by Ken Jolly
I pulled myself to my feet using the bar. I wasn't going to die on my knees.
Someone flew over the bar top and landed on me. He was on my back, pulling my head back and I saw the edge of his slashing knife coming. Everything seemed to move in stop motion. Time slowed, but before he cut my throat, he jerked as bullets from the smoke smashed his body. As I said sometimes, I’m lucky.
I rose to my knees in the growing puddle of others blood and saw Jake and Gramps make it to the entrance. You could always trust Jake's instincts. If anybody made it out of here, it would be him.
I saw no way to cross the open space between them and myself. The fighting was too heavy. A heavy crushing blow to my head was the last thing I felt before it went black. Dying was easier than I thought.
Scarring
Someone tried to drown me in tepid water. I came awake sputtering and gagging. Though it seemed like an eternity had passed, it couldn't have been long as the dust and smoke had not completely cleared the room. I tried to stand only to discover my arms lashed to the chair rails. I'm not sure whether I fainted or just fell back. My head hurt like hell.
"Colonel, it is over." A robed figure with a full beard sat at the table in front of me eating an apple with his curved Kukri. He was dressed too well to be an Afghan so I pegged him as a Saudi.
"Not colonel" I gasped still swimming to reality, "Try Sergeant."
"That will do just as well. However, you are no longer a Sergeant. All of your squad is dead or missing."
"What?"
"Either dead or they ran." He kicked something that rolled across the floor and it took me a minute to focus on Rashid's decapitated head. "You lose."
He then reached down, raised his Kukri and stabbed it deep into the wooden table for emphasis just as Jake had done earlier with his knife.
I have got to get me a knife if only to use it for punctuation.
"Do you know why you are alive?" He shrugged. "If I had my way you would have died painfully.” He paused for effect. “You are going to carry a message back to your officers. We cannot condone the behavior of your men in our country, hence painful lessons must be taught.” He gestured to two of his men who came up as he was talking. "Hold him down. This will not be pretty and,” he smiled, “It will be messy."
"What!" I tried jerking as they turned my head to the side and pushed it to the table. The room became distorted by my sideways vision. I had a bad feeling.
"It is simple. I do not think you can get our message right, so we are carving it into your face."
I remember the first bite of cold edged steel. As the blood dripped over one eye and the pain expanded, I passed out.
Some indeterminable time later, though it was still dark, they kicked me from the back of a moving truck in front of Blackwater's HQ. I think I bounced a few times.
I will say Blackwater did things proper and provided the best of medical care. They flew me to one of the best surgeons in Geneva and the doctors did all they could. Too bad, it wasn't enough. After weeks of surgery, a lot had been done to fix my face, however there were still a lot of scars, which even they admitted would never disappear.
Some of these scars have healed over time. Today when I look in a mirror, I still see a monster rather than myself. It becomes harder to remember what I had looked like before. Life happens and you have no choice but to live with it.
Jake had made it out. He flew all of the way to the hospital in Switzerland to check on me. Seeing my face, he winced but didn't say anything. I've seen myself in the mirror and trust me when I say it's not pretty. I scare children. Hell, I even scare myself.
Jake exhaled in sympathy, "Does it hurt as bad as you look?"
"No,” I lied, “It feels like porcupine squibs in my face where the scars and stitches are."
He moved a book from the chair to sit and studied it before he set it down. "Sasquatch?” he asked.
"Just some light reading."
"You don't believe in those things do you?"
I looked into his eyes to see if he was kidding. I sighed, "There's lots of reports by a lot of people. Too many reports from everyday people, with nothing to gain, for it to be nothing."
"Do you believe them?"
"It might be fun to find out some day. That’s why I joined Blackwater. To raise the funds to go look."
Jake looked at the book then set it down. "I've heard of some big rewards offered for anyone proving they are real. Are you thinking about collecting?"
"Maybe, someday" I shrugged.
He changed the subject. “Well, the boys are waiting for you to get back. We have been holding your spot. They give us replacements and we send them packing.”
I looked away not wanting to give my feelings away. I had lost something in the bar and knew I had. Maybe I no longer felt invulnerable or maybe just too fragile. Before, I was rough and tough, able to handle more pain than they could give out, now I am too aware of my mortality. Finally, I croaked out hesitatingly, “Doctors will release me next week and I'll be back."
Jake looked serious, studying me. "You know there is only so long a person can ride the point of a spear. What are you thinking?” He looked at me hard and with serious intent. "What happened to you is enough to shake anyone. Are you sure you can do it?"
I laughed, pretending more confidence than I felt. Nowadays the fear is always creeps underneath. "I'll be back." I said weakly.
"Who do you think you are, Patton?" He laughed at his own joke, "Well, stay away from the Swiss chocolate. You don't want to mess up that complexion.
Back in the Saddle
Returning to work was not easy. I knew it wouldn’t be. Though I had escaped death, I had left something important behind in that bar. Maybe it was self-respect or my courage.
After I came back, I found myself constantly watching the perimeters without the old confidence and too jumpy; second-guessing myself. It showed. The other members of the squad could see it and this made them nervous also.
At nights, I cursed my own fears. Shadows became threats, any creak was an intruder. I needed to find a way to get past this. I needed sleep without night terrors. I needed my old confidence back.
A month later, guarding a new client. We were walking in formation with him in the center. I had point, when two rebels with rifles jumped us from around the corner of a dirt alley.
I panicked, and dived for the dirt. Rolled and would have died if Jake had not been on over watch, perched on the roof across the street. He got both of them before they did any effective damage other than parting my hair with a bullet and scaring me out of a year's growth.
I picked myself up from the street, dusted off, and secured my carbine from where I had flung it. I tried to avoid the looks of the other squad members. I was still shaking. We called the incidence into HQ. An ambulance soon arrived for the rebels where they were still bleeding in the dust.
Gramps fell into step alongside me. "Jonah, maybe I should have point?"
"I can do it…" I was not even convincing myself.
Gramps continued, "You know I've seen a lot more combat than you. We all get rattled from time to time," He gestured to my face, "That was pretty dramatic. It may take some time to get over."
"I've had time” and I was still jumpy as hell. This was bad enough however when we got back to Garrison it got worse. I was summoned to see the Captain.
I changed to a fresh uniform and rushed to his office. He was not the type of man that you kept waiting; besides I suspect he still blames me for the APC.
"Jonah, stand easy."
I slipped from attention poise but did not relax. His summoning had been unusual.
He frowned. "I got today's after action report on your squad. Looks like you ran into some trouble." The Captain closed the folder and tossed it onto a pile on his desk.
"Are you sure you are OK?"
It makes me uncomfortable that everyone is now asking that. I squirmed but did not answer, which caused him to look up and fix me w
ith eye contact. He was not amused.
"We received this today also." He picked up another folder. I hate folders because these things somehow always went on your record. "The Saudi your squad failed to protect...uh, Rashid. He had brothers and they are not happy. They are demanding huge reparations and you."
"Me?"
"It seems they are holding you personally responsible for his death. It is an eye for an eye type of thing.” He paused shuffling the papers. “Naturally we are not handing you over to them, however when we told them, they were not happy."
I looked at him questioningly.
"They indicated a price has been put on your head."
"My head,” I questioned?
"You remember Rashid was decapitated. Well they seem to feel it’s only justice if you should die the same way. They want your head.” He paused as if in thought. “I think the best thing to do, considering your situation, is to release you from your contract. You are attracting a lot of heat to your squad. One of the men that jumped your squad today talked before he died. It seems they were after you. You were targeted and this does not look like it is going to stop.” He gave me his famous cold smile. “There’s so much money on you I might be tempted myself.”
This new threat floored me, but the real problem is drawing more danger to those with me. Sometimes the best tactic is retreat. "Will you accept my resignation?"
The Captain just looked at me. "Sounds like it might be exceedingly dangerous for you to be around here. Might be it's for the best."
Absinthe
The hardest part of joining the Army was Absinthe. No, I’m not talking about the wormwood-fermented rotgut in France, but the girl Absinthe. However, I do admit in later life to developing an appreciation for the liquid version. She is the daughter of a locally famous celebrity chef in my hometown.
What to say about Absinthe? I actually met her through her father. He had heard I was in culinary school and wonder if I would be interested in a position as a line cook. It would be good experience, pay well and would count as part of my internship required by my school.
“Faire des Amis” was a famous French Restaurant, which attracted the wealthy. This would be an opportunity to earn credit as a chef and not have it handed to me as heir apparent. My father agreed.
The first time I met her was interviewing for the job at the restaurant.
“Jonah, phone for you!” yelled Paul from his cubbyhole office, obviously annoyed by the interruption. “It had better not be that new girl of yours!”
Paul was my father’s Executive Chef with an irritating air of self-importance. It seems arrogance is the prerequisite for becoming the Executive Chef. He was short in stature, plump, but as tight as a drum and had the booming voice of an Italian tenor. No one had ever seen his hair for he wore his chef’s hat like a crown to distinguish himself from the worthless peons under his purview. He was passionate about his craft and intolerant of anyone who did not share his view. However, no one could doubt his work ethic. There was no job too mundane not to be given the proper attention and respect.
This is one of the problems he had with me. He found me insincere and dismissive, along with the fact I was the owner’s son. Consequently, he seemed to always feel it was his duty to be in a bad mood. As if that could get more work out of us.
Mainly we ignored him or at least I did. Sometimes it’s good to be the prince in the kingdom. Paul knew someday I will be his boss and this irritated him.
I stepped around the mismatch of preparation tables, always-bought second hand, used and on the cheap. The kitchen needs a remodel in the worst way imaginable however, we carry on.
“It’s not Jane she’s out of town,” I announced.
“Well it’s some girl.”
I grinned in spite of his bad humor, maybe just to annoy him. He hates that. I picked up the phone. “Jonah Blackheart here.”
“This is Irene, executive assistant to Chef Geostoph. He has asked me to check if you might come in for an interview.
I stopped in my tracks, mortified. The last time I had seen the famous chef had been at an exclusive catered private party where I had been moonlighting as a line cook. I had taken the gig just to watch the great chef in action.
It had not gone well. Can anyone say nerves? My performance had been anything but impressive, but I didn’t think he even knew my name?
“Are you sure you called the right person? I doubt he really wants to see me, after what happened last time.”
She seemed rushed and annoyed maybe the attitude was catching?
“He was insistent, and I had to do a lot of research to find you. Will you come?”
I hesitated. Surely, he couldn’t be holding a grudge this long, or maybe? At least it would give me a chance to apologize…again. On the other hand, this might be something really interesting? I don’t get calls from four star Michelin Chefs every day. “When?”
“Right away.”
I cupped the phone and turned to face Paul. “Its urgent business and I’m going out for a while.”
He gave me one of his typical scowls, which I brushed off. “Preparation is almost finished and there’s not much to do before lunch service,” I amended.
He started on his normal tirade “I thought so, another girl...”
I interrupted, “I’ve been invited by Chef Geostoph, to visit.
Turning back to the phone, “I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“Please come in the back door. We are not yet open.”
Hanging the phone up, Paul got in my face “You liar, just making up excuses! Mark my words, they will not let you though the front door!”
I waited for a pause in his diatribe. Grinned back and said, “Actually they did say to use the back entrance.”
This infuriated him further. “Bah! You take too much advantage that your father owns this place.”
“It’s nepotism. You should try it.”
He glared harder as I slipped off the apron. Paul is all bark but has no real bite. It helps to be the owner’s kid. He can’t fire me though he can make life uncomfortable.
This is one of those jobs where I already knew you do not dress for the interview. Let me explain that. You don’t dress up to look good, you dress so you look like you can do the job. Good enough not to offend customers, but able to blend into the background. No, I’m not talking actual camo however there is an unofficial uniform for this status in life. Thus, I was already dressed for the interview.
The rear entrance of the Chef’s restaurant was less than impressive. It was like the back of any kitchen. There was an alley with dumpsters.
I debated about knocking but this felt strange so I entered the rear of the kitchen. This place was a lot different from the kitchen where I worked. It was all gleaming stainless steel surfaces. There were several workers in white moving purposefully around rushing and concentrating on tasks.
I immediately had to dodge a man pushing a cart, so I jumped against the wall, and then had to dodge a man carrying garbage to the dumpster. I was too slow and garbage spilled across the floor. Being a hazard to safe navigation and making a mess, I did stand out and was noticed. This girl came to kick the stranger out.
When she turned to face me, her green eyes took me. She was beautiful. She was breathtakingly beautiful! Women like this are too far apart and you starve in the desert of mediocrity waiting for one. This beauty makes you pause to check whether your heart may have stopped. If the eyes are the windows to the soul then hers were green fathomless depths, and without shallows. You could fall into infinity and drown in eyes like that.
She didn’t seem impressed at all with me, but later I would learn that’s just Absinthe. When she learned who I was looking for, “He’s busy.” She was curt to the point with no nonsense.
“I think he wants to see me or at least he asked me to come, Jonah Blackheart.”
Her demeanor may have shown more interest but it was hard to tell. Maybe I was about to be kicked out. “
I’ve heard him mention you. I’m his daughter, Absinthe.”
“Did he say anything good about me?”
She scowled at this, “He does have that effect on people.”
She led me around to his office where he was sitting behind a desk giving instructions to two others. He noticed my presence and dismissed them. They left in a hurry and looked eager to be getting out of his attention.
Aspiration, desire, and inspiration are required to become a good chef. Hard work is required to become a great one. Contrary to many ideas, great Chefs are not born; they work even harder for their art than the people around them.
I worked, in my parent’s restaurant, first as a bus boy, later as scullery help, then as a waiter before cooking on the line. I was learning the trade from the bottom up. I also did not have it as easy as you would think being the son of the owner. Paul, cuts little slack and for unknown reasons I usually seem to be on his bad side.
She seemed cold, business like, grace, beauty, and untouchable. Just for a moment, I thought I saw a light in the corner of those green eyes that broke the reserve and attested to her maybe having a personality then realized I must be mistaken.
Now don’t misunderstand me. I’ve had my own success with women but this was a princess. As a simple cook, she was out of my league, but it never hurts to admire. I added to myself “Just be sure to smile so she doesn’t think you are a staring.”
This was my humble introduction to Absinthe. Like the liqueur, her beauty warped a man’s mind and eventually led to a form of insanity.
I all but dropped one wing and ran in circles trying to get her to notice me. It’s ironic that when I finally cracked her iceberg I used the same trick which I learned years later drinking the liqueur of her namesake. All you had to do was add sugar to it add an application of patience, and kindness to that sweetness.
The interview was a vetting process of which torture on the rack might be preferable. Somehow, I made an impression on the great Chef and he invited my parents and me to Sunday brunch at his home to discuss details.