“I wish someone would’ve told me that a long time ago,” he said wistfully. “This is the kind of life my son Bobby would have flourished in.”
They laid back down, looking up at the stars that were appearing as dusk gave way to a clear night. They pointed out constellations to each other while waiting.
TOMMY WAS ABOUT TO tell her that it wasn’t affecting him. Then he looked up at the stars and sensed a tingling, like a mild electric current, but not just physical—he sensed it in his spirit, in his psyche, as well.
“I think it’s hitting me,” he said.
She took his hand. “Go with the flow. Go easy, be one with the universe.”
As he lay there, he seemed to become more attuned to everything in the environment. He heard the rush of waves and felt he could sense their building and crashing, and then their return to the ocean. He felt the creatures of the sea, not far away: the gentle whales and dolphins, the fearsome sharks, the graceful, beautiful manta rays.
The stars above seemed to realign and signal to him. He saw patterns in them, and the patterns changed. He felt a symbiotic connection to everything at once: the earth, space beyond, nature, and...something else. Something he couldn’t quite perceive, but it was there, at the edge of his grasp.
She seemed to know, without him having to say a word. “Don’t think too hard,” she said. “Let it come to you. Relax, observe, perceive.”
He closed his eyes and felt a light floating sensation, then something like sleep, but not sleep. “It’s beautiful, Tara. It’s so beautiful.”
He did as she said, and then it was there-the edge of a dimension that was imperceptible to the normal mind. Maybe it’s heaven. He closed his eyes and tried not to push, but to move into it. Everything grew silent, and he felt transported to another spiritual plane.
“Well, if it ain’t my favorite cracker,” he heard Moses say in his unmistakable deep baritone. The words didn’t come through his ears—they were simply in his mind.
Moses, oh, Moses. I’m so sorry.
“Nothin’ to be sorry about, Tommy.”
Are you in heaven? Is there a God?
“There ain’t no heaven or hell, but there is good and bad. The spirit is perpetual, and your physical form is just a vessel, my brother. It’s a cycle, repeated until the spirit is cleansed and ready for eternity.
“The one you seek, he’s of the bad. Some are unredeemable, Tommy, doomed to the cycle in eternity. Remember what your Good Book says—’In his place shall arise a contemptible person to whom royal majesty has not been given. He shall come in without warning and obtain the kingdom by flatteries.’”
Brand. Screw him, Mos. Where’s my boy, Bobby? Is he there? Can I talk to him?
“He’s here, Tommy. We’re all here, and we’ll see you soon. You have found the goodness within you.”
What about the sensei? Is he okay?
He waited, and there was silence. He became aware of his body again, Tara’s hand in his. He opened his eyes and looked back up at the stars, and once again heard the symphony of the waves.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yeah. I just had some kind of...out-of-body experience, I guess you would call it.”
“I’m glad you’re back,” she said.
They sat up and looked over the ocean discussing the fragility of life and what might come after. He didn’t want to talk about what he’d experienced. He was afraid she’d question his sanity.
“You know what, Tara? I think that this human form is only the beginning of our spiritual life. Our bodies and minds in this state are in their crudest form, embryonic during our whole time here, and when we pass from this life, we metamorphose into something much better in the next stage. Unless we’re not ready; then we come back, to learn more, to evolve our spirit further.”
“It makes sense to me, Just Tommy. Reincarnation is one of the oldest theories in faith. Maybe the ancients knew a lot more than we give them credit for. We dismiss their beliefs as superstition too quickly.”
“I wonder,” Tommy replied, “if we only stay alive sometimes because we’re so afraid, not knowing what comes after. Maybe if we did, we wouldn’t mind dying so much when our time comes nearer.”
They talked until the sun came up. They spoke of the life they could have had together, vowing to find each other in whatever came after it and to spend their eternity together with days exactly like the ones they’d been enjoying. She removed a delicate silver necklace with a peace-sign medallion from her neck and placed it around his. “I want you to have it,” she said. “It’s a part of me.”
The remaining days and nights passed slowly.
“It’s funny,” he said one evening, as they were both beginning to drift into sleep. “I’m at the end of the road, this long, hard tortured life, and I’ve never been happier. Never been more at peace. It took this long.”
“Well then, I’ve accomplished my goal,” she said.
Their stay came to its end on the day after he took his last dose of the medicine, and they silently packed to leave.
ON THE SECOND MORNING after they returned, Tara rode her bicycle to the market to open up for the day. She hadn’t heard from Tommy, and had patiently given him his space. She decided she would go to his bungalow after she closed for the day if he hadn’t turned up by then.
As she removed the lock and pulled up the rolled canvas fronting, Whitey came bounding out, startling her. Her shock and surprise at seeing the dog turned to happiness almost immediately.
“Whitey! Come here, you little bundle of joy.” She picked up the excited dog and peered inside the still-dark stall. She crept in cautiously, carrying Whitey, who was wriggling in her arms.
She loved Tommy’s playful games. “Okay, mister. I know you’re in here somewhere.” She peered behind the displays of seed packets, excited at the game, eager with anticipation. “Just Tommy, Just Tommy, ready or not here I come...”
She made her way around the displays of silent fruit and vegetables, looking beneath them. “You’re making me work way too hard, good sir. Come, and present yourself to your lady in waiting.”
The plywood door to the small back office area caught her eye. “Ah, taking over my enterprise, I see. I’ve got you cornered now, buddy.”
She smiled as she pulled it open, and the dog looked at her sadly.
The desk lamp over her small hutch was on, and a white envelope lay on her closed laptop. Written on it, in small letters, was “Tara.”
15 Men at Sea
Tommy walked the docks, shining his flashlight on the back of each boat he approached. Despite his sadness, he was at peace. The lapping of the waves against their hulls seemed to encourage him, to lead him on to his destiny.
The sea bag chafed at his shoulder, and he paused to shift it to the other side. The decrepit fishing vessels in the darkened area contrasted sharply against the sleek white pleasure yachts in the adjacent marina, which was lit by the glare of overhead floodlights.
As he neared the end of the pier, the boats seemed to become older and shabbier. He pointed the flashlight beam at the stern of the very last one and saw what he’d been searching for—April. He tossed the sea bag in and stepped over the gunwale.
Noticing a dim light in the cabin, he made his way toward the steps. The door swung open, and Micco waved.
“Seas are relatively calm,” Micco said. “It’ll take several hours to get up to Miami. Get comfortable. There’s water in the cooler and a Thermos of coffee up here in the pilothouse if you want to hang out with me.”
“Coffee sounds good,” Tommy responded, climbing up into the cabin. “Thanks again, Micco.”
“Thank you, Tommy. What you’re paying me for this charter would cover a week’s profit at the fish stall. I’ll have you there well before sunrise, like you wanted.”
“But you’ll keep it between us, right? If you get pushed on it, just say you chartered your boat to an old Marine sailor who was dying and wanted one last voy
age to see his family.”
“Got it.” Micco began to navigate the boat through the narrow canals to sea. “I don’t know what you’re up to, so essentially, that’s accurate.”
Tommy surveyed the cabin. Behind the two captain’s chairs was a small cot, and a counter and sink for cleaning fish. The boat had apparently seen better days; many of the fixtures and equipment had been patched or repaired with zip ties and duct tape. The engine strained and rattled, even at the low speed they were traveling.
“You, ah, ever taken it this far away?” Tommy asked.
“No, just my usual local fishing circuit off the coast.”
Tommy frowned and decided not to worry. He was on a mission; in the hands of fate with nothing to lose and little time left. Still, his heart ached for the woman he’d left behind. He missed Whitey, his constant companion, and worried that the dog would be upset at being left behind.
“You mind if I catch some sleep?” Tommy asked.
“Go for it,” Micco responded.
He moved to the small cot and lay on his back, thinking through his plan again and again. Searching for any holes, putting contingencies in place for anything that could fail. The smell of diesel fuel filled his nostrils, and he found himself flashing back to the amphibious vehicles he had been in off the coast of Vietnam, so long ago.
HE HAD JUST ARRIVED in-country, green from training, full of piss and vinegar, and now that he was there, he was scared out of his mind.
The M113A1 Green Dragon Armored Personnel Carrier he was in was cramped, and the other ten men sitting below in benches against its walls spewed bravado. The vehicle was on reconnaissance, rambling through the jungle as they laughed and joked in its belly.
There was a sudden acceleration, and the commander in the turret was heard shouting. Their .50 caliber Browning M2 machine gun began rattling off rounds. The bursts stopped, and the leader’s limp body was passed down from the hatch as the vehicle swerved out of control.
The medic immediately jumped up to provide first aid to the wounded man, as one of the top gunners took control of the vehicle and shouted that they were pinned down and going to attempt to cross the river to escape. Tommy was frozen in place, eighteen years old and wondering if he was in a bad dream or war movie. He wanted to be home, in his bedroom, safe.
They began to hear the unmistakable sound of machine-gun rounds hitting the vehicle. Some pierced the light armor, and daylight showed through randomly appearing holes in its walls. They all hunched down, and he heard a splash as the vehicle entered the water. He remembered that the vehicle was “moderately amphibious” and looked around at the men weighed down with battle armor and weapons.
He checked his M14 rifle nervously. They bobbed in the water, and he could feel the rush of the river taking the craft under its own control. He was convinced at that point that he was going to die there, in that aluminum tin can full of sweaty, smelly men.
“Do not panic, you are United States Marines!” Sergeant Campbell shouted at them. “Keep your composure! We are not going to die here today, Marines!” He looked at the other men, who all wore grim determination on their faces. Tommy hoped he didn’t look as scared as he was.
The carrier swayed and bounced, and he heard the water sloshing against the hull, thinking that if it sank without deploying its hatch, they would all have to somehow exit through the turret above. They were all thrown to the floor as the vehicle slammed into an obstacle in the water and stopped. The hatch deployed, and he heard Campbell yell, “Cover yourselves, exit, now!”
They got up and charged the rectangular doorway, weapons held high above their heads to try and keep them dry. The vision of the men in front of him struggling in the current, trying to stay on their feet, rounds dancing off the water, was forever burned into his mind. He was last, except for the sergeant, who shoved him out. “Go, Borata, damn it!”
He remembered the welcome chill of the water and fresh air, after being cramped in the sweaty compartment breathing diesel fumes for so long. He saw a man ahead of him go limp, and the river took him away, streams of blood trailing behind him in the water. His adrenaline surged further.
And then he stumbled and fell. He opened his eyes and saw only green-brown water rushing around him. He remembered wondering how long he could hold his breath, and if he could somehow remove all of his heavy gear. No chance, he remembered thinking. I’m going to die here today.
And then he felt himself being dragged up by the collar. As the water washed from his eyes, he saw Campbell, the toughest man he had ever known, in his face.
“Keep going, damn it, or you’ll get us both killed, Borata!”
He regained his feet and pushed through the water, Campbell continually urging him on from behind. And then he didn’t hear him anymore. They were almost to the shoreline. He turned and saw Campbell lying across a large root, hanging onto it, blood mixing with the wet fatigues around his chest.
Tommy turned back toward him.
“No, you idiot, go back!” Campbell said, barely audible over the din. “That’s a fucking order, Lance Corporal!”
Tommy continued to push against the current to him, having lost his weapon already. He heard round after round of gunshots, and hoped the Marines on the shore were covering him.
Reaching Campbell, he dragged him off the branch and towed him across the remaining stretch of river with every ounce of energy the adrenaline provided him. He remembered his heart pounding in his ears, all of the other sounds disappearing.
The last thing he remembered was being hit in the leg and collapsing at the waterline, pulling Campbell up alongside him and out of the water. The sergeant was unconscious, but still breathing.
HE DOZED OFF, AND SOMETIME later the transition from the loud, erratic churning of the diesel engine to silence caused him to wake. The boat wasn’t moving, and Micco wasn’t in the captain’s chair. He heard cursing and banging, and rose to find Micco in the stern with the engine compartment open.
“What the hell?” Tommy asked. “I thought you said this tub could make it?”
“No,” Micco replied. “I only said I haven’t taken it this far.”
Tommy hopped up and joined him. They worked together to diagnose the problem, going through a litany of troubleshooting steps by flashlight. Tommy located and pulled the fuel filter, shining his light on it. The paper folds were covered in gunk. “Christ, Micco. What kind of shit fuel are you putting in this thing, and when’s the last time you changed this filter?”
“I’m a fisherman, not a mechanic. I have a guy that does all that for me.”
“I guess you don’t have a spare on board.”
“Of course not.”
“Alright. We can run without it the rest of the way, but you’ll have to get it replaced in Miami. Get me some waterproof tape to splice this fuel line.”
Micco rummaged in his toolbox as Tommy began the repair.
“Tommy, we have company. Get below, quick.”
Tommy lifted his head slightly above the gunwale and saw a Coast Guard cutter approaching. He hit the floor, grabbed his sea bag, and crawled to the staircase. He sailed down the stairs head-first to the marine head and shut the door behind him, panting to catch his breath.
He listened as the cutter pulled alongside, and felt the boat rock as they boarded. They started asking Micco questions about where he was going, what he was doing in this part of the ocean in this type of vessel. Each of their heavy footsteps above caused Tommy’s heart to pound harder and faster. He heard Micco start to explain that he had a buyer in Miami for the craft. Good thinking, kid.
The discussion went on, and he heard them ask Micco for papers for himself and the boat. The small, cramped toilet seemed to close in on him. He was sweating profusely, and the stench of the head and rocking of the ship was causing his nausea and panic to build. He started to wonder if the disease was contributing to the way he felt. Reaching under his shirt, he began to press around his liver, stomach, and kidneys.
He resisted the urge to bolt from the compartment so that he could breathe fresh air. He thought about Tara, back there somewhere, and wondered if she was thinking about him. He hoped she wasn’t angry. He thought about the small white dog, and the pain in his heart began to match his physical discomfort.
For a moment he considered retrieving the 9mm from his sea bag. No. I can’t kill them; they’re innocent. He thought about holding them captive, but then he’d have to draw Micco into this. He doesn’t deserve that either. That scenario would get very messy. As it would if I used the gun on myself...
He fished around in a pocket and withdrew a small black vial. He held it and considered opening it and downing the contents. I’m screwed. Let’s just get this over with.
He then worried that Micco would be suspected of killing him, and decided to wait to see how things would play out above. He tightened his grip on the cap, deciding he would twist it off at the first sign that they were about to breach his hiding place.
16 Fan Mail
Brenda sat at her desk, passing the time by opening a large stack of mail for Brand. It was the usual mix of crackpots, haters, and devotees. Some letters went directly into the trash; others went into a pile designated for form-letter responses, campaign items, and signed photographs. None ever went to Brand himself; he couldn’t be bothered.
The return address on one caught her attention. She opened it, hopeful it would be a good candidate. Brand wanted a stage full of adoring veterans to accompany him, but due to his rhetoric many of the people they’d contacted had declined the offer.
“This guy looks good,” she said to Stinson. “Bronze Star with a V for Valor and Purple Heart in Vietnam. Disabled. Big fan.”
“What’s the name?” Stinson asked. “I’ll add him to the list and verify his background.”
“Thomas Robert Domingo,” she answered. “I want this guy. Start the process, and I’ll reach out to him.” She noticed that he had left no phone info, only a P.O. box in Miami. She opened her laptop to get a letter ready to send out. “He’s local too, bonus.”
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