Reckoning

by James Byron Huggins

  "No, no, just playin'," Sandman replied, smiling at her for a second, then sobered again. "Gage is movin' a little slow, not like he should. Usually he'd be all over Chavez." He paused. "Maybe my boy ain't right yet. Might be hurtin'."

  Sarah waited a moment, then, "How good would someone have to be to cut Gage up like he did?"

  Sandman shrugged. "When we was in regular Special Forces, they'd get into these knife contests, sort of like a duel but nobody would get killed. If you killed your opponent, you lost and you lost face. And that was what really mattered. They didn't care about dying. They cared about reputation. And the only way to really win a contest was just to make your opponent stop fightin'."

  Sarah narrowed her eyes. "How did they make each other stop fighting?"

  "Blood loss," Sandman said, eyes widening. "Shock. Whatever. I never got into one, myself, but Gage got into them all the time. He had a reputation. People was always challengin' him. We'd be in a bar or somethin', and that weird, jabberin' Filipino trash talk would get started. Or sometimes the hotshot knife fighters on the islands would hear that we were in town and they'd hunt Gage down for a little match. He never turned one down." Sandman closed his eyes and grimaced, visibly emotional with the memory. "Man! Them fights was nasty! And fast, boy! Faster than you could see! Blades flyin' everywhere. Blood hittin' the floor, gettin' on your shoes.

  “It was mean. Sometimes the fight would go a minute, and sometimes it'd last for ten minutes. They'd make them shallow cuts on each other until one would go down. If you weren't good enough to cut without really injurin' the other man, you lost the contest. Or if you passed out from shock or somethin', you lost the contest. Gage never lost. He liked livin' on the edge, in more ways than one." He seemed to ponder a thought. "He's changed a lot, you know. You wouldn't 'a known him in them days. He wasn't... right. Like he is now. I really wasn't that close to him, then. I liked him, but he scared me. That was before Israel, and what happened. But I was out of Black Light by then. Both me and Chavez."

  Sarah had wondered about that. "Was that the name of the CIA tactical team?"

  He nodded, watching Gage and Chavez.

  "Why were you and Chavez out of the unit?"

  Sandman sniffed, replied, "I was sent to the house after I lost my leg down south. Chavez left in '89 after he lost his eye."

  Sarah focused on Sandman's bitter expression. "How did Chavez lose his eye, if it's not too rude to ask."

  Sandman shrugged. "Nuthin' special. He got hit with some phosphorous. 'Bout like usual. Happens to everybody sooner or later. When it's got your name on it, it's got your name on it. Say good night."

  A coldness embraced Sarah's heart. "You guys are so calm when you talk about these things. I don't see how you do it. It's sad."

  Sandman laughed, breaking the unsettling tension. "Sorry 'bout that. It ain't 'bout a thing. Just soldier talk." He turned to her suddenly. "Hey, you worried? Don't worry. Gage is an expert with a knife."

  Sarah shook her head. "I don't understand your world, Sandman. I don't know what it takes to be a soldier. All I know is that I put two hundred stitches in Gage after he came back because somebody had almost killed him in a knife fight. And you say he's an expert with a knife."

  She turned her head to stare fully into Sandman's curious face.

  "Well, I didn't see the other guy," Sandman muttered, looking down for a moment. "So he might 'a looked worse. But I know it ain't possible to get too much better with a knife. Gage knows all the techniques, even the really weird ones, all the angles. He's an expert at bridgin' the gap. At closin'. He's fast. Strong. Reflexes like lightnin'. He's a natural at it. Ever since our first days of training, it was always what he was best at. Nobody could touch him. It was, like, a gift from God or somethin'."

  He waited so long to speak that Sarah was worried. "Whoever beat Gage ain't real," he added quietly and a trace of worry. "I know Gage. I've seen him do it all. And there ain't nuthin' mortal that could do that to him." He seemed to finish, turned away. "I don't care and I don't know who the other guy is. But I know he ain't real."

  Sandman didn't proclaim his regular round of jokes about the cold as he turned away. Sarah watched him walk limply, and somewhat sadly, across the grass, moving towards the hills. She wouldn't see him again until midnight, when Chavez went out to relieve him.

  Malachi and Barto were in the house preparing supper. And Sarah waited while Gage and Chavez finished with their sparring. Finally, they were done, and Gage sat down beside her, sweat glistening on his face and neck, but drying quickly in the cold wind. She watched as Chavez lit a cigarette, walked past her to pick up one of the semiautomatic rifles, went inside. She smiled, amused. After a week, she had still not heard him say one word.

  Experimentally, Gage flexed his right hand, moving the fingers, closing them one by one into a fist, opening, testing. Sarah noticed that the incision along his right forearm was healing. The stitches had been removed, leaving slightly noticeable, blue-tinged markings on either side of the incision.

  "How do you feel?" she asked casually.

  "I'm OK. Probably a little slow."

  She nodded. "You look pretty good to me. You've healed up well."

  Gage laid the sheathed blade onto a book. She glanced at the title: A Book of Five Rings. An arcane depiction of an ancient samurai was on the cover. The image was scowling, holding a long sword in each hand.

  "What's the book?"

  Gage shrugged, "Just research."

  "On what?" she asked, allowing the situation to guide itself.

  "I had a hunch about the guy I fought," Gage replied steadily. "I guessed he had studied classical kendo. I thought I recognized one of his techniques. I was studying up on it in case I meet him again. I want to get a better feel for his style."

  "What's the technique?"

  "Fire and Stones Cut," he replied carefully. "That's what it's called. It's supposed to be done with a long blade. A katana. But I think that this guy is taking old sword techniques, those that concentrate on slashing, and he's adapting them to fit the size blade he's using now. It's a difficult thing to do because a lot of sword techniques will never translate to a shorter blade. But some of them will. The stabbing and slashing techniques are adaptable. But the cutting techniques are difficult to adapt because you need a long edge and they don't work with a tanto unless you're real strong in the wrist."

  Sarah didn't have the foggiest idea what a tanto was, but she realized that it was the kind of knife that Gage's opponent had used. Yet she also sensed the faintest lessening of his internal distance as he spoke, and she encouraged him to release a little more, approaching him on the ground he knew best.

  "How does this Fire and Stones Cut work?" she asked with only the slightest hesitation.

  Gage shifted his right shoulder, as if to release tension or fatigue. Sarah remembered that she had removed over 60 sutures from the area over his right shoulder blade.

  "It's a cut that's performed when two blades clash together," he replied, easily. "Without dropping the blade or drawing it back, the samurai pivots his entire body, feet off the ground, all his weight into the arm, and swings the blade in a tight half-circle." He twisted his body slightly, moving his torso to describe the movement. "It's a real quick power move, designed to take advantage of a close situation. That's how I got this cut across my shoulder. It was so fast that I didn't have time to react. Our blades met and he pivoted. Instantly. It was lightning. I went down and away and he missed but not by much. He was good. The best I've ever seen."

  Sarah swept back a lock of windblown hair from her eyes. "Sandman told me you were unbeatable with a knife."

  Gage laughed. "Sandman says lots. There's no such thing as unbeatable. That's a concept that people hold who don't really know a whole lot about the psychology of fighting. Some guys are stronger than others, yeah, but everybody has weaknesses that even a poor opponent can take advantage of. And no matter how good you are, everybody has bad days. Emotions
play a big part in combat. So many factors, like emotions, adrenaline, training, and mental attitude are all colliding at unreal speeds. Emotions and adrenaline can really mess you up if you're not in a state of constant mental preparedness. A combat mode."

  "Is that the way it is with you?" she asked, genuinely curious. "Sort of a constant combat mode?"

  Gage nodded somberly. "After a few years it comes natural. I'm always running combat scenarios through my head. Like, what would I do if this or that happened? What is the best angle of defense or attack if somebody comes out of nowhere with a weapon? What cover do I have? To stay alive in this business you have to make the right move when the right move is there. If you don't have it together mentally, you'll make a mistake when that moment comes. It's the constant combat mode that keeps you alive. There's not much room for anything else."

  Sarah leaned forward, wrapping a long arm around her raised knee. "It must be tiring."

  "Yeah," he replied. "It's tiring. And it gets old." He paused, staring at the ground. "Simon taught me that there is more to life. A lot more. But now I'm back in my old world. And it's hard. I don't know if I'm tough enough for it anymore. I... don't really want to be here. But I'm locked in—"

  "You're not locked in," she broke in quickly.

  Gage cut her a sharp look. "Yeah. I'm locked in. 'Cause I'm gonna finish this. I'm going to get that manuscript if it kills me." He paused for a second and then added dejectedly, "And I think all of you might need to make some good contingency plans because it's probably going to."

  Gage was afraid he would fail all of them, Sarah thought, and maybe he was also afraid he didn't have the nerve to again fight the person who defeated him in New York.

  "How good are these people?"

  He raised his eyebrows a second, released a sigh. "I can't speak for all of them," he replied steadily, "but Sato, the Japanese, is a master and then some." Gage shook his head, a gaze of shock. "He's unreal. I've never seen anybody like him. He's fast. And stronger than anybody I've ever gone up against. He's got perfect moves. Perfect technique. Eyes that stay on target, no matter what. And his weapon is long enough to give him a distinctive advantage. It looked like an extended tanto. Maybe a twelve-inch blade with a six-inch hilt. Without even trying he could sever an arm or a head. It would be nothing."

  Sarah's gaze strayed across A Book of Five Rings and the large knife that Gage had laid on the cover, the broad blade still concealed in the sheath.

  Casually, she gestured to the knife. "What is that, exactly?" she asked. "It must be special."

  Two weeks ago Sarah would have considered a knife just a knife. But exposure to these men had changed her. Now she realized that virtually every weapon these super-soldier warrior-guys used had an almost scientific purpose behind it, and, according to them, required an almost encyclopedic level of knowledge and understanding to use effectively.

  Until now she had not voiced her incredulity, but she had listened with a slightly concealed amusement as Sandman and Gage had earlier launched into a long and tedious discussion over methods for insuring the best defense of the cabin. And she had hidden a faint smile as Sandman insisted on the superiority of security methods named after Jomini.

  In any case, it was an amazingly complex discussion over flanks, support positions, cover for movement, retreat, or maybe it was pursuit (she could never tell which), and the topographical advantages of attack or counterattack.

  She remembered how she had jumped pleasantly into the middle of the discussion. "Why doesn't somebody just go up on the hill and keep a lookout?"

  The question provoked a shocked stare from Sandman, though Gage had laughed. It even seemed that Chavez had laughed, though she couldn't be sure. After that she merely listened, learning, and, strangely enough, had slowly come to appreciate the genuine complexities of what they were doing.

  Still, Sarah wrestled against the wound he carried within him. No matter what, she didn't want him to think she doubted his abilities. At all. He needed to believe that she still held him in the highest respect, the highest confidence.

  It was a tightrope.

  He smiled vaguely at her question. "Why do you say it must be special?"

  Sarah laughed. "Because whenever Barto or I ask, 'Hey, what's that,' we never get a simple answer. It's never 'just a rifle,' or 'just a gun.' It's either some kind of Winchester double-something with a bull barrel and who knows what inside it, or it's some kind of space-age quasi-nuclear bomb that will burn up anything on earth." She gestured to the knife again. "So what is it?"

  Gage smiled, then reached over and picked up the knife. "You're not going to like it."

  "Why?"

  "Because, despite the fact that most people realize the world needs police officers and soldiers to defend them from threats, they don't want to know how it's done."

  Sarah watched him steadily. "I can stand it," she said. "In fact, you'd probably be surprised at what I can stand."

  Gage laughed, looking at her for a long moment. His smile was tender, affectionate. He picked up the knife.

  "Maybe so. I guess I'm the one that doesn't handle it so well, anymore. A knife reminds me too much of how I used to be."

  Only a moment, and Sarah reached out.

  "You know, we've all got a past, Gage," she whispered, her fingers finding a hold in his shaggy hair. "Don't let it haunt you like this. You're better than this."

  His face softened, their eyes meeting. Slowly he touched her face, moving his hand down her skin. His eyes held a longing in them, as if he had been waiting for this moment.

  She leaned forward, forehead to forehead, their faces inches apart, eyes closed.

  "Just let it be," she murmured.

  He released a sharp breath, something like a groan, then his entire face set, hard and bitter. He couldn't find it in him, she saw, couldn't let go. Not now. Even though he wanted to, some kind of iron control kept him from releasing himself to her.

  Together they rested, close. Sarah was silent for a long time, trying to find a way through. Finally, though, her gaze had strayed to the knife in his other hand.

  "Do you think it will come to that?" She gestured to the knife.

  He frowned. "I hope not. I'm going to try and keep away from it because he's better than I am. A lot better. And he knows it. I was just a soldier. I was good at this type of thing, but not like him. This guy lives for the chance to kill with his blade. He's pure." A pause. "I got this out because I'll need every advantage."

  "Can't you just shoot him?"

  Gage laughed. "I tried that last time. Sometimes things don't work that way. You can run out of rounds. Guns can be unreliable. They can jam. You can lose them. Sometimes it comes down to stuff like this."

  In some strange, internal way, Sarah crossed the line to be with him. "So, tell me what's special about it."

  Gage shook his head. "Some consider it a prototype of the ultimate fighting knife. It was made by a guy named Jim Hammond who lives in a little town in Alabama. There's an art to creating a blade for fighting. And this guy is probably the best in the world at creating fighting knives, and this was probably the best blade he ever created. Maybe the best anyone ever created. It's supposed to exceed all of the tactical requirements for the perfect edged weapon."

  Sarah gazed narrowly at it. "Show it to me."

  Gage leaned over, lifted the sheath, solemnly unsnapped a strap. Then he removed the blade, inch by slate-gray inch. Sarah reached out, and Gage put the blade in her hand. The heavy steel blade appeared to be well over a quarter-inch thick for its entire length, even at the finely razored point.

  "Overall, it's fourteen inches long," Gage told her.

  She studied the blade. "Is that long?"

  "Your blade needs to be one inch longer than your opponent's," Gage replied, pointing to the black hilt. "The hilt is designed to give you two more inches of reach than the average knife with the same size blade."

  Slowly, trying to get a sense of the world as
Gage knew it, Sarah gripped the handle more firmly, imagining using the knife for fighting. Instantly her index and middle fingers slid, quite naturally, into grooves cut into the bottom of the hilt, near the guard. She turned the knife, gazing at the finger grooves.

  "What are those for?" she asked, holding her hand to display the grooves forged into the hilt.

  "Drawing," Gage commented. "When you cut, you pull the knife away at an angle, using your thumb and those two fingers for direction. The finger grooves provide better control. It's... like carving, or swirling the blade. If a man can keep his head in the chaos of combat, he can do a lot more damage pulling the blade away than he can on initial contact."

  Sarah waved the knife in the air, felt the almost perfect symmetry, the effortless ease of control, and she realized that there was, indeed, a terrible beauty in the blade. She could understand its perfection. But the entire concept of fighting with this weapon was horrid, even appalling. It was unbelievable what men could do to men in the cause of war.

  Sarah frowned slightly as she studied the weapon. "Does this thing have a name?"

  Gage laughed shortly. "I don't know what Jim calls it now. The guys in my old unit called it 'Dragon.'"

  "After you?" she asked slowly.

  Gage shrugged. "I guess. I'm not sure. But it's not really important." He touched a flat, minutely serrated section cut into the top of the thick blade, near the upper part of the hand guard. "This is where you place your free hand for a power sweep. You hold onto the hilt with your right hand, and place the heel of your left hand on this flat section and sweep from left to right in a vertical slash, pushing out on the blade with your left hand. It reinforces the move and gives you twice as much power as you'd have with one hand. A power move. This knife could cut a man through the ribs, both lungs, and the heart with one slash. It's double-edged for almost its entire length, which makes it perfect for stabbing. But the design also makes it perfect for slashing and cutting. And it's heavy enough to easily sever an arm or a leg." He was silent a moment. "It puts me and the Japanese on even ground."