before you consume all of it, how about throwing one of those to me?" He caught the can of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer and pulled the can opener out of the glove box next to the steering wheel. A few seconds later, he swallowed down half the can of cold liquid. He walked back and sat down in the chair next to the colonel.

"You gonna bait my hook for me?"

"I'll tell you Swede, I've never baited another man's hook and I don't plan starting now."

Over the next hour, neither of them spoke much while they baited and re-baited their hooks and cast this way and that to reach the sweet spot where the fish might be. Finally, they settled down to watch their lines.

"I'm thinking about retiring," Brandenworth said.

"What's going on?"

"Tired, Swede. Very tired. This duel life is wearing me down. You know?"

"They didn't promise us a friggin' rose garden."

The colonel glanced at him. "Don't quote that crap to me. And, no, you and I have never even been in a damned rose garden."

Swede stared at the colonel. "You aren't kidding, are you?"

"You should know me pretty damned well by now. I never kid."

He shook his head and sipped the beer. "Last night I got a call from Dr. Chirchir about Private Aedan O'Neall."

The colonel frowned. "Oh, fantastic. More drama. What's wrong now?"

"The committee believes that Aedan's marksmanship skills should be expanded."

"Jesus, do ya think? Crap, Swede, the kid shot damned near a perfect score at the range. Any idea why they've just reached that conclusion?"

"You know how these things work. Need to know. I don't have a clue."

"Of course. What do you want me to do?"

"Well, first-things-first. The commandant is still concerned about Private O'Neall's temper."

"Fighting?"

"Yes. Chirchir wants to make certain he has put that behind him."

"What does he propose?"

"He wants O'Neall tested."

"Tested how?"

"Someone needs to try and get him into a fight."

"And how would that be done?"

"Provoke him."

"Okay. That should be easy enough."

"Yeah, well, let's pray to God it isn't all that easy or we've wasted a shit-load of time with O'Neall. Contact Major Bradley. Let him know that Aedan's temper needs to be tested. Bradley needs to understand that if O'Neall fails this test, he is out of our program. However, if he passes, then tell Bradley we want someone good to give Private O'Neall some sniper training. It does not have to be done right away. Bradley can use his own judgment. The important thing is that the instructor is good."

Brandenworth nodded. "The best man for that job is Carlos."

"Is he over there now?"

"Sure is. He already has one hell of a reputation with the North Vietnamese. They have a bounty out on him. Too bad he's not in the organization."

"We can't recruit all of them. What's this about his reputation with the North Vietnamese?"

"They are sending out their best snipers to get Carlos. He is killing them one-by-one. They are scared like you would not believe. Carlos is a machine when it comes to sniping. If I wanted a sniper instructor, he would be my first choice."

Swede just finished reeling in his line and cast it off again. "Good deal, Brandi, make it happen."

#  Chapter 23 – Call Him Irish

## Marine Corps Air Base

## Chu Lai, South Vietnam

Private First Class Robert Gibbons handed me the rivet gun while I leaned down from the wing and grabbed it. The wall clock said noon, the sky was cloudless, and working inside the hanger was like working in an oven. My utility sweat-soaked shirt did nothing to improve things.

"Say, Gibbons. You're from Australia, right?"

"Jesus, mate, what was it, the Aussie accent?"

I grinned. "Yeah. Your sarcasm is good too. How long you been here?"

"Three months. A lifetime."

"What brought you to the U.S.?"

"My father worked for a U.S. company in Australia. They transferred him to the U.S. when I was four years old. My family liked America so much they applied for citizenship and earned it when I was nine.

"Your MOS is Avionics, right?"

"Yeah. Good thing they have me. These damned hand-me-down Navy A-4s frequently need repairs or adjustments in one or more of the electronics systems. I am told I have that special touch to put things back right again. I wouldn't want your job."

"Why not?"

"Jesus, mate, a sloppy repair job could result in changing an aircraft's flight characteristics converting an otherwise effective flying machine into a jet-propelled rock. Don't think I could handle that much responsibility."

"Gibbons, you're full of crap."

That night back at my hut, I stripped to my skivvy shorts, stepped into my thong sandals, grabbed my towel and soap, and then walked down to the shower to scrub off the dried sweat. Five minutes later, I returned to the hut and fell back on my cot. Damn I was tired and sore. Just as I was about to drift off, my hut mates began to arrive so I got up and put on my trousers. We all did the glad to meet-cha bit. We were all different, yet we were alike – men from Brooklyn, California, Houston and Florida; from Rhode Island, New Orleans, San Francisco and Little Rock and all places in between. And, of course, there was Gibbons. Some of us came from money and some from the gutter but we all wore the Globe and Anchor and had that same gleam in our eyes, Marines.

We were a mixed bag. Some, like me, had most of the thirteen-month tour ahead of them. Others were short-timers and just days stood between them and a trip home. A California boy nicknamed Surfer strummed his guitar and wailed the latest hit song while others listened to battery powered cassette tape players of music from home, wrote letters, read or tried to catch some Zs, short for sleep in Marineology.

"Hey, O'Neall!" Lance Corporal Rob Hinson yelled, "Wanna beer?"

Hinson was the squadron's hydraulics guru. He preferred to be called Mad Dog, a nickname he picked up while playing a year with the Oakland Raiders, a football team organized in 1960 out in California. He carried his two-hundred-fifty pounds of solid muscle on a six-foot-four frame so he could choose any nickname he wanted.

"Mad Dog, I thought you'd never ask," I said while headed his direction.

"Say, O'Neall, looks like you do some weight-lifting."

"Not like you do, Mad-Dog. Believe me."

Members of my hut were throwing a short-timer party for Sergeant Greg Barton, a powerfully built twenty-two year old from California on his second tour in the Corps. Barton was scheduled to head home the next day. Man, did that do some damage to my psyche, me with thirteen fun-filled months still head. I sucked down my first beer, crushed the can and reached into the bucket for another. Now, things started to feel and look a lot better.

Barton walked over to me and slapped my shoulder. "Thanks for sharing this going-away party with me, O'Neall. A little over a year ago, I was in your shoes so I know how it feels watching someone about to go home and you can't."

"Glad I could be here. Yeah, it does suck, but thanks. Where's home?"

"California. Los Angeles."

"Any plans when you get back?"

"Yeah. My tour is up so I am getting out. I run a Hells Angels club in L.A. and I've got to get back in control before someone takes it away from me."

"Damn! Hells Angels? Those are some bad dudes."

"Don't kid yourself. Bunch of pussies. No kidding. I've got to get back and beat the crap out of a few of them who have gotten out of line."

"Good luck with that, Sergeant."

"You get down around LA anytime, you look me up. We'll get you a bike so you can ride with us."

"I'll do it."

Pfc. Robert Gibbons walked over. "See, mate, things aren't all that bad, are they?"

"Nope. Looks like it will be all right if someone will just keep these cans coming."

"Okay, brother, but remember – we don't want to make that stuff a habit, do we?"

I glanced at him. "Nope. Sure don't. I plan to quit when we run out of cans."

"Yeah, sure," he said, and then he swallowed another from his can. He wiped his mouth and grinned at me. "That red-headed beauty you have tacked to your wall – Someone you know?"

"My girlfriend, Maggie."

"I tell you, Mate, you're a lucky man."

"How about you? Got a steady?"

"My sheila's a looker like your Maggie. Her name's Rachel."

"Sheila? What's that?"

"Oh, sorry mate. It means woman or girl."

"Are you engaged?"

"Sort of. This thirteen-month tour will be our real test."

"Yeah. Tell me about it."

Gibbons grabbed another, popped the top and took a long swallow. The chatter around us rose and fell as we stood there enjoying the moment. Gibbons finished his beer and tossed it in the waste can.

"Are you wondering why I joined the Marine Corps instead of enlisting with the Australian Army?"

"Not really. I figured you, like me, felt an obligation to your new country so you joined."

He nodded. "But I do feel a little bad about not joining my Aussie brothers. There's between five and six thousand Australian's down South in II and III Corps right this moment."

"I had no idea. Do you try and keep up with what they are doing?"

"Some. My father writes me letters to tell me what he hears on the news. He went to school with Lieutenant Colonel Eric Smith with the 1st Australian Task Force down in III Corps. Smith writes letters to my father and he lets me know what is happening. Every now and then, I get a letter from friends who are with 5 and 6 RAR."

"RAR?"

"Yeah. Royal Australian Regiment. Australia follows the British scheme of naming their military units."

"Maybe you'll get to see one of your buddies before you leave?"

"Naw, mate. Don't think so."

"Are these friends your old high school classmates?"

"Not high school. 6th grade," Gibbons said, then he laughed.

"What's funny?"

"Bob Gibson and me. Our teacher got us mixed up. I don't know why because Gibbons and Gibson are quite different."

"Yeah. What about your other friends?"

"Dave Sabben and Harry Smith. Great fella's. I really miss 'em."

"I know what you mean."

He grinned at me. "You need a nickname."

"A nickname? What's your nickname?"

"They call me Digger."

"Digger? What the hell does that mean?"

"Australian soldiers are referred to as Diggers."

"I would never have guessed it. Okay, so what's my nickname?"

"Henceforth, you are dubbed Irish."

"Irish?"

"Yeah. Irish."

I grinned. "If you say so."

As I glanced around our hooch, it was obvious my fellow Marines exuded every human emotion. Love, hate, loneliness, sadness and joy. We all bent our elbows, short for drinking a few beers, for Barton. Each Marine secretly wished he was in Barton's shoes. A little later, our squadron welder, Pfc. Martini, also known as the Pope, grabbed my arm.

"O'Neall, come on and let's head down to the mess hall for chow."

"Call him Irish, Pope," Digger said.

"Okay, Irish. Do you want to join me?"

"Sounds good to me. Hey – Digger, want to get some chow with us?"

"Sure. Let's do it."

#### * * * *

Eating Marine Corps chow is an experience you cannot define unless you have done it. Marine cooks prepare food as if it is the enemy. I kid you not. While sitting across from the Pope and Digger in the chow hall, I asked, "How come they call you the Pope?"

He wiped away his milk mustache. "I'm a good Italian Catholic so I go to every Mass they hold and, well, I pray a lot. The jackasses named me the Pope."

"In my book, there's nothing wrong with praying, not at all."

After we got back to the hut, I wrote letters to Maggie, my folks and Artie while feeling an emotional knot lodged in my throat. It was my first night in the 'Nam and, although I'd just left the U.S. only a couple of days before, an eon of time seemed to exist between me and home.

Darkness slipped around us and someone said, "lights out!" In the States that order was a meaningless routine. At Chu Lai, darkness prevented us from being a VC target. I lay on my cot for a few minutes but it was no use. I could not sleep. I got up and walked outside. The sky was clear and the air only slightly cool.

Off to my left one lone jet thundered off the runway accompanied by the uncomfortable sound of distant artillery. Some of it was coming from off shore, U.S. Navy Destroyers pumping heavy artillery at VC targets miles inland, and some from Marine artillery on nearby hills. In the background, a continuous roar from diesel generators brought us light and power for another day. Through the trees from our hut, low-slung mountains were lit up with cannon-fire. Flares dropped by our aircraft appeared as small, falling suns. While I turned and started towards the beach, I could only suspect what was happening and prayed that, whatever it was, we were winning. Lights twinkled from the quiet nearby villages, people who both loved and hated us. From the North, the dull thud of Marine chopper rotors echoed from MAG-16.

On the way down the moonlit beach, the sand was hard under my bare feet. Looking East out over the China sea, my thoughts contemplated the twelve-thousand miles distance to Texas and a lonely feeling came over me. "Who goes there!" a voice yelled.

Goddamn! You scared the shit out of me!" I said. "Private Aedan O'Neall."

"Gimme the password or I'll blow your fucking brains out!"

"Dopesmokingfiend!"

"Alright!" the night guard said as he walked towards me from the nearby tree line. "What the fuck you doin' out here this time of night?"

"Just got here today, jarhead. Couldn't sleep."

"You should know that this place is never secure."

"I do now. Like I said, you scared the shit out of me."

"Keep your eyes open. The next person you meet might not be so friendly."

"Got it. Take it easy, Marine." I turned and started my walk back the other direction. My mind wandered back to the same questions I had since this whole thing had started.

What is the information my XO expects me to deliver? For whom is it intended? Where will this process lead me? That information, according to my instructors, was always very important and oftentimes affected the lives of many, many military people and others. What value was in that package I had handed to Major Bradley? My thoughts shifted to my new environment. I remembered my discussion with Gunny McCleary about the choppers that were everywhere.

He told me that MAG-16 was a Marine helicopter group that had been in 'Nam since late, 1965.

"They started with the UH-34D that looked a little like a locus," he said, "then the defense department began to replace it with the Hughes UH-1E referred to as the Huey. Although Marine aviators are happy with the Huey and its 2.75 inch rocket pods and .30 caliber machine guns, they envy the Army's new AH-1G Cobra gun ships."

"Why don't we get Cobras?" I asked McCleary.

"I'm guessing the defense department figures we might end the war too soon if we get our hands on Cobras."

I only dozed that night. My stomach and my mind rolled with nervous expectation of what the next day would bring.

#### * * * *

At zero-dark-thirty, a classic gut-wrenching Reveille blared over the loud speakers meaning we should get our young asses off the rack and our feet on the deck.

I jumped up and dressed quickly, then hurried over to the Mess Hall for a quick but satisfying breakfast of shit on a shingle accompanied by potato patties and washed down with black coffee. After praying I could hold the mess down, I hurried to work.

"Sleep good last night?" Gibbons asked when he passed me on his way to the electronics repair room.

"Maybe an hour."

"You better take advantage of the quiet nights. There aren't many of them," he said over his shoulder.

I spent the morning creating a patch to fit a large, jagged hole in the underside of an A-4's starboard wing. The hole opened up the fuel cell allowing fuel to escape. The aviator almost did not make it back to Chu Lai. After the gunny checked my work, he glanced at me.

"Looks like they taught you something at Memphis. Good work."

Around noon, I was walking across the road headed for the mess hall when I thought I heard someone call my name and I glanced back. About that time, someone ran right into me and knocked me down on the muddy road. Slippery, stinking mud covered my ass and both of my hands.

"You stupid son-of-a-bitch, watch where-the-hell you're going!" he yelled.

I glanced up and it was another Marine about four-inches taller and some twenty pounds heavier than I was. "Who the hell are you calling a 'stupid son-of-a-bitch?" I said as I jumped up. The adrenaline kicked in and I started that warning shake just before my mind shifted to neutral and my body clicked over to rage mode.

He moved into a fighting stance. "Come on you piece of shit, let's see what you've got."

Just about the time I started to knock him into hell, I remembered the talk I got from the colonel at Okinawa. I took a deep breath. One, two, three, four and I counted to twenty-five without moving.

"Come on you damned bastard, let's get it on!" he said and he pushed my shoulder with his fist.

Suddenly I remembered my meeting with Colonel Foxweather on Okinawa. Forcing my body to relax, I grinned at him. "Jarhead, I'm sorry for running into you. Hell, I was not paying attention and didn't see you coming. You and me, we are both Marines. We have to watch out for each other because no one else will in this God-forsaken place. I don't want to fight with you, Marine. Both of us have too many of the enemy to worry about."

The hard look on his face disappeared. "I'm sorry brother. I wasn't paying attention either. This hellhole puts all of us on a short fuse. My temper gets the best of me sometimes."

"I know exactly what you mean."

He stuck out his hand and we shook.

That afternoon, Gunny McCleary said the XO wanted to see me right away. McCleary advised me to do whatever he wanted and hoped I would eventually get off the major's shit list.

#### * * * *

The XO glanced up when I walked into his office. "Good afternoon, O'Neall. I understand that you did very well at Edson Range."

"Yes sir. I did okay."

"If our priorities had been different, you would be working in the mountains packing a custom made rifle with a really fine scope instead of doing what you are doing right now."

"I would have liked that."

"I've decided I don't want those skills to get to cold so there's something I'd like you to do."

"What is that, sir?"

"I want you to spend this weekend down at our range. At zero-seven-hundred Saturday, a staff sergeant by the name of Carlos will be waiting for you. Pay close attention to what he teaches you. He's the best there is."

#  Chapter 24 – President Lyndon Johnson

## The White House

## Washington D.C.

President Lyndon Johnson stood up from his seat at the table and leaned on both hands while frowning at his secretary of defense, Robert McNamara. They were alone in the large, White House conference room.

"Bob, what in the hell is going on? How in the devil are we getting the shit kicked out of us now? Jesus, we've got these communist Vietnamese bastards outnumbered and out-gunned."

McNamara leaned back in his chair, an automatic response to the explosive anger Johnson sometimes released. "Mr. President, these things are part of war. There are ups and downs. You have to look at the long-term with war. We've got the best and brightest in control of this war and they have it under control."

"You know, Bob, one thing a politician doesn't need is another politician feeding him bullshit. We have had these discussions before, so you know what I mean. You get a handle on this thing. I mean it. I don't want to wake up one morning to find myself traveling to that God-forsaken country to formally surrender to those damned people."

"Sir, that's not going to happen."

"I'll tell you one thing, – if it does, I'll take you along with me and, just before Air Force One lands, I will personally throw you out of the aircraft."

#  Chapter 25 – Carlos

## Marine Corps Air Base

## Chu Lai, South Vietnam

Saturday morning, I walked down to the Mess Hall and grabbed coffee and a couple of hard biscuits then headed down the beach to the range. Carlos was waiting for me.

"O'Neall, we've got two days to hone those rifle skills. You did damned good at Pendleton's Edson Range but you've got to know a lot more than just how to shoot straight to master a sniper's skill-set. I will be completely honest with you, two days just is not enough time. So what I am going to teach you is the Cliff Notes version of sniper school, a bare bones outline. When I am done with you, make damned sure you practice what I have taught you whenever you get the chance. Do it often. Maybe the Corps will give you some more advanced training later on when there's more time."

"I will, Staff Sergeant."

"Before we get started, I need to ask you one very important question."

"What is it?"

"This training is not about being the best shot on the range. It is not about winning trophies and it is not about learning how to kill that big-ass Boon & Crockett buck with just one shot. This training, Private O'Neall, is about snuffing out lives. Before I train you, I have to believe that this is a job you will not have second thoughts about, a job you can do with no qualms whatsoever. Are we on the same page?"

"Staff Sergeant, so long as my assigned targets are people who hate us and hate freedom, I've got no problem sending them back to their own gods."

"That's what I wanted to hear. Let's get this crash course started."

That evening after chow, I returned to my hooch tired. Martini was sitting on his cot. "Hey, Irish, do you play poker?"

I glanced at him. "Yeah, Pope. It's been a while but I'm really too tired to play right now."

"Not now. We usually play on Friday evenings after chow. The game rotates around the area so we will host one night then another hooch hosts, and so on. The pots don't usually get too large although, sometimes, they do get interesting. You in for next Friday's game here in the hooch?"

"Count me in."

#### * * * *

For about an hour, I helped Gibbons pull avionics gear out of one of the A-4s. About the time we finished, the gunny yelled at me.

"O'Neall, get out there on the flight line. They need help pulling an engine."

Three of the jet mechanics had an A-4 pulled apart so the rear half of the turbine engine was exposed. It was hard to believe that the damned aircraft was actually two pieces bolted together.

"O'Neall," one of the corporals said, "You help those two keep the strap under the engine. I will drive the Cherry Picker over and start pulling the engine back and up. We don't want the son-of-a-bitch to fall on the ground. These babies are in short supply and hard to find."

When you look at the set-up, you have to hold Marine Corps aviators in awe. They are riding on a rocket surrounded by fuel that could turn them into vapor in the blink of an eye and sometimes does, because of the blind faith they put in the eighteen-year-old Marines who keep them flying.

Although the experienced power plant mechanics worked on the engines with the same ease I'd had changing spark plugs in my old Chevy, I touched everything like it was about to explode, for a while, anyway. Back inside the hanger, I spotted Digger up in the cockpit pulling out some electronic countermeasures gear. I suddenly remembered the Marine at Beaufort who accidentally blew the ejection seat and ended up splattered on the ceiling. I hoped Digger was a lot more careful.

That afternoon, I snatched a few minutes and walked back to the hut carrying a sheet of plywood hoping the two-by-fours I put inside were still there. When I got close to the hut, the Pope walked out of the front door.

"Hey, Irish, what are you planning to build?"

"Maybe a desk and storage cabinet."

"You a carpenter?"

"I am now."

It is amazing what a Marine can do with a few scraps of wood and a prayer. My desk was just big enough to sit and write letters. Inside the storage cabinet, three shelves held my spare utilities, wallet and other small things. I pulled Maggie's picture off the wall and tacked it to the front of the cabinet. Maybe I was a carpenter, after all.

A couple of hours after I got back to the hanger to work, Gunny McCleary let us off early so I joined Mad Dog and the Pope for a trip to visit some friends at MAG-36 camp three miles away. We made it to 36 in one piece.

After chow on Friday evening, we started our poker game around nineteen-hundred. We had no U.S. currency because they did not allow us to have it in a combat zone to prevent the enemy from using it against us. As far as I knew, that was the case in all our wars. The Marine Corps issued some funny money called MPC and most Marines treated it as if it were Monopoly money. The little MPC bills looked odd sitting on the poker table. As time passed, my pile grew as I expected that it would.

"Irish, do you plan on taking all of our money?" an angry corporal from a nearby hooch said.

"Not sure I'm that good but I'll give it my best shot." The game broke up before the Taps bugle call sounded to remind us to turn out the lights. I put a hefty pile of the funny money in my cabinet.

#### * * * *

"This damned weather sucks!" Rob Hinson said while standing in the rain trying to get our tow motor started. I was standing next to him with rain pouring off my cover and down through the front of my utility jacket.

"Irish, go back in the hanger and find the damned jumper cables."

Monsoon season was about to kick into high gear. On an intellectual level, I understood what that meant. On an emotional level, I didn't even have a clue. After just a few weeks had passed, I felt like I was going to need a snorkel just to get around Chu Lai. The phrase raining cats-and-dogs would be an understatement. I never thought mold could grow on the inside of boots.

Around fifteen-hundred, I was helping another tin-bender replace the starboard speed flat on one of the A-4s when the gunny walked over.

"O'Neall, I hate to tell you this but you just won a four-hour session of night guard duty down on the beach. At twenty-three hundred tonight, report to the Corporal of the Guard at admin."

"Being the lowest rank around here really sucks, Guns."

"Yeah."

That night from midnight to zero-four-hundred, my tactical area of responsibility was a ten-acre section on the north perimeter of our beach. While I slowly walked my beat, it dawned on me that our beach looked a damned sight more beautiful than Galveston, Texas. On the other hand, you could walk down the Galveston beach without anyone shooting at you. For the rest of my shift, my eyes stayed focused on the small Vietnamese fishing boats called San-pans floating close to shore. I prayed they were only fishing. When my shift was over, I took a quick shower and walked over to the mess hall for breakfast before starting work at the hanger.

"Mate, how was that guard duty last night?"

I glanced at Gibbons through bloodshot eyes. It was hard enough to measure and cut the patch to fit the hole in an A-4 that took a VC round without listening to his sarcasm. "Eat camel dung and die," I said. The sound of the tow motor caught my attention so I glanced outside the hanger. Hinson was pulling an A-4 inside.

The first thing I noticed was the bamboo and long grass caught in the port landing gear, along with a rather nasty brown stain the full length of one strut and what looked like black human hair caught on the same wing-slat's leading-edge.

"What the hell happened?"

Hinson turned around to face me. "I heard that Captain Daniel Hit Man Savage was called in on a ground-support mission somewhere out in the rice paddies. After emptying his ammo on the VC, he realized none was left so he made a one-hundred-eighty degree turn back for one final gun-run minus the ammo, then he dropped his Scooter down a few feet off the deck, lowered his landing gear, and took out a VC with the strut."

"That stuff hanging on is what's left of a VC?"

"Yeah. Bad shit, huh?"

#  Chapter 26 - Maggie

## Cut and Shoot, Texas

Cut and Shoot's downtown main street was bright with Christmas lights strung across store-fronts and colored ribbons tied in bows wrapped around street sign poles. Maggie's sister, Judith, honked at the car ahead when it slowed to a crawl before passing the manger scene set up in front of the Methodist Church.

"Sis! He's just looking at the Christmas stuff!" Maggie said while riding next to her on the passenger side.

"Sorry, Mag. I have seen it a hundred times. All I want to do is get to the grocery store for those corn kits mom forgot."

"Okay. Just take it easy. These people are just trying to get the Christmas spirit."

"I suppose." Judith glanced at Maggie.

"You haven't shown much Christmas spirit lately, you know? You have not said a word about Aedan, either. It's Christmas, Mag. Don't you miss him?"

Maggie did not speak for a few minutes and Judith knew better than to say anything. She never particularly liked Aedan O'Neall because she thought he was a smart-mouth but Maggie liked him so Judith kept her opinion to herself. Her little sister was strong, stronger than she was. Maggie was not a crybaby and it took a lot to make her lose tears. Judith noticed some running down Maggie's cheeks so it looked like there was a lot bottled up about to spill out.

Maggie ran the back of her hand across the tears to wipe them away. She cleared her throat and glanced at Judith.

"You can't even begin to imagine how much I miss him. I worry about his safety every minute. At night, I watch the six-o-clock news like you watch an accident that happens on the highway. You don't want to look but something in your head tells you that you must. His letters do not tell me what is really happening around him. It drives me crazy! Sis, I love him so damned much I can't stand it!"

"Have you written to tell him that?"

"No. I haven't written him at all."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to talk about it anymore."

#  Chapter 27 – Christmas With Ann Margaret

## Marine Corps Air Base

## Chu Lai, South Vietnam

Christmas arrived and we all hoped the Mess Hall would provide us with something like our mothers cooked back home. No such luck. For lunch, the cooks had taken perfectly good hams and based them with peanut butter. I am not sure on what planet that was the way to cook a Christmas ham but I can say, not too many of us enjoyed the meal. I sent ma their recipe hoping she would serve it to my old man.

Our squadron knocked off work early and put together a little Christmas party on the same beach I guarded by night. A USO troupe arrived from home to entertain us, complete with a rather good rock-and-roll band and an actress named Ann Margaret.

"Mate, can you believe that's really Ann Margaret up there? Christ she's hot!"

I was as surprised as Gibbons someone as famous as her would take time to visit us in this hellish war. Some idiot Marines jumped up on stage and danced with her until our MAG-12 sergeant major ran up on the stage.

"Marines! Get the hell off my stage right now!"

After the class-entertainment drew to a close, our officers served up hamburgers, hot dogs and hot beer from the Philippines while our commanding officer, Colonel Mack Everett, passed out Christmas presents.

"Three pairs of green skivvies, and a green towel," I said.

"Mate, I never though this Christmas would be so big or so green. Let's get us some beers."

I never realized that the alcohol content of most foreign beers made American beer seem like cool-aid. My God in Heaven, what a hangover. And me planning to go to chapel later!

Christmas Truce was in place and it was quiet that night, a blessing considering the pain inside my head. Marine hygiene in Vietnam was the exact opposite of the States. Chu Lai Marines were usually dirty except when our cold, seawater showers were working. Our clothes were filthy and constantly wet along with our soggy boots. Haircuts were scarce because we did not trust the local barbers with a razor. Overall, being twelve-thousand miles from home was not much fun. We might as well have been on another planet.

Around twenty-two-hundred back in our hut, Surfer pulled out his guitar and fifteen of us had a Hoot-nanny. For the uninitiated, this usually includes rowdy and robust singing of any tunes the group can remember. Put a few beers in any Marine and if he is not prone to fight, he will attempt to sing regardless of how bad it might sound to others. We sang/howled for about two hours until Marines started to choke up so we broke it up.

"Hey, Irish," the Pope said. "Want to walk down to the Chapel with me?"

"Yeah. Sounds like a plan God would like."

We walked in the rain to the candlelight service. The tent chapel held some two-dozen other Marines in our squadron. We sang Christmas carols for a while, then listened to our chaplain tell the Christmas story. At bedtime after lights out, Santa Claus was not even on our minds. That stuff about there are not any atheists in foxholes is right. Only three years ago, I was the same age as Artie and in high school with little on my mind but fun and the prospect of graduation.

Lord, what a difference three years can make.

#### * * * *

It was the last week of December when McCleary dropped another delightful assignment on me. Mess Duty! I was the proud winner of thirty days at the Mess Hall. Gunny McCleary sent me to see the mess sergeant.

"O'Neall, Mess Duty hours run from zero-five-hundred to twenty-one-hundred or whenever you finish washing greasy pots and pans," the mess sergeant said.

Pot Shack duty was one item I planned to leave off my resume if I lived long enough to have to fill one out. My guess was that the Corps had patterned Mess Duty after some type of Nazi Concentration Camp experiment.

That first night after I returned to my hut from the mess hall, the Pope ran inside.

"Man, did you hear that explosion?"

I sat up on my cot. "Sounded close."

"No kidding! The VC bastards dropped a mortar on the runway in front of our hanger. Jesus, I just left the hanger on my way back over here. Christ, the night crew had to check their skivvies to see if they needed changing."

"Any damage?"

"No shit. The hanger is full of holes and rips all over its front. You want a beer? I'm having a beer."

"Yeah. Why not? I can't sleep anyway,"

The never-ending rain accompanied by cold winds off the China Sea was a perfect combination. My mess duty schedule was something like this: After my bountiful one-and-one-half hour nap, up at zero-four-thirty to take morning constitutional, dress in utility uniform that would not dry, put on combat boots that also would not dry. Trudge through ankle deep mud to the Mess Hall, eat breakfast before the troops started trailing in, wash trays, pots and utensils until eleven-hundred. Eat lunch before troops arrive. Wash trays, pots and utensils until seventeen-hundred and gobble down evening chow before animals start to arrive. Wash trays, pots and utensils until twenty-one-hundred, trudge through the rain and mud to the hut to take final constitutional. Hit the rack to try to sleep. Wake up at zero-two-thirty for routine harassment mortar attack by local VC, spend an hour waste deep in cold, muddy water inside our bunker waiting for the fireworks to end. Hit-the-rack.

One a Thursday just after noon chow, I was back in the pot shack trying to wash the damned greasy trays when Gibbons walked in.

"How much longer are they going to punish your ass, O'Neall?"

I glanced around with my best I'm-going-to-kick-your-ass expression. "Until I scream Uncle!"

"Mate, I know you well enough to believe that's not going to happen. Looks like you'll be doing mess duty until your tour is over."

"Not on your life."

By the end of December, H&MS-12 settled in to heavy repairs on jets suffering from the war. We replaced quite a few A-4 jet canopies full of bullet holes. We patched wing fuel cells leaking from more bullet holes and flak from enemy artillery along with the pilots unlucky enough to be seated in those jets.

I was sitting on a large fuel tank we were about to attach to the belly of an A-4 for its return flight back home when Gunny McCleary walked out of the hanger headed my direction.

"We've got us a forty-eight hour truce with the North Vietnamese and Viet Cong. Starts on New Years' day, Maybe things will quiet down around here for a few minutes."

"Guns, I haven't been here long but I already know that probably won't happen."

"Yep. It's going to be a long, long new year."

A weird sound coming from the end of the runway caused my head to spin towards it. An F-8 Crusader exploded while rolling end over end in a ball of flaming jet fuel with pieces of the pilot hanging from the ejection seat beneath the parachute on its way back down to the runway on top of the fire.

#  Chapter 28 - Langley

## Washington, D.C.

Mack Langley's alarm went off at five a.m., an hour earlier than usual. He hadn't slept much because of what happened the previous day while eating a burger at Elmo's Café. It dawned on him that he failed to perform basic police work. So had Detective Little. He was up and dressed in less than fifteen minutes, then walked out and climbed into his truck and headed for town.

Twenty minutes later, he spotted Elmo's Café and turned into the parking lot, stopping beside a Ford Mustang where he cut the engine and got out. He glanced at his watch and noted that Little wouldn't clock in on his shift for another hour. Langley had time for coffee, bacon and eggs, and white toast. When he got inside and walked back to his usual corner table, early bird customers were already seated and eating. He was finished in a half-hour and headed back to his truck.

The drive to the police station would take less than a half hour. When he hit downtown D.C., traffic was still light due to the early hour. After he parked and walked the half-block to the station, the morning shift police officers ahead of him streamed into the building while the graveyard shift headed out the door going home. He jumped in the line and walked inside and up to the front desk. Police Sergeant Paul Eagles glanced up at him from the morning newspaper.

"Hey, Mack! It has been a while. I will bet you are looking for Little. Right?"

"Good to see you, Paul. Yeah, I stopped by to see if I could catch him before he got on the road."

"Man, he's not going to be here today. He had to go into New York City to interview some witnesses."

"Damn. I really needed to get some information on a case I'm working on."

"Maybe one of the other guys can help."

"Does Evans still work with Dan?"

"Yeah."

"Is he in today?"

"Sure is. Got here early this morning. Why don't you head on back to his desk? I'll call to alert him."

"Thanks." Langley walked down the hall and through the door that Eagles buzzed open. Officer Evans was leaning back in his chair drinking coffee and he pointed his index finger at Langley and grinned.

"Mack, what brings you to our little hall of horrors?

Langley sat down across from Evans. "I actually stopped by to see if Dan could help me out on that State Department employee who was burned up in his car."

"Phillip Crowley?"

"Yeah."

"What do you need?"

"Do you have any information on where Crowley was coming from before he had the accident?"

Evans frowned. "Not that I recall. Why? Is it important?"

"I think it is. I'm just not sure why."

Evans leaned on his desk. "Mack, I'm sorry you missed Dan. He could probably help you better than me."

Langley stood and reached across the desk with his right hand extended. "Don't worry about it. I've got my thinking cap on so a solution is on the way."

On his walk back towards his truck, it hit him. He needed to talk to Baxter Simmons over at Bell Telephone.

He walked past his truck and headed down the street towards the Bell Telephone executive offices located five blocks away. Traffic was heavy and the sidewalks brimmed with pedestrians but the streetlights seemed to change for him whenever he reached the curb. Although he was a little out of breath when he arrived, he felt better when he got inside and on the elevator up to Baxter's office.

The secretary waved him through to Baxter and he glanced up from his desk when Langley walked through the door.

"Mack! This is a pleasant surprise. What's up?"

"I tell you, Bax, this is a kind of professional visit, if you know what I mean."

He nodded. "Anything I can do to help, just let me know. I get somewhat excited when you show up. It reminds me of when we both worked for the company."

Langley smiled. "Yeah. Those were good times. Surely were."

"I'll bet this visit has something to do with phone calls, right?"

This time Langley had to grin. "You read my mind, Bax."

"Got a name?"

"A dead State Department employee by the name of Phillip Edward Crowley."

"Got some kind of time frame so we don't have to spend two years working through the list?"

"Yeah."

An hour later, Langley walked out of the building with a sheet of paper and a name. Ladislah Merzenski. The week before Crowley's death, he made four calls to this one phone number. Langley learned from a CIA contact that Merzenski was connected with the Soviet Embassy. Langley decided to contact Crowley's widow. She lived in a large apartment on the eighth floor of one of D.C.'s many high-dollar buildings.

#### * * * *

Annette Crowley smiled at Langley when she opened the door. "Mr. Langley, I'm so glad that you contacted me. Won't you come in?"

He sat down on the elegant couch across from her and glanced around. He made a mental note that the furnishing were very expensive, maybe a little out of range for even a State Department employee like Crowley. He glanced at her.

"I want to offer my condolences on the loss of your husband."

She half smiled and clasped her hands. "After what I've learned, I hate to say this but I don't consider him a loss anymore."

Her statement caused him to set back further into the couch. "Would you elaborate?"

"He cheated on me with another woman. I had no idea until a week after the accident."

"How did you find out?"

'The hotel charges on his credit card. I didn't even know about the card until I was going through his things and found it and the bills. My husband's job required him to meet with many different people for dinner, oftentimes in the evening. I understood this and accepted it. Then I found two letters from his girlfriend. Can you believe he would be stupid enough to save such letters?"

Langley sat up to the edge of the couch. "If you could give me the credit card bills and letters, maybe I could get to the bottom of this."

"You said on the phone you thought my husband was murdered. If this information will help you, please take it with my blessing."

On his way back to his truck, he decided to do two things: talk to the girlfriend, and then visit the hotel.

#  Chapter 29 - Axle

## Houston, Texas

Axle finished off his steak and chased it with the remainder of his beer. At what some called average height, he was neither handsome nor ugly. His loose fitting business suits hid the lean, muscular body they covered.

"I probably don't say this often enough," Dr. Chirchir said, "but you are very important to me. If you had pursued a career in nuclear physics after graduating from the Naval Academy instead of enlisting in the Corps, I'd be sitting here talking to myself."

Axle smiled. "Got yourself one hell of a go-to guy and former gunnery sergeant, that's for sure." He quickly cut another piece of meat and shoved it on his mouth's assembly line. The little family owned restaurant near downtown Houston served the best steaks he had ever eaten. He wished he could eat all his meals here.

"Kim, I've often wondered why you decided to completely back away from your medical practice. I had a classmate at the Naval Academy who later went to medical school, then eventually became an orthopedic surgeon. It didn't take him long to make a lot of money."

"When my father passed away, his estate took quite good care of me. I love the medicine profession, Axle, I really do. Nevertheless, this commandant job takes precedent. Our nation's survival is more important. Believe me, I have not looked back."

"Neither have I."

"Okay, let's move away from the mutual admiration society talk. What news do you have for me?"

"Mack Langley is systematically piecing together Phillip Crowley's death."

Chirchir moved his tongue back and forth on the back of his bottom teeth trying to dislodge a piece of steak wedged between two molars. He finally gave up. "It's what Langley does, Axle. He is good, believe me. What's he been up to?"

"He's got a friend with the phone company. The man helped him pinpoint the Soviet agent Crowley met with at the hotel. Langley visited Crowley's wife. Later he talked to Crowley's girl friend. She knew about the Soviet agent but thought Crowley was doing his State Department job by meeting him."

"Has Langley stumbled on the drug dealer yet?" Chirchir asked.

"No, I don't think so."

"We left a lot of bread crumbs. Eventually, he will. Like I said, that's what Langley does." Chirchir noticed he forgot to eat his salad so he started working on it. The waiter walked over with a smirk on his face.

"Would you gentlemen like some coffee and desert?"

Axle glanced at Chirchir and back at the waiter. "Maybe just coffee. Both of them black."

"Very good, sir, he said, and then walked away.

"What's with his attitude?" Axle asked.

"I was in here the other day and I forgot to leave him a big tip."

"Yeah? Wait until he finds out there will be no tip this time and maybe he'll clean up his act."

Chirchir shook his head. "How did Aedan fair with the sniper training?"

"He's a natural."

"How is he handling his situation?"

"Good."

"How is Pfc. Gibbons doing?"

"Fine. He provides excellent intel from the North Vietnamese frequencies he monitors."

"Anything of interest to us?"

"Apparently, the Vietcong down south are planning an attack on the Australian troops in that area. It seems that General Westmoreland doesn't think it's a big deal so the Australian forces might be hanging out there on this one. Just my opinion, Kim."

Chirchir frowned. "I'll have to talk to the committee about this."

"That would be good."

"With respect to Gibbons and O'Neall – neither of them know about the other?"

"Nope. They seem to have hit off a friendship but that's the extent of it."

"In the future, do you think they will work together well?"

"I believe so."

"I've been thinking, maybe Gibbons has some skills we can use when he gets out of the Marines."

"What do you have in mind?"

"He might be a good fit at the NSA. His background and skillset are desirable in the NSA environment."

"We have a few knights over there but Gibbons would give us a new perspective on what's going on."

"Let's keep this in mind. Okay, about the Army problem. What have you learned about the Army's intelligence breach situation?"

"My team got some intel that an army officer – maybe a lieutenant – is involved. Right now, we don't know his name or his unit but my team is working on it. As far as we can determine, the Army, Navy and our own Marine Corps intelligence agencies don't know anything about this."

"That's par for the course. Let me know as soon as you find out something."

"I think I might retire."

"Not now!"

Axle grinned. "I'm bullshitting you."

"You know, you've got a warped sense of timing and humor."

"Was there anything else?"

Chirchir shook his head. "What's the status on the Seth Harmon situation?"

"We did a full blown background check on him. One of our Texas judges opened Harmon's sealed records from when he was a teenager. If his father had not been in a position of power, the kid would have gone to the Texas juvenile prison a long time ago. His record included assault, car theft, breaking and entering, drug possession and distribution. He's bad to the bone."

"What has he been up to since his discharge?"

"Dealing drugs back at his old high school. Making good money too."

"Anything we can do?"

"We've got videos of him at work with the teenagers. We found a dozen of them willing to testify against him for getting them started on drugs."

"Do what you need to do. We need this problem to go away."

#  Chapter 30 – Ambush in II Corps

## 1967

## Marine Corps Air Base

## Chu Lai, South Vietnam

Before sundown, the New Year's Eve truce was promptly violated by the Viet Cong when Chu Lai was hit by mortar fire. Their blasts walked across the runway and on to the parking ramp where four A-4s sat. An hour later, I was standing in front of the two mangled Skyhawks wondering if we could salvage anything for parts. Maybe not much.

"What did I tell you about that truce?" McCleary said standing next to me.

"Maybe the VC didn't get the memo?"

"Let me explain truce for you," McCleary began in his angry tone. "A truce is defined as a period of time in which we volunteer to tie our hands behind our backs so Charlie can beat the shit out of us with abandon."

"I'll try to remember it, guns."

None of us felt too easy about this current truce. As part of the bargain, the president agreed not to issue any ammunition to us during that time. Empty rifle magazines do not lend comfort to Marines, particularly when the enemy is shooting at them.

McCleary suddenly laughed aloud. "Our commanding officer said, Screw the Commander-in-Chief, so he is reissuing ammo right this minute. That's the kind of man I would follow into hell."

Lights were a problem. Our base, as with the entire Chu Lai area, got its electricity from a dozen mammoth diesel generators. From their performance, I was beginning to think they might have been leftovers from World War II. That night we were in the middle of a poker game when the damned lights went out.

"What the hell happened?" I said.

"They want to make sure none of us dumb-ass Marines will accidentally turn on our hooch lights," Gibbons said. "Light gives the VC a target for his mortars and rockets in the wee hours of the morning."

"Anybody got a flashlight?" the Pope asked.

"Shit, no. All our batteries are dead," Rob Hinson said.

The words candle light dinner began to take on a completely new meaning.

Vietnam was a guerrilla war. Unlike WWII and Korea, there was no front nor was there a rear. At any point in time, the war was the direction you happened to be facing or not facing. Friendly faces during the day wore black paint at night, local VC with death and destruction on their minds. The nighttime sounds of war, ever insulated by heavy rainstorms, did not make for a perky attitude. VC made a habit of breaking through our perimeter under cover of rain and darkness planning to blow up as many of our aircraft and us as possible.

Early the next morning, everyone on my shift spent the next few hours stacking water-filled barrels between jets on the ramp, hopefully to minimize more damage of incoming rounds. Two of us grabbed hold of another full barrel sitting on the back of the truck when a loud explosion on the nearby mountain pulled our eyes that direction.

"Jesus Christ," Pope said. "The bastards hit one of the Phantoms taking off."

One night, an entire crew died when one of our cargo aircraft took a hit while headed out on a supply run. A Marine rescue team rushed up to the wreckage site on the side of the mountain and they got it too. Nighttime was not fun. Not at all.

When I got back to the hut one evening, Hinson said some of us might be going to Japan soon. H&MS-12 was responsible for repairing aircraft other units could not fix and, although we hated to admit it, sometimes we couldn't fix them either.

"Why would they send us?" I asked.

"Man, we aren't miracle workers. Some of these birds need major work. They have the equipment and parts in Japan to do the job."

"I don't know about you, but the prospect of leaving Vietnam, even for a few days, immediately brightens my world."

So did the prospect of getting off Mess Duty, if I could just survive the next three weeks. The next day, when my Mess Hall shift was about to start, the Mess Hall Sergeant walked over to me.

"O'Neall, I don't know what-the-crap you did but the XO wants to see you right now so get on over there on the double."

I could not think of any other reason the XO wanted to see me but for my Intel skills. I started a slow jog away from the mess hall in the direction of the headquarters building.

When I got inside, Cpl. Conner glanced up. "Hey, O'Neall, been a while, hasn't it?"

"It seems like a year has already passed instead of just a few months."

"Sure does. Major Bradley is waiting for you."

Conner recognized the puzzled look on my face but I don't believe he understood why I was going into Major Bradley's office. I damned sure did not know. When I got inside, Major Bradley asked me to close the door.

"I have a little job for you and it will take a couple days of your time. I'm going to interrupt your Mess Hall experience for a little courier duty."

"Very good, sir."

He leaned down and picked up a briefcase from behind his desk, pulled out some sheets of paper, then handed the pages to me.

"I want this information delivered to Brigadier Stuart Graham, commander of the 1st Australian Task Force. He is based down in III Corps Southeast of Saigon."

"All of the members of my squadron eat at the Mess Hall and they will wonder where I am. Certainly, at night, my Hooch-mates will be alarmed if I don't show up. GySgt McCleary will know something is up."

The major shook his head. "Your Mess Sergeant and GySgt McCleary will be told that we are sending you to the Marine mess hall in DaNang for a couple of days. You will fill in for Marines we are moving out for other operations. Besides, I believe you will really like these Aussie diggers because they seem to be cut from the same cloth from which you Texans are made."

"Understood."

He pointed at the small map in my hand showing some coordinates and scribbled travel instructions. "Spend a few minutes sucking this information into your mind so you can remember it well enough to pass the facts along to Brigadier Graham. Also, maybe it is time to explain some things your trainers left out."

"The private is all ears."

"We have other Marines who deliver messages. You are not a regular Marine Corps messenger. Your job is special because, even in the Marine Corps, we have individuals willing to trade information for any number of personal benefits. The type of information you pass along is so critical we cannot chance it being compromised. That is another reason why, more often than not, you will carry the messages in your head rather than in your hand. Most of the time you will make these deliveries via foot or truck rather than by chopper or other methods that would seem to be quicker. "

#### * * * *

On the way over to pick up the truck, my mind revisited the information Major Bradley gave me. Brigadier Stuart Graham was currently visiting elements of 5 RAR down in the Phuoc Tuy Province northwest of a place called Nui Dat. The location was near the bottom of III Corps. It you drove any further south, you'd end up in the China Sea. Bradley said that Nui Dat meant small hill in Vietnamese. That area had been a Vietcong stronghold so things might get real uncomfortable during my stay.

I checked out the designated truck from Motor Transport. A heavy diesel generator squatted on the back. I was supposed to deliver it to Australian Brigadier Stuart Graham along with the message I had memorized. The last time I drove one of these trucks was back at Camp Pendleton so even though it was familiar, I was just a little rusty. It all came back quickly. I waited a few minutes and the Marine guard who was supposed to accompany me, along with his very fine M-60 machine-gun, arrived on time. He climbed up into the passenger seat and laid the 60 against the dash between his knees. Sellers was a skinny, freckle-faced kid with short blond hair, happy eyes and a winning smile.

"You O'Neall?"

"Yeah. They call me Irish. Glad you are on board, Sellers. I hope you don't need to use that thing."

"Me either but if I do, this baby will kick some ass." He glanced down at my sidearm and back up. "I see you're packing too."

"Well, this Model 1911 isn't the beast you're carrying but it gives me some comfort."

I drove through the front gate and slid in behind an Army convoy headed Southbound on Highway 1. Hot air was blowing through the open windows but at least it helped dry the sweat running down our faces. My utility shirt was stuck to my chest hairs like a wet rag. The truck's compartment smelled like my high school football locker room. Ten hours later the sun was gone, replaced by a pleasant cloudy sky and cool air. The convoy turned off going west. We were left alone moving down the bumpy highway except for an occasional covey of Vietnamese motorbikes that passed us or the strangely antique Vietnamese trucks loaded with farm products or boxes that seemed to outweigh the trucks themselves.

Around seventeen-hundred, we were absolutely alone. I continued to drive south until I had to divert over to Highway 2, also Southbound. The sun fell below the horizon replaced by moonlight filtering through a lightly clouded sky.

At approximately nineteen-thirty, we reached a point where I made the Eastbound turn the map in my mind told me to make, then a while later, a turn Southbound. The only sound I could hear was the truck's diesel engine and the throaty exhaust. The dirt road was extremely bumpy and muddy. I hoped my tires would not find any booby traps that would send Sellers and me home in plastic bags. I continued to drive down the lonely road for the time indicated. I finally stopped where Bradley indicated I should.

About five minutes later, a light flashed ahead in the distance. In response, I flicked my flashlight off and on five times. Sellers crouched beside the truck with the 60 ready and I gripped my 45 with a shell in the chamber. In a few seconds, I could just make out a dark form headed toward us. I hoped it was a digger working for Brigadier Graham. He quickly reached us and I could see a grin on his face.

"How ya' doin', Mates!" he said enthusiastically. "I been waitin' for you only a few minutes so you must'a done damned good time. I will jump in the back. You just keep steerin' her up the road a couple hundred meters and we'll get ya' to Brigadier Graham."

We passed through their perimeter security team set up with machine guns and drove to where they were bivouacked. Six Aussies climbed on the back of my truck to unload the generator. Not far off, digger tents sat in a wide circle around a campfire in the center. We followed First Sergeant Thompson on foot towards the campfire.

Brigadier Stuart Graham was drinking coffee as we approached. When we got out of the truck and walked over to him, he set the cup down on a small wooden crate and shook our hands.

"As God's my witness, I'm glad to see you good U.S. Marines. Since our power blinked out, that generator will make our lives immensely better!" He pointed behind him at a tent larger than the rest.

"Private O'Neall, come on to my quarters so we can talk. My diggers will make your brother Marine at home."

He pulled the flap door open and I followed him inside the Spartan accommodations. He pointed to a wooden ammo crate and asked me to sit.

"Okay. What information have you for me?"

"I sat down on the crate and leaned towards him.

"My Executive Officer, Major Bradley, said some VC had recently been captured and interrogated. They said that a large contingent of the 274 VC Regiment might be regrouping to start trouble in your tactical area. The VC commander is a man named Ut Thoi. Our commanding general of III MAF, General Lewis Walt, is aware that Army General Westmoreland is confident his U.S. Army operating in III Corps can handle this event. Never the less, General Walt does not share that confidence.

"General Walt's Marines have had first-hand experience with the North Vietnamese Regular Army and several of the VC Regiments. He, along with a majority of his staff, expects your group might need at least some help from us when they come to knock on your door. The Marines have the utmost respect for the Australian Army and feel a great kinship with you because of the size of your army and the effective tactics you use. Therefore, if the need arises, H&MS-12 will direct six fully loaded A-4 Skyhawks into III Corps strictly for your disposal. If this is satisfactory to you, Major Bradley has asked that I return with whatever radio frequencies outside what is normally used by you so he can inform his aviators to turn them on in the operation."

"You tell your major that I sincerely appreciate his generous offer. You don't know this but in early May and June my 5 RAR and 6 RAR will leave for home while the 2 RAR and 7 RAR will move in to replace them. I will pass this information along to the new battalions so they will be prepared." He fished a small note pad out of his right breast pocket along with a pen, and then wrote down the radio frequencies. He handed the piece of paper to me.

"Thank you, sir." I glanced down at the information for a second then handed the paper back to him.

He frowned. "Keep it and pass it along to your major."

I grinned. "Sir, I'm told that I have a photographic memory. Anyway, if I was captured and the VC got those frequencies, I would be in big trouble. I'll be sure to give this information to Major Bradley when I get back."

"Very good. We should all have such a memory."

We walked back out to the fire and their cook had a table made out of wooden crates covered with a tablecloth. Brigadier Graham and three of his officers sat down with us to eat. After we finished the best damned Australian steak I had ever eaten (the only Australian steak that I had ever eaten), his diggers gathered around us in a circle and began a rendition of Waltzing with Matilda. A little later, Sellers and I talked shop with some of the enlisted men until late into the night. What happened next absolutely stunned me. One of the diggers walked over and grabbed my hand.

"Mate, I heard someone say you are based up at Chu Lai."

"Yeah. That's right."

"The name's Robert Gibson, they call me Bomber. I was wonder'n if you knew one of my Aussie mates, a fella by the name of Robert Gibbons?"

"Gibson, I don't even believe this is possible! Yeah! Bob Gibbons is in my squadron. He actually told me about you and two of your mutual friends, Dave Sabbens and Harry Smith. Do you have a message for Gibbons?"

"Sure do. Tell him I didn't believe he had tha balls to join the U.S. Marine Corps. Tell him 5 RAR could sure as hell have used him when we set this place up and ran all the locals out of the area."

I grinned. "My guess is that 5 RAR is having a tough time making friends with any locals left."

"Mate, ya got that right. Anyway, let Gibbons know I'd like to hear from him sometimes. It's been a long while."

"I will. What about Sabbens and Smith?"

"At the moment, they are taking what you Marines refer to as R & R."

"Yeah? Where'd they go?"

"Bangkok."

"I hear that's a great vacation spot."

"That's where I plan to go."

As the evening's camaraderie ended, I felt a real, personal kinship with these diggers. They were so much like Texans in their ideology I could hardly believe it. Digger wouldn't believe it. If I could tell him.

Oh, shit. Jesus. I pray to God Gibson doesn't write or talk to Gibbons. If he does, my cover is blown and I'm a dead man.

#### * * * *

At first light, Sellers and I reluctantly climbed in the truck and headed back up the muddy road, now thick with fog, to the highway bound for the trip back to Chu Lai. I glanced at him with sleep still in my eyes.

"What did you think about those Aussies?"

"Man, they are really good guys. I felt right at home with them. Could you believe those steaks?"

"Yeah. That was something. Makes you kind of wish you were Australian, doesn't it?" I said.

Sellers laughed. "Man, you've got that right."

As the sun rose, the air blowing through the side windows heated up and we began to sweat again. It didn't help the friggin' heat rash that would start under my arms and spread to my chest, inside thighs and finally my crotch. I got it from my old man. My gene pool sucked. We tried to kill time by conversation but neither of us felt much like talking. We appeared to be the only people on the road today and it seemed a little odd. At the halfway point, we rounded a curve between two hills. Immediately we ran into an ambush. We could not tell how many V.C. were involved so I drove the truck up against the side of one hill and we got between it and the truck. The rounds were streaming down at us from the opposite hill and the sounds, alone, kicked my adrenaline up. We did not have endless ammo so we did what Marines do best – hold for good shots that will count. Things were going okay until the V.C. rounds came down through the truck.

One round caught me through my left bicep and another blew through Sellers forehead. I didn't have time to cry about him so I grabbed his 60 and crawled over to the front of the truck just under the bumper. Listening to the rounds, it sounded like there were only two V.C. on the hill across the road. My eyes swished up beyond the bumper's edge and I spotted both of them. They were bunched up. Marines are taught never to bunch up. They realized we were not firing back and they both stood up to get a better look. I emptied the 60 on them. My first thought was, Who the hell was going to believe what happened? Evidence. I needed some evidence.

After I climbed up the hill and threw their bodies down to the road, I loaded them in the back of the truck along with their weapons. I walked to the side of the truck and picked up Sellers, then sat him in the passenger seat where he had been alive just a few minutes before this all started.

Now I could cry.

#### * * * *

When I got back to Chu Lai, I drove to the XO's office and explained what happened. Before I passed out from blood loss, he got the Corpsman over to patch me up. The major said he would make up a plausible explanation for how I ended up wounded. I told him Sellers fought like a Marine and died like a Marine. That night while I lay on my cot thinking about what had happened, I knew that I could not tell my family about this nor would I mention it to Maggie in my next letter. None of them needed to worry any more than necessary.

A week later, Gunny McCleary told me there was going to be a ceremony that afternoon at headquarters. He said I should wear my cleanest utilities and to be sure and shine my boots. Staring down at them, I was not sure that was even possible. I had no idea what was going on.

Around fifteen-hundred, I changed into my clean utilities and brushed up my boots so they didn't look like crap. It was necessary to chip some of the hardened mud off the bottoms. Ten minutes later, I was fifty yards from the headquarters building when I noticed a crowd gathered in front of it. Most of the Marines were from H&MS-12 but there were others I didn't recognize. Major Bradley stepped out of the building and the Marines began to form up as I approached.

"Private O'Neall, please step forward, Major Bradley ordered.

"Lord, I thought, what is happening?

I stepped in front of Major Bradley and stood at attention.

"Private O'Neall, in honor of your recent engagement with the enemy and in recognition of the wound that you received, the United States Marine Corps proudly awards you this Purple Heart." He glanced at my bandaged left arm. "How's that wound doing?"

"Good, sir. Hurts some but healing fast."

"Glad to hear it."

As he pinned the medal on my left breast pocket, I felt some pride but mostly an unexpected sadness when a mental picture of Private First Class Sellers flooded my mind. He had made the ultimate sacrifice and I hardly thought myself worthy of any medal for what had happened to me. I would eventually be going home to see my family. Sellers was headed home in a box.

#### * * * *

We learned that the 1st Marine Division's Task Force X-Ray, a brigade-sized force of two battalions, was attempting to keep the peace in nearby Quang Tin Province and South of us in Quang Ngai Province. They were getting help from the Korean Marines 2d KMC Blue Dragon Brigade of three infantry battalions. Most of us believed Korean Marines, despite our Marine Corps reputation, were the baddest troops on earth. One evening before sundown, Gibbons and I were walking down the beach near the Korean Marine camp. We spotted a large group of them in a circle so we stopped.

"What the hell are they doing?" Gibbons asked.

"I don't know. Let's get closer to see what's going on."

We walked up behind some Korean Marines and one of them glanced back.

"You guys U.S. Marines?"

"Yeah," I said. "What is happening?"

"Watch. We fight for rank."

Gibbons and I stood there with our mouths open. They were selecting leaders from their ranks. Using Tae Kwon Do, the Korean form of martial arts, they literally fought for rank.

"Holy shit, mate. Thank God we don't do it this way."

"No kidding."

Viet Cong feared the Korean Marines. Should one of the KM units ever get ambushed by the VC, the local village was burned to the ground and VC heads were put on poles along trails, the KM's signature warning they didn't like ambushes. The VC tried to avoid them.

#  Chapter 31 – Traitors

## Northern I-Corps Area

## South Vietnam

One of Axle's cells interrogated a North Vietnamese Army Officer captured by a covert agent who was part of a 1st Marine Division Recon Team operating in North Vietnam just above the DMZ. Although it took some four hours of intense torture, the prisoner finally relented and revealed the name of the Army lieutenant who had been providing the communists with information about the Army and Marine Corps tactical operations and methods. The cell forwarded that information to another intelligence cell looking for the Army lieutenant's connections. Two days later, a chopper picked Axle up and flew him to a covert Navy-Mars radio station fifty miles south of the DMZ where he made the call to Dr. Chirchir.

"Kim, I have some news for you regarding the Army situation."

"Good. Your team works fast."

"Not fast enough for me. A North Vietnamese officer told us that Army Lieutenant Samuel Toole is the man delivering intelligence to North Vietnamese Army General Thieu. Lt. Toole is aid to Lt. General Maximillian Lattermore, key advisor to the Army's Americal Division in the I-Corps area. My team located Swiss accounts controlled by Lattermore and Toole. They also traced recent deposits back to an account controlled by General Thieu."

"Hard to believe, isn't it?"

"Both of these guys are West Point grads and really don't need the money. They were born with silver spoons up their asses."

"Why don't you dig a lot deeper into Lattermore's background and connections? Maybe Toole is an agent of opportunity for Lattermore, but I'm guessing the general is working for or with someone powerful."

#  Chapter 32 – Drooling Village Idiot

## Marine Corps Air Base

## Chu Lai, South Vietnam

Chu Lai's operational squadrons ran around-the-clock sorties against targets both inside and outside Vietnam. Marine ground units operating the other side of our mountain range were happy to get the close air support our jets offered when they called for help. Aircraft that returned still flying but in need of major repairs quickly filled our hanger and the parking ramp outside. In theory, because of new inventions and high-tech equipment the Marines now possessed, most of the physical demands placed on Marines in prior wars were supposed to be relieved. However, the theory didn't hold up because the labor saving equipment didn't hold up in the extremely humid and sandy environment.

"I don't remember anything in the syllabus at school about loading bombs," the Pope said.

I was on the other end of a five-hundred pounder sweating like a hog with my legs about to crumble under me. "Maybe someone from the Philippines can come here to fix the bomb loading equipment," I said.

"You men quit your wining," McCleary said. This is how they did it in WWII and Korea."

"Oh, that makes it a lot more palatable, gunny," Hinson said.

After dark, I was back in the hut trying to figure out whether to hit the rack or go out for a walk. I decided to walk over to the hanger to visit Digger. He told me he had to work late that night to finish repairs of some critical electronics equipment needed for one of the A-4s. When I got there, the hanger door was open but the rest of the night-shift crew was gone to night chow at the mess hall. I wandered over to the electronics room where Gibbons worked. His door was closed. When I started to open it, I heard a radio crackle with the sound of Vietnamese voices. What was Digger up to? I thought as I opened the door.

Gibbons jumped when the door opened, apparently not expecting anyone.

"Hey, Digger – what the hell are you doing? Trying to learn Vietnamese?"

He flipped off a radio and had an odd expression on his face. "Naw, Mate. Just testing out this radio equipment. Sounds good, doesn't it?"

I grinned. "Man, I don't have any idea how they came up with that damned language. It makes no sense, does it?"

His face was red. "Yeah, Mate. Crazy language, that Vietnamese."

"Say, I'm kind of hungry. When you're done, how about we go over to midnight rations at the Mess Hall?"

Digger nodded. "Yeah. Midnight rations sounds like a plan. I will be finished in about a half-hour. I'll meet you over there."

#### * * * *

Visibility continued to be zero with Chu Lai swamped in the ravaging monsoon rains. The sky, when you could see it, looked bruised and mist shrouded the nearby hills. Even the beach looked grey and uninviting. All day and most of every night you could hear the A-4 Scooters dumping full power in their takeoff runs, fully loaded for bombing missions. I figured those aviators must have been aiming for take-off because they could not possible see anything more than a few feet in front of them. They must have huge balls.

MAG-36 was over a mile away and you could hear the F-4 Phantoms thundering on takeoff or whaling on final approach. I wondered how much of this Maggie and my family watched on the news. Judging by the number of camera crews passing through our area, they probably saw a lot.

Around noon on a Wednesday, I was sitting on a Skyhawk wing watching one of our pilots take off and noticed an F-4 in the distance hanging in the air at about fifteen-hundred feet above ground. Suddenly it dove into a turn, flipped inverted and nosed to the ground. The Pope saw it too when he walked out of the hanger.

"Lord Jesus, look at the smoke!" he said. "The poor bastard can't possible have survived."

"No way," I said while a vision of the incinerated pilot popped into my head.

Later, we learned the pilot was a MAG-36 aviator who experienced a flame out when his engines quit just after take-off. He stayed with the aircraft and attempted to control it so it would not crash into a nearby village. However, just as he passed beyond the village and ejected, a split second before he did so the aircraft flipped inverted. He and his ejection seat drilled a hole into the earth from which he did not return.

One afternoon I was standing at the hanger door staring out through the grey misting rain. Gibbons squatted down on the deck next to me.

"Mate, there is something psychologically devastating about not having sunshine for long periods of time."

"Yeah. I can't imagine how folks in Alaska manage to keep their sanity during hard winter. I would go bug-nuts."

He glanced at me. "They don't worry much about getting sunburned. I might trade with them."

I felt my foot itch again and glanced down at my wet boots. "I don't know about you, but this damned athlete's foot won't go away."

"Because our friggin' socks and boots will not dry! Have you notice that cuts and skin abrasions take longer to heal?"

"Yeah. No kidding."

For a couple of days, I had one hell-of-a toothache, a wisdom tooth gone bad. After taking all the aspirin my stomach could handle with no relief, I headed for Sick Bay and a Navy Corpsman on duty. DDS did not follow his name but, frankly, I didn't give-a-damn. Four shots of Novocain didn't relieve the pain so he told me to chug a half-pint of Jack Daniels. It did wonders. The pain was still there but I just did not care. I stumbled back to work an hour later with half my mouth grinning, the other half looking as if I had a stroke.

Gibbons laughed and pointed. "Look at our drooling village idiot."

"Don't pith me off," I said with numb lips.

I finally got a letter from Maggie. She said she was sorry that she had not written but college had kept her busy. She told me the music box I bought her for Christmas was beautiful and she loved it. Her words were almost clinical, as if she was trying to remain aloof. Her letters were like those written by a Pen Pal to a stranger she was trying to cheer up. She talked about what her family had been doing, how college was going, and so on. She ended the letter with a We miss you and are praying for your safety and signed it Maggie. I felt drained when I slipped the letter back into the envelope and put it in my footlocker. I resolved to ignore the tone of it and vowed to continue to write her as I had been doing.

There was no doubt our mail was being lost in the mud somewhere, probably because our mail ran through so many hands before it finally reached us. Some of us thought the hippies might have been on the post office payroll.

One evening after chow, I started out the door towards the shower when Gibbons walked up in his towel looking like he might have just bathed.

"Watch out for that slick green slime in the shower. They don't know what it is yet."

"Lord, when will this nightmare end?" Despite what others may think, Marines prefer to be clean. This place was an exception because of the showers.

We showered in a large one-story, screened-in building with a floor made of wooden pallets slick with a green slime Gibbons mentioned. A double string of water pipes ran down the center of the building, situated some seven feet off the floor. Showerheads with turn-on handles had been installed every four or five feet along both strings of pipe, probably designed by some masochist.

To shower, a Marine of average height jumped up and grabbed the pipe as if it were a chin up bar, then twisted the single water handle. Ice-cold salt water immediately gushed in his face and down his naked body. Nothing like swinging in the wind naked, doused by cold salt water, to get your blood screaming through your veins! In Chapel, I prayed for sodium-free hot water!

My last week of Mess Duty tempers ran short. Probably because of the incessant rain, long hours, little sleep, and the damned mortar attacks. On more than one occasion, I spotted other Marine mess men rolling in the mud behind the Mess Hall, each trying to kill the other. No matter who won, though, they usually shook hands afterward and resumed whatever menial task they had been doing before the spark ignited. It was good for me that I had learned to control my temper.

When I finished sweeping the pot shack floor, the mess sergeant walked in. "So, O'Neall, when you gonna get off mess duty?" he asked with a cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth.

"Sergeant, I hope to God that you know it is Friday because I'm not sure I could last another day."

"Just pulling your chain, kid. Friday it is. You do good work. Want to put in for another thirty days?"

He read my angry facial expression and nodded before he walked out.

At dusk the next evening, we just finished our Mess Duty chores when I heard the whop-whop sounds of a chopper close by on the beach behind the Mess Hall. It was not unusual because Marine chopper squadron VMO-6 was just a short distance down the beach. Sometimes they swept by along the beach headed out on long-range missions. Other times, they wanted to investigate Vietnamese boats getting too close.

Just when my mind was about to switch off the chopper noise, I heard a tremendous explosion. I ran out back to join other Marines who heard the noise.

One of them pointed at the Huey chopper partially submerged in the water. "God help 'em. They took a rocket from one of those damned sand-pans."

The chopper suddenly burst into a flaming hunk of metal. A bunch of Marines would not see another Christmas.

"Christ, looks like bodies floating out there."

We watched another chopper drop men in the water to try to recover bodies or anyone alive.

About thirty minutes later, the Mess Sergeant ran in and asked if anyone had type A-negative blood. I did. He whisked me out of the Mess Hall and down to sick bay where one of the Marines lay who had been in the downed chopper.

The smell of death hung in the air with the young Marine sprawled out on a metal table in the center of the sick bay hut. Blood rhythmically sprayed from his stomach wound while one Navy corpsman tried to pack bandages into the gaping hole and another corpsman jammed the needle into my arm to move my blood straight into the Marine. A high dosage of morphine reduced his pain. His eyes locked on mine.

"It was worth it, wasn't it, Man? The cause was just, wasn't it, Man?"

"Hey, Jarhead, you take it easy now. We've got you covered so just relax," I said with no confidence.

It was useless, though. My blood running through his veins quickly pooled on the floor. In a few minutes, he drew a long breath, exhaled slowly, and his eyes, still open, were dead. His body ceased movement. After the corpsman pulled the sheet over him, I walked outside and puked my guts out. Then I cried for him.

That night, praying was no problem. No problem at all.

With just a single day left on Mess Duty, the Mess Sergeant promoted me. I was now the G.I. man. I was to command the Garbage House with all the benefits and accolades that accrued to that high post. Without doubt, It one of the filthiest jobs I have had.

I just finished the noon meal and decided to write home. I felt guilty because it had been a couple of weeks since I wrote anyone. It started to rain outside again, and from where I sat in the Mess Hall, the China Sea looked foggy and very choppy. No more than a hundred yards down the beach things seemed to grey-out into nothingness. I wrote that I had shot some more film of the camp, Mess Hall, some friends and a few helicopters. Not having received but a handful of letters from home yet, I wondered if any of the packages I sent home ever actually arrived.

My mess duty tour was over so I celebrated with a cold shower and four beers from the Pope's refrigerator. Gibbons walked in from work and our screen door slammed shut behind him.

"You going down to the beach to see the kids?"

"What kids?"

"MAG-12's civil affairs team brought a group of Vietnamese children from a nearby village to visit Chu Lai. MAG-12 is supposed to entertain and feed them."

"Did I hear the word feed as in food?"

"Hamburgers and Cokes."

"Let me get my pants on."

#### * * * *

I was still a little shook up about a recent incident.

While sitting on my cot in the hut, my bowels notified me I had better get over to the head. When I stepped outside, what appeared to be a Viet Cong soldier carrying a rifle and two clips of ammo ran up to me. He jabbed the rifle in my chest and grunted something to me in Vietnamese. While my entire life passed through my mind, I knocked the rifle away from my chest and started to kick him in the groin when I suddenly remembered his face. It was that damned Sergeant Debois in charge of MAG-12's supply warehouse. The Black son-of-a-bitch looked just like a Vietnamese. I must have aged ten years in a few seconds.

Later, he pulled a similar trick on some other Marines. They were playing cards in their hut when he suddenly burst through the front door and ran out the back door. For several seconds, silence engulfed the room and no one moved. The backdoor jerked open and in rolled a grenade. The hut emptied as the Marines inside jumped through the hut's screen siding to escape. When they discovered his practical joke, they almost killed him. War humor is a little strong for some.

Tempers ran short for most of the Marines around Chu Lai. Maybe it was the bad weather but I knew one thing, many of the Marines were drinking too much, a habit many would later carry into civilian life to their detriment. In the hut next to ours, a sergeant who had been in country for over two years (he had extended to gain a promotion) had spent most, if not all, of his spare time on the business end of a beer bottle. The alcohol finally drove him into delusions and insanity.

#  Chapter 33 – Senator Palmer's Committee

## Washington, DC

Senator Palmer sat at the head of the table populated with other members of the Armed Services Committee. As chairman, Palmer had authority over everything related to U.S. defense including nuclear energy, strategic petroleum reserves, selective service, and all branches of the U.S. military. Palmer glanced down at the agenda through his half-glasses while some of the committee members impatiently drummed their fingers on the table. He did not need to look up because he already knew they were Republicans.

"Gentlemen, we've had a motion to consider dredging the port located at Chu Lai, South Vietnam. Properly dredged, the port will provide better access for military supply shipments flowing into that country to support the war effort. As you are aware, supplies now enter on small, slow barges. The ability to move full-size ships into Chu Lai's port would speed up delivery of much needed military supplies to our troops. Are there any questions?"

One of the damned Republicans raised his hand. "The chair recognizes Senator Galmond," Palmer said.

Marcus Galmond from Tennessee was on his fourth term and his back woods manner of speaking grated in Palmer's ears. As a conservative Republican, he fought the Democrats on almost everything they wanted to do. Palmer hated him.

"Mr. Chairman, I don't believe there's anyone seated at this table who doesn't want our troops to get supplies as quickly as possible. However, some of us get the impression the contractor has already been selected and any vote would be a sham. This military construction conglomerate, RKM-BRJ, of course, consists of good construction firms with the skills and assets to make a project of this magnitude happen. My concern is that we are excluding other companies just as well suited to get the job done. Maybe even cheaper."

Palmer had done his homework. He knew exactly what Galmond was going to say. He smiled and leaned back in his chair. "Senator Galmond, I understand your concern. You know that members of this committee have spent hours pouring over the bids and, yes, RKM-BRJ is a little higher. However, their track record is excellent and they are ready to start on a moment's notice. Brown & Root, Raymond International, Morris-Knudsen and J.A. Jones, to one degree or another, have all done work for us in wars and conflicts in the past." He glanced around the table.

"Gentlemen, it is time to vote. Let me see a show of hands, Yeas first, then Nays." He already knew what the outcome would be because there were six Democrats and five Republicans. He glanced at the Yeas, all Democrats, and he smiled.

"Now the Nays." The five idiot Republicans raised their pathetic hands.

He smiled once more. "Gentlemen, it looks like the Yeas win. RM-BRJ gets the job."

After the committee left, Palmer walked back to his office and closed the door. He opened his desk drawer and grabbed the special bottle of Kentucky bourbon and his shot glass. He poured two fingers, downed it and smiled. He picked up his phone and dialed the number.

"Goldman Sachs. This is Ellen. How may I help you?"

"This is Senator Martin Palmer. Please connect me to Mr. Delavasee."

"Right away, sir."

Three rings and his broker picked up the phone.

"Senator Palmer, how good of you to call! What can I do for you?"

"I want you to buy me stock in four defense contract companies."

#  Chapter 34 – Gibbon's Sheila

## Marine Corps Air Base

## Chu Lai, South Vietnam

Are the nearby villages still off-limits because of that plague deal?" I overhead a Marine ask someone in the mess hall.

"Naw. Stuff is still rampant. Just keep the hell away from those places," the other Marine responded.

A month ago, Gunny McCleary told us about something called Black Syphilis carried by some of the whores in nearby towns. He said it was incurable. I was not sure if this was the plague the mess hall Marine was talking about, but just the word plague spoke volumes. Anyone with amorous intentions toward the local girls was told to keep his pants buttoned. All I wanted to do was go out to the village for some souvenir shopping. Glad I had my shots. Or had I? After all the shots and pills taken, I lost track of what any of them were supposed to do.

That day I was standing next to the rocket tube buried in the sand about to take a leak when Mad Dog Hinson walked up behind me.

"Don't dally, Irish. I've got to piss like a Cheetah on the run."

"Yeah. Just let me get this thing started, will you?" I said.

"It's long enough to be a garden hose. Maybe you've got a kink in it."

"Keep your friggin' eyes to yourself."

"You hear about that Marine at MAG-36 who suddenly lost all of the hair on his body?" Hinson said.

"He lost all of his hair?"

"All of it. He is bald and has no eyebrows or eyelashes, not a single hair on his arms, chest, legs or crotch. They say he looks like an unfinished picture."

"Christ, Mad Dog, what-the-hell kind of drugs are they using on us anyway?"

"Jesus, Irish – move! I'm about to pee in my pants!"

#### * * * *

The Marines in my hut had just about reached the breaking point with the no-lights situation. That evening we were sitting around in the dark when the Pope gave us some good news.

"The PX just received a new shipment of goods and might have some lanterns. If you men want to chip into the pot, I will run down there and buy some."

I stumbled around the hut with my cover held out for money. The Pope took it and ran. "Don't lose my friggin' cover!" I yelled.

Twenty minutes later, the Pope was back with three Coleman lanterns and new batteries. It was heaven! You learn to appreciate the little things . . . like light. At night, those of us not working sat around the lanterns and wrote letters home. We were able to play poker too, so our attitudes improved. The downside was that we could now see each other's blood-shot eyes. We could also see the awful condition some of our hut-mates were in when they stumbled back from the enlisted club full of booze. It was not a pretty sight.

"Hey, Digger!" I yelled across the hut. Come over here and tell me how my butt looks in these clean utilities."

"How did you get them dry with this million-percent humidity? My friggin' boots are layered with a green mold."

"Try hanging your utilities up on the rafters. The little breeze that comes through here eventually dries them out."

"Maybe I'll hang my boots up there too."

Down South of us, the Marines were having trouble in the Mekong Delta near Cam Ranh Bay so the Corps was setting up a camp. Even around Chu Lai, mortar attacks increased. McCleary told us two battalions of VC Regulars were responsible. We sent six H&MS-12 Outlaws in A-4s and Napalmed them back to hell. Things got quiet again.

Friday night after chow, most of us headed over to the beach theater. The large wooden stage included a back wall with a door in the middle for performers to enter facing the crowd. Gibbons walked beside me and we were half way to the beach. I glanced at him.

"Who's performing tonight?"

"An Australian by the name of Rick Springfield. I think he sings."

"Any women?"

"One but I didn't catch her name."

The crowd was already starting to build when we reached our theater in the sand. Twelve rows of Marines seated in the sand already filled the spot directly in front of the large stage. The drummer repeated a few drum rolls while two guitarists tuned their instruments and a base player practice a few low notes. The band wore hard rock leather vests with no shirts, tight black leather pants and wildly colored pointed boots. I figured they were Rick Springfield's group. I glanced around and spotted a large contingent of Navy Seabees headed our direction. Entertainment of any kind drew military people like road kill draws Buzzards. It's a good thing liquor was not allowed because fights would follow.

Gibbons pointed down the beach. "Choppers. Good deal."

"Gunny said VMO-6 was going to play guard tonight. Maybe this will be a quiet night."

Twenty minutes later, Marines, sailors and anyone else hungry for entertainment filled the entire beach area within a hundred yards of the stage. By that time, the noise level had jumped a few notches. Our commanding officer walked through the stage door and up to the mike close to the edge of the stage.

"I'm proud to announce we are fortunate to have excellent entertainment tonight. Australian rock singer Rick Springfield broke away from his stateside tour to be here. Singer and actress Rachel Ward follows."

"It can't be," Gibbons said.

"What can't be?"

"Rachel Ward."

"Who is she?"

He glanced at me. "My Rachel, mate. My sheila. My friggin' Rachel."

"Naw."

He shook his head. "It just can't be."

"Does your Rachel sing?"

"Like a rock star."

"What if it is her?"

The drummer played a drum roll and Rick Springfield ran through the door wearing a bright, sleeveless outfit while waving his electric guitar. Although I never heard him before, his music must be great judging from the screaming all around us. Even more scary were Marines standing up and fast dancing. I noticed that Gibbons remained reserved, like he was waiting to see a hanging. Towards the end of Springfield's performance, Gibbons jumped up.

"Mate, got to get closer. See you later."

I watched him push through the wall of Marines on his way to the stage. In a minute, he disappeared in the crowd. A few minutes later, Springfield reached the end of his last song with the crowd roaring and clapping. I was worried about Digger.

Our commanding officer walked back out on stage to the mike and Marines drop back down to sitting on the ground. "How has it been so far?" The crowd roared again. "Are we ready for Rachel Ward?" he said.

"Yes!" everyone yelled.

Through the stage door walked this incredible woman so beautiful I was certain the stage would be swamped with Marines. Her crop top blouse showed off cleavage and her tight slacks left little to the imagination. My eyes caught sight of Digger shoot to his feet standing inches from the stage.

"Rachel! Rachel!" he yelled over a hundred Marine's voices. Her smile turned to surprise.

"Bobby! My precious Bobby!" she screamed while running to the edge of the stage. She dropped to her knees and leaned down to kiss him. His arms reached around her and they remained that way for maybe a half a minute.

Marines hooted and hollered like dogs in heat. Our sergeant major ran over to Digger, grabbed him by the arm and looked up at Rachel. Although I could not hear their voices, she clearly told him that it was all right. Seconds later, she stood and walked back to the middle of the stage holding the mike. She signaled the band and they rolled into her first song. Digger stood at the edge of the stage like a lovesick puppy.

After the show was over, I waited a few minutes for Digger but he didn't show. My stomach growled so I walked back to the mess hall hoping midnight rations would be edible.

A half hour later, I walked over to slide my tray in the pot shack window when I heard his voice.

"Hey, Irish! I'm hungry as a wild dog."

"What the hell happened to you?"

I followed him through the chow line while Marines piled powered scrambled eggs on his tray along with bacon and toast. "Like I said, what the hell happened to you?"

He shoved a pieced of bacon in his mouth when he glanced at me. "Mate, I spent an hour with my Sheila."

"She's gone?"

"Yeah. She and her troop caught a chopper out. They've got another show down south."

"How did it go?" I asked when we both sat down at a table.

By that time, he was shoveling eggs and toast down as if he had not eaten in a month.

"Rachel loves me, man. She said so. When I get home, she wants to marry me."

"Damn! That is fantastic! Congratulations, Digger."

"She made my day, Irish. No kidding. I am floating on a cloud. I believe I can survive the rest of my time here knowing she'll be waiting."

By the end of the month, the sun had finally started to come out and my attitude began to improve. At the same time, Viet Cong activities at Chu Lai jumped a notch. One morning at the hanger before we started work, Gunny McCleary asked us to gather around him.

"Listen up. The Corps has planned a major assault against the Viet Cong in an operation referred to as Desoto. It will begin about fifty miles south of here. Two Marine battalions will be inserted there with the goal of working their way our direction and South to clear out the VC. Infantry units from here at Chu Lai will truck supplies to Quang Ngai where our MAG-16 choppers will pick it up and make delivery. Our aviators will assist with air support, should either the truck convoys or choppers get into trouble. I am telling you this so you understand that you will be working your butts off until this thing is over."

Over the next week, McCleary was right about working our butts off. Some of our aircraft took fire and limped back full of holes. Patching them up became a chore for our squadron, partially because we were running short of aluminum sheeting. It got so bad that we were going down to the bone yard to cut pieces of sheet metal off the scrapped aircraft.

The following Saturday, we had an after-midnight attack and spent about four hours in our bunkers, rectangular holes in the sand lined with sand bags and covered with honeycombed runway matting padded with a double-layer of sand bags. Rain filled the bottom of the bunker and ours, we discovered with horror, included a snake the size of a power line. It was then that I decided I did not like bunkers. No one was hurt, though, and we were back to normal by sunup.

For the first time since I had been in country, the sun stayed out a full day with the stars and moon out all night. In a few days, the monsoon season would be over and our beach would officially be open for swimming. It was going to be a hot season.

Out a few hundred yards from our beach, hundreds of Vietnamese sand-pans dotted the water. We had orders to shoot if they got too close. Some of them were actually Viet Cong disguised as fishermen, smiling faces – men, women and children – some of them deadly. All of the old rules of war no longer applied.

One evening at Mail Call, I was the first in line anxiously awaiting a box of goodies ma wrote that she would send. I couldn't wait! I received more photos from Artie showing the den my old man added to our house. I visualized my old man kicked back in his adjustable chair napping with his radio blasting a ball game into the new room.

#### * * * *

Our aircraft were taking hard beatings while out supporting Marines in the field. The Corps was still engaged in a number of new operations begun the previous month. When we were not jerking engines out of the A-4s so we could get inside to repair the structures, we were out on the flight line helping load ordinance on the wings and bellies of the jets. Up until April of 1966, the Corps was not involved in the air war against North Vietnam. Except for providing EF-10B missions to support the Navy's Seventh Fleet aviators and the Seventh Air Force's pilots, our job had been to provide air support for our troops on the ground in the South. Around noon on the first day of April, Gunny McCleary asked us to stop working and gather around him.

"More good news. CinCPac authorized us to begin air strikes in and to the North of the DMZ as part of Route Pak One currently flown by the Navy and Air Force pilots. This job requires our aircraft to use two-hundred-fifty, five-hundred, one-thousand and two-thousand pound bombs along with two-point-seven-five and five-inch rockets, napalm, twenty mm cannon, smoke and a host of other goodies our aviators are anxious to put to good use. All of us will take part in loading these beautiful weapons on aircraft so get ready for more hard-ass work."

The next morning before first light, our squadron maintenance crew started arming four A-4s for an early wake-up call for the North Vietnamese. Around noon, Captain Makers returned from his run. His left fuel cell and tail's portside were full of holes. When he climbed out, I climbed in and taxied the A-4 to the end of the ramp to dump excess fuel so we could get it into the hanger for repairs.

Sometimes I would do this at night following a repair to run up the engine to test thrust, or to test the pneumatic systems. With the canopy snapped down, the red night instrument lights glowing, and the tower controller blaring over the radio, I taxied down the dark ramp towards the run up area. I wanted to swing over to the main runway and head for the clear blue yonder.

That night back in the hut after I wrote Maggie another letter, I thought maybe I should not bother mailing it. Maybe I should slip it into a bottle and throw it into the China Sea. The chance of me getting a response from her would be the same.

The heavy workload continued. On the morning of April 4, Gunny McCleary said Major Bradley wanted to see me. I jogged down to headquarters.

"Good morning, sir. What can I do for you?"

"Gunny McCleary has probably informed your squadron about operation Deckhouse VI, hasn't he?"

"He said it was a repeat of operation Double Eagle in the same area a year ago."

"Correct. The 1st Battalion, 4th Marines are handling it but Chu Lai will provide the bulk of air support. I need you to take a message to 1st Battalion's CO. If you leave before sun-up tomorrow morning, it shouldn't take more than a half-day there and back."

"Glad to do it. Should I update my will?"

Major Bradley grinned. "I don't know. Have you come in to a lot of money or bought valuable assets?"

"I wish."

He leaned forward on his desk. Here's what I want you to tell Colonel Black."

#### * * * *

A six-by truck picked me up in the dark on the highway outside the base exactly where Major Bradley told me to wait. Although Bradley did not say so, I was sure the driver was covert like me.

"You doin' alright?" he asked.

"Yeah."

Neither of us spoke again. The bright, flare-filled pre-dawn sky was testimony to Operation Deckhouse VI. Two battalions of Viet Cong were headed our direction and local VC were preparing for the assault with stepped up rocket and mortar attacks. Marine choppers passed us overhead, probably going to our same destination. Every now and then my ears picked up the sound of shells screaming overhead, shot from Navy destroyers a mile off shore. They sounded like freight trains bound for hell headed toward VC targets. Marine F-4s from Da Nang howled across the early morning sky just above the mountains and we could just spot the little silver shells loaded with napalm arch their final trajectory towards unrepentant VC below. An hour later with a slice of the sun peaking over the horizon, we reached the 1st Battalion 4th Marines, the area thick with tanks, trucks and Marines ready to fight. The truck stopped and the driver glanced at me.

"Here's your drop off point. I'll wait here for ten minutes so don't dally or you'll miss your ride."

"Keep the engine running and the transmission in gear with your foot on the clutch."

I jogged fifty yards and spotted a sergeant.

"Sergeant, where can I find Colonel Black?"

He pointed behind him. "See those hardback tents near the trees? He's in the big one."

"Thanks!" I sprinted that direction. When I reached the large hardback tent, I slammed my fist against the edge of the door while staring through the screen at several officers standing around a table with a map on it. One of them glanced at me.

"Yeah, what is it?"

"Sir, I'm Private Aedan O'Neall. I need to talk to Colonel Black." Another man stepped back from the table and faced me. I could see the eagles on his collars. He walked to the door and stepped outside with me.

"What you got, O'Neall?"

I repeated the message Major Bradley told me to give him.

He put his hand on my shoulder. "In just a few minutes, all hell is going to break loose. Get your ass out of here as fast as you can. Thanks for the critical information, son. Tell Bradley _hello_ for me. Semper Fi."

#### * * * *

One afternoon I was waiting in front of headquarters to catch a scheduled cattle-car to MAG-36 and its big PX. Marines named these bus-like tractor-trailers cattle-cars because they felt like cattle while riding in them.

Standing near me was a handful of Republic of Korea Marines, one of them an officer. The two enlisted ROKs looked nervous and the officer had been chattering Korean at them while strutting back and forth in front of them. A cattle-car finally pulled up and stopped. A couple of Army soldiers jumped off, then some Marines, and finally an ROK enlisted man. When he jumped down, the ROK officer started screaming at him and the young man's face turned white. He snapped to attention.

The ROK officer began to pace rapidly back-and-forth in front of him, at the same time unsnapping his holster. He pulled out his Colt 45 then stopped. He leaned into the young man's face and yelled one final remark, then aimed the pistol at the man's feet. He pulled the trigger!

My God – he had shot the man in the foot. I could not believe it as I watched the man fall over and begin rolling in the dirt. I jumped on the cattle-car and it pulled away. I asked one of the ROK Marines on the cattle-car what had happened. It seems that the young ROK Marine was shot for falling asleep on guard duty the night before. The bullet in his foot would be a reminder not to do that ever again.

And I thought the U.S. Marine Corps was tough. Jesus!

My visit to the PX was a good mental diversion and I enjoyed some candy and other goodies Marines were usually denied. My return trip was uneventful and the cattle-car dropped me off at headquarters just before sundown.

Around midnight, one of our perimeter guards killed six VC crossing our runway. The next morning at chow, everyone was talking about it.

"One of them worked in our barbershop," a Marine said. "Just last week he cut my hair and shaved my face with a straight razor."

That was it for haircuts and me. I opted for a court-marshal before letting one of those bastards near my throat with a razor. The following nights, our commanding officer advised us to sleep with one eye open, just in case. I am not sure exactly how you can sleep with only one eye open, but I damned sure gave it my best shot. The people in the nearby hamlet had be evacuated because Operation Deckhouse VI spilled over to it. Gunny McCleary told to expect a mortar attack within the next two days. Whatever they had, we were ready for them.

A week later around lunchtime, the crew was repairing two A-4s in the hanger when McCleary told us to gather around.

"The CO wanted me to let you know there is no longer an epidemic in the nearby villages. When off duty, you may visit them to catch up on your shopping."

After work, Gibbons joined me and we caught a ride with a Marine convoy headed towards a nearby village. An Tan was a small hamlet and a place frequented by local soldiers and Marines for liquor, women, souvenirs and a taste of local food.

We visited shop after shop, actually little grass huts, to see what they had to sell. Along the way, we ran into three Marines from VMA-214 operating out of MAG-36 on the other side of the base. Corporals Timberlake and Dumpwells were power plants mechanics and Lance Corporal Colsworth worked with electronics like Digger.

I noticed they were not armed. "You guys aren't carrying? What's the deal?"

"They took up our rifles," Timberlake said.

"What kind of crap is that, Mate?" Gibbons asked.

"Don't know," Dumpwells said. "Some kind of temporary agreement with the local VC, who the hell knows?"

We stopped in a little tavern and drank some local beer, warily eyeballing it for ground glass while we tried to chat with the Vietnamese. They did pretty well with English, which was a good thing, because I could not speak a word of Vietnamese. Digger, however, managed to muddle through a conversation in their language. Our new friends suddenly got up and said they had to get back. After they left, we ordered another round. When the girl brought the beers to our table, we heard the gunfire. I looked at Gibbons and we grabbed our rifles. I leaned down and glanced around the door to see what was happening outside.

My eyes swept the street and I spotted the three Marines that just left the bar. They were hunkered down next to a hut and rifle fire was streaming their direction from another hut further down the street. Gibbons and I hunched over and ran next to the huts on our side of the street, then we stopped and dropped to the prone position, our rifles trained on the hut where the shots originated. I glanced at Gibbons. "Full auto."

"Yeah," he said. We both switched our M-14 selectors.

"Now!" I said.

Both our rifles streamed fire at the hut, quickly emptying our magazines. The alien shots stopped and we waited. Nothing. My eyes moved to our new Marine buddies who were still down on the ground. We got up and walked towards them.

"You guys okay?" Digger asked.

"Yeah! Thanks."

"You owe us, big time," I said.

"You know where to find us. Let us know when you need something."

"Oh, we will," I said. "Count on it."

We caught a ride with a group of Navy Seabees headed back to Chu Lai. We had a new story to tell the others.

Back in my hooch that night, I had finished off another of ma's batches of brownies and I was sprawled on my cot reading an overdue letter from her saying she had about given up hearing from me. The Post Office mail delivery might have been considered comical, if I had been anywhere else on earth but Vietnam.

#### * * * *

Two weeks passed without any threats and no sounds of incoming rockets. We almost caught up with sleep but that changed when Chu Lai came under intense shelling and hangers either side of ours took direct hits.

"Jesus Christ," McCleary said as we stood in front of our hanger surveying the collateral damage. "We were lucky sons-of-bitches."

The other two hangers were just piles of jagged metal. Large quantities of shrapnel ventilated our hanger creating a little breeze inside that helped dampen the stifling heat. Gunny McCleary pointed to the other hangers.

"You men give them a hand cleaning up the mess. Maybe they can salvage some of the equipment."

While we began the slow cleanup process, jets were screaming in and out of the field around the clock and the air was thick with choppers moving outside the perimeter to support the firefights. The artillery barrages were almost unbearable to the ears, let alone seeing our hangers and aircraft blown to bits. Miraculously, no one in our squadron got as much as a scratch. Well, that is not actually true.

Second Lieutenant Daryl Wolf, seated in the officers' head taking his constitutional, took shrapnel in his ass when a mortar round landed behind the head. He turned down the Purple Heart for the butt shrapnel he got from the incident and for which he demanded complete silence on the matter by his fellow Marine officers.

A couple of days later, I drilled a hole clean through my thumb when an air drill bit snapped off while I was up on a wing patching a shrapnel hole. I did not expect there would be a Purple Heart for me in that little screw up.

While I was in sickbay having the corpsman patch up the thumb, the grunts in Desoto killed over five-hundred VC outside the perimeter of Chu Lai and there were still two battalions of VC left, one of them known as the 409 Sapper Battalion. We expected increased mortar and sniper attacks as Desoto continued.

We waited.

#  Chapter 35 - Chirchir

## Gulf Building

## Houston, Texas

Seated at his desk, Dr. Chirchir glanced through the folder one last time. He shook his head and wondered why he felt the same way about this young Marine as he did about his own son. Maybe it was because he could not picture Aedan in his mind without also seeing Naz standing right next to him when they were boys. No, it was more than that. Aedan was, among other things, a good man. A very good young man.

He read the letter once more trying to make sure his words could not be interpreted as an order, yet they would be followed.

Dear Major Bradley, some time has passed since we last communicated about Private O'Neall. As your communications have indicated, he has done well. Because of this, I would ask that you consider promoting him to private first class as soon as possible. I understand that you must follow protocol but time-is-of-the-essence. There are things on the horizon and it would be beneficial if he, in a matter of speaking, caught up with his peers. Please do not interpret this as an order. Use your best judgment as the man that you are. In the matter of Sergeant Lucas Stone, if General Lai's men are able to arrange Stone's escape, I ask that you have him interrogated by Private O'Neall as soon after his escape as is possible. – Faithfully yours, Kimoni.

He sealed the letter in the delivery pouch and buzzed his secretary on the intercom.

"Yes sir?"

"When you get a minute, I've got a message to send out right away. I have to get up to the meeting room so just pick it up while I am gone. Okay?"

"I'll take care of it."

He set the pouch on the edge of his desk and left for the meeting room.

#### * * * *

When Chirchir arrived, Axle's intelligence group was waiting for him. Axle normally ramrodded these meetings but could not attend this time. These six men, all senior members, were keys to the order's effectiveness and ability to respond to threats to the nations Constitution. Each man was responsible for specific sectors throughout the U.S. and some foreign countries. The group routinely synthesized massive amounts of intelligence information gathered by field agents spread throughout the United States and across the world. Although they only met twice a month, all of them understood the importance of these face-to-face meetings.

"Gentlemen," Chirchir began, "I'm sorry I kept you waiting."

He glanced down at the thick files on the table in front of him then looked back up at them. "As usual, I can see you men have been working overtime."

He studied Axle's summary page on top of the stack. Bullet points neatly identified each problem. Below each one was a one-line summary along with the initials of the senior member making the assessment. Axle prioritized the problems from most to least important.

"Mr. Sinclair – how did we learn about this Chinese agent, Wen Leu?"

"Sir, one of our operatives inside the Central Intelligence Agency learned of him during an intelligence review of data from covert CIA agents inside China. Leu is an electrical engineer who has worked in the U.S. on a number of occasions, typically for U.S. companies who have developed new products or who are on the cutting edge of new technology."

"Why are we taking an interest in Mr. Leu?"

"My contact said that the CIA seems not to be concerned about him despite evidence that on several occasions, he has already stolen American technology for his government."

"Does your contact have any idea why this is so?"

"Yes. He learned the CIA has been told to soft pedal China because many Democrats of both houses of Congress apparently have a financial interest in expanding trade with them."

"So this Chinese agent has, in effect, been given a free-pass to spy in return for profits to some of our politicians?"

"Yes. That's about the size of it."

Chirchir nodded. "Where is Mr. Leu now?"

"Recently, he returned from China and he has rented an apartment near Hawthorne, California. Boeing Aircraft is building a new plant in Hawthorne. When they complete the plant, they plan to start production on their new Boeing 747, one of the largest commercial aircraft ever to be produced. We learned that Wen Leu was sent there to try and get hired by Boeing."

"What is your recommendation?"

"Sir, I believe we should keep an eye on him."

#  Chapter 36 – Priceless

## Marine Corps Air Base

## Chu Lai, South Vietnam

On April 12, I had a change of pace. I volunteered to help motor transport pick up supplies at the Marine Air Group 36 docks, a port built by the navy to provide barges a base for off-loading goods needed to keep the war fed and the men clothed and armed. The shallow harbor teamed with activity including several giant dredging boats digging out the harbor. I asked one of the civilians at the dock what was going on. He said the defense department wanted the harbor deepened so large ships could get in with supplies. Barges were just too small and too slow to get the supplies in on time.

"I'll bet someone is making a lot of money," I remarked.

"Oh yeah. Lots of money. Say, what happened to your arm?"

I glanced over at the exposed, now-pink wound mostly healed. "Took a bullet but it's getting better."

"Good."

Barges filled the harbor waiting for a chance to dock and unload. Dozens of tugboats moved swiftly in and out of the harbor around ships parked offshore, the tugs attempting to sort things into a manageable schedule. Overhead, Marine choppers crisscrossed the harbor to and from missions in the field. The motor transport driver pulled the truck into a Naval LST. We helped sailors load supply crates shipped to us from the good old US of A. I took photos while I was there, hoping they'd get developed so I'd have something to show the folks back home to counter the grist the media was feeding them about the war.

The next day it was my turn to drive. I checked out a tractor-trailer from motor pool and returned to my squadron to pick up a heavily damaged A-4. After loading it on to a flatbed trailer, I towed it down to the dock and loaded it on a ship. The ship would take the A-4 to Cubi-Point in the Philippines where Douglas Aircraft crews would repair it. Unless you have backed up a cab-over tractor pulling a flatbed trailer full of airplane on to a dock the size of a Band-Aid, I cannot begin to describe the experience. I can proudly say that I did not drop anything off the dock. The deck hands, however, were not so sure that would be the case.

Three days later, McCleary called me up to his desk. "Private O'Neall, I have something to give you."

"What is it, Gunny?"

He walked around his desk towards me while reaching in his left breast pocket to fish something out. With one hand, he reached up and grabbed my left collar and he took the black metal chevron and pinned it through the collar. He then did the same thing with my right collar.

"Congratulations, Marine. You are officially now Private First Class O'Neall."

"Gunny, thanks!" That night I invited Surfer and The Pope to accompany me to the enlisted club down on the beach to celebrate.

#### * * * *

When the opportunity presented itself, Chu Lai Marines tried to get some sun on the beach but it was almost impossible. Digger, the Pope and I arrived at the beach mid-morning that Saturday intent on sun and fun. Ten minutes after we laid down on our towels, Digger said "Sheep Shit!"

I glanced at him and the backside of the Amtrac that had just rumbled past us. "That was pretty damned close. Hell, those bastards might just run over our asses."

"No screaming dookie," Pope said.

Four Huey gunships roared overhead. The smell of gunpowder filled the air as AR-15s spit out rounds fifty yards from us while Marines practiced firing them.

"Let's test the water. Maybe that will change our attitudes," I said while getting up from the sand. I was the first to wade in followed by Digger and Pope.

"Damn," Digger said, "This water is still too cold."

"It wouldn't bother the Navy Seals," I said.

"Screw the Navy Seals," Pope said.

We finally gave up and headed back to our hut where traffic was not so thick.

The next morning, an A-4 in the hanger needed some parts we didn't have on hand. The gunny told us to go down to the bone yard, a place nicknamed for the junkyard filled with wrecked aircraft. Finding aircraft parts to use on the birds was becoming more and more difficult because the harbor deepening project now prevented barges from getting in for deliveries. After we arrived in the truck, we split up and wandered through the hunks of aircraft. I spotted an A-4 that looked like it might have some good parts. Digger and I carefully cannibalized what we needed. That was one high-tech junkyard, no doubt about it. My hat was off to our Marine aviators. I am not sure I would want to climb in any aircraft held together with junk.

That afternoon while we were rebuilding the A-4 with the parts we brought back, the mail clerk walked into the hanger.

"Okay, Jarheads, its mail call time."

He called my name last and he handed me a shoebox-size package.

"I'll bet your mother sent you more goodies!" Pope said.

I ripped off the top and glance inside. The smell of chocolate hit me in the nose.

"Men, we can satisfy our sweet-tooth problem," I said. "Ma sent fudge."

In about five minutes, the damned box was empty and I only got one small piece.

"The least you bastards can do is thank me for the friggin' fudge!"

I got grins but no replies.

As each day passed, I continued my aggressive be the best you can be Marine tactics, hoping my efforts would yield a promotion to Lance Corporal, pay grade E-3. Earning Private First Class had been tough and I was on a mission to make up lost time. Gunny McCleary seemed impressed. Maybe he would see fit to get me another promotion. I kept my fingers crossed and wrote Maggie more letters.

In the meantime, I had settled in for the expected, almost routine now, nighttime mortar attacks. When the siren screamed, we watched the new Marines jump up and sprint out to the bunker. We lumbered up slowly, symbolically scratched our butts and yawned, then walk out to the bunker where the others were already hunched down and shaking. They thought we were nuts.

When I thought I had been Private First Class for just about long enough, McCleary said he heard my promotion to Lance Corporal was imminent. I was excited but tried to be calm about it because I had heard that before. Besides, I still had a long time left in 'Nam.

Being one of the lowest in rank had endless disadvantages. Besides Mess Duty, we caught a rotating Guard Duty assignment. Although I would have liked to catch the duty on the beach, I usually ended up on the hill perimeter. Most of the time, at least before sundown, I usually was not alone. The kids were there too.

Thousands of Vietnamese children became orphans after their parents were killed or taken prisoner by the VC or killed or taken prisoner by us. When I arrived at my post, the children would climb on the fence and beg for food. Sometimes I would carry leftovers from chow and give it to them. Sometimes, if I had made a PX call and candy was available, I would buy some and take it to them. They were the sad part of war, a constant reminder to me of how lucky I was to have become a citizen in a country where the government respected freedom.

Vietnam provided a lot of spare time to dwell on things. One day I walked to the PX and spotted a form to order flowers for Maggie. Maybe if she got some roses, she might at least write me another letter. I paid the money and took my chances she would get them then headed back to my squadron. Later, I readied for night guard duty near the garbage dump. I hoped it would be an uneventful night. It was not.

About the time I reached my post, the black night lit up like daytime and choppers filled the air. The next morning the 1st Viet Cong Regiment, assisted by the 21st NVA Regiment staged an attack Southwest of Chu Lai near the Tra Khuc River. Local VC put forth massive effort trying to prevent jets from leaving our field.

Around noon, Gunny McCleary walked into the hanger.

"Listen up! Our Wing Commander's C-117 will arrive for repairs later in the day. In case you men have not seen his aircraft, you are in for a treat. It is a WWII era twin-engine, propeller-driven, tail-dragging passenger plane gutted to carry supplies. Yesterday, the old bird took some bullets from ground fire. This might be of interest to some of you - the Wing Commander needs a new enlisted crew to handle routine maintenance. That new crew will fly wherever the plane flies."

All of us wanted on that new crew. That afternoon, four of our senior metal-smiths repaired the damage. The Wing Commander picked them as the new crew. It would have been an honor to serve on the wing commander's C-117 because the aviator-in-command was one of a dying breed. He was a Marine who had served in both WWII and Korea and had the distinction of being an enlisted aviator. He was a Sergeant Major and one enlisted man officers deferred to when he was in the cockpit.

My hopes were still up about a trip to Japan. McCleary said some of us still might get to go. On a Friday when I was feeling low, the Gunny called me over to his desk.

"This morning I spent some time with Major Bradley. It appears that you are officially off whatever shit-list you were on." McCleary reached in his drawer and took something out, then stood and walked over to me.

"Son, I'm very happy to pin on your collars your new lance corporal chevrons."

As I stood at attention, my face felt like it had turned a shade of red. I had not expected another promotion this soon and a wave of euphoria rolled across me while McCleary pinned my new rank on my collar. Lance corporal, one-up with crossed rifles, as we describe it. When he finished I glance into his eyes.

"Gunny, I really appreciate it. You don't know how much. Because it has only been two months since I was promoted to Private First Class, I can't find the words to say how thankful I am."

"Son, you've done a good job. Yes, I do know how much you appreciate it. Many years ago, I stood in your shoes. A few extra bucks at pay-grade E-3 never hurt anyone."

That evening, Digger joined me at the E-Club for the required six beers. We lost count. Maybe we downed a few too many beers. Anyway, the next morning, my head was about to explode.

#### * * * *

After quitting time, I was almost alone in the hanger trying to finish up patching one of the A-4s I'd started the previous day. I glanced around and everyone else was gone except for Gunnery McCleary. He was sitting at his desk just staring but not moving. I put my rivet gun down, wiped my hands on my utility trousers, then I walked over to his desk in the back of the hanger.

"Say, Guns, is everything okay?"

He glanced at me and took a deep breath.

"Sure as shit isn't."

"Anything I can do?"

"Yeah – get me two jet engines for those two A-4s sitting over there so we can get them back on line to help our Marines in the field. We have aviators flying double-shifts to keep our grunts safe. Tired aviators are prone to make mistakes that kill."

I grinned. "Sure thing. If they were ready to taxi out by tomorrow morning, would that help out?"

He grinned back at me. "Yeah, that would do just fine. You got some way to get us the two engines from the Philippines in about an hour?"

"You never know, gunny, you just never know."

He nodded. "Well, I'm going to get the hell out of here and go catch some Zs. You about finished?"

"Maybe in a half-hour."

"Don't stay too late. Not much more can be done until we get the parts we need and those two engines."

"See you tomorrow, Guns."

"Yeah, O'Neall. See you bright and early."

I gave McCleary ten minutes to get out of sight then I ran out the side door to see if I could catch Digger before he disappeared. When I opened the door to our hooch, Digger was taking off his skivvy shirt.

"Hey, Digger – put that skivvy shirt back on. I need your help. Come on outside so I can explain."

We got back to the hanger and Digger jogged into the electronics repair room to get on his radio. He contacted the MAG-36 communications center operator and told him we had an emergency and needed to contact Corporal Timberlake or Corporal Dumpwells at VMA-214. The operator said he would attempt to reach them and would call back. Twenty minutes later, he returned the call and put Corporal Timberlake on the radio with me.

"What the hell you up to, O'Neall? I though you guys dropped off the face of the earth."

"No, but we might if we don't solve this little problem we've got." I explained that we had two A-4s that desperately needed engines so we could get them back in to service by tomorrow morning.

"You're yanking my chain, right?"

"Hell, no. You guys owe us a favor for that little incident in An Tan and I'm calling it in right now."

"You need two damned engines?"

"Yeah. We need them as soon as you can load them up and drive over here to our hanger. We're waiting."

"Jesus, O'Neall. Well, we have a couple still on the trailer. For the time being, we don't need them. Dumpwells and me will hitch the trailer to the tractor and head your direction. You sons-of-bitches got coffee? We'll need if for this all-nighter."

"Timberlake, I'll have coffee on when you get here. We'll line up the tools you'll need and I'll get Corporal Landowsky, our power plants guy, over here to help."

Digger ran back to the hooch to get Landowsky and I put the coffee on. A half-hour later, I heard their tractor chugging across our parking ramp and glanced out to see the trailer with two gleaming jet engines strapped down. Timberlake and Dumpwells climbed out of the truck and started to unstrap the engines while I jumped on the forklift to get the engines down and into the hanger. We worked through the night and by zero-five-hundred, they were pushing the fore and aft sections of the A-4s together.

When they were finished, Landowsky climbed into one of the A-4s and Timberlake climbed into the other, and then I hitched up the tow tractor to Landowsky's first and towed him down to the run up ramp. Digger ran down to get the fuel truck for both birds. He drove back and quickly fueled Landowsky. I returned to get Timberlake's bird and returned to see Landowsky hit the power to test engine thrust. Five minutes later, he taxied back to the hanger and I pulled Timberlake into position. Digger fueled him so he could test his engine. A few minutes later, both birds were parked on the ramp and Timberlake and Dumpwells drove away to get back to their squadron.

An hour after we finished, Gunny McCleary walked in to the hanger. I would have given my right gonad to have a photo of the expression on his face when he spotted those two A-4s parked on the ramp ready to go.

It was priceless.

#  Chapter 37 – The Interrogation

A month slipped by and the war in our area seemed to have calmed down. It was probably the calm before the shit hit the fan, but I was not in the mood to dwell on that side of the equation. On a Friday afternoon, Digger and I were talking about going down to the enlisted club for a few beers after work when the gunny told me the major wanted to see me.

When I got to headquarters, the clerk was not there so I wandered back to the major's office and knocked on the door.

"Come on in," he said. "Grab a chair."

"What can I do for you, sir?"

"I understand that you did fairly well in the interrogation segment of your training."

"I didn't do well being interrogated."

He grinned. "You did well as the interrogator."

"I believe so."

"I've got an assignment for you and it won't take more than a day, maybe less. We have a Marine who is formerly First Force Recon. Sergeant Stone recently escaped from one of Hanoi's prisons. He was a guest there for a couple of years. They told me the South Vietnamese Marine Corps' Force Recon team commanded by General Lai planned and executed his escape. Right now, we have Stone at a location a few miles south of the DMZ. The area is hot because units of the North Vietnamese Army have been slipping in and out of that sector."

"What can I do to help?"

"We are interested in what Sergeant Stone may know about some other U.S. prisoners held at the same prison during his captivity. Several months ago, Marines captured a North Vietnamese soldier and he told his interrogators that he worked in that prison. He insisted that several U.S. prisoners who were officers had cut deals with North Vietnam in return for leniency and possible early release. He could not describe these Americans and did not know their names. We want to find out from Sergeant Stone if he knows more about this situation."

"You want me to interrogate Sergeant Stone?"

"Yes. Tomorrow morning at zero-six hundred, be at the chopper pad. We will fly you up there to meet with Stone. This is a soft interrogation so be gentle with him. He is a fine Marine and has been through a lot. Because he is enlisted and a Marine, the North Vietnamese tortured him just for fun. We just want to learn what we can about these potential American traitors."

#### * * * *

The Huey was waiting for me and we left on time. The pilot was Major Elvis Hayworth, his co-pilot was Lieutenant Alton Livengood, and a corporal with the nickname Zone operated the door gun. Because it was early, the air was cool and, judging from the sky, it was going to be a nice, hot day. The trees zipped bye below us, as we skimmed above them not more than twenty-five feet or so. Every now and then, I could just make out villagers walking along carrying large baskets strapped to their backs, probably holding rice. Several times, we passed over small Marine units bivouacked in clear spots, usually on hills or higher elevations to provide tactical advantages. Zone and I tried to carry on a conversation but the chopper's turbine engine was just too loud to hear each other. Zone yelled at me and tapped his watch.

"About fifteen-minutes," he said.

Things were going smoothly for another minute, then there was a loud bang over us coming from the turbine and Zone yelled, "Fuck a duck! We're hit!"

Major Hayworth already knew an enemy round had slammed into the turbine blowing something. The rotor blade slowed down and Hayworth adjusted to auto-rotate while trying to bank around away from where the shots may have originated. When the bank started, we heard several pops and rounds blew through the tail next to Zone and he turned his gun down and to the right as he emptied a belt of ammo. Almost immediately, he flew backwards against me and his blood splattered all over the front of my utility jacket and trousers. I caught him and laid him down on the deck, almost falling out the other side when the Huey banked even more steeply. I glanced into Zone's eyes and he was gone. The round had gone straight through his heart. The Huey's tail started to swing slowly around as Hayworth nosed it up to land in an open spot he found between the trees.

"Bend your knees, O'Neall! We are going to hit hard!"

No sooner had I bent my knees than the Huey slammed down on the ground. The force was so great that the rotor snapped off and spun through the trees cutting them like a giant rotary lawn mower. The right skid snapped and the impact threw me off on to the ground and Zone's body flew past me and rolled. The impact also threw Lieutenant Livengood out of the chopper. It rocked back and settled so it just listed slightly to the right side. Major Hayworth jumped out and ran around to check us out.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes sir but Zone isn't. He took the bullet though his heart." I jumped up, grabbed Zone's body and draped him over my shoulders. The major ran over to the lieutenant and saw that his right leg and arm were broken and he had serious facial lacerations.

"Can you handle me carrying you, lieutenant?" the major asked.

"Do it. I will be okay.

I laid Zone's body down on the ground. "Just a minute," I said. I ran back to the chopper and grabbed Zone's machine gun and the two remaining belts of ammo. "Now I'm ready to go." I slung the gun and belts of ammo over my shoulder, then draped Zone around my neck.

"Let's get into those trees and take cover in the brush," Hayworth said. "I turned on the emergency locator transponder and also called a May-Day with our location. Help should be on the way."

The heaviest part of the jungle was some one-hundred yards from the chopper. It was dense and tall brush was plentiful enough to provide us with the cover we needed. No sooner had we crouched down in the brush then we heard voices and it was not English being spoken. As they got closer, it sounded like it might be a platoon-size group or larger. They had us outnumbered and probably outgunned. I grabbed the machine gun and clicked the belt into it as quietly as possible.

We could just see the chopper through the brush and trees. In a few minutes, the voices stopped. A moment later, two Vietnamese soldiers walk out of the tree line to the right and behind the chopper. Behind them were at least a dozen more and they all had weapons. When they saw the chopper was abandoned, they glanced around looking for the direction we might have headed. One of them ransacked the inside for anything he could find. One of the officers yelled at him and motioned his men to follow. They headed straight for us.

Although I was ready to get it on, the major signaled me to hold. When they reached a point midway between the chopper, and us, Hayworth signaled again and I let go with half the belt of ammo. All but two of them were down and probably dead. The other two made a hard left turn sprinting for the trees off to their left. The major fired his 45 at the one in front hitting him in the right side, probably through that side of his heart. I fired another burst taking down the second soldier. We've got to get the hell out of here," the major said. "All that firing will bring others."

No sooner had he spoken then a hoard of soldiers ran streaming through the tree line headed our direction. I waited until a dozen of them ran past the chopper toward us then unloaded the remainder of the ammo belt taking all of them down. Now I was out of ammo. I noticed that one of the men I took down had been carrying an ammo box and an AK-47. For the moment, the other soldiers were behind the tree line with the chopper between them and us. We needed a weapon and ammo.

I jumped up and ran for the dead soldier with the AK-47 and the ammo. I prayed the 47 was not empty as I sprinted towards him. I jumped forward and slid up to him on my chest, grabbed the 47 and ammo, then crouched and started my sprint back. By then bullets were whistling around me. At the halfway mark, a bullet smacked behind my right knee, blew out through the middle of my kneecap and knocked me down. It felt like my leg was on fire and the pain jumped to an excruciating level. It was so bad that the leg seemed to go numb. "Jesus Christ," I screamed, as I pushed up into a low crouch and ran a limpy zigzag back with more rounds streaming my direction. When I reached the bushes, I threw the 47 and ammo ahead of me then jumped and rolled back to where the others were waiting.

"Dammit, O'Neall! Were you trying to get your ass killed?" Major Hayworth yelled.

"I thought the rifle and ammo might give us some time." I glanced down at my right leg and my trousers were bloody with a clean hole at kneecap level.

"Crap, O'Neall. How bad are you hit?"

"I'll probably need a new kneecap. Looks like it went clean through it."

Lord Almighty. This hurts like a son-of-a-bitch.

I pulled off my belt, wrapped it around my leg above the knee, and then twisted it into a knot to stop the bleeding. I reached in the little first aid pouch on my belt, pulled out the morphine ampule and snapped it open, then jammed it into my leg above the tourniquet. In a few seconds, it began to kick in just as the enemy rifle fire picked up. The enemy soldiers streamed through the tree line again firing wildly our direction. When they passed the chopper, I carefully fired at them one-at-a-time and watched their bodies fall to one side or the other.

When I started to reload, whop, whop chopper sounds thundered towards us. I started firing at a new batch of enemy. In about two minutes, two Marine Huey's from VMO-6 passed overhead. One flared to dust in for a quick landing while the other circled with the gunner hanging out the side door chewing up the rest of the enemy on the ground near our chopper.

I didn't need an order to get my ass in gear. I jumped up and grabbed Zone and threw him back over my shoulders again, almost falling over because the right leg was numb and I almost could not feel it was still there. The major grabbed up the lieutenant and stayed behind me as I shuffle-jogged carrying Zone towards the waiting chopper. In the meantime, all the commotion drew more enemy soldiers and bullets started to fly towards the open area. By the time I reached the door gunner waiting for me, my left leg was about to give out and the one with the bullet wound was completely numb. He grabbed Zone under the arms and pulled him inside. I fell into the chopper. Major Hayworth pushed Livengood in beside me then jumped in just as the chopper started its lift.

"We've got to get you back to Chu Lai to fix that leg," the major yelled.

"It will wait. I need to meet with Sergeant Stone. Tell the pilot to get us over there."

He frowned at me. "Are you sure?"

"You have to try that morphine one of these days. It's really good stuff."

"Ten minutes later, our chopper set down at the remote base where Sergeant Stone was being held. The pilot shut the engine down just as the second chopper landed next to us. The major grabbed my hand and shook it.

"O'Neall, I can't say how much I appreciate your quick reactions, your effort carrying my gunner, Zone back, and what you did back there with those North Vietnamese. I am immensely impressed with you. I wish I could stay and talk more but, right now, I have to catch a ride back to Chu Lai. Please do not spend any longer than necessary with Stone. You need to get back and attend to that leg. Thanks again."

Major Hayworth jumped on the other chopper and glanced back at me. I saluted him and he returned it. They transferred Lieutenant Livengood into the chopper, then Zone's body and left for Chu Lai. I glanced around and a short, bull-necked, Vietnamese Marine General was headed my direction.

"Are you Lance Corporal O'Neall?"

I saluted him. "Yes sir."

"I'm General Lai with the Republic of South Vietnam's Marine Corps. Do you feel like doing this? Looks like you need to get that leg taken care of."

"Just a second, sir. I need to loosen this belt to let the blood move down into my leg so it won't gangrene on me."

"Lord, son. Are you sure about this?"

I cinched the belt tight again then glanced up at him. "Let's do it." I leaned on the AK-47 using it like a walking cane and started to move.

He put his hand on my shoulder and turned me towards one of the tents. "I've got Sergeant Stone over here. He has had a rough two years in captivity and has lost a shit-load of weight. I met him over two years ago when his recon team was teaching mine some new tricks. Back then, he was a big man. Hard as a rock. They almost broke him and damned near killed him. You get what information you need but take it easy on him. In my book he's a hero."

"When we reached the tent, General Lai leaned in the door flap.

"Sergeant Stone, I've got a Marine here who would like to talk to you. He's Lance Corporal Aedan O'Neall." He glanced at me. "Go on inside. Want anything? Coffee?"

"I'm good."

The frail man stood as I walked through the door. He brought tears to my eyes. He tried to walk to me to shake my hand but I could not let him do that.

"Sergeant, please don't get up on my account. In my book, you deserve to be carried by me and any other American who is in the same room with you."

He tried to smile as he sat back down on the cot. He reached towards me with his hand and it quivered. "I'm so glad to meet you, Lance Corporal O'Neall. You don't know how I've missed being around Marines who are free." He glanced at my pants leg.

"You're losing a lot of blood. Can't this wait?"

"No, sergeant. I will be okay. I pointed at the spot on the cot next to him. "Would you mind if I sit down?"

"Not at all."

It took a minute for me to gather my thoughts and I leaned forward with my hands on my good knee. The day had been full of surprises and my mind had to shift gears. I had not anticipated how difficult this interrogation would be. Interrogating a brother Marine who escaped from a prison camp was not part of my training.

"Sergeant Stone, I need to ask you a few questions about the time you were in captivity. Would that be okay?"

"O'Neall, I'll tell you what I know. Is there anything, in particular, you are interested in?"

"Yes there is. We have information from a North Vietnamese soldier who worked in the prison. He said there were several American POWs who were trading information for favors. Can you tell me anything about this?"

"How much time do you have?"

"As much time as you need and have the energy to talk."

#  Chapter 38 - Maggie

## Texas A&M University

## College Station, Texas

Maggie sat on the freshly cut grass next to the dorm trying to enjoy the warm, sunny day. A slight wind tossed her red hair to one side and she smiled and glanced at her roommate sitting next to her. Like Maggie, Cindy Drumworth was studying to be a veterinarian and her husband was still in Vietnam.

"This year has certainly passed quickly," Maggie said.

"I'm ready for this semester to be over with."

"Me, too."

"So have you heard anything more from Aedan? Is he doing okay?"

Even with Cindy, Maggie did not like to discuss him. Any conversation that involved Aedan brought her back to a reality she didn't want to face. Cindy's frown indicated some answer was expected. "His letters say he's okay. It just doesn't match up with what we see on the news at night."

"Maybe they just can't tell us what's really happening."

Maggie nodded wishing this conversation would end. Something inside her forced the conversation along. "What about your Soldier? Is Dustin still down near Saigon?"

"He's okay. Just tired and ready to come home. In his last letter, he said the Viet Cong are starting to build up in his area. He is a little wary of what is about to happen. Two soldiers in his platoon were killed by booby-traps last month. Dustin said it makes you afraid to step anywhere or touch anything. He said they try to stay away from the Vietnamese children too because they sometimes are wired with explosives or they are carrying some kind of booby-trap."

"That's awful," Maggie said. "I can't believe they use children! What kind of animals are those people, anyway?"

"They aren't like us. That's for sure."

"Aedan told me that the Viet Cong don't fool with the Koreans."

"How come?"

"Because the Koreans are allowed to fight to win. They do whatever is necessary to stop the enemy. Aedan said the Koreans are ruthless and the Viet Cong are scared of them."

"Wish our government would allow our troops to fight that way."

"Me, too."

"When Aedan gets home, are you going to get married?"

"You want to know the truth?"

Cindy frowned. "Sure."

"I just don't know."

#  Chapter 39 - Langley

## Washington, D.C.

The hotel garage smelled musty with just a hint of leaking gasoline. Max Langley's watch showed just after six p.m. He glanced around the garage, now better than half-empty because it was Friday and many hotel occupants left for the weekend. He was not sure why he decided to come back to the hotel just to look at the parking garage. Something had been working in the back of his mind and he was waiting for it to surface.

He stood in one spot, and then slowly turned around with his eyes sweeping whatever came into view. He made one complete turn and started around again when it caught his eye. The camera. The CIA owned the last parking garage he saw that had them. He started walking through the garage looking for more cameras. From his vantage point, practically every foot of the garage was covered by at least one camera. He took out one of his cigars and lite it, then headed for an elevator that would take him into the hotel where he could meet with security. What had been working in the back of his mind was Crowley's car and who might have replaced the brake lines.

At the front desk, he showed his private investigator's credentials to the clerk and asked if a manager was on duty. The young man made a phone call and five minutes later, the shift manager walked up to Langley.

"How do you do, sir. What can I do for you?"

He explained that he was investigating Phillip Crowley's death. He asked about the cameras in the parking garage and wanted to know how long the hotel kept the film. The manager said that they archived the film and kept copies for five years. Langley told him the date he believed Crowley last parked in the hotel's garage. Langley followed the manager to the security file room where four metal shelves held hundreds of cans of film. The shelves were labeled by specific garage floor, by year, month, week then day. The manager grabbed the first real from the garage's first floor and pointed to a booth in the corner. Inside was a chair, a table with a film projector, and a white screen on the opposite wall.

"Let's go into the booth and I'll show you how to load this first floor film. You will have to wade through the twenty-four hours for each floor. Maybe you will see Crowley's car." Inside the booth, he showed Langley how to operate the projector.

"Don't screw up my film."

"No sir. I will be careful."

At two a.m., Langley's eyes were burning and he was not sure he could keep it up. That is when the third floor camera showed Crowley pulling in to a parking slot around two-thirty on that particular afternoon. Langley watched Crowley get out of the car and close and lock the door, then glance into his window glass while brushing his hair. He smiled at himself, and then walked away towards the elevators. Okay, Langley thought, now I am getting somewhere.

Over the next two hours, he worked his way through the film watching the car. Other cars passed by Crowley's car and parked, and then later their drivers returned and drove away. People walked by Crowley's car on their way to the elevators or back to their own cars. Finally, a tall, thick-necked man with a crew cut stopped beside Crowley's car and glanced around him. For the moment, he was alone. The man's left hand gripped a small bag. Suddenly, he walked to the passenger side of the vehicle and dropped to a crouch. Langley lost sight of him because of the camera angle. A couple of cars drove by looking for spots to park but the drivers did not see the man between the cars. A few minutes later, the man appear on the driver's side. This time, the camera angle allowed Langley to watch the man pull a wrench from his bag and slid under the car behind the left front tire. In a few minutes, he eased out from under the car holding a hose in his hand. He put the wrench and hose in the small bag, and then walked away from the car. Langley watched as another camera recorded the man getting into a Plymouth four door. When he backed out, the camera caught his license plate.

Langley grinned and leaned back in the plastic chair. He had what he needed.

#  Chapter 40 – Silver Star

## Marine Corps Air Base

## Chu Lai, South Vietnam

On Wednesday around noon, I was back in my hut laying on my cot sweating. They had flown me out to the hospital ship, Hope, and the surgeons worked on my knee cleaning out the fractured bone parts in the cap and sewing up muscle and tendon torn where the bullet blew through them. They said I was lucky because it was a very clean shot and the bullet, for some reason, had not spread out. Otherwise, the bullet would have blown off the entire kneecap. Although I could walk on the leg, they advised me to keep as much weight off it as was humanly possible. For some reason, I was not hungry so I skipped noon chow. About the time I started to catnap, the hut door was jerked open.

"O'Neall, you lazy bastard! Are you in here?"

I recognized Digger's voice immediately. "Yeah. What's up?" I sat up on my cot and spotted him walking down the center of the hut towards me.

"A runner came over to the hanger. XO wants to see you on the double."

I stood up. "Okay. Not sure I can do the on the double bit right now. Any idea what he wants?"

"What the hell do I know?" Digger said. "I'm just a messenger."

"Okay. Thanks."

I slipped my utility shirt back on and buttoned it up, then grabbed my cover and pulled it down on my head. I walked over to Admin as fast as a cripple could manage. Conner was not at his desk so I limped down to Major Bradley's office and knocked on his door.

"Come on in."

After I was seated, he shuffled some papers together and put them in his outbox, then leaned forward on his desk.

"How's that leg doing?"

"Okay sir. The docs said I was lucky. It could have been much worse."

He nodded. "I know it. Son, your actions while on the trip to interrogate Sergeant Stone have not gone without notice. Also, the manner in which you handled that interrogation as well as the information that you got from Sergeant Stone is invaluable."

"Thank you."

"Major Hayworth and Lieutenant Livengood have both documented your quick thinking and bravery after the chopper crashed. It is highly likely that if you had not risked your life to recover the enemy weapon and ammo, all of you might have been killed. They have recommended you for the Silver Star."

"I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything. However, here is my problem. I would love to give you an award ceremony immediately but that cannot happen. There is no way to explain why you were even in that chopper. My having to explain why you were shot has been a challenge. Here is what I am going to do. I have expedited the paperwork so it should be approved soon. As soon as approval comes, I will make sure it is in your service record. Later, everyone will know you earned it. Just not now."

I nodded. "Whatever you say."

#### * * * *

A letter arrived from one of my friends at home. Sam wrote that a mutual friend of ours, Jack Walton, was getting married. I could not believe it. I figured the Walton would be a millionaire before he settled down. Jack was reading the Wall Street Journal while the rest of us were flipping through Mad Magazine and Superman comic books. Of course, I was ready to settle down right at that moment. The only problem is there was twelve thousand miles between Maggie and I and, probably, a much greater distance between how we felt about each other.

The leg was healing, slowly, and a corpsman showed me some exercises I should do twice a day to help recuperate the knee and get the leg as close to normal is it ever would be. Although I probably should have written my family about the leg situation, I just didn't want them to worry about me anymore than necessary. When I was not working or writing, I sometimes took a break to read the Stars and Stripes newspaper. It was the only news we got. The Marine Corps pretty much shielded us from news of the worst of the anti-war protests back home, beyond what we learned in letters from loved ones. That, too, would end quickly, once they began to read our mail, something we had in common with prisoners back home.

Getting home to see Maggie remained a fixed thought in my mind. I could not wait to be with her again, if she wanted it to be so. I was getting the uneasy feeling that my tour in Vietnam might extend even beyond the normal thirteen months unique to only Marines. I already spent two holiday seasons away from her – Christmas at boot camp and Christmas after I arrived here. One more Christmas was about to pass.

Artie's letter said, according to Maggie's brother, she finished up her sophomore year at Sam Houston State College and started her junior year at Texas A&M University, only recently co-ed. Women were new to the campus and I wasn't sure how I felt about Maggie being surrounded by men. Particularly because these men were not the typical wimps found on most campuses. They were all headed for stints in the military. I was proud of how well she was doing at A&M although it was impossible to imagine where she was, back home, at any given moment. Maybe she was at home or maybe she was at school. If she were at school, my letters would go unread until she returned home. The routine left my stomach in an uproar. So did the prospect that she was starting A&M's Veterinarian program. I felt, somehow, left behind.

Although I ended my college education voluntarily, I felt a sense of having lost a segment of my life. Where were my high school and junior college classmates? Were they finishing college? Were some of them over here in Vietnam? It brought back good memories. Ma sent me a newspaper story about one of my high school friends. He survived as point man with his Marine platoon but a drunk truck driver killed him while riding his motorcycle back home.

Because the rains stopped and electricity for lights was plentiful, I decided to take McCleary's advice and enroll in an electronics correspondence course. He said it might enhance my chances for promotion. I had forgotten how difficult study was, particularly when done on your own in a combat zone.

A letter arrived from Maggie thanking me for the roses I sent a while back. She told me Vet school was hard and the roses brightened up her day. It was still another Pen Pal letter. I had to find some way to get her out of my mind. In the meantime, I was making new friends down at Motor Transport. They were short a couple of drivers so I caught a few days duty behind the wheel of a Six-by and managed to use the slightly stiff right leg to push the accelerator down.

My job was shit can detail, one job no one should have. We started making rounds at zero-five-hundred each morning. I had a crew of four on the back of a truck loaded with empty fifty-five gallon drums cut in half with hand-holes cut on two sides. I stopped the truck behind each latrine and the men would hop off. They would remove full cans from under the seats in the latrines and replace them with empties. The full cans were loaded on back. The smell was unbelievable. When my truck was loaded with full cans, I would drive to the pond and they would empty the cans. Later, we would take the empties to another spot, fill them with diesel then set them on fire to burn them out. My first day, there was an accident.

Emptying the cans was a tedious process, mainly because my truck had no brakes. Someone told me the Defense Department said Marines don't need them. I would have to back the truck down a dirt ramp with the back end hanging over the pond then quickly put it in first gear and work the throttle and clutch just enough to keep the truck from rolling off into the soup. My first try was a disaster.

I accidentally popped the clutch. One of the Marines on back lost his balance and fell face first into the pond of human waste. He came out vomiting, covered with the stuff. I had to rush him back to sickbay where they could wash him off and doctor him up. For the next thirty days, I stayed away from him.

While assigned to Motor Transport as a duty driver, I learned that more air-wingers were about to arrive and there was no place to put them up because of a shortage of building materials. The Motor Transport Marines learned that just up the road, the Navy Sea Bee unit happened to have a cache of just what we needed. Our problem was that they had the stuff under guard. Not to worry.

One night one of the regular Motor T Marines slipped into the Sea Bee's area and drove away with one of their Six-by trucks. He drove to our hanger where we repainted it and changed the numbers on it. One night, a few days later at our enlisted club, one of the Sea Bees complained about the loss of the vehicle. Our Motor-T Marine, with heartfelt sympathy, suggested that the Marines would be more than happy to trade a spare truck of ours for some building materials.

They had no idea they were getting their own truck back.

Although we were in the middle of a violent war, most of us thought of our Mess Hall as a kind of safe zone, a place where you could enjoy a peaceful meal and temporarily escape the hazards of combat. That perspective changed when we got the Stars & Strips news article about Pfc. Valdez.

April 15 NEWS, Chu Lai. "Is there a doctor in the house?" took a slightly different twist working here as a shout went up at the mess hall of, "is there a corpsman in the area?" The cause of the call was Private First Class Richard A. Valdez, a baker with the Third Battalion, Seventh Marines, Task Force X-Ray, First Marine Division. On a break after helping to prepare the evening meal at battalion mess hall, he was hit through his right knee by a bullet. The shell missed the bone. According to the Marines who were eating dinner when Valdez was hit, the round must have come quite a distance before striking him as no rifle shot was heard. There was a firefight going on about 6,000 feet from the area at the time, however.

#  Chapter 41 – Senator Palmer

## White House

## James S. Bradley Press Briefing Room

## Washington, DC

President Johnson stood at the podium in the Press Room facing a horde of reporters from the U.S. and foreign countries. Large, dark circles colored his suit coat underarms and puffy bags stood out beneath his eyes. One reporter whispered that the president looked like the war was killing him.

"Our troops are doing an excellent job with their mission of removing the Vietnamese communists from control of the Republic of South Vietnam. The Joint Chiefs of Staff tell me that we are winning and North Vietnam is well aware that their days are numbered. I want you to know that I am doing everything in my power to bring this chapter in our history to a speedy close and the enemy knows it." With his last words reporters' hands shot up, everyone trying to get a question in. He glanced across the room and pointed at a New York Times reporter.

In the back of the room, Senator Palmer watched and listened. He knew that Johnson's words were only filler for the moment. He had no intention of speeding up this gravy train to end the war. His pockets were filling along with everyone else having investments in companies working in Vietnam. It would be a long, long war.

After the press conference was over, Senator Palmer walked out to the garage where his limousine was waiting. The driver glanced at him in the rear view mirror.

"Where to, sir?"

"Take me to the airport. I've got a flight to catch."

"Where are you headed, sir?"

"Geneva."

Ten hours later, his plane landed in Amsterdam and he caught the connecting flight to Geneva. When he arrived, a limo from the North Vietnamese Embassy picked him up to meet with General Thieu.

Following behind the limo at a safe distance was a Swiss cab. In all respects, it looked like a real Swiss cab. Behind the wheel, however, was an American, a former U.S. Marine. He was also a Knight of the Way. He kept excellent notes and was an expert with cameras. Nothing Senator Palmer was about to do would go unnoticed or unrecorded.

#  Chapter 42 – O'Neall's MARCAD Plan

## Marine Corps Air Base

## Chu Lai, South Vietnam

"Clemente! We thought your ass was dead!" GySgt. McCleary said while his newest tin-binder stood next to the A-4 grinning. "Yesterday we heard about the VC attack at Da Nang. We were told the R-4 I sent you up there to work on got blown to hell and back along with the hanger."

Private Marcus Clement shifted from one foot the other. "Yeah, well I guess I just got lucky. The night before, someone said the mess hall would be serving cinnamon rolls for late breakfast. The next morning, I took me a quick break to run over there and get me some. A couple of minutes after I left, the rockets hit the hanger. Two Marines got killed."

McCleary nodded. "Son, God was looking after you, no doubt about it."

"Don't cha know it, gunny."

"Hey, Marcus," I said. Glad you got back here in one piece."

"Me too, Lance Corporal O'Neall."

"Why don't you give me a hand on this patch job?" I asked. "I need you to climb inside this A-4 tail section and hold the buck bar so I can drive rivets in to hold this aluminum patch in place."

"Yeah. Cool. When I buck em, they'll look like a machine did it."

At noon that day, Mad Dog Hinson was supposed to meet me back at the hut for a workout. Our welder, Lance Corporal Frank Tiege, manufactured barbells for us out of steel bars and five-gallon buckets filled with concrete. The whole set up looked like something built by cave men but it worked. Mad Dog did not show up so I worked out by myself for twenty minutes, and then jogged over to the mess hall for lunch. While walking through the chow line, both my bicep muscles locked in a Charlie horse and I almost dropped my tray on the deck.

Damn! I should not have tried to handle all that weight with so many repetitions.

After noon chow, I was back at the hanger with Private Clemente helping me on the patch job when Staff Sergeant Buster Darnell walked over to us. He just took over as Gunny McCleary's assistant – it was going to be a bitch breaking in the new man. Darnell was a former Marine recruiter and an easy-going leader. I hoped he would eventually be impressed enough with my work so that I would be promoted again.

"O'Neall, I'm glad you're on my crew. From what I've seen, you do good work."

I nodded. "Good enough to make corporal?" I grinned and he shook his head.

"We'll see."

Back in the hut that night, I was playing a hand of poker with Gibbons.

"Say, Digger, you know anything about this MARCAD program?"

"Marine Cadet School?"

"Yeah. I heard it's one way for an enlisted Marine to become an officer and learn to fly."

"Why do you ask?"

"I want to be an aviator."

"I tell you, mate, you would suffer through the ten week Officers' Candidate School at Quantico, West Virginia. Then they would put you through a year of flight training. Then you would be sent back here. A week later, you would be dead."

"Bullshit. Not many of our pilots get killed."

"Mate, you wouldn't be flying jets. They would stick your butt in choppers. You would be flying one of those death traps up close and personal with the VC."

"Maybe."

"Let's change the subject. You're pissing me off."

A week later, I applied for MARCAD. Impressed by my aggressiveness, Sergeant Darnell recommended me for Officers Candidate School. I would have to take flight-training tests and pass an Officer Board review. I thought about Maggie but doubted she would care one way or the other now that she was just a distant friend.

When I got off from work that afternoon, I met Mad Dog and Digger down on the beach for our evening run.

"Where the hell you been, Irish?" Mad Dog said.

"Hey! I'm here so let's get on down the beach."

We were jogging abreast near the water with me in the middle. The sand was firm against our boots and we were headed into a slightly cool breeze angling at us from the sea.

"I hear that your ass kissing got your MARCAD paperwork started," Digger said.

"So it did." I punched his arm and grinned at him.

"Why in hell would you want to be an officer?" Mad Dog said.

"I'm not keen on the officer part. I just want to fly."

He glanced at me. "Irish, you can take civilian flying lessons back home."

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah. You want to be a fighter jock."

"Something like that."

"Exactly like that, mate." Digger said.

We finally hit the three mile mark and turned around to jog back to complete our six-mile run.

I spent that evening studying the OCS written exam materials. My math background sucked and that was a major negative factor in the selection process. Before my interview with the CO, the amount of information I needed to learn overwhelmed me.

Our new CO just arrived from Washington, D.C. and he talked tough. At the same time, they temporarily transferred Staff Sergeant Darnell to Da Nang for a week leaving me as my own supervisor. Da Nang was headquarters and staging area for most of what the Corps used against the North Vietnamese and their VC brothers operating in our I-Corps area. Maybe I would learn something from the added responsibility. Who knows?

On 22 March, Gunny McCleary walked over to me in the hanger.

"Got some good news for you."

"How good?"

"Your MARCAD application was accepted pending a passing grade on the College Equivalency Test next week. However, you still have to make pay-grade E-4 or corporal."

"I know it."

"Even then, the officers' board must deem you physically and mentally capable of becoming a Marine Officer. That bad knee might lose it for you."

"I understand gunny. The whole process is a minefield and could end at any moment."

"Glad you understand. Don't forget about the bunkers tonight."

"Is it really necessary to dig new bunkers?"

McCleary shook his head and walked away.

Until midnight, Marines from every hut shoveled wet sand to dig new bunkers to replace the old ones partial washed out from Monsoon rains. Some of the Marines even rigged lights in them and outlets for radio antennas! If the VC ever did overrun Chu Lai, they would play hell finding us! In the meantime, we passed around another Stars & Strips article about what was happening around us, as if we did not already know.

NEWS, Chu Lai. 1st Marine Aircraft Wing units in the Chu Lai area were kept busy during the early morning hours of Friday, March 24 as the Viet Cong unleashed a fierce one-hundred round mortar and recoilless rifle attack on allied forces at Nui Dang, forty miles south of Chu Lai. Jets and helicopters from Marine Aircraft Groups 12, 13 and 36 were dispatched to the scene where four enemy mortar positions were reported set up in nearby villages and tree lines, approximately one and one-half miles from the friendly villages.

Mag-12 A-4E Skyhawk attack jets hammered the enemy positions with two-hundred-fifty and five-hundred pound bombs, along with twenty-millimeter cannon fire. Helicopters from the Marine Medium Helicopter Squadron-362 braved heavy automatic weapons fire to pick up allied wounded.

Marine Observation Squadron-6 scrambled three UH1E Huey gunships to the zone, which, according to Marine observers, resembled a Fourth of July celebration, with tracer rounds and heavier ordnance saturating the area. First Lieutenant Bobby Thatcher, a pilot with VMO-6, related that it was just after midnight when the squadron received confirmation of the enemy attack on the fuel pits at Nui Dang.

One afternoon it dawned on me that Maggie's father, Carl MacFayden, was a Navy Mars Ham radio operator. I jogged down to the communication center to see if there was any way I could call him. A corporal was sitting at a radio table when I walked into the hardback tent.

"I'm Corporal Lewellen, what can I do for you?"

I told him about Maggie's father.

"What's his call sign?"

"VA5BDC, Victor-Alpha-5-Baker-Delta-Charlie."

"When I get it set up in a few days, I'll let you know."

Three days later, Corporal Lewellen stopped by my hanger to let me know the Communications Center was set up for phone calls home that night. Gunny McCleary said I could leave to make the call so I hotfooted it down to the Communications Center where they were warming up the radio equipment. About fifteen minutes later, Mr. MacFayden picked up the Navy-MARS call. He said Maggie was not around so I talked to him for a couple of minutes. He was cordial but did not seem as friendly as I remembered. When the call disconnected, I felt empty over not having talked to her. When I started to leave, Corporal Lewellen glanced up.

"Hey, O'Neall, Major Bradley wants to see you."

Here we go again, I thought while headed into the major's office. When I got to his office, I stood at attention and saluted him.

"Yes sir?"

He leaned forward on his desk. "O'Neall, I've got some bad news for you about your application to MARCAD."

"Sir?"

"I'm afraid, even though I know you would make one hell-of-a Marine officer and aviator, we just can't spare you. You scored higher on the exam than anyone in your group who took it. We need your skills working on aircraft and, of course, we need your help with your Intel work."

My heart sank but I tried to smile. "No problem. I understand completely."

"O'Neall, I know that you had your heart set on it. I'm going to try and make it up to you pretty soon."

"Thank you."

He could not have known how much I wanted to get into that program. Like everything else that happens in life, it would probably be for the best.

I just was not sure for whom it would be best.

#### * * * *

On the last day of April just before midnight, Charlie hit us again. At the time, twenty-three-hundred, we were all settling in our racks for a little shut-eye when blam-blam-blam-blam!! We jumped up, dressed, and out of the hut into our bunker in a record 20 seconds. Our artillery out on the Chu Lai perimeter located Charlie and fired on him. Unfortunately, the VC got away. We expected more that night. Once you have heard the sound of an incoming, you will never forget it.

Each type of artillery shell has its own distinctive sound. Rockets roar on the way in and end with a loud explosion. Mortars make a pinging sound when they leave the tube, then end with a hollow c-a-w-u-m-p, sort of like a kettledrum makes when the drummer strikes a blow. Rockets are usually sophisticated and often the planned trajectory takes them to or close to their intended target. Mortars, however, are usually walked to the target and you can listen to them stepping your direction. This is all moot, however, if the rocket or mortar immediately reaches the intended target. If you happen to be the target, you hear nothing.

A couple of days later, I just finished helping bolt an A-4 back together so I decided to squat down outside in the sun next to the hanger. Maybe the little breeze would feel good.

"When you going on R&R, Mate?"

I pointed to the ground next to me and Digger sat down. "A little Rest & Recuperation would certainly keep me from losing my mind about now."

"Yeah. These damned mortar attacks wear you down to the core. Those trucks passing through loaded with body bags don't help either."

"Don't remind me."

"Mate, the good news is that Operation Desoto is over so we might get some breathing room for a change."

"McCleary gave the recent stats on Desoto. Remember any of them?"

"Why the hell would I want to do that?"

"To cheer yourself up," Digger said.

"As I recall, three-hundred-eighty-three more VC were killed and nine more captured."

"Doesn't that make you feel better?"

"Dead people, no matter who they are, do nothing for me. The news that does cheer me up is that McCleary said he thought it would be our last big operation in Quang Ngai Province."

"Mate, maybe things will change for the better around here."

They didn't. Four days later, the Army's 186th Light Infantry Brigade swept in with four battalions, up from III Corps located in far South Vietnam. While they were climbing off the C-130s looking drained from their side of the war, LSTs hit our beach so their heavy gear could be off-loaded. Their job was to take over responsibility for the Chu Lai Defense Command and to relieve our 7th Marines and their three battalions so they could move up to Da Nang to help defend against a growing North Vietnamese compliment. We were not sure if the Army would handle things the way our Marine grunts would but decided to reserve judgment until things got hot.

Chu Lai nights were going to get nasty. Again.

#  Chapter 43 – White Innocent, Black Guilty

## The Castle

## Campos do Jordão, Brazil

The Order's current judicial panel was seated when Dr. Chirchir entered the room and took his place at the head of the table. They stood up until he was seated.

"Be seated, gentlemen."

He hurriedly glanced at the summary page on top of the thick file placed there for him. After reciting the purpose for the existence of the organization, he gave a short prayer, and then glanced up at the members.

"My apology that all of you had to travel all this way today. As you are aware, we do not meet here at the castle unless the situation requires additional security. Today is one of those situations. Our intelligence group has been in touch with our teams on the ground in South Vietnam. Other teams outside of that country have been monitoring these two men now under consideration. As you have noted in your copies of the reports before you, these two individuals have worked together supplying the North Vietnamese military with key intelligence of U.S. Army and Marine Corps operations in South Vietnam. One is a U.S. Army general, the other a U.S. Army lieutenant. Many American lives have already been lost due to their treachery. I will give you a few more minutes to review the reports before I ask you to vote."

He waited patiently until their eyes began to lift from the reports back towards him. All decisions made by this group of men were important but this one was especially significant due to the severity of the damage done by these two military officers. Finally, the last man lifted his eyes towards Chirchir.

"As our rules require," Chirchir began, "I will pass the box of black and white balls around the table. This process will be repeated for each individual under consideration. When you receive the box, choose the ball you believe bests judges the individual and place it in the hole. No one can see your hand inside the box and no one will know your decision. A white ball is innocent. A black ball is guilty. For the individuals to be executed, all of the balls selected must be black."

#  Chapter 44 – Major Daniel McKennon

## Marine Corps Air Base

## Chu Lai, South Vietnam

The sun was out and Gunny McCleary gave me the day off. I was happy to get a rest. I walked down to the beach that morning, got some sun and did some jogging to keep in shape and to continue therapy on my wounded leg. Mad Dog was packing to go home so his mind wasn't on running the beach with me anymore. When I heard my name called, I stopped and turned around to see the Pope.

"Irish! How about some snorkeling?"

He was headed my direction with two snorkel masks in one hand and two pairs of flippers under his arm.

"What the hell do I know about snorkeling, Pope?"

"Man, it's like child's play. Follow me down to the water and I'll show you how it's done."

I discovered that snorkeling was not in my genes. I damned near drowned when I tried to inhale at the wrong moment. Fortunately, I was not deep enough to keep me from standing up so my head was above the waves. I didn't think the experience was nearly as funny as the Pope did.

On the way back to the hut, Pope asked me to help on a project. We spent the rest of the afternoon building a porch on the back of our hut. We desperately needed a place to sit outside other than in the sand. When it was raining, we would not have to stay inside the hut. In addition, we would not have to shave in the rain anymore.

After we finished, we stood back to survey our work.

"Irish, I think we did a pretty damned good job," Pope said.

"Our hut mates owe us, big time."

A couple of days later the USO showed up on Saturday. A band made up of Marines from MAG-13 played some great pop music for us followed by a singer named Nancy Sinatra. The crowd hollered when she sang, These Boots Are Made For Walkin', Your Cheatin' Heart and a few more. The fun was short lived. The following morning our crew ran out of the hanger when we heard the roar. The sky was filled with what appeared to be the entire MAG-16 helicopter squadron.

McCleary was staring up at them too. "They are headed to Marble Mountain near Da Nang," he said.

"When are the coming back?" I asked.

"They aren't coming back."

"You're kidding! Who is replacing them?"

"The Army's 7th Cavalry."

Rumors were flying around that MAG-12 might pull out of Chu Lai by the end of June and go on an expedition to Fu Bai further north. I hoped we would not move because most of us were settled here. Scuttlebutt said that Fu Bai was swampy and teaming with insects biologists had not even identified yet.

"Don't get your asses in an uproar," McCleary said. "That's just scuttlebutt. Quit jacking your jaws and get back to work."

Digger was standing next to me sipping on a cup of coffee. "My father's last letter said that thousands of teenagers back home are marching against this war in the U.S. and Australia."

"My younger brother's last letter said the little traitors are burning our flag. We shouldn't allow that."

"You hear about what the 1st Marine Division did?"

"That thing with the Berkeley college students?"

"Mate, that was one hell of a letter those Marines sent to Berkeley."

"They told those hippy assholes to stand-the-Fuck by, because the 1st Division is going to kick your asses!"

"It's about time someone let them know we are sick of all of this protesting, draft card burning, free-though, and free-speech, and free-love movement."

"Amen, Digger. Amen."

Despite what our politicians back home thought, most of us were not stupid. It did not take a rocket scientist to figure out that the Congressional decision-makers did not want to win this war. Not quickly, anyway. There were deals to be made, power to gain and riches to add to the coffers of the few who were in charge. I overheard one Marine officer say, "There's the reason they give you that we are at war and then there's the real reason. Follow the money to find the real reason."

#### * * * *

The weather was heating up. It was also hard to sleep at night because the temperature was around ninety-seven degrees inside our hooch. But who needed sleep? I put my name in for transfer to an attack squadron leaving for a three-month deployment to Japan the following month. They had requested several metal smiths so maybe I would go. A week later, Major Bradley called me in and said there was no way in hell I was going anywhere.

I got a day off so I volunteered to ride shotgun with the Army to fly down the coast about seventy miles with the doggies in one of their Hueys. It was amazing to see all the latest equipment, Cobra gunships and so forth, considering the fact that the Marines had pioneered the use of helicopters in ground warfare while in Korea. Yet Marines were flying the crap while the Army was issued the hottest turbine powered rotor craft ever developed. Man, what were the Defense Department people smoking, anyway?

The crew chief introduced me to the Twenty-five-year-old pilot, Major Daniel McKennon. He seemed nice enough and was from Texas, too.

I was contemplating the peace sign pinned on the back of the Army door gunner's helmet when Maj. McKennon swung steeply to the West, in over a dense jungle area. On first glance, you might think you were in Hawaii, only the thought was brief. A few minutes later, we were sniped at. The pilot made a gut wrenching three-sixty turn around the area where the shots came from and the Army door gunner, me, and two other Marines unloaded a few thousand bucks of ammo down into our target zone. The door-gunner took a round in the stomach and the impact pitched him back against me. Blood was spurting out of his stomach so I jerked off my utility jacket and applied pressure to his wound as he lay on the floor screaming and rolling back and forth.

I screamed at the copilot over the engine noise asking if there was a first aid kit. He pulled around out of his seat and grabbed the kit from behind his seat.

"Give me one of those morphine ampoules," I yelled.

He slapped it into my open hand and I broke it in two and punched it into the gunner's stomach next to the wound. His eyes were wild and his breathing was rapid but the morphine started to kick in and he was beginning to slow down. His eyes started to glaze some. I didn't think he was going to make it.

In the meantime, Maj. McKennon brought the chopper into its landing mode as it dropped towards the ground at a high angle of attack. Over the speaker I heard McKennon yell that two platoons of doggies were on the ground, down under the trees, involved in a firefight with VC. A few minutes later, we swung down over a clearing where a Medic waited with one soldier who had been hit and another who was dead. When the skids hit the ground, the smell of gunpowder and death whiffed through the chopper and brought my breakfast up.

After we dropped the gunner, the other injured soldier and his dead friend off at a base camp near the beach, we picked up a load of artillery shells under the belly of the chopper and McKennon headed back over the jungle to deliver our goodies. About fifteen minutes later as we passed over a small village, something funny happened. The line holding the pallet underneath broke and three cases of highly potent artillery shells dropped into the village.

Friendlies or not, we had to go down and recover the shells so Charlie would not use them on our troops. McKennon dusted in about twenty feet over a hut the villagers were using as a rice storage bin. A hurricane wind caused by the chopper rotor completely blew the hut and most of the rice away. Man – were the villagers mad. They did not say one single word while we walked through the village picking up those shells. I thought someone was going to kill us. After we recovered the shells, we finally headed back to Chu Lai. After McKennon set the chopper down, shut off the engine, and got out, he walked over to me.

"Say, O'Neall, I can't tell you how much I appreciate how you helped my gunner. You saved his life."

"No problem, sir."

"Can we get you back here tomorrow?"

"I don't know, sir. You'll have to check with my maintenance chief at H&MS-12."

When I got to work the next day, McCleary told me to head back over to help the Army again. It was a revelation.

This time I climbed aboard an Army Chinook chopper – a twin rotor, cigar shaped helicopter some referred to as the banana – used for parachute insertions, freight hauling, and moving friendly Vietnamese out of dangerous areas. Had I known that the Ch-46 had a history of catastrophic accidents due to the failure of its rear pylon, I probably would have opted not to take the trip but I did not know so I went.

My assignment was to ride shotgun off the tailgate lugging an M-60 machine gun. Our job was to carry water tanks referred to as water buffaloes to Army artillery units positioned strategically on mountains and hills thirty to fifty miles away from Chu Lai. When I was introduced to the pilot, a nineteen-year-old Army Warrant Officer who looked like he had not started to shave yet, I was not too thrilled. It was an early warning signal I should not have ignored.

The first hill we screamed down on to make delivery was hot. VC were climbing up the hillside to attack the artillery unit. The pilot dropped in with the water buffalo slung under the chopper's belly and and the chopper listed to one side. I knew the wind was blowing directly against us. We were doing okay until tear-gas started to blow back at us from the cockpit. Apparently, the pilot threw a tear-gas grenade out without considering the wind's effect on it. The tear gas immediately filled the chopper. Our eyes started to burn and I could hear the pilot choking. I knew we were goners, but I heard the engines thrust into full power as someone cut the water buffalo loose below us. The chopper raced for altitude with VC fire pounding through the chopper's bulkhead while all of us choked for air. It was a lesson the young Army pilot would not soon forget and it was a daily reminder to me to be careful when I volunteered for anything ever again.

#  Chapter 45 - Swede

## Chicago, Illinois

Martin Simpson, known only as Swede to those who worked for him, sat at his workbench in his apartment guest bedroom turned work shop. The Marine Corps trained him to blow things up during the Korean War. They also trained him to defuse bombs built by the enemy. His military tradecraft gave him a love for things electrical and electronic. Eventually, he developed a hobby building radios and related equipment. He was just now putting the final changes on a Ham radio with a signal range no one would even believe possible. The phone rang when he soldered of the last circuit.

"Yeah?"

"This is eight-eight-zero-niner-two," the recorded message said. "We have two discards. Equipment X-two-five-up and B-one-nine-simple. You choose box. Call Ravenheart for time and place." When the line went silent, he hung up the phone.

He unplugged the soldering iron and set it in its stand. Two discards meant there were two individuals the committee wanted sanctioned. Equipment X-two-five-up was U.S. Army Lt. General Maximillian Lattermore. B-one-nine-simple was the Army lieutenant who helped the general provide the enemy with the intelligence information. The box he must choose was the individual who would make the hit. Ravenheart was the Marine officer in Vietnam who would tell him when and where the hit should take place.

Martin Simpson had a dozen members who were experienced, trained assassins. He had another three men who, although not yet knights, were capable of taking the assignment. This was a big job. He was going to sleep on it.

Tomorrow he would decide.

#  Chapter 46 – Bangkok Package

## Marine Corps Air Base

## Chu Lai, South Vietnam

Mid-week around noon, Gunny McCleary told me to run over to admin to pick up my R & R orders. The clerk had me sign a dozen forms and told me Major Bradley needed to see me before I left. I walked into Bradley's office and he told me to close the door.

Uh-oh. Here it comes.

"I set up your orders because I've got a delivery you need to make in Bangkok. You don't need to memorize anything this time." He handed me the thick brown nine-by-twelve envelop.

"After you check in to your hotel, go down to the lobby and look for a large, bald man wearing a bright patterned Hawaiian, short sleeve shirt. Start to walk past him but stop if he looks at you and says something like 'any action at the hotel bar?' If you hear this, tell him to follow you in to one of the elevators. On your way up give him the package."

At noon, I caught a Marine cargo aircraft out for Da Nang. That was one hell of a flight. The aircraft was fully loaded with both men and equipment. It was hot outside, and hot air does nothing to provide lift to an aircraft taking off. Add to that the fact the runway was situated between mountains and what you end up with is a plane that will not get off the ground. That is, unless it has rocket power.

Our cargo aircraft was equipped with jato-rocket assist – rocket pods attacked to the port and starboard sides of the plane just behind the wings. This is a turbo-prop aircraft. Not a jet. We were on the takeoff run, probably a half mile down the runway when the pilot hit the jato button. You could feel the old aircraft shudder with the sudden burst of several thousand pounds of thrust. It threw us into the sky.

A half hour later, we set down at Da Nang airbase, my first return there since my arrival in Vietnam the previous year. Da Nang was a major military airfield and Navy, Marine and Air Force aircraft operated twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. The field was laced with runways and jets crisscrossed as they thundered off simultaneously on different runways. We landed, and then climbed on large Six-By trucks bound for the R&R staging area. We arrived at one of the barracks designated for personnel waiting for commercial charter flights out of Vietnam. A corporal gave us instructions, picked up our R&R orders, and then told us there would be several hours layover before we could get out.

A couple of us from Chu Lai found out where the commissary was and caught a ride with an Air Force Airman in his jeep. The commissary was unbelievable! It had a huge Post Exchange, military version of a shopping mall, something like a mega-discount store back home and a cafeteria the likes of which we had never seen. We headed into the cafeteria, our noses hungrily following the delicious smell of hamburgers frying on the grill.

The cafeteria was a roar of voices. Several hundred men from virtually every branch of the service were eating. Some of the troops looked like they might be stationed at Da Nang. Others with camouflage paint still on their faces looked liked they just came in from a firefight in the field. We were waiting in line for our burgers when the shooting started.

All of us in line dropped to the floor on our stomachs. I heard screaming and more shots were fired. Tables were quickly turned over just like you've seen on TV westerns – a bar room scene. Only this was not the old west. What we had going on was a race war! Some black soldiers starting shooting at some white soldiers over who-the-hell-knew what? Three of us from Chu Lai crawled out of that place as fast as our little arms and legs would move.

That evening we climbed aboard a commercial flight bound for Bangkok, Thailand. It had to be quieter there.

#### * * * *

## Bangkok

## Thailand

Thailand, or more properly the Kingdom of Thailand, occupies a two-hundred-thousand square mile area of the Western half of the Indochinese peninsula with Burma North and West, Laos North and Northeast, Cambodia in the East and Malaysia on the South. Thailand is about the size of France. During WWII, the Japanese had occupied it. Now the Vietnam War was spilling guerrilla activities into her borders. The U.S., with the Thai government's blessing, operated some massive military bombing missions from bases inside her borders. Consequently, Bangkok was teaming with military people from all branches of the service and many foreign countries. The place, we heard, was rampant with spies from all sides and entrepreneurs profiting from the war – many, I suspect, holding positions in the U.S. Congress. The sidewalks were crowded with foreign visitors and men, like myself, on R & R. The streets were filled with locals on their bicycles, the primary mode of transportation in that country as well as Vietnam.

After checking in to the hotel, the other Marines said they were going down the street for some sightseeing. I said I would catch up a little later. I waited about twenty minutes then wandered down to the lobby to look for Mr. Hawaiian shirt. I sat down on one of the lobby's leather armchairs while I waited. Directly across from me was a group of men standing in a circle. They were dressed in the traditional white outfits you see men wear in Saudi Arabia and my ears perked up when I caught the familiar sound of Arabic. I was a little rusty but recognized most of the conversation. They were talking about something called the Muslim Brotherhood and their meeting with representatives from Syria, Iraq and Iran. They talked about training camps and some future plans to blow something or someone up. I did not get that part of the conversation when they headed out the front door. A half hour later, Mr. Hawaiian shirt walked through the entrance headed towards the hotel phones. I carefully walked his direction and started past him when he said:

"Hey, young man – any action in the bar?"

I nodded towards the elevators and mumbled, "Come with me."

Some other guests walked up behind us so I stepped to the side to let them on. We could wait until the elevator came down again and we would be alone on it. A few minutes later, the deal was done and I was headed down the sidewalk in front of the hotel looking for my friends.

Over the next four days, we visited ancient Thai religious buildings; watched locals dance in religious ceremonies; we visited Thai government buildings and we viewed local cultural events. We also spent some time on bar stools testing the local alcoholic brew and we traded war stories with anyone who would listen. We ate dinner at a sidewalk restaurant and I lost my appetite when I spotted some locals eating monkey brains out of the head of a live monkey clamped up under their table. We bar hopped with some Australian soldiers and a couple of U.S. Navy Seals, too. It was a time to forget where we had been, although our story telling made us wonder just how badly we wanted to forget any of it. The time was suddenly gone before we knew it.

#### * * * *

## Marine Corps Air Base

## Chu Lai, South Vietnam

When I got back to Chu Lai, one letter from Maggie was waiting. It was obvious she wrote it in a hurry and had little to say. I settled back into writing and working at the hanger. I felt like I'd been in country a lifetime. Letters from home were slow-coming and any news was old news. Incredibly, there was a letter from my old man. He wrote that ma was very depressed and the nightly news of the war often made her cry. Artie was doing good in school and his skills as a place kicker allowed the team to win the last two games.

The night of the 25th we were put on alert. Word was that elements of the 3d and 21st North Vietnamese Regiments were in the Nui Loc Son Basin North of us; the Corps was planning Operation Union II the next day. Most of the stepped-up enemy activity resulted from the anti-war protests back home.

That day at mail call, I was stunned to find another letter from my old man. He said that a retired intelligence officer spoke at our church about what was going on with the North Vietnamese. He said North Vietnam's government had agents in the U.S. who monitored U.S. television, radio and newspaper reports fed to the American people about anti-war protests in the U.S. Their goal was to wear down the American peoples' will to continue the war. Those communist agents had, quite successfully, manipulated key influential Americans, some unknowingly, others with their full knowledge and assistance.

That night base security tightened and we hoped the Army took it as seriously as we did. Their choppers were about all we could put into the air if an attack started. I was looking forward to Friday and our poker game.

By this time my pile of MPC funny money had grown into just under one-thousand dollars. At some point after my arrival in Vietnam I decided to try and save enough money to buy Maggie the largest diamond wedding ring she ever saw. My plan was working. Although I didn't always win our poker games, I was successful more often than not, enough at least to piss off some of our regulars every time they watched me sit down and spread the cards in my hands.

That Friday night was no different and I was feeling pretty good – so good, in fact, that two hours and six beers into the game I placed every piece of MPC I had saved on my hand and called the other players hands. What happened next changed my life and would modify my reaction to any type of game anyone would ever ask me to play forever more.

I lost it all. Every damned-friggin' penny.

"No screaming shit!" the Pope said. "It's about time someone took your Irish ass down!"

"I'm in the money, I'm in the money, I'm in the money . . ." Corporal Nebbins repeated while he scrapped his winnings into a neat pile.

I can't even begin to express the level of despair that hit me and the feeling of utter contempt that I felt for myself for the abject stupidity of what I'd done. My plan to buy Maggie a wonderful diamond wedding ring was gone, even though I was no longer sure she would even want to marry me. There was no way that I could save that much money again before going home. I just could not believe what I had done.

That night I was spread out on my cot thinking how stupid I'd been. It was then that I told God that I would never, never play poker again. No, I would not ever play any game again. I would refuse to ever again put myself in a position to lose money playing a game.

The next morning, explosions rocked us out of bed. Union II began with a bang. 3d Battalion, 5th Marines made a chopper assault on the 3d NVA regiment near Vinh Huy just up the road from us. Chu Lai aircraft were scrambled for close air support and by the end of that day one-hundred-seventy-one North Vietnamese were dead, and thirty-seven Marines were killed with another sixty-six wounded. Around the clock air support continued and many of our aircraft came home with fresh holes needing the tender touch of the metal shop.

Two days later at the end of my shift, Gunny McCleary walked over to me.

"You want to join me over at the admin building?"

"Am I getting another award?" I said with a little too much sarcasm.

He frowned and shook his head. "Not this time. 5th Marines are over there showing off the NVA weapons they captured. You won't believe what else they've got."

"What?"

"A Texas Aggie ring worn by a North Vietnamese officer killed in the action."

"No kidding! Gunny, why would anyone travel to the United States, attend college and work along side of the kind of wonderful people we have, then return to their own country and try to kill us?"

He stared at me for a moment. "That NVA officer might have thought the same thing about us."

I was going to be sure and write home about this one.

#  Chapter 47 – No Forgiveness

## Cut and Shoot, Texas

Arthur O'Neall leaned on the rake, tired from pulling dead leaves into piles that he would burn, then repeat the whole process in a week as if he'd done nothing today. He never did enjoy working in the yard and only tolerated it well when Aedan was helping him. They usually talked while they worked and he missed his older brother more than anyone could know. Although three years separated their ages, Aedan always treated him like an equal. Artie learned a lot from Aedan even if it was from his brother's mistakes. Artie knew, somehow, his old man was wrong about Aedan and the whole absent-without-leave thing. His older brother had never done anything without a legitimate reason so this wasn't any different. He glanced at his old man who was trying to figure out why the lawn mower wouldn't start again.

"Why don't you let up on Aedan, father? He has more than made up for anything he's done wrong."

The moment he spoke the words he felt small for having said them. He had never been disrespectful to him even when the old man unjustly punished him or Aedan. Although he was still respectful of his old man, Arthur had matured and his size, alone, made the old man a little more watchful and less prone to acts of physical violence. Arthur was older now and felt the need to try and reason with him no matter the consequences. Rogan O'Neall was a good man but unforgiving. Over the years, Arthur came to recognize that his old man held grudges and wouldn't tolerate breaking rules.

"Boyo, Ya' don't talk to me that'a way, ever! Ya' don't understand what your brother has done. Good men die when other men fail in their duties."

Arthur nodded. "Yes sir. I'm sorry."

He turned with his rake and started to grab more leaves for another pile. It was no use. His old man wasn't going to forgive Aedan. Not ever.

#  Chapter 48 - Axle

## Washington, D.C.

Axle opened another Budweiser, put his socked feet on his coffee table, then he picked up the phone and dialed the commandant's phone number. Dr. Chirchir picked it up on the third ring.

"Kim, my crew identified the individual connected to General Lattermore and Lieutenant Toole. It may surprise you."

"Hit me with it. Who is it?"

"He is the head of the Senate Arm Services Committee, Senator Martin Palmer."

Chirchir didn't speak for a few seconds and Axle knew he was processing this new development.

"What do you think?"

"I think the order will have to review this immediately. If possible, he needs to be eliminated quickly before he causes the loss of any more American lives."

"I agree."

"Is there anything else I need to know?"

"One of our knights heard that Senator Harmon is considering filing criminal assault charges against O'Neall for hurting his son."

"Why would he do that after all this time?" Chirchir asked.

"My guess is that he is frustrated because his hired muscle didn't get the job done and he finally understands that O'Neall is capable of defending himself."

"Is there any way this process can be stalled or postponed? Once it gets filed, a judge can order the Marine Corps to send O'Neall home for trial."

"I'm not sure what we can do. I'll have to think more about it," Axle said.

"Don't take too much time. We need O'Neall to stay in Vietnam until his tour is over."

#  Chapter 49 – Cubi Point Delivery

## Marine Corps Air Base

## Chu Lai, South Vietnam

Judging from heat thermals boiling up off our runway, it was going to be a hot summer. A few Marines had already gotten a brief reprieve. Some of the married guys, back from R & R to Hawaii where they'd had a chance to meet and spend time with their wives, did nothing to soothe my depression. By June 1, it was hotter-than-hell at Chu Lai. During the day, you could literally fry an egg on the aluminum runway matting. Believe me, I tried it – Got an egg from the Mess Hall one morning and took it to work with me. At high noon, I cracked the shell and the egg started to fry as soon as it hit the runway.

Gibbons bought a radio while on R & R, so at night in our hooch all of us would gather around it and listen to the military's news and music station. Sometimes we picked up the Hanoi Hanna station broadcast out of Hanoi, North Vietnam. The commies sometimes played the latest music out of the States, something our military didn't approve of. Hanoi Hanna was Vietnam's equivalent of the Japanese Tokyo Rose broadcast to our troops during WWII. Hanna was the communist's propaganda machine. Music was frequently interrupted to give us an update of how many of the U.S. troops were killed or captured, followed with an update of the anti-war efforts back home. That part really pissed us off.

I'd often thought I'd had my share of bad luck and things had seemed, at least, to have changed for the better. An article I'd clipped from the Stars and Stripes newspaper about another Marine caught my attention:

Marine Pilot Finds No. 20 to His Liking

CHU LAI, Vietnam – The number 20 is a lucky one for 1st Lt. Allen J. Braden, a pilot with Marine Attack Squadron 214.

He earned his first Air Medal while flying "Skyhawk" number 20, on his 20th mission, 20 miles southwest of Chu Lai, on January 20th. his mission was flown in support of ground Marines who had encountered stiff resistance from several enemy strongholds.

By late summer, Operation Union II was over. McCleary told us about it.

"You men need to know how it went down for the 5th Marine Regiment. They killed at least fifteen-hundred of the communist bastards and captured two-hundred of them. 5th lost two-hundred gallant Marines and seven-hundred others were wounded. The 5th Marine Regiment won the Presidential Unit Citation for their incredible actions." Later that afternoon, I was sweeping the hanger when McCleary walked over.

"You got a birthday today."

I nodded. "Yippee."

"Meet me down at the Enlisted Club after work. Got some cake planned."

"I'll be there with bells on."

They say a guy's twenty-first birthday is something to be remembered. Mine would certainly stick in my memory. I was on the other side of the earth from everything I cared about, resolute with the knowledge that I had over six months before I'd get to go home again. I was in the middle of a war that many of my countrymen back home hated along with men like me, and all-in-all, I thought it sucked.

The enlisted club was a screened in wooden building thrown together on the beach close to our living area, designed with just one purpose in mind – to get numb. Usually it got pretty rowdy, particularly if soldiers or Navy Seabees dropped in to our hallowed territory because Marines are very territorial. Fights were normal, usually erupting over almost nothing, sometimes, just for the hell of it. Fortunately, on my birthday, it was relatively quiet.

I'm not proud of the drinking I did that evening, but the process helped me almost forgot where I was. Of course, the next morning, I wished I'd had cake and ice cream the night before instead of what I'd consumed. Frankly, I felt like I hoped it would be my last birthday. Anything to put me out of my misery.

"You look like the devil," Gibbons said.

"Yeah. Don't remind me and don't talk so damned loud." Gunny McCleary was headed my direction.

"O'Neall, you've got a pretty low tolerance for alcohol, don't you?"

"I do. I don't remember much about the party."

McCleary and Digger laughed.

"What's so funny?" I asked hoping there was no answer.

"You sing and dance pretty good," McCleary said.

"Why do you say that?"

"Right before we carried you back to your hut, you were up on the bar dancing with your shirt off singing your own version Sixteen-Tons. We aren't too sure if Merle Travis or Tennessee Ernie Ford would approve."

"Oh, my God."

"Maybe something I've heard will cheer you up," McCleary said.

"What would cheer me up?"

"Next week you, Gibbons and Martinni are going to the Philippines."

"No kidding?"

"No, I'm not kidding. Douglas aircraft designed new equipment for the A-4 and you need to learn how to modify our airframes so it can be installed. You're going down to the major repair facility at Cubi-Point so they can show you how."

"How long will we be there?"

"About three weeks."

"Some vacation!"

"Believe me, it won't be a vacation."

Laying on my rack that night, I started to think about the A-4 and remembered some of its history we learned at Memphis. The A-4 had originally been designed to carry the atomic bomb. Over the years, it evolved to carry out missions limited only by the imagination of those in planning. This trip to the Philippines would give me a chance to see the new two-seat TA-4F recently delivered to the Corps to use in 'Nam. MAG-12 was supposed to get two TA-4F's configured as Airborne Tactical Air Command posts, kind of like air-traffic controllers in the sky. McCleary told us the TA-4F would fly around in the heavy monsoon rain and direct Super Gaggles, flights of chopper transports escorted by A-4 jets and UH-1E gunships, to their destinations while fully on instruments. Wednesday of the following week, after I finished signing the temporary transfer orders on Corporal Conner's desk, I leaned into Major Bradley's office.

"Sir, does the major have anything for me?"

He pulled a package out of his desk drawer and walked over to me. "O'Neall, I think you are getting into the groove of this."

#### * * * *

## Cubi Point Naval Air Station

## Bataan, Philippines

We arrived at the Naval Air Station, Cubi-Point, on the 3rd of August, 1967. It was a good opportunity to get away from Vietnam, again, if only for a few weeks. Because we were on a work detail, there would be little of the Marine Corps' legendary spit and polish routine that prevailed in the U.S. or anywhere else in the world. And the accommodations and food were excellent. Even better than we'd had in the States, probably because the Navy ran the place. The Navy, like the Air Force, liked all the comforts of home. It made me wonder why the Marine Corps referred to itself as the better part of the Navy.

We checked in with the base Naval Administrator, turned in our paperwork, then got directions to our assigned barracks.

When we walked up to the almost new two-story brick barracks, Digger hit me on the arm.

"Jesus, mate, these sailors live like kings. Look at this building."

We got inside the air-conditioned building and found private two-men rooms. "You've got to be kidding," I said. "I could spend the rest of my tour right here."

"According to the Marine Corps, air-conditioning has not been invented yet," Digger said.

We stowed our stuff in closets, then decided to walk across the base to the hanger where we would be working. Finally we located the building and walked inside.

"Damn, mate! This place just keeps getting better and better."

"Looks like you could eat off the floor," I said.

Hinson pointed his finger around the hanger. "Look at all of the shiny new equipment!"

We sounded like a bunch of children on the first day of school.

When depression set in over how well the sailors had it and how bad the Marines had it, we decided to walk to the canteen. Along the way, Martinni pointed to a cab sitting at the curb.

"Maybe we could catch one of those cabs to town later on."

"Good idea, Gibbons said.

I didn't reply because I wondered how I was going to deliver the package without them finding out.

That evening, thankfully, the temperature dropped to around forty-five degrees Fahrenheit so I put on a light jacket that would cover up the large envelope I was supposed to deliver. Gibbons was in the shower so I walked down there.

"Hey, Digger," I said. "Listen, you and Martinni go on into town without me. I found out they have a communications center with telephones. I'm going to try and phone Maggie. I really need to talk to her."

"Jesus, mate, we could wait."

"Don't. I will go out with you guys another time. Hell, we've got three weeks."

"Okay. We'll do some recon work and find the best spots."

Over the next hour, I wandered around the base until I thought they were on their way to town. I prayed to God I wouldn't run into them when I got there. I caught a cab and headed for the bar where I was suppose to deliver Major Bradley's package.

The place wasn't hard to find but a little difficult to reach so I got out of the cab and walked. Along the way I passed dozens of bars and most of them had half-naked women out front offering their bodies for money. As I past by them, some would lift their skirts showing they wore no panties. If this had happened to me in high school, well, lets just say the walk would be difficult. Now it was mostly educational but still captivating. Up ahead I spotted the bar where he was supposed to be. I walked inside and glanced around the very smoky, very loud room full of happy, very drunk patrons. I spotted a big guy seated at the bar wearing a ball cap with the Navy Seal Trident across the back of it. He looked like he had no neck and his muscles had muscles. I sat down on the stool next to him.

"Why aren't you up near the DMZ?" I asked using the code question.

"Because I like this bar more," he said without looking at me.

I slipped the envelope out of my jacket, set it on the bar and put my elbow on it. His big left hand eased over on it, then slid the envelope in front of him.

"Semper Fi, jarhead," he said while staring straight ahead.

"Yeah. Semper Fi." I slipped off my stool and walked away without looking back.

The Philippines had its own set of problems. Communist guerrillas operated there with the same degree of aggression experienced by Vietnam. My second week at Cubi-Point, we planned a bus trip to Manila. We cancelled after learning that an earlier bus load of sailors was ambushed and all of them beheaded. There didn't seem to be any chance of getting away from war.

I spent the remainder of my time in a mortar and rocket-free zone working days at the aircraft repair center and attending classes most evenings, learning about new equipment we were installing on our aircraft. The silent nights were a blissful relief from the war going on back in 'Nam. On a Saturday, the four of us walked down to the docks to get a look at the U.S.S. Enterprise, America's premier nuclear aircraft carrier.

She was over one-thousand feet long and the deck was just over one-hundred-thirty feet above the water. The fact that eight Westinghouse A2W nuclear reactors powered her was a little scary. As I stood there gazing at this thing, it dawned on me that if Enterprise were stood on end, it would be a really tall building. In boot camp, we practiced abandoning ship. I'm not sure any of us would survive jumping off this carrier. The damned thing was, essentially, a good size city. It had its own law enforcement, judge, restaurant, convenience store, health club, air base, and it was governed by its own dictator, the captain.

#### * * * *

## Marine Corps Air Base

## Chu Lai, South Vietnam

On the 28th of August while we were working in the Philippines, Dong Ha was hit by three separate attacks, something like one-hundred-fifty rocket and artillery rounds. They lost two aircraft and another twenty-four were damaged, their fuel dump was destroyed along with an ammo dump, and one Marine was killed and seventeen others wounded. At the same time, DaNang's Marble Mountain Air Facility caught twenty-four 140-mm rockets resulting in the loss of three choppers with twenty damaged, five Marines killed and another eighty-four wounded. Two days later Phu Bai was hit. Phu Bai Marines lost four choppers with fourteen damaged. Three Marines were killed and fifty four wounded. Then they hit Da Nang again on September 2nd. Rockets damaged or destroyed three Air Force transports and nine airmen were wounded. We lost one Marine there and sixty-one were wounded.

When we got back to Chu Lai, I knew it was time to keep my head low and my nose to the wheel. Vietnam was getting hot with NVA and VC activity, probably because Congress was losing some of its will to fight, buried under an avalanche of anti-war protests organized by the Communists. September began with additional attacks on III MAF's major bases including ours. On the North and South ends of our SATS field, 2d LAAM Battalion of Marines operating Hawk surface-to-air missiles were put alert, just in case North Vietnam mustered up the balls to send MIGs into the area.

That first night back Digger came by and grabbed my arm.

"Hey, mate – how about we go get some chow?"

"Let's do it!"

We were seated in the chow hall working on a kind of meatloaf dish with powdered mashed potatoes and green peas right out of a can. I took a sip of my coffee and Gibbons slapped his hand down on the table.

"Did you hear about the fight Australia got in down in III Corps the second week of this month?"

"No. What happened?"

He pulled a newspaper article out of his pocket and started to read to me.

"The 274 VC Regiment commanded by Ut Vhoi was engaged by 7 RAR, Company A, commanded by Major Ewart O'Donnell as he crossed the Suoi Chau Pha creek about 10 Kilometers East of Phy My. 2nd Platoon commanded by Lieutenant Graham Ross advanced on a VC squad then maneuvered to attack resulting in a fierce, face-to-face fire-fight at close range. One of the unit's forward scouts, my buddy Private Keith Downward, was seriously wounded but managed to overtake VC machine guns while saving another Australian soldier. The battle continued in heavy monsoon rain and two section commanders were killed and a dozen soldiers wounded. Lieutenant Neville Clark, a forward observer, called in artillery from Fire support Base Giraffe which scattered the VC. When the VC massed an all out attack Lieutenant Clark called artillery within fifty-five yards of his own position and Australian 105 mm howitzers along with American 2/35th Artillery Battalion 175 mm artillery routed the VC around fourteen-thirty."

"God Almighty, Digger, you ought to be a six-o'clock news man. That's one hell-of-a story. I'll bet there's going to be some medals awarded for that battle."

"I hope so. If I don't mind sayin' so, my Australian diggers are pretty damned tough."

"So I've heard. So I've heard." He would be stunned if he knew I'd delivered a message to the Australians.

#  Chapter 50 - Swede

## Chicago, Illinois

Swede lay down on his bed and put his arms behind his head. An hour ago, one of the organization's couriers picked up his instructions to Major Bradley concerning the sanction placed on U.S. Army Lt. General Maximillian Lattermore and his accomplice, Lieutenant Toole. The courier would catch a flight with a Navy A-6 Intruder flown by another member of the Order. The delivery would be quick.

It had taken Swede longer than anticipated to select the person who would make the hit. As it turned out, his first impression was, he believed, the best choice. He was not always so certain about his selections although, so far, he had not made a wrong one. This time he was extremely certain his choice was the best.

He smiled. By Christmas, although they would never have knowledge of why, American soldiers and Marines in Vietnam would be somewhat safer.

He couldn't think of a better present for the troops.

#  Chapter 51 – Completely Voluntary

## Marine Corps Air Base

## Chu Lai, South Vietnam

Between September and year-end, Chu Lai launched a major effort to support Marine elements doing battle in the north and west of I Corps. The U.S. Congress' increasing dislike of the war energized the North Vietnamese and their VC guerrilla supporters in the South. I felt like I'd been running a marathon and could now see the finish line just ahead. In my mind, Maggie was standing there waiting for me, I prayed, and I knew I had to run harder. On November 8, my Squadron finally saw to it that I got my long awaited promotion. GySgt McCleary pinned on my new Corporal chevrons. Ma clipped the following Houston Post article about me.

Aedan O'Neall Wins His Corporal's Stripes In Vietnam

VIETNAM (FHTNC) Nov. 8 – Marine Corporal Aedan O'Neall, son of Mr. and Mrs. Rogan O'Neall Jr. of Cut and Shoot, Texas was promoted to his present rank while serving with Headquarters and Maintenance Squadron-12, First Marine Aircraft Wing in the Republic of Vietnam.

His promotion resulted from time in service and rank, military appearance, and his knowledge of selected military subjects.

His squadron provides maintenance for all aircraft of Marine Air Group - 12 and maintains all re-supply channels needed to assure that Marine Air Group - 12 is combat ready.

I was now a Non-Commissioned Officer. That rank was the first order of change in social status for a Marine enlisted man. By all rights, I should have been a Marine E-5 Sergeant, had it not been for my having gone AWOL.

With my new rank came new responsibilities of leadership and those of lesser rank grudgingly were required to treat me differently. For me, it was a brief but uncomfortable beginning. It took a while to get used to, but it was a welcome change, removing me from the available list of names needed for the endless work-detail assignments. I'd finally reached a higher status. I was a leader rather than a follower. One big downside was that I was now more responsible for the safe repair of aircraft in my charge, a factor preventing me from sleeping most nights almost more than did the mortar attacks. It also resulted in fending off an attack by another Marine who believed he deserved the promotion instead of me. I understood his anger so I didn't hurt him or bring charges against him. The year, 1967, had been a tough twelve months for Marines in Vietnam and I was proud of the part I played in the effort.

During the past year, the Corps had managed over one-hundred-ten major operations of battalion size or larger. Some three-hundred-thousand small unit operations, day and night, halted guerrilla activities. Our efforts resulted in the deaths of almost eighteen-thousand enemy soldiers. In I Corps where we were located, some eight-thousand enemy soldiers were killed. Our aircraft flew sixty-three-thousand sorties supporting III MAF ground forces and another ten-thousand in support of other Free World forces. Marine fixed wing aviators flew eleven-thousand strike missions against North Vietnam using close to one-hundred-forty-thousand tons of bombs, one-hundred-sixty-thousand rockets, and over two-million rounds of 20-mm ammo. Our helicopter units flew almost one-half-million sorties and lifted three-quarters of a million troops coupled with vast support services. Someone was, I suspected, making a lot of money to keep the game going.

While some people were making fortunes, we paid a hard price for the temporary victories during my tour. Almost thirty-five-hundred Marines died with another twenty-six-thousand wounded. Those figures, when counting back to 1962 when we'd entered the fray, had totaled five-thousand Marines dead and thirty-eight-thousand wounded. Our fellow South Vietnamese Marines had suffered even greater losses. Nineteen-thousand dead and sixty-seven-thousand wounded.

Our first A-6 squadron moved into Chu Lai and all of us stood out on the flight line watching their arrival. The A-6 Intruder, on the drawing board during the Korean War, was a happy addition to Marine A-4 and F-4 pilots. The Intruder sported electronic wizardry replete with electronic countermeasure equipment so vital to pinpointing Surface to Air Missiles. It also had the power to keep up with strike aircraft and maneuver with them all the way to their targets. Intruders were also excellent at pinpoint bombing. We heard they could be computer programmed to take off, hit three different targets then return to base without human intervention. It was quite a sight to see those spanking new birds taxi down to their new home. It took days, however, for their squadron to get set up and running. I met some of their Avionics crew and, believe me, they were high-tech from the get-go. They operated out of an air-conditioned van. Inside, it looked like something out of the future. I really liked those Marines – well, actually, I really liked their air-conditioned van. So did Digger.

I got the news about my Boot Camp commandant, Major General Bruno A. Hochmuth. On 14 November, just four days after the Marine Corps birthday, he was surveying the Hue area in a chopper and it crashed, killing him and everyone else. It was a hard blow for all of us who became Marines under his command. Although most of us never actually met him, we all loved the man as if he was family. The old, salty Marine leader, all of us were sure, had served his time in hell and was in a much better place now.

Thanksgiving in Chu Lai, along with another Christmas – two of my favorite holidays – would be spent away from Maggie and my family. Beer, turkey and some of the trimmings could only be swallowed with the knowledge that my trip home would be just around the corner. My orders final came on 17 November.

After McCleary gave me the word, I jogged down to admin for what I thought would be my final visit. Major Bradley's door was closed so I knocked three times on it.

"Sir, it's Corporal O'Neall."

"Son, come on it."

I sat down across from him and he wasn't smiling.

If I was going home, he should be smiling.

"There's one more assignment I want to talk to you about. Even though it is extremely important to our country, this one is completely voluntary. Taking it on is entirely up to you. If you decide not to do it, there will be nothing more said about it."

"Sir, I didn't sign up for this job to walk away from it. What is it, sir?"

Major Bradley reached in his desk drawer and pulled out a thick manila folder. He slid it across the desk towards me then leaned forward on the desk.

"I want you to read about these two men. Take your time then let me know what you think."

I glanced down at the thick report and back up at him. "Yes sir."

Normally I read fast but this was different and I knew it. As I read about what this Army general and his assistant had done, my blood pressure shot up out of control and it showed. I glanced up at Major Bradley a few times while I was reading and his expression told me he knew exactly what was running through my mind. This slimy general and his assistant were traitors to everything real Americans hold dear. Their actions directly caused the deaths of countless Soldiers and Marines not to mention our South Vietnamese military counterparts. Their deeds compromised U.S. military effectiveness and if allowed to continue would affect the lives of U.S. civilians and allies all across the world. When I finished reading, I closed the folder and pushed it back to him, then leaned forward on his desk.

"Why hasn't Army Intelligence or the CIA arrested these men?"

He shook his head. "They have ignored years of warning signs about them. Both men have powerful families and connections. No action will be taken by the Defense Department against them."

"What is it that you want me to do?"

#  Chapter 52 - Langley

## Washington, DC

A police car almost ran Mack Langley down when he stepped off the curb to cross the street downtown. It was, as usual for the city, a windy day and he was leaning in to the wind as he walked. He actually smelled the wax on the police car because his face was so close to the car as it whizzed past him.

"God Almighty!" was his response to the near miss.

He finally made it across the street. He glanced to his left and spotted the coffee shop where he was supposed to meet an old friend recently retired from the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms agency, or ATF for short. When Langley was with the CIA, Charlie had helped him on more occasions than he could count. Langley sent Charlie a picture of the guy in the film who screwed with Crowley's car. Several days later, his friend phoned him with information and wanted to meet.

Once inside, he saw his friend seated at a table near the back of the room. Charlie glanced up from his menu when Langley walked up.

"Mack, it's been a hell-of-a-while since we last met! Boy, you still look good."

Langley shook his head. "You are full of shit, but thanks." He signaled the waitress, then glanced back at Charlie.

"So what do you think?"

"Your man was a big-time drug dealer."

The waitress walked up to their table. Are you men ready to order?"

They ordered eggs and pancakes. She walked away and Langley leaned forward.

"What do you mean, he was a big-time drug dealer?

"About six months ago, he committed suicide."

Langley leaned back in his chair. "What?"

"Yeah. He did society a favor. Don't you think?"

"Is everyone sure it was really a suicide?"

"Yeah. FBI did the whole nine yards investigating his death. Nothing odd about it. Open and shut."

"What do you know about this guy?" Langley asked.

"He just got out of prison six months before he killed himself."

"What was he in for?"

Charlie laughed. "What the hell do you think he was in for?"

"Yeah, yeah. Okay. Drugs. I got it."

Charlie sipped his coffee and put it back down. You aren't going to let this go, are you?"

"How did he end up convicted?"

"The testimony of a key witness hung him."

"Got a name?"

"Phillip Crowley."

"Man, this world is getting smaller and smaller," Langley said.

#  Chapter 53 - Lattermore

## Central II-Corps Area

## South Vietnam

General Lattermore paced the width of his tent and returned to pace the opposite direction. His hands were clasped behind him while he dictated a letter to his assistant, First Lieutenant Samuel Toole. Lattermore had been talking for ten minutes and was starting to lose his voice. When he concluded the report, he stopped and turned towards Toole.

"Period!" He said. "Get the letter typed and off to General Westmoreland before the end of the day."

"Yes sir."

"Oh, Sam, don't forget that you are driving me out to see Colonel Anderson early tomorrow morning. Several men in his brigade were put in for Bronze Stars and Purple Hearts so I've got to pin on some medals."

"No problem. Motor Pool inspected your Jeep and gassed it up this morning. Tomorrow at first light I'll pick you up."

The general nodded. "In three weeks, you will be rotating back home a rich man," he said.

Toole grinned.

"Sam, you've got a great career ahead of you. Believe me."

#  Chapter 54 – Down in the Heavy Brush

## Northeast Area

## II Corps Area, South Vietnam

Sighting through the Soviet PSO-1 4x scope is uncomfortable because sweat is trickling around my eye and down my face. Even though heavy brush shields me from most of the sun's direct rays, the one-hundred degree heat with similar humidity and no breeze is baking me slowly like ma's oven back home. My body has been stationary ten hours except for the imperceptible tightening and loosening of my muscles to keep blood moving to prevent stiffening at the critical moment. General Maximillian Lattermore and his assistant, First Lieutenant Samuel Toole will not have time to react to my shots.

When the job is finished, my prints wiped from this rifle and the shell casings recovered, the half-mile crawl back to the tree line through the knee-high grass will be a bitch, not something looked forward to after a hard day at the office, particularly because my bad knee was already throbbing.

The two men will be my first hits, maybe my last. Killing them won't bother me because of who they are and what they've done. Their lives have been complete frauds all the way through West Point up to this moment. Superiors are complicit and will eventually pay. Unfortunately, instead of being court-martialed and shot, they will be decorated and their memory lauded. Happily, I will eliminate worst enemies than the Vietcong who, ironically, will get the blame.

I glanced at my watch. Zero-eight-hundred. They should appear any moment. The rough trail is only one click or around eight-hundred-eighty yards from my spot. The scope adjustment is correct. My arms are only slightly tired from holding the Soviet Dragunov SVD-63 sniper rifle.

The low hum of a distant jeep shifts my brain into shooter's mode. The sound grows as the Jeep moves down the road perpendicular to my position. My best estimate is fifteen miles per hour because the road is bumpy and sometimes has newly placed box mines. It would be nice if they hit a mine but that wasn't going to happen. If they were going to go where they needed to go, it would be my job to send them.

Just before the Jeep appears in my aperture, I relax and take a deep breath. Lattermore's head appears to the left of the target zone moving to the scope's center.

I exhale and slowly squeezed the trigger.

#  Chapter 55 - Chirchir

## Tomball, Texas

Chirchir tapped his watch and frowned when Axle stopped the car next to the commandant's driveway.

"Kim, your impatience knows no bounds," Axle said. "It took me a half hour to find my damned car at the airport. I forgot where I'd left it."

"How was your trip from DaNang?"

"Hot and uncomfortable as a bitch. Vietnam is a tropical paradise to some men. Not me."

"I know. I've been there too. It reminded me of a number of bad places I've been in my life. Don't forget, you are supposed to drop me off at the dealership."

"I haven't forgotten."

"How did the hit go?

"O'Neall accepted the job and carried it out in a manner he planned on his own. He pulled it off like a master. I don't think any of the best active-duty Marine snipers could have done better. Both shots were clean and death was instantaneous. "

"Exactly as I expected. Good. Now, what is the blow-back in Washington?"

"Lots of tears, some heavy politicking for General Lattermore's job, and planning for heroes' welcomes home. Palmer's Armed Services Committee has leaked a story that Lattermore and Toole might get Silver Stars."

Chirchir shook his head. "I figured as much."

"I spoke with Swede last night. He picked the man who will take care of the senator."

"Who?"

"Robert Gibbons."

Chirchir leaned back in his seat and stroked his chin. "Gibbons is still in Vietnam, isn't he?"

"He's headed home tomorrow."

"Why Gibbons?"

"Palmer is a hobby pilot. He flies almost every weekend. He keeps his plane in a hanger at a municipal airport and, according to our intel team, not many people are around close to his hanger. Gibbons is an expert with aircraft instrument, radio and electrical systems."

"So does Gibbons know he is going to screw with a senator's aircraft?"

"I briefed him myself."

"We aren't going to lose one of our new knights, are we?"

"Damn, Kim, you know I wouldn't put Gibbons at risk. Not a chance."

"Good."

Axle drove in to the Ford dealership so Chirchir could pick his car up. "When Gibbons gets settled in at home, I'll let you know."

"Don't forget to follow up on that position for him at the NSA." Chirchir got out and closed the door. He leaned back to the open window.

"Let's make sure all the bases are covered before Gibbons goes in. I want a backup plan in place to make sure this goes well."

Later that evening on his drive home, Chirchir was thinking about Aedan. The young man wasn't his only recruit during his tenure as commandant, not by a long shot. He was, however, proud of Aedan. He had earned knighthood. It was time to make that happen. He pulled into his driveway and walked to the house.

As he rushed past the kitchen, his wife glanced back at him. "Love, dinner is almost ready."

"Sorry," he said, "I've got to make a quick phone call."

Back in his study with the door closed, he picked up the secure phone to call his senior knight in South Vietnam. The general would be expecting his call.

#  Chapter 56 – Secret Order of Men

## 1968

## Marine Corps Air Base

## Chu Lai, South Vietnam

A couple of hours before sundown, Major Bradley walked with me down the beach. The day had been unusually quiet for a change. It was easy to believe you were in a tropical paradise you had no desire to leave. When he contacted me earlier in the day and asked me to meet him down by the water, I had no idea what was up. For a few minutes, neither of us said much until we were a quarter mile down the beach and pretty much out of sight.

"You did the country an invaluable service. More importantly, you provided certain justice for all those Soldiers and Marines who died because of what those two traitors did. You understand that, don't you?"

"Yes sir. Had I been on my own and not a part of any operation, I would have done the same thing."

"I know you would."

"Is there something in particular you want me to do next?"

"Let me tell you a story. You just listen and reserve judgment until after you hear what I'm going to say."

"Aye, aye sir."

"Our Founding Fathers were exceptionally wise men, Aedan. Our first President, George Washington, was, in a way, able to look into the future through his own knowledge of history, government and human nature. So were many of the men who surrounded him. Did you ever read Washington's farewell address to the Nation when he finally retired?"

I glanced at him. "My old man gave me a book about Washington that included his final address."

"Then you recall that Washington didn't trust political parties nor did he trust government?"

"He was pretty clear about that."

He nodded. "Other signers of our Declaration of Independence and our Constitution were of the same opinion. All of them had pledged their reputations, their fortunes and their lives to gain freedom from the tyranny of government. None of them were willing to allow what they had fought and died for to be taken away from the people."

I glanced at him as we continued to walk. "What on earth could they have done to prevent that from happening in the distant future?"

He stopped and turned to me. "I'm going to tell you something that isn't in our nation's history books. Are you ready to focus?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. Some of our Founding Fathers established a secret order of men independent of the government, entrusted with the responsibility to keep our Constitution and our way of life safe from tyrants."

Was he kidding me? Why is he telling me this?

I started to pinch myself to make sure I wasn't in a dream.

"Sir, with all due respect, I can hardly believe that would even be possible. Surely, if it were true, that story would have surfaced over the past couple of hundred years."

"Aedan, I can assure you that it isn't a tale. President Washington headed a secret committee of Founding Fathers who formed an order they named The Order of the Knights of the Way. It was to be composed of men selected from among the best United States Marines and led by one man chosen for life. Those selected for knighthood were dedicated to the preservation of this nation. They swore and oath to defend this country and its people against tyranny from within. The line of Knights of the Way has persevered up to this day."

"Who are these people now?"

"They are like you and me. They operate inside the Marine Corps, the U.S. and local governments, and within education, business and industry. We are legion, Aedan. We can be found in all walks of life in private enterprise, federal and state governments, and federal and state law enforcement."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"You were identified, early on, as the type of man we need."

I stopped walking and just stared at him for a moment. "How early on?"

"Let's just say many, many years ago. We recruited you into our covert operation because we believed that you would develop into the man you are now."

I'm without words."

"I understand. When I was your age, I was too."

"Then what I did was for the order?"

"It was for our country, Aedan."

"Is this primarily what the order does?"

"No. Killing is a last resort when there are no other options. We do not like to kill anyone but sometimes it is necessary, just as it is in war. Our mission is to protect our Constitution and our way of life at all costs. And one other thing. We never, never take credit for any of our actions. We use any means or tactic necessary to deflect our actions to others," he said. "Like you did when you completed that hit and the VC got the blame. As far as the world knows, we do not exist. It is imperative that no one ever knows about the order or its individual members."

"Where do we go from here?"

"I have told you as much as I can. Now it's up to you. We offer you this opportunity, if you want it."

"What's the opportunity?"

"Tell me whether or not you will accept Knighthood. Understand that this is for life and it must remain a secret. You may never tell your family or friends about this. Son, this burden is heavy and must not be taken lightly."

I looked into his eyes and understood he had told me the truth. This is a serious and very real offer.

"Sir, I will accept Knighthood."

He nodded. "Let's head on back. You need to meet me at the helicopter pad at eighteen-hundred tomorrow."

#### * * * *

I didn't sleep a moment. On one level, I understood what Major Bradley told me and what he asked me to do. On another level, I felt like I'd stepped off into another dimension. I got up and walked towards the door glancing at the empty bunk where Digger used to live. He was a good Marine and a great friend. It was hard drinking those last beers with him at his going-away party three days ago. When I got outside, I walked towards the beach. Maybe listening to the tide break on the shore would calm me down.

The next morning I wandered over to the Mess Hall and only drank a cup of coffee because my appetite wasn't its usual self. At noon, I managed to down a bowl of stew chased with some powered milk and I felt satisfied. After work, I took a shower and put on a clean pair of utilities, then tried to buff my boots so they looked somewhat presentable. I had no clue what this knighthood thing entailed. About fifteen minutes before I was supposed to meet the major, I walked down to the chopper pad. The chopper's rotor was turning when I arrived and Major Bradley was holding his cover on his head so it wouldn't blow away in the rotor wash.

"You ready, Corporal O'Neall?"

"Yes sir." I followed him into the Huey and grabbed a handle to hold on as the chopper rose into a steep climb.

"O'Neall," Bradley yelled. "Put these on." He was holding a Marine Corps Dress Blues uniform and it looked my size.

"You're kidding."

"No. Put them on." He reached inside a carry-on bag and pulled out a pair of glossy black dress shoes and the white cover with black bill and Globe and Anchor on the front.

After jerking off my utility trousers, I slipped into the blue dress trousers with blood strips on each side. They fit like they'd been tailored for me. I grabbed the dark dress jacket with the red and gold Corporal stripes already sewn on, put it on, then cinched on the white belt with shiny brass buckle. They also fit perfectly. Finally, I slipped my feet into the dress shoes, then put the white cover on my head. All of it seemed to have been made just for me. I glanced at the major and he was smiling when he reached down into the bag once more and pulled out the ribbons with medals.

"Take these. You earned them."

I grabbed the rack of ribbons that included my Purple Heart with two stars. I glanced at them again and realized that the Silver Star was also there. I glanced at the major while pointing at it.

"I told you I would see to it that you got the Silver Star!"

He helped me put them on the left side of my jacket. For the next hour and a half we didn't talk.

Outside the chopper, it was dark except for the occasional lights from jungle villages below us. The air was cool and as I glanced out the side door, every now and then I spotted a flare off in the distance lighting up some operation on the ground. People were dying and I knew it. A few minutes later the chopper tail dropped as the nose rose up to flare into a landing. I pulled the cover off my head and leaned out to see where we were headed.

A dark mountain loomed ahead with the silhouette of a castle outlined by the moonlit sky around it. As the chopper sank closer, a landing pad came in to view next to this incredible centuries old stone castle. I could hardly believe my eyes.

"Get ready, O'Neall," Major Bradley yelled over the turbine engine noise. You are about to step into the Middle Ages."

After we left the chopper, we entered the castle through a huge stone opening when the massive wooden door slid up into the ceiling. Large, black metal oil lamps lighted the door's opening. Inside was a foyer bigger than my house back in Texas. Two Marines wearing Dress Blues stood at attention on either side of another wide opening facing us. Both Marines were highly decorated. Major Bradley pointed to a small door to our right.

"Follow me, Aedan."

We walked inside and the stone room was not more than twelve by twelve feet. A Marine Colonel was standing in the center of the room.

"Who is this Marine?" He asked.

"Corporal Aedan O'Neall, Sir," Major Bradley replied.

"Why have you brought him here?" he asked.

"Two senior knights have recommended him to be knighted."

"Where is the evidence showing he is qualified?"

Major Bradley handed the Colonel a beautiful leather pouch with a gold emblem on its front. The colonel opened the pouch and drew out a single page of onion paper embossed with another gold emblem with writing in heavy black script. He glanced down and read the document then looked up at me.

"Corporal O'Neall, it appears that you are well qualified and have been recommended by two worthy witnesses." He glanced at Major Bradley. "Sir, if you will kindly give us your leave, I will now have the candidate properly instructed."

"Yes sir," Bradley said as he snapped the Colonel a salute. He did an about face and left the room.

I stood alone with the colonel, me at attention and he staring into my eyes.

"At ease, Corporal O'Neall," he said.

Over the next two hours, I listened as he explained what it meant to be a Knight of the Way and what was expected of me.

He repeated details of the order's history, bringing to light a version of history few knew. The revelations about why some things happened and who was actually behind historical events shattered my perspective on almost everything about my country. Presidential assassinations, political intrigue, wars and military events changed from most things I'd been taught. After he rattled off the material to me, he started at the beginning and asked me to repeat what he was saying. Then he explained the ceremony that was about to be performed and the responses I should give when asked questions.

Two Marines marched into the room and stood on each side of me. The colonel nodded at me.

"I give you leave. These knights will escort you to the ceremony."

Each Marine took one of my arms.

"Proceed with us."

We turned and walked out of the door, across the foyer, then into a large room. Some two-dozen Marines stood at parade rest around the room. In the center was a lectern behind which stood a Marine general in full dress blues with a sword in its scabbard hanging at his side. The two Marines led me to the front of the lectern before the general. They release my arms and I turned facing the general and snapped to attention.

"Who comes before me?"

"I am Corporal Aedan O'Neall, sir." I responded in the manner told me by the colonel.

"Why have you come?"

"I come to present myself for knighthood, sir."

"Are your worthy?"

"Sir, I am worthy."

The general glanced around the room.

"Are there two knights present who will vouch for this candidate?"

"We will, sir," replied two voices from behind that I thought I recognized.

They walked up beside me but just ahead of where I was standing. Out of the corner of my eyes I saw them.

God Almighty.

The Marine to my left was the VMO-6 pilot who flew me to Sergeant Stone, Major Elvis Hayworth. To my right stood Gunnery Sergeant McCleary, my Squadron maintenance chief.

The general glanced at the two men, then back at me. "Because two well-qualified knights have vouched for you, Corporal Aedan O'Neall, I ask that you take two steps back and knell on your right knee with your head bowed."

As I followed his instructions, he stepped from behind the lectern and approached me. He ceremoniously drew his sword and held it, point up, to his side resting against his right shoulder.

"Corporal Aedan O'Neall, as you have been instructed, the Order of the Knights of the Way is a secret organization that dates back to the foundation of our country. It was created by the prime founders of our great nation to protect and defend its constitution and our way of life from traitors and despots. You have demonstrated the strength of character and love for our nation and its constitution so necessary for its defense. A Knight of the Way gets no special privileges beyond that of any other American citizen. His obligation is for life and that life is dedicated to the service of his country. Moreover, he may never tell anyone about the order or about his position within it, nor may he ever take credit for any actions he takes on its behalf. Should a knight ever reveal anything about the order or himself, his body will be drawn and quartered, the parts burned, and his ashes scattered to the four winds. Do you understand these obligations?"

"Sir, yes sir."

"Corporal O'Neall, please raise your right hand and recite the knight's oath."

I raised my right hand and began. "I do solemnly swear by the Almighty Creator and in His Name, to serve as a Knight of the Way. I do swear by the Eternal Power of Jehovah to obey orders of my Commandant and those who lead me, to aide brother knights, and to aide my countrymen against those who would usurp the freedom guaranteed by the Constitution of the United States. I will be loyal of hands and mouth, and serve every man as best I may, seeking the fellowship of good men and hearken to their words and remember them. I will be humble and courteous wherever I go, boasting not nor talking overmuch. I will see that no lady or damsel or woman be in reproach despite her station or quality in life. If I fall into company where men speak with disrespect of any woman, I will show by gracious words it pleaseth me not and I will depart from them. This oath do I give of my own free will, without coercion, so help me God."

He stepped forward. "Therefore, in the name of the Order of the Knights of the Way, I dub thee Knight Aedan O'Neall, forevermore, a Knight of the Way." He touched each of my shoulders with the point of his sword. He stepped back as my two witnesses turned to me.

"Please stand, Knight O'Neall," the general said.

When I stood and moved back to attention, Major Hayworth placed a belt around my waist with a beautiful sword hanging on my right side. When he stepped back, Gunnery Sergeant McCleary stepped towards me and placed an ornate silver chain around my neck bearing a large silver eagle that hung to the middle of my chest.

"Knight O'Neall," the general said. "This silver sword represents a weapon of justice possessed by all Knights of the Way. The silver eagle on its chain stands for the freedom given us by our constitution. They are to remind you to be ever vigilant in the defense of our constitution and the freedom it bestows upon our great nation."

With those words, the room erupted with _Ooh-Rah! Ooh-Rah!_

#### * * * *

The next day around noon, I walked back to Major Bradley's office. My head was still numb from what I'd learned the previous night.

"Do you have time to take a walk? I need to ask you a few things."

He shuffled a stack of papers into order and dropped them in the box on the corner of his desk as he stood. "You bet. Let's head on down the road."

The dirt road was dry for a change. The traffic was light and the artillery was quite, for the moment.

He glanced at me. "What's on your mind?"

"Well, first off, I wanted to tell you how incredible that ceremony was, not to mention how surprised to learn who recommended me to the Way."

"Yes, each one of us has been surprised about who put our names in the hat."

"Anyway, there are a few things I need cleared up, if possible."

"Sure. I'll do my best."

"I find it amazing that I was being watched and considered for membership years ago."

He nodded as he walked with his hands behind his back. "It's how the organization works, Aedan. It is a lengthy process. The Order must be vigilant in its choices for membership. We can't be too careful in our screening process. Otherwise, we would have been found out long ago. People change as they get older. We try to start looking at someone when they are young to see how they might turn out. But we watch them carefully as they mature before we decide to start the process with them."

"So, where does that process begin?"

"It starts with a candidate's interest in joining the Marine Corps. A knight frequently suggests to a potential candidate that he might consider joining the Marine Corps. Your recruiter started the process for you."

"Fred Mitchell is a knight?"

"Yes."

I nodded. "So, how was my recruitment into the Basic Covert School part of this process?"

"A vital part. Critical."

"How so?"

"The primary function of a Knight of the Way is intelligence work just as the primary function of every Marine is to serve as a rifleman. The blueprint for our operations, in large measure, came from operations of The Culper Spy Ring developed by General George Washington."

"You are kidding."

"No. All of the fundamental intelligence skills and tools were developed by those men to use against the British. Part of it was taught at The Basic Covert School at Camp Pendleton. That school has two kinds of students: those who are being considered for knighthood and those who are not. The school is completely legitimate. You might say that it trains specially selected Marines to circumvent normal channels to insure secrecy of sensitive information that might otherwise be compromised. However, many of the students are being considered for knighthood. During this training process, they are being evaluated to see if they measure up to the Order's demanding standards. Although it is rare for anyone to be washed out of the covert program, some being considered for knighthood may be eliminated for consideration of that honor without ever knowing it. However, they will go on to successfully perform covert work similar to what you were asked to do."

"Even the hits?"

"No. Only candidates who are deemed worthy of knighthood are considered for that type of assignment. Even then, it's rare. Normally, only a knight would be assigned to do a hit. Anything else?"

"No sir. Thanks."

"I'm glad we had this chance to meet. Before you leave this country, I wanted to spend some time with you teaching you some things you must know."

"Okay."

"From time to time, over the rest of your life, it will be necessary for you to meet with other knights. It is critical that you are able to discern who these men are because you will probably not have met or seen them before. Since our beginning, our founders devised forty questions and answers that will allow one knight to identify another. If you are to meet with another knight and you are not certain he is one of us, you will ask him one or more specific questions. If he doesn't return answers with the specific words, you will thank him, then walk away. If someone approaches you and asks you one of our forty questions and his words are not exactly the correct wording, you give him an innocuous answer, then walk away. Be sure to provide us with sufficient information about this man so we can investigate him."

"Frankly, I was wondering how we would know one another."

"Now you know. First, I will give you a sentence of pneumonic words that represent the essence of the forty questions. Then I will give you the actual questions and answers. You will memorize them and repeat them to my satisfaction. Over the next few days, you will repeat them over and over to yourself. We will run into each other several times and either I will ask the questions and you will respond or you will ask me the questions and I will respond. Are you ready to learn?"

"Yes sir."

Over the next three hours we walked up and down the beach while I memorized and repeated the questions and answers. They were not difficult but the words were specific and ordered in a way we normally don't phrase them.

Old English, I thought, sounds formal and stilted.

But it was also obvious that the system would accomplish what it needed to. When we were headed back towards our end of the beach, Major Bradley glanced at me.

"You should know that Swede will be contacting you sometime after you get settled in at MCAS El Toro. Also, when you get back to the states, be sure you do whatever Carlos suggested. He told me that you were born to use a sniper rifle. You've already proven that to me."

#  Chapter 57 – The Letter

## Cut and Shoot, Texas

Aedan's mother continued to stir the soup on the stove and glanced back at her husband, Rogan. He was seated at the table reading the Houston Post article about their son.

"I'm so proud of our Aedan!" She said. "Can you believe he's been promoted again?"

He only nodded but said nothing.

Tears welled up in her eyes because she did not know what to do or say that might change her husband's mind about his son.

"He'll be comin' home soon, dear. Isn't that wonderful?" She cut her eyes back at him.

"Yes, it will be."

"Should we have a party for him or something?"

"I think the boy'o won't want a lot of commotion when he comes home. He'll need time to adjust and get war outa' his mind."

"All right, Rogan. You know best. I just want my boy back home in one piece."

She glanced at the mail on the table. "What's that envelope from Major Bradley addressed to us?"

"I dunno. Let me get it open." He ran his finger through the flap and pulled out the letter.

She was staring at her husband as he read the letter to himself. All of a sudden tears were running down is face.

"My God, what is it, Rogan? What is it?"

The letter started to shake in his hand as he brushed the tears off his cheek. He glanced up at her.

"Major Bradley is Aedan's Executive Officer. He wrote us ta tell us about what our boy has done while in Vietnam."

"Read it to me, Rogan. Please read it to me."

Dear Mr. and Mrs. O'Neall.

I felt compelled to write to you about your son, Aedan. I have been a Marine officer for many years and have led many, many young Marines over that time. However, your son is the finest young Marine I have ever had the good fortune to have under my command.

He has put himself at risk for others many times. He has repeatedly acted in a heroic manner. On one occasion, he was returning from an assignment when he and another Marine were ambushed by the Viet Cong. The other young Marine was killed and Aedan wounded but he made sure he returned with the young man's body.

On another occasion, Aedan saved the life of an Army helicopter door gunner. In another incident, the helicopter he was in was shot down and the Marine door gunner killed. He carried that Marine's body while under enemy fire. When he and the officers he was with ran out of ammunition, Aedan ran back into enemy fire to recover an enemy AK-47 and ammunition and, although seriously wounded in the leg, he returned to the officers to help provide cover until Marine helicopter's arrived to extract them from the attack. For this action, I awarded your son our nation's second highest award for bravery, the Silver Star.

I wanted you to know that you should be very proud of your son. He represents the very best this country has to offer and, in every sense, he is a hero.

Sincerely, Major Bradley.

"Rogan, I always knew Aedan was a special boy. I can't believe he did not write us about his wounds."

He nodded but did not speak for a few moments. Tears were in his eyes and he didn't want his wife to see more of them. When the emotion passed, he glanced up at her.

"Kate, that he is. I want to do something special for him."

"What could you do?"

"I need ta' think on it."

"Shouldn't we tell the MacFaydens about this? Surely, if they learned about this, maybe they would feel different about Aedan."

"I dunno. Maybe."

He glanced back down at the newspaper on the table and his eyes settled on the headline.

U.S. Senator Martin Palmer, III Killed in Aircraft Accident.

#  Chapter 58 – Homeward Bound

## 1968

## Marine Corps Air Base

## Chu Lai, South Vietnam

I was scheduled to return home on January 7. It would be the finish of a 13-month tour and two Christmases in 'Nam. During that period more than once, I heard a Marine, slightly on the mystical side, exclaim that the Marines would lose a high percentage of men simply because the number thirteen was unlucky. We'll, we did lose a large percentage of men, but it had nothing to do with the number thirteen. It resulted from traitors in high places. Most of us were, however, convinced the Corps selected a thirteen-month tour as kind of demented way to teach us we were the best killers on earth. Believe me, two Christmases in a combat zone is enough to make anyone the best killer on earth.

My fingers were clicking off the time. I now understood what it meant to be a Short-Timer. Soon I would be back home and maybe I can win back my Maggie.

On the morning of January 6, I got up earlier than normal so I could start packing my gear for my return home the next day. Apparently, not everyone was excited as me.

"Hey, Irish," one of the new guys said. "I'm tryin' to get some beauty sleep here, could you keep it down?"

"Sorry, Cramer. I'll do my best."

Five minutes later my sea bag was stuffed with everything but my shaving gear and the clean utilities I planned to wear on the trip. Today's utilities and the shaving gear could be crammed into the sea bag in the morning. I glanced at the little mirror fixed to my homemade cabinet and noticed the kid that used to be in my face was gone, replaced by a gaunt, tanned young man beyond his actual years. I prayed that no one would ever understand the real reasons for the change.

After grabbing coffee and toast at the Mess Hall, I wandered over to the hanger feeling both joy and sadness about this being my last trip to work. About half the crew was new guys, the rest counting the months or days until they would get their ride out of 'Nam. The sun just came up when I walked into the hanger. The smell of fresh coffee made by Private Manville meandered past me as I headed towards the Gunny's desk. He glanced up at me.

"Corporal, from your expression, it looks like your brain might already be on that damned plane home."

"Gunny, you've got that right. But I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that you've decided to extend your tour over in this God-forsaken hell hole."

He shook his head and smiled. "Got nobody back there in Texas, Irish. I grew up on a big cattle ranch punching cows and doing what cowboys do. My parents died years ago and I sold their spread to settle their estate taxes. My younger brother died last year and my wife divorced me when I shipped over for my second tour of duty eons ago. She said she didn't want to spend her life in the Marine Corps."

"Sorry about that, Gunny."

He laughed. "Hell, Irish. You don't get it. I've got no strings attached! I'm free as a friggin' bird and love every minute of it!"

No family left at all?"

He glanced off, then back. "Got a nephew, my brother's son. Lives with his mother in El Paso. Mikie is two now. I think."

"If you ever get back to Texas, look me up in Cut and Shoot. We could always use another good, Texas cowboy to flesh out the area."

He nodded, then pulled his desk drawer out and grabbed an envelope and handed it to me. "Major Bradley told me to give you this before you left. He said you should not open it until you were on the plane headed back to the states."

"He rotated home several weeks ago, didn't he?"

"Nope. He flew back to the states for a couple of weeks to take care of some personal business. Major Bradley is kind of like me. He's married to the Marine Corps."

I took the envelope wondering what it contained. After shoving it in my back pocket, I glanced back at the Gunny. "Is Private Manville's coffee as good as it smells?"

"Damned straight! He's bucking for private first class for sure."

#### * * * *

When we departed Vietnam out of Da Nang, I was sobered by the fact that the center of our C-130 aircraft bay was loaded with some twenty-five caskets filled with good Marines who would never again see the light of day. All of them, to a man, died for countrymen who could or would never appreciate the supreme sacrifice they made and a long line of others in prior conflicts for their way of life. These men died for an ideal – freedom – irrespective of the real political motives of the men in power who sent them to war.

As the trip progressed, my mind settled on what it was going to be like back home. I was hopeful I might see Maggie in a few days. At the same time, the thought of facing my old man again without being able to tell him his anger and disappointment in me were not justified, dampened my spirit. I tried to bury the thought for a while. It would be great seeing Artie again. I hoped to make it up to him for failing to write more. For as long as I could remember, I was the buffer when my old man got mad at him. When the old man got pissed off, and that was often, my absence placed Artie in the center of the old man's kill zone.

We landed in Iwakuni, Japan where we boarded a civilian jet bound for home. As I walked back through the aircraft looking for an empty seat, it dawned on me how much all of these men had probably changed. Not just on the outside but on the inside. Many of the faces were drawn and sad. A few looked a little unbalanced. Some of them stared back at me so maybe I looked a little off my game too. Back in the tail on the right, my eyes picked up an empty seat near the isle so I headed that direction. As I got closer and focused on the guy next to the window, I thought I recognized the black Marine sitting there. Just before I slid in next to him, his name popped into my head.

"Joe Washington! Man, I can't even believe it!"

His head shifted my direction and he was grinning but I saw that he was blind. "Hey! Who is it?"

"Aedan O'Neall. The Irish Marine you sat next to when we got our trip over to Vietnam!"

He thrust his hand out to shake mine. "God is good, brother. You're still breathing!"

I shook his hand. "Joe, what the hell happened?"

"Man, I was in a fire-fight outside Chu Lai. I got bomb fragments in both my eyes. How about you?"

"Nothing big. Took a bullet in my arm and leg. I'm okay."

"Like I said, brother, God is good."

He proudly wore his ribbons on his uniform, including the Purple Heart he'd earned for the eyes he'd lost. I was humbled by the smile on his face and complete lack of sorrow for the loss he'd suffered. We laughed and told jokes most of the way home, often talking about our hopes and dreams for the future.

"Correct me if I wrong, but when we were headed to Vietnam, didn't you tell me you played piano?" I asked.

"You got a memory like a steel trap, O'Neall."

What are you going to do when you get out, Joe?"

He grinned. "Man, blind black men who sing and play piano are popular back home. I'm going to get me an agent and maybe cut some demo records."

"Back in New Orleans?"

"Yeah, man."

"Joe, I'll keep my eyes open for you in the news. You remember my name, Aedan O'Neall, when you get famous."

"You are on, dog! You ever get down to New Orleans, you look me up. Try on Bourbon Street or the French Quarter."

"Count on it."

I glanced at the seat pocket in front of me and spotted a copy of the Houston Post. Although it was folded, what caught my attention was the front page headline. It was the word Harmon. I pulled the paper out and unfolded it. The article said that Texas State Senator Harry Harmon's son was found guilty of possession and distribution of illegal drugs. The federal judge on his case was Jake Justice, nicknamed the Hanging Judge. Seth Harmon would be serving twenty-years for his federal violations. I could hardly believe it.

#### * * * *

## San Francisco International Airport

## San Francisco, California

In what seemed like no time at all, we settled down on the runway at San Francisco. This was one time being thrown against my seat belt due to reverse thrust didn't bother me one, damned bit. After what seemed like hours, the stewardess signaled us that we could get up to deplane.

We departed the aircraft by way of metal stairs rolled up to the port side door just behind the cockpit. The pilot was standing next to the cockpit door when I passed and he nodded and said, "Semper Fi," so I snapped him a salute.

We were still laughing as we stepped onto the ramp. I grabbed Washington's left shoulder to steady him as he started down the steps. A crowd was gathered below and I spotted something whiz up and hit Washington in the face – it was a rotten tomato! I focused on the crowd and suddenly released his shoulder to block something sailing my direction. At that moment, someone screamed "Baby killers! Baby killers!"

The heroic young, blind sergeant stumbled forward, fell down the steps and landed on his face on the runway, breaking his nose. When I stepped off the ramp some ten Marines behind me ran at the crowd and started punching and knocking the protesters to the ground. Two of us helped Joe Washington to his feet. By that time, security officers ran from the terminal and began to disburse the crowd. They helped Joe to get inside the terminal.

My eyes swept the disbursing crowd of protesters hoping I wouldn't see any more threats. I spotted that damned cowboy with his camera again. He was lowering the camera when our eyes met and he turned and started back towards the terminal. A police officer and three airport security men walked in front of me so I couldn't catch him as he walked through the door into the terminal. When I finally got inside, I glanced around but I didn't see him again. At this point, I wasn't sure whether this cowboy was good or bad but I knew one thing, he damned sure liked to take my picture.

I joined Washington and waited until a San Francisco Police Department officer arrived to pick him up. The officer drove him to a local hospital emergency room. All of us were stunned by what had happened. Although I felt a little like I was in shock, mostly I felt extreme hatred towards the protesters and what they stood for.

It was our welcome home and I'll never forget it.

In the airport restroom, I changed into my wool, winter green uniform for the trip home. I caught the evening flight from San Francisco to Houston. About an hour into the flight, I remembered the envelope the Gunny gave me from the XO. When I ripped it open, there was a short note inside.

Aedan,

I can't put into words how proud I am to have known you and to have witnessed your growth while under my command. You did all that was required of you and more. Please remember all that I told you and all that you learned.

In the meantime, you are about to start the second phase with us. Keep your eyes and ears open.

Opportunity is about to knock on your door! – MajB

#  Chapter 59 – The Apology

## Houston, Texas

Clean Texas air and home traveled into my brain like an illegal drug. My thirteen fun-filled months as a U.S. Marine in Vietnam was over. Aedan O'Neall was back on U.S. soil. My life had changed in ways few people, including my family, would ever know. It had been difficult enough to work as a covert operative for the Corps while doing my job as an aircraft mechanic. The fact that I had been knighted into a secret Order few knew about since the foundation of the United States would probably remain the most unique experience of my life. Maybe the O'Neall clan wasn't born in America but we got here as fast as we could and I would continue to serve my new country to the best of my ability.

The flight had been comfortable, probably because I was on my way back home. Although the aircraft was full, no more than a dozen of us were military and we were returning from a combat tour in Vietnam. We deplaned around midnight and the baggage department at Houston's Hobby Airport wasn't crowded. Most of the passengers who shared space on my flight watched the conveyor belt as the bags marched across the room in front of them. Because I was the only Marine on the flight, my green sea-bag stood out from the crowd of suitcases and Army bags like some alien object. I grabbed it and swung it up on my shoulder. A smell of buttered popcorn whiffed though the baggage area bringing back good memories.

Outside at the terminal's departure area, five yellow cabs were parked and idling hoping someone, anyone, would want to feed their meters. Except for the distant sound of a single aircraft taking off, the night was relatively quiet. And unlike Travis Air Force Base near San Francisco where we arrived from Vietnam, Houston had no anti-war protesters waiting to greet us. Two cabbies were leaning against one of the cabs arguing in Arabic about cab company rules and a dispute over who got the best spot at the curb so I tuned them out. One of them glanced at me and spit then made a derogatory comment about the U.S. military. Fortunately, I restrained myself from knocking him through his cab with my sea-bag. A black cab driver was learning against his trunk reading a newspaper and ignored the other two and me.

A familiar voice yelled, "Hey, Bubba, over here!"

My eyes swung to the right and spotted my brother, Arthur, standing next to the passenger side of father's dark green Buick four-door.

Damn, Artie sure matured in thirteen months.

In a second, the sea-bag was on my shoulder again with me jogging to the car while praying my limp wasn't too noticeable. I dropped the bag on the ground and grabbed Artie in a bear hug.

"Boy, am I ever glad to see you again!" I said. Tears filled his eyes.

"Me, too."

"Let's get the hell out of here," I said.

After storing my bag in the trunk, I slid in to the backseat with Artie hoping Maggie would be sitting there. No such luck. My old man glanced back at me from the driver's seat but did not smile, a signal in my mind that he would never forgive me for having gone AWOL in what seemed like years ago.

"Hows-it-goin' boyo?" he said in a monotone.

"Good, father." I waited for more but none came.

Ma twisted around in the front seat and smiled at me. "I really missed ya, son."

"I missed you greatly, ma." She leaned her cheek my direction and I kissed it. "Ma, you look good."

Her face brightened. "My baby's home, that's all."

We all tried to talk at the same time but finally got into a kind of rhythm for twenty or so minutes and then things died down because we were all tired and ready for the day to end. A few minutes later, Ma glanced back at me.

"We thought you might want to stop for breakfast."

"I can't wait to get some real food," I said. She had no idea how much I meant it.

On the outskirts of Conroe, my old man pulled in at Darla's Truck Stop. Her big neon sign blinked her name in red against the grey, cotton-like fog hanging in the air. We climbed out of the Buick and I glanced down at my wool uniform. It still looked fresh although, when pulled out of my sea-bag back in San Francisco, I was surprised that Vietnam's monsoon dampness had not ruined the fabric.

We walked inside and truckers eating breakfast nodded at me confirming not everyone thought Vietnam veterans were baby killers. All of the food smells missed over the past thirteen months flooded my nostrils making me close my eyes to experience them. The cute gum-chewing waitress put us in a corner booth near the back and we thanked her for the semi-privacy so we could talk.

"Boy'o," father said, "We learned of tha wounds but ya' seem fit." His eyes did not hold mine.

"Yes sir. War does that to you," I said, wondering how he knew about my injuries.

Almost three years passed since the twelve weeks that mutated to a fourteen week stay at Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego, California. It appeared to me that my old man looked a lot older. Some of it was probably my fault because of what I had to do after graduating from boot camp, but he didn't know the whole story. None of them knew the whole story. Had they known that going AWOL was part of an elaborate ruse to provide cover for my covert intelligence training, life might be a lot different for all of us now.

During WWII, father was a Sergeant in the British 78th Infantry Division, 6th Commandos. His personal standards would not accept a man being absent without leave. Not even if that man was his own son. Although thirteen months had passed, his words to me at my airport departure gate remained in my head.

"Ya' know, boy'o, ya' made a holy show of ya'self leavin' the Marines without permission. Are they sendin' ya' over because ya' went AWOL?" he asked.

"Baby," ma chimed in, "we're so glad you are home and safe. The evening news painted such'a grim picture of the young men returnin', we stayed scared for ya' safety."

"I know, ma. I was also a little concerned about my safety," I said with a slight grin but she didn't get my stab at humor.

My hand patted her shoulder but my mind recalled father's letters about her state of mind with me in Vietnam. He never asked about me, how I felt or what I was going through. He didn't need to tell me that my joining the Marine Corps and then volunteering for Vietnam was almost more than she could bare. The news only fueled her depression and fear that her boy wouldn't return alive. I wondered what she would think of me if she knew the Order had me assassinate a U.S. Army general and his lieutenant while I was in Vietnam.

Artie reached across the table and touched my hand.

"I prayed for your safety, Bubba. I missed you more than you could know."

He was a big kid now. Football, weight lifting and the O'Neall genes kicked in hard the past year and the short, pudgy, red haired, freckle faced boy I left behind had matured.

I nodded. "Your prayers worked, Artie. I'm here and in one piece. Sorry I didn't write more."

"How is your arm and leg?" he asked.

"Well, the Marine Corps say that Sweat dries, blood clots and bones heal, so the bullet wounds in my arm and leg are healed up and I'm almost as good as new."

Artie grinned. "I'm glad."

Father leaned on the table and stared at me. "Boyo, I need ta tell ya somethin'." His eyes were slightly red and almost teary.

"Yes, father?"

He glanced down at the table and was rubbing his hands and seemed nervous. His eyes moved up to mine. "Your ma and me got ah letter from your Major Bradley. He told us about the heroic things ya' done and about the Silver Star."

I had no idea my XO was going to send a letter to my family. All I could do was stare at the old man.

"I've been ah bad old man ta ya', boy'o. Hard and mean to all of ya" he said glancing at ma, then Artie for a second. "I'm so sorry for tha way I've treated tha two of ya boys, so sorry I could almost die. Kate, too. Ya've been a wonderful wife in spite of my badness. Your ma and I are so very proud of what ya've done. Me, well I'm askin' ya for your forgiveness. I'm askin' for a new start for me and all of ya."

My hand reached across the table and grabbed his. I squeezed it and tears ran down my cheeks. I had to swallow hard before I could talk.

"I love you, sir. Let's start over."

Artie and Ma both had tears running down their faces.

He nodded. "Good. Good."

The waitress finally delivered our food and everyone was staring at mine. Four eggs over easy, six pieces of bacon, a side of hash-browns and grits and four pieces of buttered toast with grape jelly. She refilled my cup of coffee too. My being home and fed good truly put me in piggy heaven.

#### * * * *

## Cut and Shoot, Texas

We arrived at our house and I glanced around the driveway and yard.

"Where's my Chevy?"

"Your father sold it," ma said with a funny smile on her face.

"You sold my car, father?"

"I did. I needed the money to buy somethin'."

I frowned and wasn't sure what to say but I felt some anger. "Father, you sold my car to buy a something?"

"Yes, Boy'o. Why don't ya walk over to the garage and take'a look."

I walked over to the garage and lifted the door. The light inside was on so I could see a brand new, 1968 Pontiac GTO. A bright red GTO. I glanced back at father.

"What's this?"

"It's what your ma and I bought for ya, boy'o. It's yours. It's our little gift to ya for all you've suffered and all ya have done for our country."

This was going to be one hell-of-a crying night, I thought as more tears ran down my cheeks. I glanced up.

"Ma, father, thank you so much. I didn't expect anything."

"Don't ya think, maybe, ya should go see Maggie before the late hour gets later?"

I frowned at him. "Sir, I haven't been completely honest with all of you about me and Maggie. After I went AWOL, our relationship changed. I don't think she likes me anymore. I wish it were not so, but it looks that way."

He walked over to me and put his hand on my shoulder. "Boy'o, there's been a lot'a water under tha bridge. Many times, old wounds heal. Maybe ya should meet with her face-to-face and talk."

"Father, it's really late. I don't think the MacFaydens would appreciate me knocking on their door at this hour."

"Why don't ya humor yar old man and do what I ask?"

I took a deep breath and nodded. "Okay."

As I backed out of the driveway in my new car, I wondered what on earth had prompted father to insist that I stop by Maggie's house.

The night was quiet, my window was down, and all I could hear was the beautiful, throaty sound of the aftermarket tuned exhaust father must have had the dealer install. The air was cool and clean, not the salty smell of the China Sea recently experienced. A block from Maggie's farm, it dawned on me that I didn't know what I was going to say or even what to expect from her. None of her very few letters gave me hope for anything other than a platonic friendship.

I slowed the GTO and turned across the cattle guard. The GTO idled for the quarter-mile drive up the gravel road to her house on the hill. When I got to the white picket fence, I stopped and cut the engine, then stared at the porch light beyond. There appeared to be no life inside the house. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. I put my fingers on the key to restart the engine, then stopped. I took a deep breath and got out.

When I stepped up on the porch, my shoes made the floor boards creak. I walked up to the door and knocked three times as they taught me in the Corps.

Jesus, this isn't the Marine Corps.

I heard footsteps and the door cracked open. It was Maggie but the room inside was black.

"Aedan, I'm so glad you could come," she whispered. "Please come inside."

"Are you sure?" I whispered. Won't we wake your folks up?"

"Don't worry about it. Come in."

The moment I closed the door behind me, the lights flashed on and I was staring at Maggie and her family.

"Surprise!! Welcome home, hero!!" Maggie said.

My God, what's going on?

"Aedan," Maggie's father said as he walked towards me, "we are so glad you're are back."

Maggie grabbed my arm. "We wanted to throw you a little welcome home party!"

"I don't know what to say."

I've made a cake and some fresh coffee," Mrs. MacFayden said. "Come on over to the table and sit down. "We want to hear everything you can tell us."

#### * * * *

Back at home, my parents were already in bed so Artie sat next to me on the front porch.

"They surprised the hell out of you didn't they?" He asked.

I glanced at him and punched his upper arm. "You knew about it?"

"Oh, yeah."

I shook my head and grinned. "The old man just had to tell them what I'd done in Vietnam, didn't he?"

"Of course. There was no way he was going to let the MacFaydens continue to think you weren't a stand-up kind of guy."

"Well, it blew me away."

"Are things right between you and Maggie now?"

"Okay, I suppose. She's going to marry me in a few days."

"No kidding? Man, I was hoping you two would get hitched."

"You were?"

He shook his head like he couldn't believe I would question him. "Damned straight. You guys make a good fit."

"Looks like it." We sat there for a few minutes without talking.

"You cut the grass today?" I asked.

"Yeah. Smells good, doesn't it?"

"Sure does. I missed that smell." I pointed to the small fire. "What's left of that pile of burning wood smells good, too. It brings everything good back into my mind."

Artie glanced at me. "You missed the little things, didn't you?"

"Big time missed them."

"You seem a lot different now."

"In what way?"

"I don't know. Just different."

We both remained quiet for a few moments, Artie trying to figure out what to say and me soaking in home and what I had missed so much. He glanced at me.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure. Anything."

"Almost every night we watched the news about the war. What was it really like in Vietnam?"

I leaned back against my chair and rubbed my chin.

"What was it really like? Well, what you saw on the news was viewed in black and white. Marine Air Base Chu Lai where I lived and worked was nestled between mountains bathed in green on the West side and the deep blue China Sea on the East side. On the map we were a few hours South of North Vietnam and short hop South of DaNang. We had two seasons, hot and wet and cool and wet. When it wasn't raining, the sky was a beautiful, cloudless blue. When it was raining, everything looked smoky and threatening. Twenty-four-seven the air was thick with the smell of jet fuel and burning shit. Most days the beating chopper sounds and screaming jet aircraft were deafening and the thunder of our artillery filled the background around the clock."

"We just had no idea," he injected.

I nodded. "Darkness brought on the whistling screams of incoming rockets and mortars while we got no sleep listening to or hiding from them in underground bunkers covered with aluminum planks buried under sandbags. Daylight brought us endless hours repairing aircraft damaged by Vietcong ground fire and repairing hangers blown apart the night before. Trucks frequently passed through loaded with body bags containing Marines headed home for burial. Artie, Vietnam is a place, if you were there, that you will never forget."

"Bubba, I'm sorry you had to go through that."

"Artie, it was my choice."

The sun finally rolled into view over the trees. After spending thirteen months in Vietnam listening to the constant sounds of war, I forgot the almost deafening night-time silence of our woods. It made my ears strain for sounds.

"It's been six months since you graduated," I said. "How does it feel being out of high school?"

"I've hardly had time to enjoy it. My classes at Sam Houston State College are a real bitch."

"You don't like it?"

"I'm not sure. I don't really have a plan for my life yet."

"Meet any girls?"

He grinned. "Yeah. A girl in my Texas History class."

"Are you dating her?"

"Yeah. Big time."

I nodded my head towards the front door. "Want to get some coffee?"

He nodded. "You aren't going to be home long, are you?" Artie asked while following me inside.

"Unfortunately, no, I'm not. The Corps only gave me ten days leave. Marines joke that the Corps does this so we don't lose our edge. The wedding is in just five days. Dr. Chirchir and his wife wrote me and said if Maggie agreed to marry me, they would pay for our honeymoon at the Flagship Hotel in Galveston. We'll only stay there for two nights and return home. Maggie just started her Fall Semester at Texas A&M so I'll drive her back to College Station. I'll head back here and try to get some things in order before I drive to my duty station at MCAS El Toro near Garden Grove, California."

"I was hoping we could do some stuff," Artie said.

"Man, I'm sorry. Really I am. Seems like everything is moving too fast, doesn't it?"

"Yeah."

I squeezed his shoulder. "But I damned sure expect you to fly out to stay at least a week with us. Okay?"

Artie's face brightened and he grinned at me. "That would be really cool," he said. "I'll catch you in the kitchen. I've got to make a bathroom call."

When I reached the kitchen, the old man was already at the table drinking his coffee. He glanced up at me walking into the kitchen.

"Morning, father," I said, trying to smile at him.

He put his cup on the table and stood. He walked over to me and put his arms around my shoulders.

"I'm so proud of ya, boy'o. I hope ya liked tha car. I really do."

"I love it. Had I chosen a car to buy, that would have been the one."

"Good. I've got to go into Houston. Ya probably don't know it but my company promoted me to Operations Manager over all their trucks running around the country. I've got ah little bit of work to finish this mornin'. Maybe we can talk more when I return."

"Yes sir. I'd really like that. Congratulations on the promotion!"

"Thank ya."

He walked out leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I poured myself a cup of black coffee then sat at the table for a few minutes enjoying the quiet. My old man's Old Spice aftershave lingered for a while and it reminded me of when he first taught me how to shave. The aroma wasn't sweet like women's perfume, but it provided a clean, masculine smell. From age thirteen on, he managed to hook me on the stuff.

"Hey, Bubba, where's my coffee?" Artie asked when he walked in.

"Give me a second," I said while walking over to the coffee pot. I glance back at him. "Have you heard the old man's story?"

"If you are talking about his war story, he would never talk about it to me."

"Let me tell you," I began when I sat down and handed him the cup of coffee.

"He grew up during hard times in Ireland and by the age of fourteen, he was loading beer trucks for the Guinness brewery at St. James Gate in Dublin, Ireland under the tutelage of hard men with no patience. He told me that when World War II broke out, Ireland announced its neutrality because –"

"Is this going to be a history lesson?"

"No. Just what he told me. I thought you wanted to know."

"Yeah. I do."

"Anyway, Great Britain refused to give Ireland independence. As a result, a hundred-thousand Irish men traveled to England on their own to join British forces and the fight against the Germans and Japanese. At seventeen, father joined the British First Army under Lieutenant-General Kenneth Anderson and worked his way up to Sergeant while fighting the Germans hand-to-hand with the Allied Forces' Tunisia Campaign in North Africa. Two years after the war ended, he returned to his job at Guinness and married ma. Nine month later, I showed up followed by you three years later."

"Did he tell you what Ireland was like after the war?"

"Yeah. After the war, Ireland was in political transition. Irish battle lines between Protestants and Catholics had been forming for a century because of a deep-seated desire for Irish independence. Many of the Protestants wanted to remain part of Great Britain while many Catholics demanded freedom from Britain. You might say that the Protestants were a lot like the American colonists who didn't want to break away from England. The Catholics, on the other hand, were like America's Founding Fathers and those who fought for independence from England. In the early part of the twentieth century, radicals formed the Irish Republican Army and, over time, instigated a reign of terror throughout Ireland against anyone opposing independence. On the morning of my 10th birthday, his parents were on their way to Dublin when they passed an IRA bomb that exploded. Both were killed in their car. A month later, we migrated to Houston, Texas where a job with a Houston trucking company waited for him."

"You need to write a book about it."

"Artie, our old man is an enigma."

"Tell me about it."

"The little Fiat four door parked next to the garage, is it yours?" I asked.

He grinned. "Yeah. Gets forty miles to the gallon. Works for my budget."

"Been there, done that," I said. "How's it running."

"Good. Want to take a drive with me later? Maybe we run over to the school?"

"Yeah."

He stood up from the table. "Glad you're home, Bubba. I've got to take a shower. See you later."

"Glad to be home."

I sipped my coffee again. My ears rang against the absence of aircraft and artillery while my nose captured the sweet aroma of a place without jet fuel and burning shit.

Home is good.

It suddenly dawned on me that in a few days there would be another oath for me to take, this time to Maggie. Only twenty-one years old and how many oaths had already been taken? Let's see, I thought, first it was the Boy Scout Oath. Later, I stood in front of my recruiter and took the Marine Corps Oath. Finally I took the knight's oath.

Even now, sitting at the table drinking coffee, the feeling that ran through me when taking that oath remains with me. It is the same feeling some of us get when we watch Old Glory wave in the wind or when we hear our Star Spangled Banner or when any Marine hears the Marine Corps Hymn.

My experiences have taught me that oaths are hard, most of them, anyway. You can't take them lightly. You need to understand what they mean. More importantly for me, you must grasp how heavy the cost will be after the promise is made.

My oath to Maggie won't be hard. For me it can't come too quickly.

On a whim, I contacted the Houston Marine Reserve detachment to arrange military honors for our wedding. Marine Captain Delafonte, in charge of the Marine Reserve detachment, confirmed Marines would be at the wedding in the appropriate attire.

#### * * * *

The day I'd waited for so long finally turned up. I got up early when the smell of ma's bacon and eggs whiffed down the hall to my room. While I stuffed down the breakfast, my eyes watched Artie carefully cut all the crust off his toast before he plastered jam on it.

"I can't believe you still do that."

He grinned. "Yeah, psycho, huh?"

After breakfast, I shined my dress shoes once more while Artie sat across from me watching.

"They shine like black mirrors," he said. "How do you do it?"

"They taught us how in boot camp."

"Are you ready to get married?"

I grinned at him. "As ready as anyone can be."

Two hours later I glanced at myself in ma's full length mirror on her bedroom door. Okay, I thought, the Dress Blues look damned good. I walked out and got into the GTO headed for Maggie's church.

#### * * * *

When I arrived at Cut and Shoot's First Methodist Church, the preacher met me at the door. Don Cartwell had been pastor there for a dozen years and Maggie liked him a lot.

"Aedan," he said, "you look great in those Dress Blues."

"Thank you, sir."

"I'm looking forward to performing the ceremony."

I grinned. "I'm looking forward to marrying Maggie."

He nodded while glancing at others streaming through the door. "Looks like I better head on back to get my story straight."

"Yes sir. I'll see you later."

I wandered through the foyer into the church. Sitting in the back were twelve Marines sent from the reserve detachment. My bad knee started to throb some when I walked over to greet them and thank them for taking time out to do this. We talked for a few minutes then I walked back outside. The day was comfortable and breezy with not a cloud in the sky, perfect for the wedding. Maggie's parent and siblings, three of her friends from A&M and a dozen friends from high school would be there. My group included my parents, Artie who was also my Best Man, and three of my high school friends and their girlfriends. Naz's parents, Dr. and Mrs. Chirchir, would also come. If I could wish anything, it would be that Naz was still alive and here with us.

My mouth was dry so I walked back inside to get a drink from the water fountain. Before I leaned over to get the drink, Maggie's twelve-year-old brother, James, touched me on the shoulder.

"Aedan, got time to talk?"

"Sure James. What is it?"

"I, uh, I just wanted to say I'm really glad you are marrying my sister. Okay?"

"James, tell you what – I'm really glad you're going to be my brother-in-law. When I picked your sister, I had no idea I would get a bonus like you. We need to stick together, especially on a day like today."

"Thanks Aedan. Good luck out there."

James walked back to the crowd. There was a little time left before the ceremony. I walked back to the foyer to go outside when one of my groomsmen, Jeff Sinclair, cornered me. The two of us had played football together in both junior and senior high school.

"Aedan, I'm sure happy for you," he said.

"Thanks, Jeff. I'm glad you could do this for me."

We were standing near the back of the church reminiscing about high school when Dr. Chirchir walked up and put his hand on my shoulder.

"Aedan, do you have a minute?"

"Of course, Dr. Chirchir," I glanced at Jeff.

"Please excuse me."

"No problem. See you when this thing starts."

I followed Dr. Chirchir to some trees on the side of the church. That old guilt surfaced again about the part I had played in his son's death. The burden overwhelmed me.

"What can I do for you, sir?"

He smiled. Can we talk in Arabic?"

"Certainly," I said, wondering if I could still understand after a year away from it.

"I didn't mean to pull you away from your friend. I just wanted to tell you how proud I am of your service in the Marines while over in Vietnam. Zena and I also want to wish you and Maggie the best."

"Thanks. I appreciate it. She's beautiful, isn't she?"

"Son, Maggie is a real catch."

"We really appreciate you and Zena paying for our honeymoon. Marines don't make much so I really didn't have that kind of money."

"You are certainly welcome. I have kept you too long, Aedan. Maybe you should return before someone thinks you backed out."

With no warning, tears started running down my face while I stared down at the ground. Seeing him, now, all of what happened with Naz flooded back to me. I could no longer keep it buried in the box anymore. He put his hand on my shoulder.

"Aedan, what is wrong?"

My eyes rose slowly to his and I took a deep breath. "I can't carry the burden of this secret any longer, Dr. Chirchir, even if you hate me for what I'm about to tell you."

His hand squeezed my shoulder. "This burden you carry. It is about Naz, isn't it?"

My eyes widened. "How did you know?"

The two of you were just boys, Aedan. Your father was on that dock fishing while you boys horsed around running up and down the pier chasing each other. He told me you boys were close to the pier's edge, each pushing at the other. Naz suddenly moved to the edge with his back to the water when you pushed him and he fell. You could not have known about the steel rebar sticking up under the water's surface on which Naz was impaled. Your father was angry with what you'd done but I always knew it was an accident."

I started crying into my hands and he hugged me to him.

"Son, bury this guilt now. It was an accident. For whatever reason, God wanted Naz back."

Dr. Chirchir walked back inside leaving me to get my act back together. Ten minutes later, I was standing at the front of the church watching Maggie walk towards me with her father. The rest was a blur.

After the ceremony, Maggie held my arm as we walked slowly down the aisle towards the opened front door. Everyone else was watching us from their seats. Standing just outside, twelve Marines stood at attention, six on each side of the walkway. Before we reached them, they ceremoniously pulled their gleaming swords from their belts and held them crossed at their points over our heads. After we passed the last pair of crossed swords, we jogged towards the car while members of the wedding party stood on each side throwing rice at us as we passed them. Artie tied dozens of cans on the back bumper and wrote Just Married and a few other things on both sides and back end of the GTO.

Just before we reached the car, the photographer Maggie hired started snapping more pictures. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a tall cowboy with his camera flashing but things were moving so fast I didn't have time to think.

#### * * * *

## Galveston, Texas

The Galveston honeymoon was terrific but short. The mother of one of Maggie's friends packed crackers in Maggie's luggage. By the time we arrived at the hotel, it was after midnight and the restaurant was closed so we split up the crackers and chased them with bottled water.

"I got pretty sweaty at the wedding so I'm going to take a shower," I said as nonchalantly as I was able.

"Okay," she said. "I'll take mine after you."

When I slipped out of my suit she walked to me, stood on her toes, and kissed me with really hot lips. "Don't take too long," she whispered.

When I started towards the bathroom in my skivvies while holding my new pajamas in one hand, she whistled and my ears turned red. Once in the shower, my mind started to do flips thinking about Maggie so I raced to get the shower over. Drying off quickly, I grabbed the pajama bottoms and stuffed one leg in, then the other, but it was too fast and I slipped and my naked ass slammed down on the hard floor.

"Are you alright?" Maggie hollered.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm okay. Just slipped. No big deal," I said, feeling like a complete idiot. I walked through the door, stopped, then said, "Ta-da!"

She was staring at me from a spot on the corner edge of the bed, sitting with her knees pulled up to her chest. Her eyes had a kind of hunger in them I had not seen before. I waited but she didn't speak a single word.

I wasn't sure what to do so I walked over and laid down on the bed while she was smiling at me. She slipped off the bed and started taking off her wedding gown. The way that she moved, her scent from across the room, her beautiful red hair, all of it intoxicated me.

My eyes locked on her as she walked to the bathroom in her panties and bra. The panties were small but the bra was holding breasts larger than I had imagined. She glanced back, put her fingers to her lips and threw a kiss at me. I heard the shower turn on. She began to hum and her almost hypnotic voice and the image of her without clothes caused a switch to click on inside me. The shower stopped and so did Maggie's humming. The bathroom door opened and she was standing there completely naked. Here I was in pajamas and she was as naked as the day she was born. Jesus, she was so beautiful the sight of her took my breath away and completed the erection that started moments before.

"Aren't you overdressed?" she said as she walked slowly towards the bed.

"God, don't I know it," I said while ripping off my pajamas.

"My God! Aedan!"

"What?"

"You are so big I don't―"

"Mags, you're the first so I never was sure how a woman would react. If you don't think we―"

"No. It's okay. you just surprised me."

"Good surprise? Freaky surprise? What?"

"Good surprise."

She slipped into bed next to me, both of us lying on top of the sheet. We turned towards each other pulling ourselves into a tight embrace, our hot lips locked together. I didn't like the idea that I could actually lose control in any situation but Maggie erased all concern. We explored each other without embarrassment, learning what the other liked most, what moved both of us towards a rising crescendo of passion, neither wanting it to end.

After we consummated our relationship and showered again, we walked out on the porch to look at the moon-bathed Gulf.

"Well, that was fantastic," Maggie said with a kind of crooked grin on her lips.

"No screaming shit...sorry, I mean now I know how a bottle rocket feels when it leaves the ground."

She threw her head back and laughed, then glanced back at me with a more serious expression. "I'm glad you insisted on the military ceremony. It made everything feel so much more solemn and moving."

I put my arm around her shoulder and hugged her to me. "I hoped you would like it. My commitment to the Marine Corps is very serious to me. It changed me. I wanted our wedding to have an extra layer of the true nature of our bond."

She turned and kissed me. "I love you with all my heart, Aedan."

"I know. And you've got all of mine too." I glanced at her. "After the wedding there was another photographer taking pictures. He was dressed like a cowboy. Do you know anything about him?"

She frowned. "I don't remember seeing another photographer. Why do you ask?"

"I don't know. I've seen him before on several occasions. It's bugging me because I don't know who he is."

"I don't know either." She leaned on the balcony fence and stared out at the Gulf.

"Dr. Chirchir and his wife seemed really nice," she remarked. "It was wonderful they paid for this hotel suite. How do you know them?"

"As a boy, I met their son, Shahnaz, at our church. We were young and I couldn't pronounce his name so I called him Naz."

"At your church?"

"Of course. Why?"

"Around here, you just don't see too many black people in white churches."

"Now that you mention it, I guess you're probably right. At our church, everyone gets treated the same. Maybe because our pastor was an officer in WWII where every man was your brother and every man watched his brother's back."

"Too bad everyone doesn't think that way. Anyway, why wasn't their son, Naz, at the wedding?"

"He died when we were boys."

"My God, Aedan, I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"It was a long time ago. He was a good friend. A very good friend who, in many ways, changed my life. So has his father."

"What kind of doctor is Dr. Chirchir?"

"Cardiologist. He kind of retired from medicine so he could do other things."

"He looks about your father's age. Was he in World War II like your father and mine?"

"Yeah. When he was a boy, his parents moved here from Kenya. His father started a construction company and eventually opened up an operation in England. When Dr. Chirchir graduated from high school, the family moved to London. When the war broke out, he returned to the U.S. and joined the Marines. After the war ended, he traveled back to England where enrolled in Oxford, then he attended medical school."

"I'll bet he and your father had a lot to talk about."

"Yes, they did. My old man was blown away to learn that Dr. Chirchir met our preacher in North Africa when delivering a message to his unit."

"No kidding?"

"Not kidding. Of course, this was back before our preacher decided to attend Dallas Theological Seminary. This is a true story. One night Lance Corporal Chirchir delivered a message to company of U.S. Marines not far from Tunisia. All of the Marines were sitting around a fire listening to Colonel Thamus read the Bible to them. Dr. Chirchir handed the message to Thamus and they talked for a while. Years later, he was on a trip to Los Angeles to attend a medical conference. On the plane, he met Colonel Thamus again. Thamus invited Chirchir and his family to our church the next weekend. The Chirchir's turned away from their Muslim religion and accepted Christ."

"Aedan, that's an incredible story."

"I thought so too."

We spent the next day on the beach and all night making love. Early the third day, we returned home so Maggie could pack for her return trip to College Station. We didn't talk much on the drive back to A&M. After carrying her luggage up to her dorm room, we kissed and said goodbye. On the long drive home, I felt lonesome. My mind tried to hold the thought that, after she graduated at semester's end, she would fly to California to be with me.

I spent a couple of days at home with my family but there was a huge hole in my heart where Maggie was supposed to be. Finally, I climbed in the GTO and headed for California.

#  Chapter 60 – Wen Leu

## Gulf Building

## Houston, Texas

Axle walked into the meeting room where Dr. Chirchir was already seated at the head of the table. He glanced up.

"This is going to be a short meeting, Axle. I've spent some time reviewing the reports your intelligence group prepared on this Chinese agent, Wen Leu. I'm stunned that no U.S. intelligence agency has taken action against him."

"Me too. As noted in our report, Leu has set up shop in California. Now he's been hired by Boeing to fill an inspector slot at their new Inglewood plant."

"I hoped that our government would pay closer attention to Mr. Leu but, alas, they are ignoring him. It seems to be a growing pattern within U.S. intelligence agencies. From the data your group amassed, it appears that key politicians in both parties want increased trade with red China."

Axle nodded. "It's all about greed, Kim, but that's a whole other issue the Order should probably address in the near future. Right now, we need to get much closer to Leu."

"We do not have unlimited resources. Both of us know it. However, Mr. Leu deserves much more attention than he has been given. It is my judgment that if Mr. Leu is allowed to steal Boeing's plans for the new 747 aircraft, his actions will result in the loss of a significant number of American jobs. Because of this, we will allocate the necessary funds to proceed with more intense investigation of Mr. Leu."

"I will contact our knight cells near Leu to get them focused on his activities."

#  Chapter 61 – The Blacksheep

## Marine Corps Air Station

## El Toro, California

After a twenty-one hour drive, my GTO eased up to the entrance gate for Marine Corps Air Station El Toro not far from Santa Anna, California. According to a travel brochure I picked up, the name originated from the nearby community of El Toro, population one-hundred-thirty according to the 1940 census. The base was stretched over some one-hundred-seven-thousand acres of the old Irvine Ranch, formerly Rancho San Joaquin and Rancho Lomas de Santiago. The original groundbreaking occurred on 3 August 1942 and the base was commissioned on 17 March 1943.

The Marine guard stepped over to my window, grabbed my orders held out to him, then glanced down at them and back up.

"Welcome home, Corporal O'Neall. Drive on through, go down to the second street and turn left. VMA-214 Headquarters will be on your left. Just park in a Visitor's space and go inside to check in with the administrative clerk. Have a good one."

"Thanks. Glad to be back."

The smell of new oranges permeated the air. Behind me across the street, a large orange grove was filled with orange trees loaded with the fruit. It wasn't hard to understand why they called this place Orange County.

As I drove towards my new squadron, the tired started to shake off because the sky was a deep blue with not a cloud in sight. My spirits soared anticipating my new home-away-from-home. The sweet familiar sounds of jets taking off were like good music.

After the administration clerk checked me in and gave me a Welcome to VMA-214 packet, I walked back to the car and drove to my newly assigned barracks. The Marine Corps must have a special barracks cookie-cutter because these looked exactly like those at the Naval Air Technical Training Center in Memphis and at the Marine Corps Air Station Beaufort, South Carolina. My stay in El Toro's barracks will only be until an apartment is located for Maggie and me. The clerk told me the nearby City of Garden Grove might be my best bet.

The barracks was empty except for three snoring Marines who worked the night shift. I dumped my sea-bag on the bunk and started to organize my things in the assigned locker. It took me a few minutes to make up my bunk with the new bedding found in the locker. The barrack's windows started to rattle as the sound of a B-52 made a low pass.

What in the hell is an Air Force B-52 doing landing at El Toro?

Ten minutes later, I walked into my newly assigned hanger while Marines were busy repairing A-4s Skyhawks. One Marine was painting a Black Sheep jumping a white fence above the wing on the starboard side of one of the scooters. He would duplicate that process on the port side later. Near the back of the hanger to one side, an office of sorts was recessed between caged supply rooms. A master gunnery sergeant was seated behind his desk working on something when I walked up.

"Master Gunny, Corporal Aedan O'Neall reporting for duty, sir."

"Corporal O'Neall, I'm Jack Albright. Step inside my luxurious office."

He stood and reached across his desk to shake.

"Damned glad you got here, son. Your presence brings my total of experienced airframes Marines up to two."

"Two, sir?"

He grinned. Waste not, want not, you know the drill."

"Yes sir. That's the Corps." Suddenly I remembered the VMA-214 Marines who brought me the new A-4 engines back at Chulai.

"I knew three VMA-214 Marines back in Vietnam."

"Who?"

"Corporals Timberlake and Dumpwells and Lance Corporal Colsworth. They should still be here."

"Three good men. All three highly experienced. Timberlake and Dumpwells returned here with the squadron. Both were honorably discharged a month ago. Dumpwells didn't make it back."

"Why?"

"Rocket got him three weeks before we departed."

"My God. What a shame.'

"Yeah. Glad to be stateside?" he asked.

"I'm glad to be anyplace away from those friggin' sounds of war."

"For me it's been a year and I still hear them in my head. I noticed your limp. Your papers said you were wounded twice."

"Some guys will do anything for attention, won't they, Master Gunny?"

He grinned. "Yeah. Looks that way." Albright walked around his desk and brushed past me.

"Come on. I want you to meet the men who are supposed to keep these birds safe to fly. One of your duties will be to make that happen."

The Master Gunny was right about his crew being inexperienced. All but Sergeant Brown were right out of the Naval Air Technical Training Center at Memphis, Tennessee. El Toro was their first duty station. It looked as if my job would be to help Sergeant Brown show these new Marines how to apply what they learned in class. It had been two years since my training at Memphis and the thought reminded me of what I'd been through during my stay there. They wouldn't believe me if I told them.

Brown stood about five-seven, was a muscular stocky, and spent little on haircuts because of his gene pool. Two months ago, he returned from a Vietnam tour attached to Chu Lai's MAG-36 with an A-4 Attack squadron. Brown agreed to meet me at the Mess Hall later for our evening meal. It was Friday. On that day the cooks always serve what I call fake smothered steak. I call it that because it looks like steak covered with a thick dark gravy until you bite into it and discover you've got a mouth full of fried liver. We spent an hour rediscovering our Vietnam experiences while choking down the fake steak. I learned more than I wanted to know about Newport, Connecticut, Brown's home, but I tucked the information away for future use. He had never visited Texas so I took some liberties describing my ten-thousand acre cattle ranch.

Noon the next day, I was seated in front of Albright's desk sharing a ham and cheese sandwich he brought from home.

"I've heard rumors, gunny, but I really don't know the skinny on this Black Sheep squadron."

He grinned. "Well, let me tell you a few things about it. VMA-214 has an outstanding reputation that got its start in WWII, mainly because of a Marine Aviator named Boyington. You saw his picture in the foyer of the Admin office didn't you?"

"Yeah. Hard to miss when you walked in the door."

He nodded. "As the story goes, the only aviators assigned to the Black Sheep Squadron were those who the Corps deemed out-of-control and just too damned dangerous to let fly with normal aviators."

"While I was in Vietnam, we heard some pretty wild stories about Black Sheep pilots," I said.

"Oh, yes. All true. In Vietnam, the Black Sheep's reputation was legendary. In the tale you probably heard, the Black Sheep squadron was short and about to head home. One of its aviators, on a bet for a case of beer, landed his Skyhawk on the parking ramp, wheels smoking as the brakes caught fire and his bird skidded up to the first parked aircraft with its nose-probe just an inch short of penetrating the other aircraft's nose. The second lieutenant was grounded for a week, of course, but he won his beer."

"Master Gunny, that was the story!"

After lunch, I returned to the hanger. The work pace at El Toro was nothing like 'Nam so we actually had time to think about what we were doing rather than having to react and work on instinct. Brown appreciated me helping with the young Marines and the job was pretty much routine for me. After a couple of weeks at El Toro, I ventured into the town of Garden Grove searching for an apartment to rent for Maggie and me. Damn! I need her input about a place to live.

Maggie's letters were few and far between like in Vietnam. Study took priority while she focused on graduating from A&M. My letters were, as in the past, a diary of sorts recording what I'd been doing and what might be coming up in the near future.

It took a couple of weeks to find an apartment that met my criteria. It must be located in safe area of Garden Grove; it should be furnished and clean; and it should be priced to fit a poor-ass Marine's budget. One day after work I drove back to town to meet with another apartment manager. When he walked me through one of the furnished units, the place looked okay although the cream colored walls looked a little faded.

The living room and small kitchen were combined. There was a large, brown, overstuffed couch that looked lumpy; two cloth-covered arm chairs frayed on arms and seats; an oblong coffee table with cigarette burn marks and the top pealing at the corners; and two small plastic lamp tables next to the chairs, all arranged in the living area on a faded brown, short strand carpet. The cream colored kitchen tile was well worn but appeared clean and recently waxed. The old, particle-board kitchen cabinets lined the back wall and a single sink was situated in the middle with a small window over it. A small metal, Formica-topped table with two metal chairs sat at one end of the tiny kitchen. The table's Formica top looked pearl grey and the legs were slightly rusty. So were the chair legs.

The bedroom was small and had a double-bed with painted particle board lamp tables and lamps beside it. Maggie wouldn't like the dirty lamp shades and I damned sure didn't. A wide nine-drawer, particle-board chest of drawers with a mirror sat facing the end of the bed. The back wall held a single, wide window covered with heavy tan drapes, faded and stained.

The small bathroom held a single sink with mirrored medicine cabinet, an old toilet, and a bathtub that probably should have been replaced while I was still wearing diapers.

Our budget consisted of two-hundred-thirty dollars each month. It would have to cover the apartment rent, the GTO auto insurance, food, and anything else needed to survive. By my calculation, we could not afford to eat out, go to any movie theater except for the base (a movie ticket was a quarter) no more than once a week, and long distance phone calls would have to be saved for in advance. I wrote Maggie a letter giving her all the detail about the apartment and our budget. By the time she got the letter the rental agreement was signed and the first month rent and a deposit was paid.

Before work a couple of days a week, two hours were spent at the rifle range practicing the skills Carlos taught me in his sniper crash-course back at Chu Lai. No one told me why it was necessary for me to continue to practice that skill-set, although my having been knighted did give me a sense that there might be a grand plan. Every Marine eventually learns that his questions will be answered at the proper time and not one second before.

No one at El Toro, so far as I know, is aware of the sniper training or my off-the-books covert training or the assassination of two U.S. Army officers. If they did, I would either be dead or having these thoughts in federal prison.

Six weeks later, Maggie graduated from A&M with a doctorate in Veterinarian Medicine. I was simultaneously awed and saddened – awed because of what she had accomplished; saddened because the Marine Corps would not give me leave to attend the graduation.

In two days, she was to arrive at the Los Angeles airport at twenty-one-hundred and would stay with me the entire summer. She wrote me to say that Dr. Leander at the Cut and Shoot Animal Hospital offered her a job, so that problem was resolved. She was also excited to learn that Cindy Drumworth, her roommate at A&M, was also offered a position. In the meantime, a can of white paint, brush and roller kept me busy most evenings trying to make the apartment look more livable. I rented a vacuum cleaner and a carpet cleaner and almost burned them up trying to clean the crappy carpet. After taking the drapes down, I washed them at the U-Clean-It Washateria a block from the apartment. The Garden Grove Super Store near downtown had some air cleaner I used throughout the apartment and it helped kill the smell floating just below the surface. Also, it dawned on me that we had no television set. Buying a new set was out of the question because of our budget.

One day after work on my drive home, I spotted a small TV repair business so I stopped and walked inside to see if they had anything I could afford. It turned out the guy was a former Marine who understood my financial situation. He gave me two television sets for free. One with a picture but no sound. The other with sound but no picture. When I got back to the apartment, I put the TV with no picture but had sound behind one of the arm chairs. I placed the TV with a picture but no sound against the wall directly in front of the couch. Then I turned both TVs to the same channel and switched them on. I sat down on the couch and put my feet on the coffee table, then watched the six-o'clock news in what I imagined could be surround-sound. Did it get better than this?

One evening, after not hearing from him for almost three years, Swede phoned me. He wanted to meet at a coffee shop a few blocks from my apartment.

#  Chapter 62 - Chirchir

## Tomball, Texas

Dr. Chirchir pulled into his driveway. The flight home from New York was unusually tiring and he was glad to be back to Zena. If he could make it into the damned house.

"How are you, dear?" She said from the kitchen. "Was your trip okay?"

He dropped his briefcase next to the couch, pulled his necktie down and unbuttoned his collar, then walked to the kitchen. She was standing in front of the stove and he walked behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.

"I missed you, woman. Next trip, I want you with me."

She glanced back over her shoulder. "Dear, I can't go with you every time you leave. I have things to do here."

He kissed her cheek. "I know. But next trip go with me."

She nodded. "Now go relax. Your supper will be ready in a few minutes."

He walked back to the bedroom and slipped into his jeans and a Marine Corps sweatshirt then put on his house-shoes. He walked back to his study and closed the door. He needed to phone Swede for an update.

"Swede, this is Chirchir."

"Yes sir, I was expecting your call."

"The matter with the Chinese inspector, have you talked with Aedan about it?"

"Not yet, sir. I arranged to meet with him later. I'll talk to him about it then."

#  Chapter 63 – Maggie Arrives

## Ken's Diner

## Garden Grove, California

I almost didn't recognize him. Swede was about thirty pounds lighter and his face had lost that rugged, tough-guy hardness shown when he put me through advanced covert training in and around Chicago while I was AWOL.

We shook hands after sliding into a booth at the back. He smiled back at me although his eyes looked tired and sad. "How are those injuries you got in 'Nam?"

"Good, sir. All healed up. The limp adds a nice touch, don't you think?" My try at humor seemed to get a quick smile from him.

"Glad to hear it. I probably should have dropped you a letter and told you about the new Swede," he said. "About six months ago, my doc informed me that I had cancer. He recommended chemo-therapy. The treatment damned near killed me. Puking is one hell-of-a diet. Anyway, I'm better."

"Well, you actually do look a younger and healthier. I'm betting you will be with us a long while. I know that the Order can't afford to lose your expertise as a senior knight."

"Yeah. Right. By the way, while you were in Vietnam, why did you decide to apply for the Marine Cadet program? Hell, you almost screwed up all of our plans!"

I grinned. "Probably because of the mystic that surrounds aviators. Working around aircraft so closely, I thought by going through Marine Cadet School, one day the Corps would put me in one of those jets and turn me loose. It's hard to watch those guys climb into the aircraft we worked on and not envy them."

"How about now?"

"Christ, Swede, if tomorrow they said you're going to be an aviator, my bags would probably be packed five minutes later."

"I don't think that's going to happen. If memory serves me, your squadron XO at Chu Lai told you that you had what it takes but the Marine Corps needed you elsewhere."

"Yeah. Don't remind me. So, what's up?"

"Before I get started," he said, "I wanted to congratulate you on the work you did in Vietnam and earning the Silver Star. You deserved it many times over. Your hits on the general and his assistant were impeccable. Also, I understand you did one hell of a job interrogating Sergeant Lucas Stone after his escape from that Hanoi prison."

"I've got to be honest with you, Swede, interrogating Stone was hard even though it was critical for us to find out if any of our men held captive were trying to do damage to our country. The guy was a POW for two years and I can't begin to imagine how he handled it. Stone is a great Marine. He was tortured repeatedly by the bastards. And, yet, he managed to keep the faith. I'm not so sure I could have been as good a Marine as him. Anyway, I was awed by the man."

"Yes. I heard. You handled it gracefully but got what we needed."

"Not sure I would do it again."

Swede nodded and sipped his coffee. "By the way, I understand that you met Lt. General Lai. What did you think about him?"

"He kind of reminded me of Army General George Patton. Lai was a real showman by wearing the silver plated Colt 45s on his hips and the tall riding boots. Quite a character but one tough bastard."

"I thought you'd like him. Lai works with us quite a lot. Okay, here's the deal. Boeing Aircraft has designed a mother-of-an aircraft for the airline industry. It's called the 747 and, believe me, it is one huge airplane. Recently, they opened up a plant near L.A. In a few weeks, their personnel department plans to contact El Toro's commanding officer to ask him to spread the word that Boeing needs experienced airframes Marines to work the grave-yard shift at the new plant. The hourly rate is incredible and the jobs are peaches."

"Okay. You have my attention. So where do I fit into this?"

"One of the new inspectors migrated here from China. We know that he's an agent for his government and we also know that our CIA is ignoring him. China has really turned up their industrial espionage activities. We need someone working at the plant able to keep an eye on him."

"Well, in Vietnam you guys didn't let me practice much of what the Marine Corps taught me or you taught me in Chicago. So how could I be your best choice for this one?"

Swede leaned back in his seat and stared at me for a moment. "Aedan, you were the best student ever sent to me. You were a natural. Some guys are just born with this skill-set and you're one of them. This is something I've never told any other student so suck up the praise in the spirit that it is being given."

"Swede, I appreciate the complement but the guy who trained me should get the credit because he knew what the hell he was doing."

"So, will you do this for me?"

"How do I get hired?"

"Don't worry about it. When the time comes, your CO will announce the openings at Boeing. You just apply for one of them. I'll have your gold-plated recommendation in Boeing's personal department so fast it will make their heads swim."

"Good timing. My new bride is flying out here in a few days and we could use the extra money."

"One other thing," Swede said without smiling. "Like everything you've already experienced, this job can be dangerous. Keep your antenna up. Do whatever is necessary to get the information we need. By now, you understand the meaning of whatever is necessary, don't you?"

"Completely."

#### * * * *

Maggie arrived on time and she met me at the gate after she deplaned. I grabbed her up and kissed her hard and the other passengers streamed around us mumbling, "Way to Go! Kiss her again! and Get a room!"

Her feet came back down to the floor and my hand grabbed her bag. My other hand pulled her through the crowd towards the baggage department.

Although I spent eight hours a day on my shift at El Toro, we spent nights catching up in the bedroom. She was hard to keep up with and I was wondering if she might just kill me if we didn't take a break.

In the meantime, Maggie was very aware of our lean-mean financial situation. A week after she arrived, we just sat down to a dinner of fried okra and potatoes, buttered squash and homemade rolls when she popped the question.

"I was thinking that we could use a little extra money," she said quietly. "Although I'll start my veterinarian practice with Dr. Leander at the Cut and Shoot Animal Hospital in September, I'm sure a part-time job could be found in nearby LA. What do you think?"

"If that's what you want, I'm all for it. How will you find a job and what about transportation to the job?"

"I thought you'd let me drive you to work each morning and pick you up after work. Anyway, I think I may already have a job if I want it."

"Wow. Where?"

This morning's issue of the Garden Grove newspaper Want Ads listed a clerk job at the LA tax office. It pays minimum wage. I phoned them and talked with the tax assessor about the job and also mentioned that you are a Marine just back from Vietnam. It turns out he was a Marine and fought in World War II. He said if I wanted the position I could have it. I told him I'd talk it over with you and phone him tomorrow morning."

"Maggie, you're one hot, fire-ball. Phone him first thing and say you'll take it. Looks like I'm going to have my own, private chauffeur."

The following Monday morning she started her new job but it concerned me she might get lost driving in unfamiliar territory. It also concerned me that my excitement about her presence might cause me to slip and reveal my other work. A normal human desire to share everything with someone you love is very strong, even though my training included sessions on human psychology and the mindset an intelligence agent must develop. For me, that mindset was very hard to put into action.

Fortunately, two of my instructors including Swede told us about how they handled compartmentalization of the work so their marriages didn't suffer. My learning that the Boeing job wouldn't actually start until mid-September relieved me greatly. Although Maggie didn't know the exact date her new vet job started yet, Dr. Leander was suppose to phone her soon to give her the date. The fact that she would be leaving before I started at Boeing meant she wouldn't be with me so I wouldn't have to be reminded of my treachery by her presence.

#### * * * *

On a Thursday at the apartment after dinner, Artie phoned. He said he planned to fly to LA to visit on the first of the month and wanted to know if that would be okay.

"Are you kidding? It sounds great. Schedule an evening flight on the first and we'll pick you up."

Artie already had the flight times and numbers so I jotted them down on the note pad, told Maggie the plan, then begged her to set up a little itinerary that included a weekend visit to Disney Land, a place none of us had been.

Over the next few weeks, my work at VMA-214 fell into a comfortable routine. The new Marines started to get the hang of the job and could be safely left to complete assigned work without me worrying about losing any of our newly painted A-4s or the aviators who flew them. Maggie really liked her tax office job and the people she worked with and even accepted the ribbing about her Texas drawl. On the first of the month, we met Artie at the LA airport. He informed me that his life was about to change.

"Bubba, I tell you that Brenda is the one. Think I'm going to marry this one before she gets away."

"Get married?"

"I think so. We don't want to make a fuss so we plan to get the Cut and Shoot Justice of the Peace to do the ceremony. We'll fly to Vegas for the honeymoon."

"Damn, Artie. I was hoping to be your Best Man."

"I know. But I was thinking that you don't get much time off and probably couldn't make it back home for a formal wedding."

"Boy," I said, "Ma is really going to be ticked-off. You know, she'll probably never recover from what I did to her by joining the Corps and volunteering for Vietnam."

"I know it."

"Well, Artie, I sure will miss being at your wedding."

"I know," he said.

"What about college?"

"Bubba, I just don't think college is for me. From the start I didn't like it."

"What are you planning to do?"

"One of my high school buddies hired on with a commercial diving company based in Louisiana. I'm thinking maybe I'll give that a shot."

"Don't you need training for that stuff?"

"Yeah. I talked it over with the old man and he offered to loan me the money for the eight week professional diving school necessary to get hired."

"Think you can handle it?"

"Over the past couple of summers, I've done some diving with tanks and liked it. I'll manage. My buddy says the training is tough but he believes I can do it."

"Good deal, little brother. Is the pay good?"

"The pay starts out at twenty dollars an hour. My friend says that the clock starts when you get on the boat or chopper at the dock and runs until you are returned to that spot. I'd say I couldn't make that kind of money as a college graduate for years, maybe ever."

"Twenty dollars an hour? Holy crap. Hell, Artie, go for it!"

#### * * * *

Over the course of the next five days, we followed Maggie's itinerary and Artie got a good dose of California sights, movies at the base theater two nights, I introduced him to my commanding officer and the Marines of my squadron, and we spent one whole day at Walt Disney's Disney Land. When we put him on the plane for his return home, he was one tired, happy Irish camper.

When I left the base at seventeen-hundred on a Friday the last week of August, my battery felt drained. Twenty minutes later, I walked into our apartment and the smell of baking chocolate-chip cookies grabbed my nose followed by my brain. Maggie was learning over in front of the open oven pulling out the tray of goodies and glanced up when she heard the door.

"Hey, tough guy!" She said. "I got a call from Dr. Leander."

She slid the cookie tray on to the stove top and I ran up behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist then kissed her on the neck. That damned perfume she used drove me up the wall.

"Fantastic, Babe. That's wonderful. When do you need to leave?"

She turned around, stood up on her toes and planted a hard kiss on my lips. "My first day is September 7th so I'll have to leave by the last day of August. Dr. Leander wants me there a few days early for orientation. He said Cindy Drumworth will start orientation with me. She and her husband, Dustin, are moving to Cut and Shoot. He just got out of the Army so he'll be looking for a job."

"Honey, I'm so damned proud of you. You're the brains in this organization, believe me."

#  Chapter 64 - Chirchir

## Tomball, Texas

Saturday morning at sunrise, Dr. Chirchir put on his running gear and headed down the street at a comfortable jogging pace. He was religious about his three-mile runs every-other-day. Besides, his mind worked better fresh with blood flowing properly.

A half hour later he jogged back up his driveway and stopped at his front door. He wiped his forehead and walked inside and back to the study to the phone. He might just catch Swede before he left for the day.

"Good morning, Swede. I hope I didn't wake you."

"No sir. I've been up for hours."

"The last time we talked, you told me the chemo-therapy worked and you were felling a lot better. How about now?"

"Good. Not one-hundred percent yet, but I'll get there."

"How did it go with Aedan?"

"He will do the job."

"One other thing. I'd really like to see him go to college rather than re-enlist. We need him at Nicholas, Mullan and Elwood. Please try to convince him college would be best for his future."

"That's going to be a hard sell. He's pretty damned gung-ho."

"Never the less, you make it happen."

"Yes sir. After we get this job out of the way, I'll talk with him."

"Anything else on your mind?"

"Maybe it's time to inform O'Neall that Gibbons is on our team too. It will probably piss him off to find out that another knight recruit was working right along side of him every day in Vietnam and neither of them knew about it."

"Probably so. Down the road, they will probably be thrown together again. Maybe we should take the surprise out of that sooner than later. Go ahead and tell him about Gibbons."

#  Chapter 65 - Boeing

## Garden Grove, California

Around eighteen-hundred on the last day of August, I watched her flight take off out of the LA airport. A huge emptiness formed up inside where Maggie had been just like right after we married and had to part. On the way back to the apartment, a convenience store beckoned me to stop and buy some beer, Guinness Extra Stout if they carried it. Maybe it would temporarily relieve that hole in my heart.

The Guinness disappeared pretty fast so I showered and hit the rack. Sleep came quickly and no dreams appeared.

The following week Master Gunny Albright called me and Brown into his office to announce that Boeing was hiring experienced airframes mechanics.

"How about it? Would you men like to apply?"

Sergeant Brown grinned at me and back at Albright. "You bet!"

"I'm in," I said.

Albright handed us the application forms and said he needed them back by the end of the day.

A week later, Albright called us back into his office because Boeing responded to our applications. He looked at Sergeant Brown.

"Sergeant, I'm sorry but Boeing decided to hire Corporal O'Neall. They said rank was not considered." He looked at me.

"Apparently Boeing's Personnel Department has a policy of contacting military applicant's former squadron's looking for recommendations. Whatever your former executive officer from H&MS-12 told them bowed them over. You start Monday evening at eighteen-hundred."

I turned to Brown. "I'm sorry you didn't get the job. I know you really wanted it."

"Hey, Aedan, don't worry about me. You're married and I'm not. That extra money should come in handy for that new bride of yours."

"Thanks. I mean it." I glanced back at the Albright.

"I appreciate your putting us in for the work."

That afternoon at mail call, the squadron clerk held an envelope up to his nose, then grinned.

"Smells like Maggie is inside this envelope, Corporal O'Neall." He tossed it to me.

"Yeah, smell it an weep, Jarhead." I said.

He was right. The envelope was laced with her best perfume. It was her first letter to me since she got home so I quickly ripped it open. She liked her new vet job and her first batch of sick animals were good ones. She said she saw ma at least once a week and things on that front were fine except that father remained moody and distant since I left. Maggie's brother, James, developed an interest in the Marine Corps and aircraft and wanted to know if I would send him some photographs of our jets and some of the aviators.

That night at home, I sat down at the kitchen table with my Marine Corps stationary to write back to her. She would be excited to learn about my night job at Boeing. I also told her James would get something in the mail in the near future.

#### * * * *

## Boeing Aircraft Plant

## Hawthorne, California

My first four-hour shift at Boeing amazed me. The new hanger sported a concrete floor painted white and it looked clean enough to eat off it. We were hired to build the aft-section of the new Boeing 747. The first one built sat in the hanger, a magnificent engineering feat by anyone's standards. I had never laid eyes on an aircraft so large.

We watched a film showing assembly of the aircraft parked in the hanger. Afterward, several of the design engineers talked to us about some technical issues in the construction process. They walked us through an assembly checklist and they defined what was and wasn't acceptable work. They expected nothing less than absolute perfection. Not a single Marine in the room misunderstood that requirement.

Before the training shift ended, we met the inspectors who would make certain our work met standards. Each inspector introduced himself and shook hands with us. The last to shake my hand was a very tall man named Wen Leu. According to Swede, he was my target. Leu spoke almost perfect English and he smiled at me when we shook. He seemed very professional and nice enough.

The following evening things inside the plant looked entirely different. The Boeing 747 parked inside the day before was gone. Now large, semi-round stringers filled the hanger as part of the skeleton of the aircraft we would begin to assemble. The first shift crew had already started the process by attaching the stringers so the framework did look a little like the skeleton ribcage of a very large animal.

Using high-speed rivet air-hammers, my assembly group riveted aluminum stringers to the framework to which aluminum skin would later be attached; others began running miles of hydraulic lines inside the skeleton systems that would allow landing gear, flaps, ailerons, rudder and other flight controls to function. Some assemblers stretched miles of electrical wiring inside needed for the instruments, flight control systems and other electrical systems to work. The incredible process awed us and made us proud to be part of it.

My main function, of course, was to watch Inspector Wen Leu. Around break time, he walked off the plant floor towards the offices so I followed him. He entered the office complex through a door at one end and headed down a long hallway, then stopped in front of an office. I leaned down towards the water fountain until he unlocked the door and walked inside. A few seconds later, I returned to the plant floor.

At the end of my shift, Leu walked out to the parking lot with me a safe distance behind him. When he got into his car, I memorized the year, make and model and his license tag identification. Later that night, I called Swede and gave him the information.

Over the next week, it looked like he did, indeed, have some kind of routine. One afternoon while Leu inspected some assembly work, I decided to break into his office. My lock picks quickly opened it, compliments of Swede's training.

He kept his locked briefcase under his desk so it took me another few seconds to pick it open. The briefcase contained two California travel brochures and a California highway map. The brochures had several sightseeing spots circled in red. Two small towns on the highway map had also been circled in red. I found no notes of any kind. Swede said sometimes you get lucky, most times you leave empty handed. In less than three minutes, everything was back in order with me out before anyone was the wiser.

#### * * * *

Back at my apartment, I built myself a ham and cheese sandwich and poured a big glass of milk, then sat in front of the television to catch the late news. California liked to splash up-close-and-personal photos of violent death that reminded me too much of Vietnam. The reporter finally got around to national news and it was more of the anti-war protests and more of the death and destruction going on in Vietnam. Around midnight my head just hit my pillow when the phone rang. It was ma and she was crying.

"Ma, what's wrong?"

"It's ya' brother, Aedan. He just phoned us. He said he and his girlfriend, Brenda, just got married. Can ya' believe it? My little baby gettin' married and he didn't even let us know so we could be there."

"Ma, I'm sure sorry. I know you are upset about it. He told me too. But, you know, Artie always had a little independent streak in him. He wasn't trying to hurt us. Maybe he just thought a big wedding would be too costly and too much trouble?"

"I suppose."

We talked a while. She gave me an update about the rest of the family and I gave her an edited version of my doings. By the time she hung up it appeared she had settled down about Artie.

A week past, my work at the plant became routine, and Wen Leu did nothing out of the ordinary. Sunday night, Swede asked me to meet him at the U-Tote-It Minimart a block from my apartment. I pulled up next to his car on the side of the building.

"What's up?" I asked.

"We've got to speed up this process, Aedan. Here's Leu's home address."

I grabbed the piece of map with an address number written in ink above an area circled in green. "Looks like he lives a couple of miles north of Inglewood. Apartments can be tricky."

"Yeah," he said. "I know. Someone near your target is almost always home. Apartment dwellers are usually pretty nosey."

"I can't look like myself."

"Right."

"How soon?"

"ASAP."

"Can you get me a truck or van?'

"What kind?"

"I don't know, something that looks like an official maintenance vehicle. You know, Joe's Plumbing Company or whatever."

"When do you need it?"

"How about tomorrow night around eighteen-hundred?"

"Okay. There's a diner over on South Euclid Street right outside downtown. When you get there, drive around to the side and look for a white GMC service van with Ajax Home Repairs painted in black letters on both sides. The key will be in a small magnetic box up under the back bumper on the left side. Don't screw up the van."

I grinned. "Thanks. I'll get back to you with whatever I find."

"Aedan, I have to ask. It has been a while since I trained you on forced entry and everything that might go wrong. Are you good with this?"

"Improvise, adapt, overcome – come on, Swede, I know the drill."

Back at the apartment to kill the pre-operation nervous jitters, I sucked down six Guinness Extra Stout beers before hitting the rack.

#### * * * *

## Marine Corps Air Station

## El Toro, California

"Corporal, you look like shit," Gunny Albright said when I walked up to him holding my morning coffee.

"Yeah, gunny. Haven't been sleeping much the past few days."

"Maybe you should think about quitting that night job at the plant."

"Don't think so. I'll catch up on sleep this weekend."

"Bullshit."

I glanced around the hanger. Only one Scooter in for maintenance, none of it mine. When I took another long sip of my black coffee, he saw my eyes sweep across the almost empty hanger.

"Thing are good, O'Neall. You and Brown have these kids running this place like a machine. I like it."

"Thanks."

"How about you taking the rest of today and tomorrow off?"

My eyes widened. "You're kidding."

"No I'm not. You need some rest and we've got the time. Get your ass our of here!"

"Aye, aye sir!"

On the drive back to the apartment, I finalized my plan for Wen Leu. Along the way, I spotted a Youfixit Hardware Store and pulled into the busy parking lot. The store was crowded. A single walkway ran down between some twenty isles with shelves bursting with everything a do-it-yourselfer could imagine. Ten minutes later, I walked out with a bag full of some of the things I needed. The rest I could buy at the Salvation Army store in town.

A hour later, I pushed into the apartment with my bags. I grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator and walked back to the phone to call my boss at the Boeing plant. He would need to know I picked up a virus and wouldn't be able to work my shift tonight.

#### * * * *

At eighteen-hundred, I picked up the GMC van at the diner on South Euclid where Swede said it would be waiting. It looked really good. However, it was ten years old, smoked badly, and the engine valves sounded like they never heard of motor oil. When the sun dropped below the horizon and darkness enveloped the area, I drove to where Leu lived and pulled up to the curb and cut the engine. I was some fifty yards down the street from Leu's townhouse project. The streetlights were bright so it was easy to see. There wasn't a lot of activity in the area and it appeared most of the units were still up for lease. The neighborhood was middle-income, mostly new, and the streets, curbs and sidewalks still had shiny, clean, almost white concrete or tan stone.

All of the townhouses, each staggered to give the appearance of a separate residence, sported softly painted stucco siding, white trim and Mexican tile roofs. A small porch protected by a black wrought-iron fence jutted out from the second story of each townhouse, accessible through a double six-panel glass door. Maintenance free rocks, ice plants that filled open areas like grass, and assorted desert plants with strategically placed palm trees landscaped the grounds. In front of the building, a wide stone sidewalk ran from one end to the other, butted up against the small entry porches extending out from each townhouse. Curved stone sidewalks meandered through the landscape from the street to each front door.

After pulling the short tan gloves on my hands, I stepped out of the GMC Ajax van and grabbed the black plastic toolbox, then shut the door. The streetlight shined on my side window turning it into a kind of mirror so I glanced at myself. The blue baseball cap on my head held down the brown wig with the ponytail down my back. The horn-rimmed glasses and the wig gave me a kind of nerdy, hippy look. The baggy grey work shirt with Ajax Home Repairs stenciled on back, baggy pants and clunky black work shoes completed my ensemble.

Maggie wouldn't even recognize me. Hell, I didn't recognize myself.

Those thoughts failed to stop the fear rush pushing through my vascular system.

I griped the official clipboard in my other hand and started towards Wen's place, number 1080, last unit on the left side of the building facing me.

Standing inside the covered entry outside his front door, I nonchalantly turned to the side while staring down at the clipboard. My peripheral vision scoped the street to make sure no one was paying attention to me. I glanced back at the door and let my eyes slowly run upward following the seam running between the door and door jam on the doorknob side. About an inch from the top of the door jam, an almost imperceptible piece of dull Scotch tape was stretched from one side of the door to the other side on the jam. Wen had some cheap security. I used my pocketknife to slit the tape along the seam between the door and the jam until later. I retrieved my lock pick set from my left breast pocket, then played in the lock until it clicked.

Just before I closed the door behind me, I grabbed the red-lensed flashlight off my tool belt and turned it on. It provided just enough light to see when I shut the door. Glancing around, it was obvious Wen Leu hadn't hired an interior decorator although it was several steps above any place I'd ever lived. His glossy cherry wood dining room furniture on my left and soft leather couches and chairs on my right, all resting on a varnished Mexican tile floor made the place look pretty good.

The townhouse was approximately fifteen-hundred square feet. If he was hiding anything, it probably would be on the second floor so I started up the stairs. The first run stopped at a landing followed by another short run back the other direction. The top floor had a short hallway with large master bedroom to the left and a study to the right. To the right of the study another short hallway stopped at a guest bedroom.

Where should I start?

Most people live in their bedrooms. Maybe I'd start with Wen's.

The master bathroom and walk-in closet filled one end of the bedroom. Windows filled the other end. The cherry wood furniture included a full size bed, no headboard, a single nightstand on the right next to the bed and a six-drawer dresser flushed along the wall perpendicular to the windows. A fitted sheet with a top sheet, both cream colored, were the extent of his bedding. I dropped to my knees next to the bed and shined the light under it. Nothing there. Not even dust balls. The nightstand was to my right under the windows. Some guys used tape, some used a single strand of hair for security, but i found neither around the drawer so I slid it open and looked inside. It appeared that Win didn't store much.

Maybe his closet held something useful?

After inspecting around the closet door, I opened it and glanced inside. One dark grey suit and dark tie hung on the rack beside two long-sleeve, button-down collar white shirts. One pair of black wingtip dress shoes and a pair of New Balance Trackster running shoes sat on the floor below the suit. The closet had no boxes or papers I could see.

I followed the same procedure in all the other upstairs rooms with no success. As I was about to head downstairs to investigate more, I noticed the pull string hanging from the ceiling above the guest bedroom door.

Attic stairs? Maybe look?

Running the light around the closed door edges, I spotted another piece of security tape. As with the front door, I cut it, then grabbed the string and pulled down slowly, hoping to minimize the spring roar that usually followed. After the stairs were fully extended, I climbed the stair ladder up in to the attic. The steep roof gave me plenty of headroom when I stood up. The floor was made of unfinished one-inch plywood. The attic fan and heating unit squatted on my right. Round, foam covered metal air ducts spread out across the attic floor from the unit to the rooms. Walking slowly around the heating unit, my eyes followed the opening that ran between the unit and the condensing unit's drip pan below it. Although I hoped something had been hidden there, no such luck.

Nothing was found around the air ducts. I walked slowly around the attic's perimeter. When I got to one corner, I noticed an unusual seam on the floor of that corner. Although faint, it appeared someone had cut out the small corner section of flooring, then placed the piece back in the hole. Using my knife blade, I worked it into the tight seam, then torqued the blade slightly for tension and began to pull upwards. The corner piece came out of the floor revealing a brown leather notebook about six by nine inches laying on top of the sheetrock. Pulling it out, I laid it on the attic floor and thumbed through it. Pages and pages of Chinese writing. Five minutes later after taking a snapshot of every page with my pen camera, I returned the book where I found it.

Making my exit was a bit more difficult because of the security tape that had to be replaced. In advanced covert school, Swede taught me not to start a job without bringing two kinds of Scotch tape, shiny and dull. Halfway down the stairs, I heard a sound downstairs.

Maybe someone at the front door?

If it was Wen, he would see the tape cut and know someone was inside. I eased back up the stairs while trying to think where my advantage would be. It's possible he might believe I'd already left but I knew better. He would know the tape had been cut by a professional because ordinary thieves didn't look for pieces of tape. He would also know that I was still in his townhouse because the tape had not been replaced. The only place to wait would be the guest bedroom. I grabbed my tool box and headed that direction.

With my back against the wall to the left of the guest bedroom door, I slowed my breathing while holding my hands clasped together above my head, arms fully extended against the wall. I didn't hear the front door close but I felt someone in the house. I counted two minutes before I heard faint footsteps on the first run of stairs below. My heart rate picked up slightly so I continued the slow breathing. The sound of a light switch clicked down the hall.

Maybe the master bedroom?

I guessed he was looking around trying to spot something out of place.

More footsteps. He was checking his closet, then bathroom. My end of the hallway was next on his list. Light steps started towards the study with me just a short distance away. The footsteps stopped and I could hear breathing, the kind you didn't want to have when things might go sour. He would be staring up at the attic stairs to see if they tape was broken.

He uttered something under his breath in Chinese. The hall light behind him cast his shadow through the door next to me. He wasn't thinking clearly or he would not have turned on the light. His shadow got larger and his footsteps passed through the doorway as his hand reached up to flip the light switch around the corner to my right. As his head reached the corner of the wall next to me, I found my moment.

Both of my hands, now in a fist, swung into his face with a force that snapped the bridge of his nose. His body flew backwards into the hallway and I leaped forward and kicked him hard in the crotch, then drove my left fist into his stomach. For the moment, he was unconscious. It was time to leave.

#### * * * *

On my drive back to the apartment, I was still wired from my first real forced entry and physical encounter. Along the way, I stopped at the address Swede identified as the dead drop. It was late and dark. I pulled the GTO up to the curb, cut the engine then got out to open the hood. I acted as if the engine was giving me problems. My eyes swept the street to make sure no one was watching. Directly to my right across the street was an empty lot. Next to it stood a faded one-story duplex with an old green Pontiac four-door up on blocks on the oil stained driveway. The yard was mostly brush, weeds, trash and hunks of rusted metal. No one seemed to be home.

A couple of cars passed but didn't stop or show interest. My dead drop was the property where my car was parked at the curb. Knee-high brush covered the yard. A hundred feet from the curb stood an old abandoned house dejected and unoccupied. I walked around the side of the one story frame house headed to the backyard. The box buried next the slab was exactly where Swede said it would be. My envelope containing the pen camera slid easily inside it.

After returning the van where I picked it up, I drove home.

The next evening, Swede phoned. He wanted to meet at him at the diner on South Euclid. The heavy traffic slowed me down to almost a walking pace but I finally made to the parking lot. When I slipped into the booth across from him, he looked excited.

"The camera shots were spot on. My interpreter translated the Chinese to English. I – "

Swede started coughing and his face turned a dark shade of red. "Jesus, Swede, are you okay?"

He continued to cough for another few seconds, then stopped and leaned back in his chair trying to catch his breath. He nodded his head at me and sat there without speaking for a minute or two. Finally, he leaned on the table.

"This damned cough just won't go away."

"Maybe you should see a doc."

"Yeah. Probably so. Anyway, Wen Leu has his own dead-drop. Although he had planned to deliver microfilm covering the complete documentation of the new 747 including all of it systems and power plants, your visit put him on a very short fuse. One of my teams raced out to where he planned the drop off and caught him red-handed at noon today. By the way, you broke his nose and some ribs. He also might be sterile now."

"I'm sure he understood his job was hazardous," I said. "How were the stolen plans going to be used?"

"His government would do what all communist government do, copy and manufacture what others have developed."

"What do you think will happen now?"

I've got twenty-four hour surveillance on the dead drop. We will wait to catch the pickup courier. That person could lead us to the source of their espionage ring."

"I can't believe we were so lucky."

"Good job, Aedan. Damned good job."

"So what's next?"

"For now, you can focus on your work at the plant just like the rest of the crew."

"That won't be for long. We finish up or segment of the work in a week."

"The extra money helped, didn't it?"

"Sure. Just wish the job lasted longer."

" What are your plans for the future?"

"Are you asking if I plan to ship over in the Corps?"

"That would be a good place to start the conversation."

"Well, the Marine Corps experience has been great but I'm not sure about making it my life. Later on, I'll probably regret that decision but right now, not so much. Anyway, Maggie wants me to give college a try using my GI Bill benefits."

"Smart girl. College can be a good thing, particularly when someone else offers to pay for it. If you decide to go, what major would you choose?"

"I haven't given it much thought. Before joining the Corps, my plan was a business degree and maybe an accounting major. When I attended the University of Houston my second semester, Accounting wasn't much fun. Selecting a major might take some thought."

"Would you like my advice?"

"Are you kidding? Hell yes."

"There is a job waiting for you on the outside doing covert work on a much grander scale. However, there is a catch."

"What kind of catch?"

"You can't have the job unless you attend Texas A&M University and graduate with a degree in Business Administration and a major in accounting."

"You're joking, right?"

"Not hardly."

"Swede, my grades weren't all that good. Although Texas A&M has always been one of my pipe-dreams, getting admitted would be a long shot. A lot of brainy jocks would be way ahead of me."

"Look son, you underestimate yourself. I've watched you since you started in this field and I can tell you, flat out, you have what we are looking for on the civilian side of this business. Hell, we have links with leading members of almost every alumni association of every major college and university in this and many other countries. If we needed it to happen tomorrow, we could get you an authentic Harvard PhD. But you don't need that kind of help."

I frowned. "What kind of help do I need?"

"What we would probably do is get you some strong letters of recommendation. The fact that you are a decorated combat veteran would cinch your admission by itself. In case you don't know it, during WWII, Texas A&M University furnished over thirty-percent of the officers to all branches of the U.S. Military. In my book, that's pretty damned pro-military."

"Swede, it almost sounds too good to be true. Give me some time to chew on it and I'll let you know. When you said this new work would be on a much grander scale, what did you mean?"

"Our needs in the Marine Corps are considerably scaled down from the wealth of intelligence training you received. Your program included training in areas reserved for civilian work. That side of our business is much more complex and demanding."

I raised my eyebrows. "Well, that answers a lot of questions."

"Anything else?"

"One thing has been on my mind for a long time. Maybe you might shed some light on it."

"Talk to me."

"I'm sure you know my training with you was predicated on me going AWOL while at the Naval Air Technical Training Center in Memphis. Being absent without leave wasn't one of my military objectives in this man's Marine Corps. After you finished with me, Commanding Officer's Non-Judicial Punishment ruined my record and denied me promotion for six months not to mention destroying my relationship with my family. To top it off, there's no chance I can make sergeant without another six year re-enlistment. Was that really necessary?"

Swede dropped his head and half closed his eyes, then glance back up at me.

"It was a kind of loyalty test, Aedan. We had to know if you were serious about this covert work. We had to believe that you would be willing to do whatever was required of you. A big part of the process was knighthood. We had to be completely certain about your total commitment. All Marines take the oath you did at your first enlistment but few, if any, ever get that oath tested. In our work, your commitment to that oath is tested."

"That really sucks."

"Yeah, it does. If it is any consolation, something like that happens to everyone that travels down the same road you did and that, son, includes me."

"You went AWOL too?"

"No. Each recruit's test is different. That test is something that would be significant, personal, and hard for that individual."

"Well, at least you know how I feel."

He nodded. "Before I forget, what did you think about Robert Gibbons?"

"How do you know Robert Gibbons?"

"He worked for me just like you."

"The Corporal Robert Gibbons born in Australia who was a naturalized American like me? The same Corporal Gibbons who was our squadron electronics guru in Vietnam? You mean to tell me that Gibbons was running covert information too? Both of us were doing the same job?"

"Not the same job. His specialty is electronics, cryptology and linguistic intelligence so we had him monitor communications traffic. Gibbons speaks Vietnamese fluently along with a few other languages."

"How much did he know about me?"

"No more than you knew about him."

I shook my head.

"It would have been nice had we known about each other. The loneliness of covert work might have been a lot more bearable."

"Sorry. That's just the way it had to be."

"So where is Gibbons now?"

"He still works for us. You'll probably see him again. I just don't know when."

#  Chapter 66 - Maggie

## Cut and Shoot Animal Hospital

## Cut and Shoot, Texas

Maggie O'Neall sat at the table in the small break room of the Cut and Shoot Animal Hospital. While talking to Dr. Carl Leander, she stuffed down a sandwich.

"How's Aedan, doing?" he asked.

"Great. He likes California but he's decided to get out of the Marines and come back to go to college."

"Where does he want to go?"

"Where else? A&M."

"How about Rice, the University of Houston, maybe even the University of Texas? Why is it always Texas A&M? The damned school is treated like a mecca by Texans."

"Carl, if you hated the place so much, why did you hire me?"

"Because you care about animals and you are a damned good vet, not because you attended A&M."

"You Florida A&M guys are an angry bunch."

"Watch your tongue, young lady. Okay, back to Aedan. When is he coming home?"

"Pretty soon. I can't wait," Maggie said.

"I'll bet."

#  Chapter 67 – Movie Making and The Hell's Angels

## Marine Corps Air Station

## El Toro, California

On Thursday around fourteen-hundred, while observing one of the private's check a wing for stress-fractures using a chemical called Zyglo and a black light, it dawned on me that Maggie's little brother's request for photos had slipped my mind. Glancing back at the hanger, I saw Captain Skyhawk Mack Fox walking out in the direction of his A-4. Pfc. Havana was fueling it up for Skyhawk's hop.

"Captain Fox!" I hollered. "May I ask you a question?"

He stopped and turned my direction. "Sure, Corporal O'Neall. What you got?"

"I need a really big favor, sir."

"Okay, I'm listening."

"My wife's little brother is a budding Marine who wants to fly one of these days. He asked for some pictures of the aircraft and some aviators. With your help, I'd like to give him something more."

"What do you have in mind?"

"Sir, in a few days the squadron is headed to M.C.A.S. Yuma and the gun range. When we get there, I want to make him a movie, kind of like a recruitment film, that will blow him away. What do you think, sir?"

"That's a damned good idea, O'Neall. I like it. Hell, our commanding officer might even be able to sell it to the Commandant for recruitment. Because General Chapman just stepped into the CMC slot, he may be looking for new angles. In Yuma, we will be making some gun and bombing runs with the Skyhawk cameras running anyway. I will touch-base with the CO and see if we can piece something together. You got a movie camera?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. Once all the filming is complete, we will turn all of it over to the Wing film guru. He can turn it into a Hollywood production."

"Sir, I can't tell you how happy this will make the kid."

"No problem, we will do almost anything for a budding Marine."

#### * * * *

## Marine Corps Air Station

## Yuma, Arizona

A week later, VMA-214 left for its annual one-week trip to Marine Corps Air Station, Yuma, Arizona and the gun range. Our aviators flew there while the rest of us loaded into trucks and made the over-mountain trip going from warm temperatures to cool temperatures and back to really no-humidity warm when we crossed into Arizona. The heat would require us to drink lots of water if it lived up to its reputation.

When we arrived at the Yuma base, the gate guard waved our convoy through and we made the quarter-mile trip to our barracks. The old, wooden building was situated a short distance from the hangers and runway. We rounded the corner next to our barracks. Down a short road we could see our shiny Skyhawks squatting alone on the ramp in a neat row.

The Mess Hall fed us lunch. Fifteen minutes later, we were in the hanger making sure our tools and maintenance equipment worked properly. Outside on the parking ramp, three aviators buckled into their cockpits and the plane captain, Pfc. Darren Jones, stood some fifteen feet ahead waving hand-turn signals then he saluted each officer as his Skyhawk accelerated into the turn headed for the runway.

For the next five days, Black Sheep's new aviators would be flying over the desert target range making bombing and strafing runs on practice targets. The process was designed to simulate, as closely as possible, real combat bombing and strafing missions against real enemy. These skills would be needed when they arrive in Vietnam. At the end of each day, they would return to base to be debriefed and evaluated. They might try to embellish their performance but film from their nose-mounted cameras would tell the story.

On day one, Reveille blasted us awake at zero-five-hundred. On the walk to the mess hall, Captain Fox came up behind me.

"Good morning, Corporal O'Neall."

"Good morning, sir," I said while saluting smartly.

"The CO liked your recruitment film idea a lot. You shoot what you want and we'll piece it together for you. The CO wants to be in it so you'll be asking him some questions on his way out to his bird. Son, this is going to be good!"

"Sir, I'm speechless."

On the third day at Yuma, we witnessed a simulated atomic bomb airburst. Dropping atomic bombs was one of the tasks for which the little Skyhawk had originally been designed. From inside the concrete and steel bunker buried in the sand with six inches of special Plexiglas to look through, the mini-atom bomb blast gave all of us new respect for the power of war's technology.

I managed to get almost an hour's worth of film for the movie we were making for James. The maintenance crew let me film them working. I got some good shots of the plane captains directing aircraft in and out of the parking area and Skyhawk Fox was my first pilot victim. He acted like a Hollywood professional with all the drama that could be mustered in his little segment. Our commanding officer, Colonel Marvin T. Went, added a serious touch with comments about how he exemplified where a Marine aviator's career could lead. The Wing film guru took the gun and bombing runs and my video, added in some front shots of the CO addressing James personally as if he were there, then he pieced it together into a film any Hollywood producer would be proud of. At the end, James would be stunned with the final words of Colonel Went.

"James, when you graduate from college, the Marine Corps will be holding a spot open for you. Until, then, Semper Fidelis."

The day before our return to El Toro, six of us took a truck into the desert along with fishing poles and tackle left behind by the previous squadron. A couple of miles into the desert, we discovered a kind of oasis, a couple of palm trees and a nice little pond someone stocked with perch. The upside was that we now had a place to fish and drink a few beers. The downside was that it wasn't far from the target area used by our aviators. We prayed the scheduled time off for the aviators shown as today was correct. We spent the day fishing and drinking beer from the ice chests we brought along. We caught enough little perch to fry and satisfy our hunger. Shortly after sundown, we loaded in the truck and returned to base.

A couple of days later, I phoned Swede to let him know the Corps was out and college was in. He reaffirmed my decision was good and said application to Texas A&M with four letters of recommendation would be in the mail the same day I drove away from El Toro.

Another letter arrived for me at mail call. Maggie said James got the film I sent and was so excited he cried. It was so good they couldn't believe it.

Artie phoned my apartment a couple of days after we returned from Yuma. He completed the diving school program at the top of his class. A Louisiana diving company offered him a job he really wanted. He was supposed to start work in a few days. Then he dropped the big bomb on me. The reason that he and Brenda decided to get married when they did was that she was pregnant. For the time being, Brenda would be living in their new apartment in Cut and Shoot while he worked ten days on and ten days off on jack-up rigs off the coast of Louisiana. What a bummer.

"Artie, it's a good thing these guys are going to pay you well," I told him. "You'll need it for the baby. Hey, man, congratulations."

When we got off the phone, it was obvious Artie was happy.

Friday afternoon our squadron pay clerk walked into the hanger. Friday was payday and it came none too soon. He started calling off names and the Marines walked up and grabbed their checks. He skipped my name.

"Hey, Hendley, you forgot me."

He glanced at me. "Yeah. I know. I phoned Kansas City. They said your records have been misplaced."

"What the hell do they mean my records have been misplaced? How the hell do they misplace a Marine's friggin' records?"

He shook his head. "Aedan, I don't know. That's the story."

"Son of a bitch. My rent and phone bills are due. I need the damned money."

"I'm working on it. In the meantime, go over to Navy Relief at Air Wing headquarters. They can advance you some money until we get this thing straightened out."

I glanced at Albright.

He shook his head. "O'Neall, don't look at me. That problem is way over my pay grade. I'll keep on the CO but you hot foot it down to Navy Relief like Hendley suggested."

When I got to the Air Wing headquarters building, I was breathing hard from the run. The Navy Relief office was on one end of the building so I walked inside. A sailor was sitting behind the desk reading a paperback when I walked up to the counter. I explained my situation to him.

"Sorry, corporal. We can loan you money but your problem has to involve something like an illness or death in the family. Navy Relief will only advance money to get a Marine or Sailor back home to deal with that kind of situation."

"You've got to be kidding."

"No, sorry. That's the way this works."

"Crap."

"Sorry."

"Do you have any other options?"

"Well, the last Marine I spoke to who didn't qualify took my advice and got a part time job off base."

I shook my head. "Thanks."

That night when I got home, I picked up the rolled up newspaper off my sidewalk and walked into the apartment. There was still one cold beer in the refrigerator so I grabbed it.

Sitting on the couch, I put my socked feet up on the coffee table and sucked down the first swallow wondering what the hell I was going to do about money. Jesus! Should active duty Marines be worrying about money? My eyes fell on the newspaper so I picked it up and flipped back to the want ads. Maybe someone needed a Marine for a few bucks an hour. Sure enough, a gas station south of Garden Grove on Highway 22 wanted a night attendant. Hell, I could do that. While a senior in high school, I worked weekends as assistant manager of a gas station near Conroe, Texas. Saturday morning, I got up early and drove over to the Delreo Shell Station. The Mexican station owner, Joe Delreo, hired me on the spot.

"I know it looks bad right now," he said, pointing to all the cars lined up at the two gas pump bays in front of the station. "But it's pretty slow at night. Believe me, you can run it by yourself without getting winded."

"Three dollars an hour?"

"That's right, Aedan. Good money, huh?"

"It will help. When do you want me to start?"

"How about tonight? Be here around seven p.m."

"See you then."

#### * * * *

At exactly eighteen-hundred, one-hour early, I nosed the GTO into the Delreo Shell Station parking slot next to Joe Delreo's Chevy four door and got out. He was leaning over the engine in a Ford Crown Victoria checking the oil. He glanced back at me.

"Hey, O'Neall, I like your punctuality. Good man!"

I walked over to the pumps and grabbed a squeegee, dipped it in the water bucket, then proceeded to scrub the customer's front window to remove a hard layer of bugs.

Delreo glanced at me. "Don't work in your good clothes. I've got you some uniforms inside on the counter. Go change and I'll walk you through what you'll need to know after I leave later."

Inside the station, things were clean and neatly organized. A rack of special fuel additives sat against the back wall next to a Coke machine and a cigarette machine. A black and white aerial photo of the station was framed and hanging on the wall to the right of the machines. A small rack of paper travel maps and some tourist information stood near one end of the wood topped counter covered with knife cuts and pen markings. A dozen business cards for various services other customers left behind were taped on the glass countertop. Two boxes of Snickers, a box of Hershey bars, and a clear plastic jug of jawbreakers were lined up in the cabinet below. To the right of the cards was a stack of neatly folded light blue uniforms. The short sleeve shirt had Night Manager monogrammed over the left breast pocket.

Okay, that'll work.

I grabbed the top uniform and walked into the bathroom to change.

By eight, Joe had given me a tour of the station, he explained about the equipment I might need to use, and he showed me how to operate the cash register. He wrote down his home phone number and pointed to the emergency numbers on a card taped to the wall beside his desk behind the counter.

"God forbid you have a fire or get robbed, that list has the phone numbers for help."

"Robbed?"

He grinned. "I've only been robbed once. Maybe three years ago. Damned college kid needed money for his drug habit. Don't worry. You'll be okay."

"Got any weapons here?"

He pointed to the cabined under the counter. "Twenty-gauge, sawed off shotgun under there. It's loaded. You don't need to aim it. Just point the general direction and fire. You can't miss."

"Sounds good to me."

"Before I leave, have I've missed anything? Think you can handle it?"

"No problem, Mr. Delreo. I've got you covered. Don't worry about a thing."

A few minutes later, he drove away leaving me in charge. Between nine and midnight, I counted twenty cars I gassed up, checked under the hood, and aired the tires if they needed it. At two, freeway traffic was almost dead and I thought about taking a light nap. No sooner had my eyes closed then my ears picked up a tremendous roar. I glanced through the office front window and spotted an endless stream of motorcycles pulling into the station. I stood and walked out front. When I got to the pumps, both bays were filled with motorcycles and I was surrounded by the Hells Angels motorcycle gang.

"Hey, Marine, think you've got enough gas to fill up all our machines?"

I glanced at the big man on the lead motorcycle and it was obvious he bossed this group of bikers. His long, sandy brown hair hang down his back in a braid. His muscular tattooed arms hang out of his faded, leather vest and both his motorcycle boots were planted firmly on the concrete. I thought his long beard looked cool. I also thought I might know him.

"Yes sir. Just filled up this morning. You take off that gas cap and I'll fill her up for you. By the way, what makes you think I'm a Marine?"

"Marines are like FBI agents, they can't hide who they are."

"Where you guys headed?"

"Where ever we want to go. What's your name?"

"Aedan O'Neall. They call me Irish."

"No screaming shit! Damn," he said. "I thought I recognized you! He climbed off his bike and hugged me. "Greg Barton. I go by Bomber now."

"Sergeant Barton, I can't believe it. Man, I thought I recognized you too. How the hell have you been?"

"Look different now, don't I?"

"You fooled me."

"Yeah." He pointed back to his men who were watching him as if he might have gone insane. "You wouldn't know it by looking at them, but I've got accountants, engineers and other professionals hidden under those nasty biker outfits. But I tell you, Irish, they are as tough as they look. Some guys can't stay away from the bad boys they used to be while in the Marines. We've got camaraderie like me and you had in the corps. Esprit de Corps. That's what we have with the Angels."

"I know what you mean. When it gets in the blood, you can't keep away from it."

"Yeah."

"I've got a fresh pot of coffee on inside, Bomber. Not sure there's enough for all of your men but you are welcome to it."

He nodded. "You ride bikes?"

"Nope, but I'd love to."

"Want to ride with us? You'd be in good company. Most of us are former Marines. The Hell's Angels was originally formed by Marines right after WWII."

"Just got married, Bomber. I'm only working here because the Marine Corps lost my damned pay records. When they find them and pay my back pay, I'm out of here."

He grinned. "Yeah. The corps has some issues. I remember. Think I'll take you up on that coffee."

#### * * * *

Three hours sleep wasn't going to cut it. Working eight hours at the base, then another eight hours at night left my mind working in slow motion along with the rest of my body. In about two weeks, I started to adjust but life still wasn't back to normal. Fortunately, it was relatively quiet at the station and my customer load was manageable. About two a.m. on Wednesday morning, things changed.

The shift started out slow and quiet. A retired school teacher drove into the station with a flat right rear tire. It took me about ten minutes to put her spare on. I told her to take the bad tire back to the dealer where she bought it. An hour later, our gasoline suppler drove his eighteen-wheeler in and spent two hours filling our tanks. He'd been in Vietnam too, assigned to one of the Army's motor transport units so we shared some stories. He drove away leaving my mind back in Vietnam. Two hours later, a couple of California Highway Patrol cruisers stopped in for gas so I filled them up and got the windshields clean. They seemed nice enough but didn't talk much. When it got quiet again, I walked inside and sat down behind the desk to continue reading the year old Hot Rod Magazine I found in a drawer.

My feet were up on the desk while I was reading and nursing my fourth cup of coffee. The caffeine helped some but sleep would be much better. The roar of motorcycles caused me to jerk my head up and I spotted one bike in front and three behind it and closing. I jumped up and headed for the door.

I recognized Greg "Bomber" Barton immediately and it wasn't his Hell's Angels crew behind him. It was three members of the Banditos motorcycle club. They were on his ass like they wanted to kill him. When I reached the driveway near the first bay of pumps, Bomber's bike slid to a stop and he jumped off with the other bikers doing likewise. One held a piece of pipe and another gripped a piece of heavy chain. The third guy raised his fists up. All three started moving towards Bomber.

"Hey! What the hell are you guys doing?" I yelled.

"Shut up you piece of shit or we'll kill you too," one of them yelled at me.

They charged in around Bomber, about to kill him. I jumped in behind one and kicked his legs out from under him, then kicked him in the head. The third Bandido saw what I'd done and turned towards me swinging the piece of chain. As soon as the chain swished past me, I pivoted on my right foot and drove my left into his chest. When he hit the pavement, I kicked him between the legs, grabbed the chain and yanked it away from him. Because it was wrapped around his hand and wrist, it broke both and he screamed like a little girl. Bomber dodged the pipe swung at him by the third Bandito, then tackled him to the ground and began beating his face to a pulp. About that time, another chopper roared into the driveway. Fortunately, it was one of the Hell's Angels.

He jumped off his bike and ran over to help. By then, the three Banditos were more than willing to leave but Bomber and the other Hell's Angels member gave all three of them a beating they would never forget. Finally, they almost destroyed the Bandito's bikes, then ran the three men off the parking lot on foot with a warning to keep out of Hell's Angels territory or, next time, they would be dead.

Bomber and his friend returned to me.

"What in the hell brought all that on?" I asked.

Bomber grinned. "Our club closed shop for the night. I just needed to ride to clear my head. Riding alone is something we don't normally do but I took off by myself anyway. About five miles from our place, these three Banditos spotted me and gave chase. Stopping on the dark highway is not a good option so I rode this direction knowing I'd have your station lights behind me when they confronted me. Jesus, Irish, you really helped." He pointed at the other Hell's Angels member. "This is Billy Friday. He's my second in command. Looks like he decided to ride after me when he found out I left alone."

I shook Friday's hand. He was a tall, muscular young man with piercing green eyes and a thick black beard most men wished they could grow. His coal black hair was thick and long held in back with a red cloth band. "Glad you showed up," I said. "Things might have been a lot worse and another pair of fists and feet might have made the difference."

"Yeah, man. Thanks."

"Irish, I tell you, man, we really would like you to join the club."

I grinned. "Bomber, it's tempting but I'd better not. My bride already has plans for me back in Texas. I tell you what, though. If you and the club ever get down to Cut and Shoot, you look me up. I mean it. We'll do a Texas barbeque you'll never forget."

"Accepted."

#### * * * *

A week passed and I sat across from the squadron's sergeant major listening to him give me the re-enlistment pitch. Sgt. Maj. Henderson was a damned good salesman and could easily be the face on any Marine Corps recruitment poster. Henderson was a handsome black Marine some six-foot-four with the kind of muscular build you only see on the cover of weight lifting magazines. Although he looked like he was in his thirties, he was at the Chosen Reservoir in the Korean War where he earned three Purple Hearts and a Bronze Star, then did three tours in Vietnam where he earned a Silver Star and Navy Cross. Yeah, when you watched Sgt. Maj. Henderson give you the pitch, it was damned hard not to say "God Yes! Please let me ship over!"

However, I thanked him and said if circumstances were different, following in his footsteps to a career in the Corps would be my choice. My new bride and desire to return to college forced me to move in a different direction.

My mind was still wholly Marine so my concern for our men stuck back in Vietnam remained. Richard Nixon seemed to be a Republican favorite for election while President Johnson's hopes were dropping. The anti-war protests raged on with the help of North Vietnam's communist propaganda machine now running all of America's television networks. Extrapolating out this war, although we were winning for the moment, I thought it was not going to end well.

Three weeks later, I cleaned my apartment so the manager would return our fifty-dollar deposit. With great sadness the previous day, I carried my two TVs – one with sound and no picture, the other with picture but no sound – out to the car, then drove to a dumpster where I carefully placed them inside. The luggage rack I bought and mounted on the roof was loaded with my stuff I tied down with rope. While parked in front of the airport terminal, I bounced my ass on the GTO trunk to close it after packing in what remained of my belongings. I glanced at the empty passenger seat where my brother, Arthur, would be sitting as soon as he walked out of the terminal. Artie agreed to fly out and drive back to Texas with me, just in case I might fall asleep. Soon, we would be headed out the freeway following the map that would lead me back to my bride in the little town of Cut and Shoot.

My mind traced itself back to that first night I arrived at the Marine Corps Recruit Depot at San Diego, California. Those damned yellow footprints painted on the black asphalt under the spotlights and the screaming Marine ordering us to stand on them at attention. At the time, I had serious doubts about my decision to join the Marine Corps. Time and experience down a rough, angry road had changed my perspective about many things. Not only had I been knighted into a secret order, now I was going back to college.

Where was that road going to take me next? What were these opportunities the order had planned for me?

I could hardly wait to find out.

##### # # #

##### About the Author

Read more about R.D. Sexton at Smashwords.com

##### Discover Other Titles by R.D. Sexton at Smashwords.com

A Little Rebellion: April 15th Surprise

SAC Time

The Oath Keeper Trilogy – Book One – The Knighting

The Oath Keeper Trilogy – Book Two – The Grooming

The Oath Keeper Trilogy – Book Three – The Assumption

##### Connect to R.D. Sexton Online

Blog: A Little Rebellion: April 15th Surprise

Blog: SAC Time

Blog: The Oath Keeper Trilogy

