The Grey Man- Changes

by JL Curtis

  “Just glad we got here in time. I didn’t think you’d get this deep in the shit this quickly. Your partner is alive, but he didn’t look too good. Hopefully, Clay can get him to a hospital in time.”

  Sparks nodded in relief. “Thank you!” Motioning back over her shoulder, she continued, “I think we’ve got a big problem, though. I think a couple of those guys are Mexican Army.”

  The old man replied, “I’ll go check. You okay here?”

  “Yeah, if I keep busy, I’m okay. And I don’t want these bastards getting away.”

  The old man took a circuitous route to the bodies, checked each one and safed the weapons as he did so. Sure enough, two of them were in what looked to him like Mexican Army Special Forces BDUs. Two of the weapons were M-16s with Mexican Army IDs painted on their butt stocks. The two rifles the coyotes had were AK-47s that were also full auto. Both of them had been hit in the chest with double taps, and in one case an additional round had been placed in the head. The old man continued his circle, passing a small Zodiac pulled up on the bank. Crouching next to it, he finally glassed the area across the river and saw the truck he’d shot was in fact a Mexican Army Humvee. It also looked like the body lying beside it was in BDUs too.

  By the time the old man got back to the dry wash, a phalanx of Border Patrol officers were there, and fanning out over the scene. The illegals were being herded up the cart path toward a CBP bus that was just pulling up. Sparks had slung her rifle and was being harangued by what the old man figured was a supervisor, right in front of all the other officers. As he walked up he heard, “You were told to use non-lethal force. This is totally unacceptable, and you will be brought up on charges. How dare you violate one of my directives? Much less kill four people?”

  The old man walked up behind the supervisor and said quietly, “Three of them are my kills. Aren’t officers allowed to defend themselves anymore?”

  The supervisor spun around and the old man noted the silver oak leaves as he spit at the old man, “Who the fuck are you?”

  The old man didn’t really appreciate his attitude, so he responded in a slow drawl, “Well, who the fuck are you?” Looking at the nametag, and totally ignoring the rank, “Mr. Covington? And what business is it of yours?”

  Covington bristled. “I am the new DPIAC[14] for this sector, this is my business and I’ll ask you one more time, who the fuck are you?”

  Sliding his jacket to the side revealing his badge, and incidentally his 1911 he said, “Captain John Cronin, Pecos county sheriff’s department. I responded to the officer’s request for assistance along with Ranger Boone. Obviously, we got here long before you did, and I took the perps under fire to protect the officers who were pinned down in the dry wash. I also shot one person on the south side of the river who was shooting at us.”

  Covington turned to one of his aides, had a side conversation, and turned back. “So, deputy you are out of your jurisdiction, and you admit you killed three individuals without provocation, including one on foreign soil, is that right?”

  The old man responded, “Yep.”

  Covington turned to his aide, “Salter, arrest this man-”

  Ranger Company E commander Major Wilson who just walked up, “John, where did Clay disappear to”, interrupted him?

  The old man answered, “Major, as far as I know, he’s headed to the nearest hospital with the other agent that was shot. We didn’t have time to wait for an ambulance. We threw him in the back and Clay hauled it.”

  Major Wilson nodded. “Okay, sounds like y’all done good.”

  The old man shrugged. “Well, we’ll see. Looks like two over here and the one I shot across the river are either current or ex Mexican Army.”

  Covington gaped. He snapped, “You shot military people? Salter, take his weapons and cuff him.”

  Major Wilson interrupted. “I don’t think so. He and Ranger Boone were operating under my authority, and this is my area of responsibility. They responded based on a mutual aid call, since it seems you didn’t have people in place to actually support them. Am I right?”

  Covington blustered, “We were organizing a response. I can’t have people just respond helter skelter. That’s not professional.”

  “Professional?” the old man exploded. “Professional? You’re more fucking worried about a professional response than your people in the field? What kind of idiot are you?”

  Covington spit, “Well, I was moved here from San Diego to clean up this sector. And from what I’ve seen it needs cleaning up and some professional management. These people are way too lax and don’t follow procedures properly.” With that, he stomped off and called over his shoulder, “Salter, take her guns, sequester her, and let’s start the paperwork. I have some phone calls to make.”

  The old man couldn’t resist. “Hey, Salter, you want to try that shit with me too? You afraid the truth might get told? That it might not be professional enough for your boss?”

  Agent Salter turned red, but was smart enough not to respond as Major Wilson drug the old man away. “John, what in hell has you so spun up?”

  The old man replied, “Sorry, Major, but assholes like that just set my teeth on edge. By the time they would have gotten his organized response here, both those kids would have been dead, and those illegals would have been long gone. I think more than half, maybe all of them are OTMs[15]. What brings you down this way, and this quickly?”

  Wilson looked thoughtful. “I was coming down to have dinner with Clay and Ronni. I pulled in about the time y’all got to the airport I guess. I dropped the wife at their house and came a runnin’. Glad I did, seeing as how you were about to get your ass in a sling.”

  “Yeah, I do appreciate it, Major. Ever since Jesse got shot, seems like my temper is kinda short with assholes like him. Hell, with assholes in general.”

  Hector Garcia, the border patrol sector supervisor, walked up and stuck out his hand. “John, thanks for saving our folks. Can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. Major, good to see you, and thanks for kicking Clay into action too.”

  The old man shook his hand. “De Nada, Hector. We just happened to be able to help. Who is this Covington character?”

  Shaking the major’s hand, Garcia gave a quick look around. “He’s one of those hand-picked ones the director is running in on us. Covington’s never really been in the field, spent all his time in San Diego and apparently got off the border and into admin as soon as he could. So he’s apparently a good paper pusher.” Waving his hand at the scene, Garcia continued, “This- Well, he doesn’t quite get it. But he’s hell on paperwork and forms and professionalism.”

  The old man nodded. “Speaking of professional, that kid Sparks deserves an atta boy er- girl. She done damn good to get her partner to a relatively safe place and get those tourniquets on. She probably saved his life, and she capped two of the shooters, too. She was damn cool under fire, all things considered, and she should be held up as a good example. You want a rundown on what Clay and I saw and did?”

  “Please. I’d also like a narrative statement from you, too, if that won’t be too much trouble.”

  The major nodded. “Start from the top, John.”

  The old man gave his version of the events, and Garcia recorded them into his phone, as they walked the area. All of them figured the two in the BDUs were probably military deserters that had gone over to the Zetas and wondered if they were branching into people smuggling in addition to drug running and enforcer roles. Garcia whistled at the damage done by the .338 round, and asked for one shell for the report, which the old man gladly provided. He asked Garcia if he wanted the rifle too, but Garcia said, “Nah, I don’t want to take your weapon, and I know where you live. Just do me a favor and don’t clean it until I get back with you. Hell, John, if I can’t trust you, I can’t trust anybody, right?”

  The walkabout included the shots from the far side of the river at the helo, and the old man pointed out the Zodiac and where he’d stood to get a look
at the Humvee and the body on the other side of the river, along with his and Clay’s response.

  Just as the old man started describing the transport of the other agent, whom they found out was known as E-squared, due to being named Eric Edwards, Clay called in that he was at the hospital in Alpine. Major Wilson offered the old man a ride back to Alpine, and Clay was told to park the helo and wait. The old man promised a write up within twenty-four hours, and Garcia was happy with that.

  As the major and the old man walked back to the car, they saw Sparks sitting slumped in one of the SUVs disconsolately sipping a cup of coffee and the old man walked over. “Sparks, you done good. I gave Garcia a quick and dirty, and I’ll give a full write up by tomorrow evening. I will make sure you get a copy, too.”

  Sparks nodded. “Thank you, and I guess y’all better go. I’m not supposed to talk to anybody until I’ve been questioned by the brass.”

  Major Wilson said, “Sparks, they give you any shit, you have them call me. I’ll straighten their asses out about operations down here. This ain’t child’s play down here. They play for keeps.”

  Sparks nodded again, and the major gently shut the door. Continuing on to the car, both of them shook their heads about the treatment she was getting. When they got to the car, the old man realized his gun case was still in the helo, so he safed the rifle and laid it on the back seat, strapping it in as well as he could with all three seatbelts, much to the major’s amusement.

  During the ride back to Alpine, the major and the old man discussed what had gone on and the potential ramifications, and the old man finally latched on to the thought that had been in the back of his mind. “Major, I think most of those OTMs were from the Middle East. They weren’t Hispanic or from anywhere in South America. The clothes were wrong, and now that I think of it, when I needed them to help load the officer, I was directing them in Spanish. And most of them didn’t understand.”

  Major Wilson nodded. “Might be important. If this was strictly a smuggling operation, they might be players. I’ll try to get Bucky involved before they get disbursed to the four winds, and I’m also going to alert Austin.”

  Wilson dropped the old man off at the Alpine airport as Ranger Boone’s Jeep was still parked there and called Ronni asking her to bring his wife to the airport. As soon as Clay landed, Wilson quickly debriefed him, then he and his wife continued back to his headquarters in Marfa. During the short ride back to Clay’s house, Clay and the old man discussed how to coordinate their reports, and agreed that they would share them prior to submitting them to the various agencies.

  The old man finally got back to the sheriff’s department at eight in the evening, and walked in to dispatch. Lisa looked up and said, “Sheriff wants to see you, captain.”

  The old man nodded sourly. “Going.”

  The old man grabbed a cup of coffee and walked down the hall to the sheriff’s office, knocked and said, “I guess you want an explanation, right?”

  The sheriff leaned forward. “Just the high points. I’ve already gotten a call from Major Wilson, a ranting phone call from some CBP guy, and Bucky wants a backfill. Other than that, it’s been nice and quiet around here.”

  The old man chuckled. “Well, to say this one proved interesting is an understatement.” He detailed what had gone on, the aftermath, and the fact that he and Clay were going to essentially collaborate on their statements. The sheriff finally waved him off, telling him to go home.

  The old man detoured back through dispatch, said goodnight and collected Yogi on the way out the door. Stopping at the truck stop, he got a quick to-go order and finally got back to the ranch before midnight.

  No More Cast

  Jesse slumped back against the wall and wiped the sweat from her face with a towel. As she finished, a shadow loomed over her and she looked up to see Chief Holt standing in front of her. “Well, Jesse, how did that feel?”

  Jesse huffed, out a breath, and leaned forward. “Chief, I know you took your training under the Marquis de Sade, and you have me in your tender mercies, but dammit why are you still trying to kill me after almost three months?”

  Holt laughed. “That which-” and Jesse echoed with him, “Does not kill you makes you stronger.”

  Jesse continued, “Yeah, yeah, I got all that shit. I don’t know which hurts more, my thigh, my butt or my back. Not to mention the shoulder.”

  Doc Fischer strolled into the spaces prompting an attention on deck call, which he ignored, waving at everyone to continue whatever he or she was doing. Petty Officer Hawthorne was trailing him with a stack of files under her arm and a long-suffering expression on her face.

  Doc stopped at various individuals, poked and prodded some, had others do various flexion stretches and had some lift various weights as he observed them while Hawthorne frantically tried to keep up with the note taking in the individual’s records and not drop the files. He finally got around to Jesse and said, “Don’t put the cast back on, walk to the office, turn around and walk back, please.”

  Jesse gingerly walked across the PT space turned and walked back as the doc watched with a critical eye, then said, “Again and turn the other direction this time. Walk normally.”

  Jesse tried it again, turning on the bad leg this time, and walked back to the doc. She stopped in front of him. “Was that better?”

  Ignoring her question, he said, “Sit.” Reaching down he put a palm on her right ankle, “Lift.”

  Jesse tried to lift her leg, but he resisted. Switching ankles he said, “Lift.” Same thing again, cupping the ankle, he said, “Pull.” Jesse winced a little as the knee protested, but she pulled as hard as she could. Then it was repeated on the right side. All the while, Doc Fischer was mumbling notes to Hawthorne who wrote frantically in Jesse’s now two inch thick record. He poked the shoulder area, had her do rotations and flexes, followed by pushes and pulls and finally said, “To the office and back once more please.”

  Jesse eased down off the table and started across the space again when Fischer yelled, “Normally.” Jesse concentrated on trying to walk normally, turned and threw her head up trying to step out like she used to do.

  Lance Corporal Baldwin yelled out from the ‘rack’, “Swing it, honey!”

  And Jesse retorted, “Ah shaddap, No Balls.”

  Baldwin replied, “Hey, now, I’ve got one left and apparently it’s working again! See, last night-”

  A shouted chorus of “TMI, TMI” from everyone in the room finally quieted Baldwin.

  Doc Fischer finally said, “Okay, I think we’ll try you without the walking cast. Based on the x-rays the bones have healed, and your muscle tone is coming back slowly. No cane, crutches only when you’re tired or the leg starts to hurt. It hurts too bad, put the cast back on. Do not push it. Understand?”

  Jesse beamed, excited. “Yes, sir!”

  “And keep the extra-curricular activities to a minimum for now also.”

  Jesse smiled. “Well, my hubby is still deployed, so don’t have any of those, Doc.”

  Doc laughed at that, smiled at her, and turned to the Chief. “Keep her on the flexion and weights for both legs, start on the leg press. Nautilus for the shoulder, chiro and deep tissue on lower spine and back times three.”

  Chief Holt nodded as Hawthorne wrote everything down, and then hurried to catch up with the doc as he headed for the door.

  The chief directed Jesse to the Nautilus machine saying, “Okay, Bear, you’re outta there. Wipe it down for the lady and hit the showers.”

  Sergeant ‘Bear’ Wojokowski unfolded his two hundred forty plus pounds out of the machine like an erector set, grabbed a fresh towel and quickly wiped the machine down. “Sorry, Mizz Jesse. Didn’t mean to stink it up for you.”

  Jesse patted Bear on the good shoulder saying, “No biggie, Bear. None of us exactly smell daisy fresh in here.”

  Bear chuckled. “True! Scratch my shoulder, please?”

  Jesse nodded. “Sure, bend down so I can at least rea
ch it.”

  Bear leaned forward and turned his back toward Jesse and she used her nails to scratch his shoulder since he couldn’t reach it at all, due to his injuries. Feeling the ridges of skin under the t-shirt, she remembered the first time she’d seen him with his shirt off, and almost threw up. She’d never seen such massive scarring on a live person before, and like everyone else over the last couple of months, she’d learned their stories, even as they learned hers.

  Sergeant Wojokowski had been hit by almost the full force of an RPG that detonated as he’d charged around a corner of a wall and it had sprayed his back and shoulder with fragments in addition to pretty much destroying the shoulder joint. Doc Fischer had rebuilt him, and said between Bear and No Balls, he had two $3 million dollar men. Bear was one of the gentlest people Jesse had ever met, falling into that gentle giant category just like Trey did.

  Lance Corporal Ted ‘No Balls’ Baldwin, on the other hand, was a slight, blond-haired kid that looked like a fifteen-year-old choir boy. According to those who knew him, he was utterly fearless, both in the field and back at home. He’d been stitched by a heavy machine gun just below the vest while single-handedly breaking up an ambush. The rounds had blown out both sides of his pelvis and taken out one of his testicles on the way. Only by the grace of God had the rounds missed both femoral arteries. A medevac already on the way in to pick up other wounded had diverted, saving his life by providing enough plasma to keep him going until he got to the hospital. Even lying flat on his back, he’d hit on Jesse a couple of times until Chief Holt had apparently had a word or two with him. But he still picked at her, just now more like brother and sister.

  Private ‘Lopes’ Lopez had turned out to be from El Paso. Since the ‘rack’ and the leg machine were adjacent to each other, they’d spoken mostly Spanish to each other, which had turned into a running joke in the PT space. Lopez, wiry and taciturn, had been a gunner in a Hummer that hit an IED[16]. He was suffering from a crushed vertebra and shrapnel in both legs and what they were calling TBI[17]. Jesse suspected there was some pretty serious trauma there, as he seemed to have lost most of his English, and had trouble some days remembering even the simplest things about home. Jesse had told Chief Holt of her fears, and he’d thanked her and gone off to talk to somebody.