by Jack L Knapp
I couldn’t think of anything to say. This was Surfer’s decision, and he had apparently made it.
And with that, Surfer broke the connection. There was nothing else I could do, so I called Shezzie and Ray and told them what Surfer had in mind.
I was still heading south on Interstate 25; if I was going into Juarez, I would get a good night’s sleep first, then cross the border early the next morning. Shezzie would join me in El Paso and we’d cross together.
#
It had been an hour, maybe a little longer, when Surfer called me back.
Surfer disconnected. I reported the conversation to Ray, and noticed that his skills were improving virtually on a day-to-day basis. I then called Shezzie and we arranged a place to stay. She’d make the reservations and meet me at the motel. We’d decided on the Airport Hilton; it was comfortable, and it would be only a short drive from there to the border crossing that led into Juarez.
I parked at the roadside park and found that the restroom was closed for renovation. I needed to pee, so I looked carefully around and since there was no one near the washrooms, I walked back to the edge of the maintained area. I took a couple of minutes to relieve myself, then went back to the car. It was hot, but I was now accustomed to the dry desert heat.
I was waiting there, just relaxing in the car, when I felt the communication spike.
I felt Surfer die.
Chapter Sixteen
Ray spent time searching the databases provided by his acquaintance until he’d located Henderson’s temporary address. After a quick check of engine oil and coolant, something Ray did each week, he cranked the Volvo and drove to the Holiday Inn.
Ray looked around and walked up to the front desk in the lobby. He asked the clerk if Henderson was in his room. The clerk refused to say, and possibly he didn’t know anyway; he offered to telephone Henderson’s room, but Ray told him he would just call by cell phone, pulling his phone from the hip carrier as he walked away. The clerk dropped the matter and went back to work. The cell phone went back into its leather pouch as soon as Ray was out of the clerk's sight.
Something...something was nagging at his senses. He looked around to see what he was hearing, but if anyone was engaged in conversation, Ray couldn't see them.
He had become distracted as soon as he'd walked into the lobby. He realized now that it wasn't really sound, but a kind of feeling that there was some sort of low-level static that began as he approached the door. He had tried to dismiss it as something minor, a defective fluorescent lamp perhaps, but then he realized that the buzzy feeling surrounded him and it became stronger when he was near people.
Ray was attempting, subconsciously, to suppress this newly-discovered background ‘noise’. He suddenly realized that perhaps this was related to what had happened when he began communicating with 'Tom' in the library. Ray had discovered that the man's name wasn't Tom, and that he was accustomed to being called T by other communicators.
The distraction finally became too much to ignore. He needed answers.
#
The call came as I sat there in the parking lot, still in shock. My mind kept trying to call Surfer even as I realized that he was gone now, gone forever.
I briefly communicated with Shezzie to let her know what I’d experienced. She was almost as shocked as I was, and dismayed; Surfer had been the one to convince her that her Talent was real, something she could use to help patients.
I hadn’t managed to internalize Surfer’s death. I had never really liked the guy that much, he was too different and too strong for me to be comfortable communicating with unless it was necessary. Others apparently didn't have as much of a problem as I had, but regardless of the reason, I hadn't enjoyed the experience. Still, realizing that he was dead made me understand that I was now the sole surviving graduate of the School. In all likelihood I wouldn’t have survived either, had I not been a fluke, an unintended and unwanted by-product. So they’d dumped me off to the Army and simply hadn’t considered me important enough to include in the priority group of targets when they went after the TelePaths. Their sending me into combat had almost certainly saved my life.
Anger grew until it became rage. That School had been the agent of selecting us, then training us, and finally murdering us lest we become a problem. Henderson had likely not done it all by himself, but he’d been the one in charge. He had given the orders that eventually led to Surfer's death.
I tried to tamp the anger down. I had no good outlet for it.
Ray paused for a moment.
We dropped the communication for the time being.
I was still angry.
I would hold onto that anger, some of it. Henderson had come here, and possibly he was hunting me, although I couldn’t be sure. But I was now hunting him.
I had tried running and hiding; now I would try a different approach. Surfer was as much a victim of Henderson as any of the others who’d been deliberately killed.
Murdered. I felt no more compunction about the idea of putting an end to Henderson than I’d felt toward the terrorists who’d attacked my men. The only difference was that he wasn’t as faceless as those terrorists had been. Henderson might even be worse. The Mujahedin, Muj to us, had been enemies, but they had been mostly been driven by ideology. Simple murderous souls that they are, they considered us to be religious enemies and invaders; to them, every holy warrior killed was an innocent victim who demanded that revenge be taken for his death. The 9-11 attacks were, of course, different; that had been done in Allah’s name, and America was just too evil at heart to understand. Westerners had refused to submit to Islam as the holy imams and sheiks demanded, so whatever happened to them as a result was Allah’s will.
The Muj were ideologues, Henderson was simply fearful and he acted in his own self-interest. I could respect the Muj even as I fought them, but I felt no respect for Henderson or for what he’d done.
Combat is about more than guns and uniforms, it’s about a mindset.
Commanders had written extensively about the need for green troops to be ‘blooded’ before they would stand and fight instead of running away. Blooded troops are prepared to kill instantly and not lose their composure when they do; they're also able to move past the loss of friends and fellow soldiers.
Blooded troops can kill, cut off ears, even piss on the bodies of dead enemies. Those who’ve experienced combat will celebrate victory and feel few inhibitions while they're doing so. They find no problems in taking pictures while they’re celebrating; they aren't shocked at what happens to the dead meat littering the battlefield. Civilians simply can’t know what combat does to your thinking. The veneer of civilized behavior is suppressed, survival becomes a priority, and only the level of teamwork where men and women bond into family matters more.
You care; fellow soldiers become brothers and sisters, and you become prepared to die rather than fail them. Not for some vague concept of patriotism or regard for a flag, your combat brothers and sisters are your first priority, then yourself. Anything you do to keep them alive and unwounded, or to protect yourself after that imperative is satisfied, is justified.
Old soldiers remember that feeling, and that fear of having failed their comrades. Fifty years later on, they still break down in tears when they remember the horror and pain caused by the deaths of their brothers-in-arms.
You become prepared to die, because you see others dying around you; but more than that, you become prepared to kill. Fear and rage take over. Instantly, without consideration of alternatives, without wondering if you should ask the enemy if he wanted to surrender, you kill. That was his problem, to make the decision to surrender and communicate it before we loosed thunder and death on him and those with him.
I would give Henderson no more chance than I would give a cockroach. Not even that much, because I didn’t hate the cockroach like I hated Henderson and what he’d done. The anger brought back that combat mindset.
I had been blooded over there, but I had suppressed that attitude as I had eventually suppressed the nightmares. I could almost feel it slip away now, that veneer I’d put over my feelings.
The rage inside me grew. There was nothing to vent it on...but there was. I glanced at the yuccas that had been planted along the edge of the parking lot. Someone had put a lot of effort into decorating this roadside park, and the plants got enough water to thrive. They now bloomed waxy-white in the early-summer sun. The plants were survivors, unlike Surfer. Perhaps I wouldn’t be a survivor either; I could die, I knew that. Henderson could make it happen if he got close to me before I got to him, just as he’d made it happen to the others. It no longer mattered.
The rage wouldn’t go away. I couldn’t destroy the life in those yuccas, simple chemistry that it was; but there was a ramada consisting of a concrete picnic table and benches, all anchored to a concrete foundation, and covered by a sturdy metal roof.
For the first time, my talent escaped the bonds I had placed on it in order to prevent headaches. I exerted my strength. I looked at the ramada, its foundation, the table and benches, the roof, and just let the rage spill over.
The table's foundation ripped free of the ground and there were gunshot-loud snaps as things inside the structure broke. I marveled for a moment as the entire structure accelerated away, then grew faint in the distance.
I don’t know where that thing landed. Somewhere out in the empty desert west of the roadside park, there would be a strange crushed structure that someone would find eventually and wonder at. There might even be another headline, some day. Aliens...they’re still here; Roswell was only the first thing
that happened, not the last. See what they did to this picnic ramada?
With that thought, the rage finally left me, although a cold residual anger remained.
I would find Henderson. He might manage to kill me, I accepted that; but if he didn’t, I would kill him, with no consideration at all other than keeping myself from becoming known to the police or being blamed for his death.
It was enough. I now had something to concentrate on, and the anger had subsided to a level I could manage. I started the pickup and gave the engine a moment to warm up, then backed out of the parking slot and headed south for El Paso.
Chapter Seventeen
I met Shezzie near the airport, in the parking lot of the Hilton. We decided to check in and I took the time to bring her up to date on the details of what Surfer had done. She had known him longer than she’d known me; in fact, it had been Surfer who’d begun the process of developing her Talent, even though he’d been working from halfway around the world.
No question about it, he had been much stronger than any of the others who’d developed that Talent. Only Shezzie had a nearly comparable strength, and her Talent was still developing. In addition, she was developing the ability to deploy her ‘bubble’ and concentrate on controlling it. She didn’t yet have my strength when using PK and nowhere near the level of control I’d developed, but that would come in time as she continued to use her abilities and stretch her Talents.
I stretched out on the bed and Shezzie sat in an armchair.
Shezzie was trying to come to terms with Surfer’s death. Her eyes were wet and puffy.
Finally I decided to talk. “There are only three of us now. Henderson’s still out there somewhere, and if he sees me before I see him, he’ll kill me.
“You’re still getting stronger and becoming more confident, Ray’s just starting to develop, and I’m in danger. From Henderson, but maybe also from accident; Surfer died because he didn’t explain to the surgeon that he wasn’t dealing with a simple RFID chip, he was handling a small explosive charge and that he should be extremely careful.