The Last Ranch

by Michael McGarrity

  At the end of his third month with the brigade, Kevin came down with a case of dengue fever that put him flat on his back for five days with a high temperature, headaches, muscle pain, and nausea. In between the bouts of fever and nausea he wrote a long letter home, mostly about his plans after the army. He was thinking of using the GI Bill to go back to school, although he wasn’t sure what he would study. Maybe he’d apply to UNM and live in Albuquerque just for a change. He knew he’d come home to stay in New Mexico no matter what he did. He yearned for big skies, huge sun-kissed vistas, sprawling rock-strewn hills, majestic pine-clad mountains, and the clean dry heat of the high desert. He didn’t say a word about Nam, just that he was doing fine and halfway through his combat tour.

  Because of his viral infection, Kevin’s platoon sergeant, a new NCO on his first rotation in-country, took the men out on an early-evening patrol of several nearby farms along the river, where some possible VC had been spotted during an overflight earlier in the day. On their return they were ambushed, with three KIA including the sergeant, and two others wounded.

  It should have been Kevin out in front. He figured his life had been saved by a mosquito bite. He had to clamp down hard not to let the guilt overwhelm him. He should have been out there with them listening. Maybe he could have saved some of them.

  By the end of his fourth month with the brigade, Kevin had revised his opinion about the Pentagon’s six-month limit on combat assignments for officers. Since his transfer, so many had arrived and left that he was now one of the most experienced platoon leaders in the brigade, but with sixty days and a wake-up to go before he rotated out, he was fast becoming a short-timer. He pitied the enlisted men who had to pull double the time on the line, but he was happy it didn’t apply to him. He was ready to go home.

  ***

  On a day when the observation plane flew west over the highway and didn’t come back, Kevin was called to the command post and tasked with leading a rescue mission to retrieve the downed pilot. His engine had quit and he’d crashed on the side of a mountain after radioing his location. An air force flyover confirmed the coordinates and the pilot was observed to be alive but wounded. Radio contact had subsequently been lost.

  There was a clearing seven clicks from the crash site large enough to serve as an LZ. After insertion, Kevin would lead a squad with two additional light machine gunners, a radioman, and a medic along a nearby stream bed that ran to the foot of the mountain. Once there, traveling fast and light, they were to retrieve the pilot and return to the LZ for extraction. Gunships would hover nearby and fighter jets would be ready to strike at a moment’s notice. If Victor Charlie was there, they’d know Kevin and his men were coming. The brigade stood ready to rock and roll if help was needed.

  Rutherford shook his hand, wished him luck, and watched as Kevin and his men lifted off from the base. During the short flight, Kevin scanned the ground looking for any sign of VC movement. There was none along the highway, and as they approached the LZ the jungle canopy was too dense to see through.

  Praying it wasn’t a hot LZ, and half expecting to be riddled by automatic rounds, Kevin was the first man out the door. All was calm as he sprinted to the tree line with the squad spread out behind him, running for cover.

  Away from the open LZ everyone dropped prone, weapons at the ready. With the thumping sounds of the choppers receding, Kevin listened hard. The jungle sounds he heard reassured him, but he was so jacked up for that one telltale sound of enemy movement he waited a bit longer than he should have before finally ordering his squad leader to send a man on point to the stream bed and have everyone move out.

  With his squad leader at the rear to cover, Kevin followed behind point, slightly to one side, the men behind him in a strung-out, staggered line to avoid bunching up. They moved slowly into the brush, the riflemen loaded down with M16s and as many cloth bandoliers filled with extra ammo as they could carry, the machine gunners toting heavy M60s, the radioman with weapon in hand burdened by the weight of the radio strapped to his back, the medic with his canvas satchel crammed full of medical supplies and drugs lugging a litter, all of them with canteens clinking on their belts, broadcasting their position to anyone with ears close by.

  Gripping an M16 he’d brought along for extra firepower, Kevin silently laughed at the notion that they were traveling light. And given the terrain, he sincerely doubted they could travel fast. He waited for the world to explode, but only jungle sounds prevailed.

  Under radio silence they moved along the stream bed, Kevin yearning to stretch his gaze across a big slice of country with distant mountains lurking instead of straining to see through the dense, claustrophobic shroud of dark green that pressed down from above. They made it to the crash site on a small ledge a third of the way up the steep mountainside to find the pilot propped up against the fuselage, nodding out from pain, his .45 limp in his hand.

  Kevin put the squad in defensive positions and radioed a report to brigade as the medic got busy examining the pilot. After a quick look, the medic gave him a heavy hit of morphine, rapidly treated a deep gash on his forehead, put a splint on his fractured left leg, and gave the okay to move him.

  Kevin didn’t waste any time ordering the pilot strapped onto the litter and everyone back down to the stream bed, where he took point and set a quick pace. As they moved through the jungle canopy, he wondered if it might be possible to finish the mission with his men unscathed. Less than a half a click from the LZ, a large, beautiful orange butterfly with an ivory stripe across its wings drifted out of the light from the clearing up ahead. It fluttered toward him and just as it neared, he caught sight of a slight movement in the bushes on the far side of the opening.

  He stopped, motioned his radioman forward, told him to call for the extraction choppers and the gunships, and ordered everybody to drop. The kid looked ahead at the empty LZ and hesitated. Kevin hissed the command again as he yanked the radioman down and hit the dirt. Automatic fire tore through the trees above his head with a loud roar, shredding bark, leaves, and branches.

  The radioman fell next to Kevin with a bloody hole in his upper thigh. On his belly, Kevin yanked the kid to cover, ordered the medic forward, grabbed the radio handset, and called in the gunships. To the rear he heard an M60 unleashing a torrent of fire against the slower cadence of several AK-47s. He swung around just as three grenades went off, silencing the AKs. He got a thumbs-up from his squad leader signaling it was secure, at least for the moment.

  Fire still poured at the squad from across the LZ. Kevin gave the target location to the gunships and brought his machine gunners forward to rake and pin down the enemy position. The gunships came in low and fast, strafing Charlie pass after pass, cutting down the bush like deadly, thunderous great scythes until Charlie’s weapons fell silent.

  Kevin figured they were either dead, in retreat, or regrouping, but he wasn’t about to take any chances. Holding the gunships nearby, he checked on his men before calling for a medical evacuation. Besides his radioman and the pilot, two more were wounded, one with a serious gut shot, the other with a shattered shoulder blade.

  Kevin sent the wounded out first with half his squad at the edge of the LZ perimeter covering the lift-off. When the loaded chopper went airborne, Kevin carefully scanned for movement across the LZ. All was still.

  He called in another chopper and when it landed, he zigzagged across the LZ behind his men, expecting all hell to break loose. It wasn’t until everyone was safe and in the air on the way back to the base that he remembered the butterfly. Once upon a time, he’d been saved by a mosquito bite. This time it had been by a beautiful orange butterfly that had floated to him through the light. Who in the hell would believe that story?

  Everybody survived, including the kid with the hole in his gut.

  Ten days and a wake-up before he was due to rotate out, a general from Saigon flew up and pinned the Silver Star on Kevin’s ches
t. His squad leader on the extraction team got the Bronze Star with a V for valor, and the rest of the men received commendation medals also with V devices. The wounded had already received their coveted Purple Hearts. Colonel Rutherford also got a medal for directing and commanding the successful operation from the safety of his command bunker. It was all a little ridiculous in Kevin’s mind, especially Rutherford’s decoration.

  Later in the day, when he told his platoon the colonel’s medal was richly deserved it earned him a big laugh. His platoon sergeant remarked that he didn’t know until that very moment the lieutenant had a sense of humor. Smiling, Kevin promised it wouldn’t happen again.

  He expected to spend the last few months of his tour pushing papers somewhere in Saigon, but a big surprise came with orders promoting him to first lieutenant and sending him home early. Kevin figured a general’s eager young son sporting new second Louie bars badly needed to qualify for a Combat Infantry Badge before the war wound down.

  He couldn’t care less.

  He decided to wait to call his folks until he was safely out of the country. That night before turning in, he packed his gear and tore up his short-timer’s calendar. In the morning he’d leave for Tan Son Nhut Air Base, the first stop on his way home.

  He thought about the clear blue skies of the Tularosa and the vast landscape of desert and mountains that always filled his senses. He thought about the peace and solitude that awaited him, and the soft, lazy days ahead with family and friends. He was alive.

  He fell asleep dreaming of butterflies.

  DEDICATION

  Playing soldier and building forts in the woods with my friend Max after the war. Helping Sonny and Shirley, who lived on the next farm over, bale hay. Taking care of Maggie’s chickens long after they stopped laying eggs. Watching Leroy threaten to fall out of the tree and then couldn’t do it. Frustrating Mrs. Morris, who tried to teach me how to square dance in a three-room schoolhouse and couldn’t. Riding my one-eyed blue roan pony to school. Seeing the smoldering ashes of the big country house where we’d once lived.

  Living in town and palling around with Joe Maggio; Skip Kinsey; Tommy Tom; Darlene Fox; Christine Lipinski; Linda Quick, the sheriff’s daughter; and sweet Lorraine. Later in the city with Michael M., Chris, Kerry, Fred, Nancy, Jane, Josh Jr., Beverly, Isabel, Brandon, Leslie, Natalie, Mavourneen, and all the other rising young stars chasing fame long before it got made into a movie.

  On the line in army green with Tony and Fred: two buddies who always had my back. Also Sug the lady-killer, Sergeant Toms, and the major who wanted me to reup and become a lifer. (Not the one with the cute daughter I tried to fall in love with.)

  At UNM getting schooled by Hanrahan, Thygerson, Zudi, Bob Morgan, Sidney Rosenblum, and Jim Ruddle while partying with Jim and Sally and Johnny, my roommate, who drove the coeds crazy. Tom McKenna, my navy vet buddy; Squirrel, who did a mean iron cross on the rings; Dee from the Hub City; Helen; Almut; and all the other party girls. For Gerry, who went CIA straight out of grad school; Mark, who died too young; Charney, who was way too wild; and Tony Hillerman long before he got famous writing mysteries. To Maxie Anderson at Ranchers Exploration and Development, who funded a start-up educational publishing company that rescued me from unloading freight cars for Railway Express at the Albuquerque rail yards and got me started writing.

  In San Francisco during the first glimmer of the hippie movement thinking maybe I should become a cop. In Los Angeles for Hollywood nights with Penny and Hugh; Frank and Judy; Vernon, the best-dressed social worker in East L.A.; the beautiful Joann with the flaming red hair. Brian the neighborhood dealer; and Bruce, his sidekick. Steve the primo shrink at the L.A. Free Clinic and his lovely wife, Carol. And Jimi Hendrix’s knockout social worker girlfriend, and sweet, motherly Henrietta who remembered the good old days in Southern California. Also Leslie, who wanted to be a movie star and did a TV furniture-polish commercial before vanishing forever. Living among the hippies in Sierra Madre Canyon watching Watts burn and El Monte riot. And our neighbor, Lanny G., another vet buddy now entrenched in Mexico making art. Marching against the war with other vets down Hollywood Boulevard, and that one hot summer night when the detectives from the Hollywood Precinct, who looked and dressed like movie stars, grilled me for a murder on my doorstep that I honestly didn’t commit. And to our guardian angels: Dot, a true Southern belle and her husband, Vic, a streetwise taxi driver who pulled the night shift just for the fun of it.

  Back in New Mexico, to my old friend Dave Hernandez, who thought I’d make a good cop, and Bev, Ron, Roger, and Judy, four really good cops who did their jobs with pride. To Eddie Ortiz, one of the Santa Fe good guys. His funeral packed the cathedral.

  Before that in grad school at Iowa City with fellow student Hildegard and my adviser Katie Kruse. Dr. Robert S., the kindhearted shrink who took a hard fall; Jim Styles; and Carol and Chuck in Cedar Rapids. And Flakey, wherever he may be; lovely Linda who sashayed off to Puerto Rico and back to Santa Fe on her way to who-knows-where; and F. Robertson, lost somewhere in Albuquerque shrinking heads.

  A hand salute to Mark, a combat vet with a Bronze Star and an ace buddy who bounces back from fuckups at the speed of light. To MIA friends Bill and Peggy, Cliff and Inez, Perk and Alice, Tony and Connie, Brian and Judith, and Marty and Marti.

  For good friends Elias and Susan, Bill and Debora, John and Jann, Joe and Valerie, Danny and Fala, Lucy and Roberto, Luis and Carmella, Wes and Maura, the irrepressible Betsy Reed, Terri and Polly, and the infamous St. Charmay of the Good Works. Also artist Peter Rogers, aka De La Fuente, and his lady, Beth; our great neighbors Lisa and Jim; and the unstoppable Dorothy Massey from Collected Works, who helps make literature and books blossom in Santa Fe.

  For Robert, Marie, James, Richard, and Waldo, who all tried real hard not to be crazy but never quite made it, and to Cowboy Bob—in his day the best shrink in Santa Fe. To the brilliant Jeff Sloan, gone but not forgotten, and the equally brilliant Richard Bradford of Red Sky at Morning fame, also departed much too soon. You guys always made me think and laugh. To Carol, who moved away to Arizona to get happy. For George, the courtly lieutenant colonel with the Silver Star, and sweet, sassy Miriam at the Department of Health, who joked she taught me how to write. For Carla Muth, who gave me a job when I needed one, and Larry Martinez, who thought my attempt to be a writer was cool.

  But long before that, for Sammy, Betty, Judy, Bill, Johnny, Vicky, Mabel, Lucille, and Evangeline, who haunted the Santa Fe barrios with me back in the day when we tried to salvage glue-sniffing kids who didn’t think anybody cared. And those few schoolteachers who really did care, especially Mary Ann, Dolores, Sue, Kathy, and Mary.

  For Hilary Hinzmann, a classy guy and brilliant editor who thought maybe I could learn to write. For Di Bingham, my Aussie mate who runs our website from ten thousand miles away. And last, to Emily Beth, my sweetie and best friend these many years. Truly, every book has been because of you.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  MICHAEL McGARRITY is the New York Times bestselling author of Backlands, Hard Country, the Anthony Award–nominated Tularosa, and eleven other bestselling Kevin Kerney crime novels. A former deputy sheriff for Santa Fe County, he also served as an instructor at the New Mexico Law Enforcement Academy and as an investigator for the New Mexico public defender’s office. He lives in Santa Fe with his wife, Emily Beth.

  Kerney Family Tree

  1842–1972

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