What he saw chilled his blood. Five large men armed with baseball bats and tire irons had surrounded James. They were young, they were fit, and they were probably very confident that they could handle this lone man. It looked all the world to Hugh like a pack of wolves on a lone deer.
They were about to find out just how tragically overmatched they were. Hugh was no stranger to hand-to-hand combat, and he had the confidence that came with surviving actual life-or-death experiences in a war.
James appeared to be holding them off successfully, but his battered and bloodied condition meant that one or more of them had landed some blows.
Hugh sprinted toward the group, his sandwich forgotten.
Just as he got close enough to join the melee, Hugh saw that two of the men had dropped their weapons, and had come up behind James. They had grabbed him by both arms, and were attempting to force him onto the ground.
The other three moved in with their weapons raised, planning to bludgeon James into submission. James fought like a wounded tiger, but it was evident that the five-against-one odds were going to be too much for him.
Planning to even the odds in a big way, Hugh charged out of the darkness, flying into the fray. His strategy was to quickly put down the men grappling with James, so that James could join him in finishing off the remaining three.
Hugh aimed a hard right kick, stomping down against the right knee of the attacker holding onto James’ right arm. While that guy collapsed to the tarmac permanently out of action with a shattered knee, Hugh then used the downward momentum that the kick gave his torso to pivot to his left and, with the full mass of his two hundred twenty pounds of hardened muscle, bone, and gristle behind the move, swung the back of his left elbow violently up into the face of the attacker on James’ left side, instantly smashing his nose flat and knocking him into unconsciousness.
Two of the five were out of commission, and James was free. That took all of five seconds. Now where were the other three?
He found out soon enough as he heard a sharp crack like wood splintering very near his head. He ducked and turned, and saw the guy with the baseball bat recoil in excruciating pain. His bat was still intact and flying off into the darkness, but his large, right forearm radius bone was shattered and splintered into a pulpy mess.
Now free of the men holding onto him, James had gotten back into the action. He stood beside Hugh in a martial crouch, having delivered the devastating kick just before the man with the bat would have crushed Hugh’s skull.
As the wounded man doubled over in pain, his face caught Hugh’s upward moving knee. The perfect confluence of knee and face meant it was a foregone conclusion for the attacker.
Three down. Now, where were the fourth and fifth?
The two remaining attackers had split up, and had moved to either side of the pair, cautious because of the destruction that their victim and this newcomer had unleashed on their buddies. It was apparent that they hoped to rush Hugh and James at the same time from opposite directions. It didn’t work out that way, because Hugh and James flew together at the man on Hugh’s right. Their combined assault put the man down immediately.
The remaining man looked on in confusion at the pair of truckers still standing, and at his four buddies now lying unconscious or writhing in pain on the pavement.
He came to the erroneous conclusion, however, that he was still in the fight. Obviously he must have been swimming in the shallow end of the gene pool when brains were dished out, because he rushed at James and Hugh with the tire iron, swinging it aimlessly and amateurishly in the pair’s direction.
Dumb idea.
“Mine!” James yelled.
“No, mine!” Hugh yelled back.
They elbowed each other, rushing to be the one to finish off this last assailant, both of them racing at the remaining attacker together. The result was devastating, but predictable.
Hugh stepped right and feinted a right to the guy’s left side, drawing the tire iron in a loopy, swinging arc at the spot where Hugh no longer was. The guy realized his mistake too late to save him from the bone-cracking blow of James’ hard left against his exposed right side, breaking ribs and punishing his kidney.
The guy faltered, and staggered backward. Hugh finished the wounded guy off by smashing the heel of his martial-arts-hardened hand into the guy’s face. A sickening sound escaped his would-be attacker’s pulped lips, his legs collapsed under him, and the fifth guy was definitely out of it.
The whole episode took less than a minute.
James and Hugh stood there, breathing hard, bent over with their hands on their knees, grinning at each other like idiots.
“Hola, Isabel, that was fun!” James said, panting from the exertion, but pumped from the activity.
“Hey, old man, looks like you were a little rusty there.” Hugh teased, panting slightly himself, more from the adrenaline than from the exertion.
"You could at least warn a guy when you are planning some extra-curricular fun. I could have been here sooner,” Hugh said, joking. “What was that all about, anyway?”
“That, my friend … is what you can call an attempted hijacking … It’s the first time it’s happened to me … I’m sure glad that you came along when you did,” James said, between gasps of catching his breath.
“My pleasure … actually, really,” Hugh said. “By the way, what do we do with these guys?” Their would-be assailants were still out cold or incapacitated, sprawled out all akimbo where each of them lay when their part of the fight was over.
“I’m not a medic, so there isn’t anything I can do for them. We can get cleaned up a bit, and then go into the driver’s lounge to use a pay phone to call an ambulance ... anonymously,” James said, looking at the results of the carnage at their feet.
On the way back to their truck, James put his hand on Hugh’s shoulder. “You know what, kid? You’ll do to ride the river with,” he said.
“You too, old man. You too.”
Back in the truck, as James stripped off his bloodied T-shirt, Hugh couldn’t help but notice numerous scars. He guessed they were combat scars. He chose to not say anything or ask questions at this time. He knew that James would be forthcoming with information when he was ready.
After all, Hugh had his own battle scars, both physical and emotional, to deal with.
Once cleaned up, they walked to the travel center together, made the phone call, then ordered up a couple of sub sandwiches. James hadn’t gotten a chance to make it all the way to the travel center earlier, and Hugh had no idea where his sandwich had ended up during the fight. He wasn’t about to go back and look for it.
Hugh pulled out his wallet to pay for his sandwich, but James stopped him, “Not this time, pal. It’s on me.”
They ate their subs on a picnic table outside the travel center entrance.
“Something’s bothering me,” James said.
“Go on.”
“Well, kid,” James said “From what I saw back there, you didn’t spend your whole time in the Marines hauling boxes of toilet paper around in a warehouse, did you.”
“No, not exactly.”
Hugh had told James earlier about his last station working in a warehouse at the Marine Logistics Base just outside of Barstow, California.
“So, where did you see that kind of action?”
Hugh remained silent.
“MEU in the Sandbox?” James guessed, referring to the military veterans’ colloquialism for the Middle East. MEU stood for Marines Expeditionary Unit.
“Yes.”
“Would you care to elaborate on that?” James asked.
“No.”
“OK. Fair enough.”
While eating, they had a ring-side seat to the excitement that followed. They saw two ambulances, lights flashing and sirens blaring, rounding the corner into the truck stop entrance. It took the ambulance drivers only a moment to find the location of the injured men, as James had given a fairly good description on the phone of
where they would be.
They finished their sandwiches before the medics had gurnied all five brutally injured men into the ambulances, so James and Hugh casually walked right past the scene of the mayhem, looking for all the world like two innocent truck drivers who were mildly curious about what was going on.
A sheriff’s deputy was there questioning passersby, but nobody had seen or heard anything in this dark, remote area of the truck stop. Many drivers at a truck stop leave their engines idling, the rumble of the big diesels killing any possibility of them hearing sounds outside their big rigs.
The deputy, seeing James and Hugh, motioned for them to come over.
“Did either of you guys see anything here tonight?” the deputy asked.
“No, officer, we were eating sandwiches in the sub shop,” James answered innocently, averting his bruised and cut face slightly to keep it in shadow. “Why? What happened here? Someone have an accident?”
“Yes, some accident,” the deputy said. “It looks like these five guys tangled with a Mack truck. But, it’s strange.”
“What’s that?” James asked.
“They look like they were taken down with military precision. I haven’t seen anything like it since leaving the Marines,” the deputy said.
Hugh leaned over, and whispered to James. “Let’s get out of here.” Hugh still had his high-and-tight haircut, and he was nervous that it might be cause for the deputy to take a closer look at the two truck drivers.
As they walked back to James' truck Hugh thought this was an interesting day, hardly what he was expecting as he thumbed the ride from James just that morning.
Sleeping accommodations in James’ truck were better than Hugh thought they would be—not that he had hoped for much. James pointed to the upper bunk in the condo unit of the sleeper cab. When Hugh climbed up there he found a clean mattress and a sleeping bag. The night wasn’t too cold, so he crashed out on top of the sleeping bag, using his small bag of spare clothes for a pillow.
Hugh lay on his back, his hands clasped together behind his head, staring up at the sloped ceiling of the cab. His mind raced with thoughts from the excitement of the evening, but also with the possibilities that presented themselves since getting picked up by his new friend, James.
He had enjoyed riding in the truck for the very short time that he had done it, and he definitely wanted to learn more about it. And, he thought, if a trucker’s life is anything like what they had gone through today ... well ... he could get to like that too. It certainly wouldn’t be boring.
For the first time since leaving military service a month earlier he felt like he might have some direction for his life. He knew he had a lot of obstacles to overcome: How did one learn to drive one of these things? How did one pay for lessons? How did one get hired by a freight company as a raw beginner? There was a lot he didn’t know.
Accustomed in the military to falling asleep quickly, Hugh did just that. James’ gentle snoring faded into nothingness in Hugh’s consciousness as his mind checked out for the day. Nothing could have kept him awake.
Morning came quickly enough; the dawning day threw bright crimson sunshine through the windshield and side windows. Hugh pivoted on his butt on the sleeping bag, hung his legs over the edge of the bunk for a moment, then hopped off. He landed softly on knees bent to absorb the jump in order to not wake James.
James was not in his bunk, however. Glancing out the window, Hugh saw him approach the truck with a fast-food tray loaded with coffees, orange juices, hash browns and some kind of egg, sausage and biscuit sandwiches.
“Up and at ’em. Daylight’s awastin’,” James said when he saw Hugh peering out at him from the window. “I can't sleep once the sun is up and shining in the truck. If I have to sleep in because of night driving I close the curtains to keep it dark inside. In all the excitement last night I forgot to do that.”
Driver and rider chowed down, and Hugh had to admit it hit the spot.
“Hey, old man, how do you feel this morning?” Hugh asked between bites. James’ bruises were turning multiple shades of dark, and the cut over his eye looked nasty, but came just short of needing stitches. Hugh figured that James couldn’t be feeling very chipper.
“Well, youngun,” James said, “It’s been awhile since I’ve had to take punishment like that. I’m sore as hell, but I’ve had much worse, and I’ll get over it.”
After breakfast James exited the truck to do his pre-trip inspection. Coming back in, he told Hugh that it was very important to do the pre-trip. And, if the truck was parked anywhere near other people, it’s especially important to check that some joker hadn’t pulled the kingpin release lever during the night.
“Believe it or not,” James said, “there are yahoos who will pull that stunt, and you end up driving away, leaving your trailer dropped onto the pavement and your airlines and electrical pigtail ruined. Not good.”
James cranked up the engine, saying he had one more thing to do before they could get back onto the highway. He pulled the truck around, and into an empty spot on the fuel island. He got out, told Hugh to join him, and then showed Hugh how to use the satellite pump to fill the tank on the right side of the tractor after James had started the main pump to fuel the driver’s-side tank.
The high-volume diesel pumps got the fueling over quickly. James paid, then exited the travel plaza and pointed his truck north again on the freeway.
Once James had finished running through the seemingly endless number of gears, Hugh asked, “Where are we heading today?”
“We? You got a mouse in your pocket?” James responded.
“Hey, old man, you’re stuck with me. You need me to keep you from getting beat up.”
“Really? Well, since you asked, young man, we’re heading for Portland to drop this load. And then we’ll be picking up another one, probably for delivery in Salt Lake City.”
“Cool. That’s mighty fine with me.”
“You’re pretty confident you’re going with me.” James said—a statement, not a question.
“Yeah. I’m pretty sure.”
James remained silent, and Hugh picked up no clues from his demeanor as to what James was thinking.
Finally, James spoke. “What do you think? You want to learn to drive one of these things?”
Surprised by the sudden turn of events, Hugh answered, “Actually, I have been thinking about it. A lot. But, I had no idea of how to go about it.”
“It’s simple, really. In this state, to get a Class A commercial license the department of motor vehicles requires you to pass a written test to get your learner’s permit.”
“OK.”
“Then, you attend a truck driving school to learn to drive a big-rig truck.”
“How much does that cost?”
“It could range from a thousand up to several thousand dollars.”
So much for that. He hadn’t saved anything from his Marine years—profligate living during leave times having used up his meager pay.
“Or, you drive as a student with a trainer who teaches you all the skills you need.”
Hugh hoped he was hearing what he thought he was hearing. This could be turning into something good. “Then what?”
“Then you take a driving test at a DMV office. But, you need a truck to do that. They won’t provide you with one.”
“What exactly are you getting at, James?”
“Well, to spell it out, are you interested in training with me to get your Class A license?” James responded.
“Heck yeah,” Hugh replied. “That would be a kick.”
“Hey, martial arts guy, nights like last night at the truck stop are very few and far between. Once you’ve ridden, and driven, for awhile, you might see things in a different light.”
“What is it going to cost for you to be my trainer?” Hugh asked.
“I won’t charge a cent. All I ask is that you pay your own freight, living expense-wise, do most of the driving once you’re up to speed, and
hang in there even when it seems too discouraging to go on. And, trust me, you will get discouraged.”
Chapter Three
Present day
Hugh rolled out of his bunk before dawn in Victorville, California, on the day that he was destined to pick up the young, female hitchhiker.
There was no need to comb his sandy-colored hair, as he kept it cropped short—not as short as his Marine high-and-tight days, but manageably short. He ran his cordless shaver over his face. He didn’t care much for the grizzled, five-day-beard-look that many truck drivers sported.
He ate a quick bowl of cereal, and was good to go.
He performed his pre-trip in the dark, cranked up the 450hp Cummins diesel, checked that his truck-specific GPS was set for his destination, and then pulled out of the truck stop. He pointed his late-model Freightliner Cascadia northbound on Highway 395—destination, Burley, Idaho, about seven hundred twenty miles.
Northbound traffic traveling out to the desert from Victorville was sparse, well spread out, and moving along at a good clip. He was glad that he wasn’t in the bumper-to-bumper line of traffic going south—forced to drive his big rig among thousands of early-morning, daily commuters going to jobs in the LA Basin area.
Today was shaping up to be one of his good days. Occasionally, things just came together well, and he was having a real good feeling about his job, his relationship with people, traffic ... even the weather, which was clear and sunny across the Western states for the foreseeable future.
He called it being in the groove.
He always felt it was a pleasure to be on the road just as the sun was coming up, the rising crimson sun lightening the horizon in stages dimming the headlights from on-coming cars.
He felt good. His driver’s seat was comfortable. The sound of the powerful diesel engine was a pleasant melodious rumble in his ears. Traffic was cooperative. They, his truck and he, blended smoothly with the early-morning highway traffic ... kind of a harmonious choreography of movement. No stress. Comfortable.
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