There Will Be Killing

by John Hart

“Okay, Top, right away.”

  “The sooner the better. I do not want any goddamn surfer hippies on my grounds. You got me? You are an example.”

  “Right away, Top.”

  “No, you won’t.” Top called him on it every time and as usual he sighed a grudging defeat. “You just all talk, no walk, Gregg. I hate to see you in a uniform.”

  “I know, Top, I feel just the same as you do.”

  The Sergeant looked over at Izzy.

  “Who the hell you got with you? He think he own that air conditioner? That is my air coming out of there, Captain.” At Top’s claim of ownership Izzy jumped to the side, eyes big as Jiffy Pop pans. Top chuckled. “He kind of jumpy, ain’t he, Gregg? My god, Captain, I have not seen a newer new guy since you got here.”

  Gregg gestured Izzy over to join them. “Top, this is Dr. Moskowitz. Just in this morning. Izzy, this is Master Sergeant Jackson. He runs everything here, and as long as he is here, everything is fine.”

  “Pile it on Gregg, you still should go get that haircut.” The Master Sergeant engulfed Izzy’s hand in his own. “My pleasure, Doctah Moskowitz, and it is certainly a treat to have a man like yourself who clearly loves the climate and knows how to wear the uniform.”

  “Nice to—” a visible swallow. “Meet you.” Izzy looked as lost as Gregg had felt when he was the newest new guy around. Top had given him some much needed grounding while he found his inner compass, and Top would do the same for Izzy.

  As for Mikel, the way he stood completely still in the room, aviators hiding whatever his eyes took in, agreed with the vibe that he was the compass and just maybe the whole damn ship he was guiding, too. Still, introductions were in order.

  “And, this is Dr. J.D. Mikel, our other new psychiatrist just moved down from Da Nang.”

  Top looked Mikel over for several long seconds. “Welcome to the 8th, Doctah.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant. And please, just J.D.”

  “Hey, is the CO in?” Gregg pretended not to notice Kellogg posturing just inside his office at the farthest end of the corridor.

  “Captain, do I look like the secretary?” Top signaled them to another desk about ten paces away from the CO’s office.

  First Lieutenant Terry Carver, fresh out of West Point, had the bad luck to be assigned desk duty for the 8th but it hadn’t dampened the enthusiasm with which he greeted them.

  “Hi Gregg, what’s up?”

  “Got some new guys to meet the CO. Is he available?”

  “Yes, but only briefly. He’s flying up to Cam Rahn.”

  “Glad to be brief,” Gregg assured Terry, then made the intros all over again.

  “This is a really great place,” Terry told them. “You are lucky to be here.”

  Izzy gave Gregg a look that said, how can anyone be enthusiastic about anything here except leaving?

  Gregg gave Izzy an encouraging smile. One that grew broader at the sight of Colonel Alistair Kellogg. Posing beside a bookcase, dressed in full combat regalia and wearing a double holstered gun belt, he looked more like Hopalong Cassidy in the jungle than General George Patton.

  Gregg rapped sharply on the open door. “Excuse us, sir, do you have a minute?”

  “Hello. . .” The Colonel paused to artificially deepen his voice. “Well, hello there soldiers, of course I do. You shrinks saving the war for us?”

  “Sir, we are trying, and the good news is that we have reinforcements.” Gregg nodded to his companions. “I’d like you to meet the good news that arrived this morning.”

  Kellogg threw his arms open wide. “Welcome, welcome gentlemen. Do a good job, as I expect you will and no less. You both are new to the military, I presume?”

  Izzy found his voice again, stronger now. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good, good. There is no greater service for the country than being men in arms.” Kellogg adjusted his gun belt. “I’m heading up to Cam Rahn, inspecting the troops, keeping the morale up, you know. The men need to see me there.”

  Casually Gregg asked, “Are you golfing, sir?”

  “Well. . .” Kellogg gave a little shrug. “I may be taking the clubs in case the General is there, of course. But this is essentially a combat mission.” Acknowledging Mikel for the first time he asked, “Do you golf?”

  Mikel closed the door. He then deposited himself in the closest chair facing Kellogg’s desk and extended an invitational hand to the other side of the polished oak.

  “Sit down, Colonel.” When the ranking officer didn’t immediately respond to his directive, Mikel reiterated, “Please, have a seat. You have golf, I have work. Time is short.”

  “Have you gone nuts?” Gregg wasn’t too high on ranking systems in or out of the military, but you could get in a lot of trouble for insubordination, especially in uniform. “I’m sorry Colonel, he just got here and must be a little disoriented. You know the heat and all. I’m sure no disrespect is intended.”

  “I should say so,” blustered the Colonel, his voice rising to its higher pitch. “Get out of my chair. You are in my army now, soldier!”

  Mikel tossed an envelope marked TOP SECRET onto the clear, flat surface of his desk.

  “No, not really, Colonel,” he said evenly. “These documents are for your eyes only. It’s an official introduction, but I believe that General Glen Claiborne at MACV headquarters has contacted you already—and you in turn must have prepared Col. Kohn given his appropriate response to my arrival.”

  “Then you’re CIA? The spook?”

  “Boo.”

  Kellogg made tracks in the direction Mikel had indicated and eagerly tore open the envelope. Mumbling as we went, he devoured more than read the contents. Eyes alight, Kellogg possessively gripped the official documents, flashed a gleeful smile that was at odds with his suitable chagrin.

  “My apologies Agent Mikel, I wasn’t expecting you just yet.”

  “Given the severity of the situation, I expedited my arrival prior to speaking with the General again. Do you mind telling him I’m here when you see him later today?”

  “Of course, my pleasure, and. . .did the General mention me to you by name?”

  Gregg was wondering what shifty mental calculations were going on behind the cool shades that gave Mikel the unfair advantage of looking out without others looking in, when he removed the aviators and hung them from his shirt front, just like a regular guy. His face was an open book, pleasant as his reassurance.

  “Of course he did, Colonel.” Just J.D.—oh yeah, he was definitely playing that good buddy calling card now—clasped his hands on the desk, leaned forward. So earnest, no one could doubt it, especially an ambitious officer whose time to make general was running out. “In fact, Glen suggested we choose this hospital because you are in charge.”

  Kellogg’s beaming smile said he’d just had his highest hopes confirmed.

  “All right, all right, very good then. Now, what is our mission?”

  “It seems, Colonel, that someone out there is killing our soldiers.”

  Gregg nearly choked on a laugh. At least the guy had an appreciation for the absurd. “Excuse me, but wouldn’t that be the enemy, the VC?”

  Mikel cut his attention to Gregg. “Not exactly.”

  “Boogeyman,” Izzy blurted. “The Ghost Soldier.”

  “Very good, Dr. Moskowitz. No wonder you were top of your class.”

  “I don’t believe this,” was all Gregg could say. The whole thing was just too crazy. And boy, did he know crazy. “This is not for real.”

  “I can assure you, Dr. Kelly, it is indeed for real. Otherwise, I would not be here. The government does not assign me to bogus missions.”

  Gregg pressed a hand over his eyes. He removed it and Mikel was still there.

  “In that case. . .this is going to make a big difference in how we”—he pointed to Izzy, clearly leaving the bogus amongst them out—“and the other doctors handle our previously considered delusional patie
nts.”

  Mikel stood. He was a little taller than Gregg but not by much, and yet he projected a Jolly Green Giant stature, only not nearly so jolly or green. “You will not be telling anyone about any of this. None of you will. We can’t risk anything getting back to the nightly news back home.”

  The sound of a second hand on a clock somewhere in the silent room measured off several ticks before Kellogg got up to speed.

  “Actually, I think being on TV might be just the ticket, I could put out some interviews and—” Kellogg suddenly stopped as Mikel stared him down with those emerald eyes that could slice diamonds.

  “Of course,” Kellogg mumbled, “not a word leaves this room.” He gazed at the top secret documents as if his hopes for an exclusive with Walter Cronkite had just kissed a landmine goodbye—then pushed the papers back into the envelope.

  Kellogg wore the look of a man who had lost some of his pride and felt naked without it. “Why are you here?” he asked briskly, then quickly followed up with a disdainful sweep of his hand toward Gregg and Izzy. “And what are you doing with these people?”

  “The thinking is Colonel, as you probably would have concluded yourself with the appropriate information, is that this ‘Ghost Soldier’ is either part of a successful Russian or Chinese psyops maneuver, or one of our own gone rogue. Unfortunately, there is the possibility the killer belongs to us due to a disturbingly similar pattern of violence that previously occurred.”

  “When?” Kellogg demanded. “Why didn’t I hear about it?”

  “Because it never happened—just as this will never have happened. But I will tell you in strictest confidence that a man was removed from the field five years ago, placed in the Madigan General psychiatric lockdown unit, and apparently being both brilliant and dangerous, he somehow managed to disappear with his charts, leaving behind several dead bodies and not much else. The army has given Intelligence precious little to work with beyond the recent emergence of a so-called Ghost Soldier, and some similar activity five years ago that got buried so deep the paper trail was extinguished. Whatever the case, my people figure your mental people here are central clearing for this sort of thing. It’s my job to pick a couple of your men to help me while I work undercover as one of them. They are to provide the professional guidance I require to find whoever is doing this if it’s coming from behind, or determine if we’re dealing with another form of psychological warfare that will be dealt with as swiftly and severely as possible. Case solved, I disappear. That’s it.”

  Kellogg nodded slowly. A little smile now befitting an Emperor restored to his cloak and crown. “I would like to volunteer. I’m a trained physician, and I am perfectly ready to go out after any sick bastard killing our troops.”

  “And that’s exactly what I was told to expect an officer of your caliber to say.” Mikel said this so sincerely Gregg half believed it himself, until he smoothly tacked on, “But Colonel, you have too high a profile. I mean, everybody knows who you are and we have to be incredibly discreet. Besides, it’s dangerous. The army does not want to risk losing you. I was told.”

  “Oh! Well right, of course, I understand the General’s thinking on this.”

  “He knew you would, Colonel. He only requests your complete support, which he felt confident you would gladly provide to me as well.”

  “Of course I am here to help in any way I can. Do you have anyone in mind yet to help you?”

  Mikel gestured to either side, to Izzy and Gregg. “These two.”

  “What?” Gregg was sure if he looked on the ground he would see his stomach flopping around his feet. “What, are you kidding? No way!”

  “You don’t even know us!” Izzy had definitely found his voice. It was the loudest in the room. “I just got here!”

  “Sorry.” Mikel shrugged. “Too late. I checked everyone out. You guys drew the lucky straws. And Izzy, I am sorry about what happened to Morrie.”

  Frantic, Gregg appealed to Kellogg. “Sir, we can’t do this. We are just drafted shrinks, we—”

  “And Captain, you have been drafted again,” Kellogg decreed. “Is that clear? Do you hear me loud and clear? This is a direct order from command. We—that is I and YOU—will cooperate fully. Am I clear soldiers!”

  Gregg looked at Izzy who looked back at Gregg and they both just started shaking their heads when a loud commotion could be heard from the outer office.

  Sergeant Jackson yelling: “PUT DOWN THAT WEAPON AND GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE, RIGHT NOW!”

  Then Derek’s voice: “NOW IT IS YOUR TURN, MOTHERFUCK.”

  Gregg raced for the door. Mikel and Izzy were right behind him, racing into the main area. There was Derek. Holding an M16.

  He brandished the rifle at Top. “How do you like being yelled at, huh? Like being scared? You like it, motherfuck?”

  Gregg knew he had a gift and that gift was his voice. He had never needed it more than now.

  “Hey, Derek,” he said softly, reasonably. “Hey man, just easy huh?”

  “Stay back! I got no quarrel with you, Doc.”

  Gregg took a step closer to Derek, still talking really calm and quiet. “Come on, Derek, come on man, you’ll be home by—”

  Sergeant Jackson stood up. “You will put that weapon down and come to attention soldierrrrrr. . . .”

  The concuss of the M16 fire shredded the room as Derek opened up and exploded Top’s skull, then tore holes through Top’s chest, blowing him across the room and slamming him into the wall where he slowly and wetly slid down to the floor, joined by shards of glass and the remains of family photographs.

  There was only silence and Derek’s ragged breathing.

  “Fuck you all!” he screamed. He fired another burst into Top’s body.

  It seemed like slow motion as Gregg saw Derek bring the barrel of the rifle up toward them, everyone frozen in shock and horror.

  Except Mikel, leaping horizontally into the air, knocking Izzy, and then Gregg to the floor. Then somehow Mikel was fluidly ripping Terry’s pistol from its holster and was rolling and firing in return as Derek’s M16 rounds ripped over their heads.

  On the ground Gregg felt very far away as he watched the slow rolling of volumes of blood, flowing over the floor. Top was down and dead on one side. Derek down and very dead on the other. Gregg turned his head to another angle and stared into Izzy’s unblinking gaze, glasses knocked off, brown irises swallowed by his pupils, huge inky pools of black. Gregg’s ears were ringing and then he heard choking moans and turned his head yet another way. Terry was on the floor with a chunk of an upper arm blown out, pumping even more blood from one of Derek’s M16 rounds.

  Mikel was already using his own belt as a tourniquet to bind Terry up when Izzy began to retch.

  “Shouldn’t he be accustomed to blood?” Mikel asked Gregg. “I thought psychiatrists were supposed to be medically trained.”

  Gregg couldn’t get his vocal chords to move. He stared dumbly at Mikel, whose serene expression was jarring in the sea of carnage.

  “Never mind, almost done here,” Mikel said. Then to Izzy, “Welcome to Vietnam.”

  If you realize that all things change,

  There is nothing you will try to hold on to.

  If you are not afraid of dying,

  There is nothing you cannot achieve.

  —Lao Tzu

  The Death of Flowers in Spring

  KILLERS

  Everywhere war happens there are casualties and sometimes those who die in them are as close as home. I know this because I was the only kid in my freshman class to have had a war at home and kill my father. He wasn’t really my father, he was my stepfather, but I never knew my father and Burt had been there for as long as I remembered and was the real father of my two sisters. I remember killing him. I felt pretty good when I did it. I cried, but more from relief than anything else. It certainly wasn’t grief.

  He was a beater. He beat me, he beat my sisters, and he be
at my mom. Anything pissed him off, he would just whack you right in the face, hard, really hard, and if you looked at him wrong or anything else, he whacked you again and again. When he was officially punishing he used a whip. He would use ropes or willow branches, but his favorite was a telephone line. Not the telephone line from the phone, no that wasn’t very heavy or whippy. He used the telephone line from the overhead lines off the poles. This he could put some bite into when he wanted to make you scream.

  Once I tried being clever and stuffed my undershorts with comics. I knew it was coming but he liked to put it off until dinner was over. That way my sisters or me or sometimes all of us would be sucking up and being “Daddy would you like this, can I bring you this. . .” hoping to nice him into forgetting about it. He rarely forgot about it, and the time with the comics he certainly didn’t. I was so scared that I put in too many. As soon as he put the whip on my butt I started to scream and cry like crazy. The sound of the whip on the comics was way too loud. He got mad. I had to take my pants down and then he really laid into me. I rolled and writhed on the ground, screaming for real, and he just kept on. He thought I was trying to be smarter than he was, although I already knew I was that, but it didn’t make me less afraid.

  One night he was really mad. He whacked me when I dropped my cup. My mom started to say something to stop him and he whacked her and for some reason she stood up and told him to stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it, and every time she said it he just hit her again, slap, slap, slap. Then she did it, she pushed him and said stop it and this time he punched her and her nose broke and blood sprayed and he punched her again. My sisters were screaming, mom shut up, and then just like I knew just what to do, I got up and went into the closet and got out the shotgun. I just said stop it. “You don’t have the guts,” he said. He should have looked at my eyes. I pulled both barrels, and the kick blew me across the room and into the wall. The blast cut him in half. I was glad. I knew then it was something I was good at.