Price For A Patriot

by F. Denis King

  What the hell? Reporters began to shout indignantly and the deputy again took the microphone. He had the makings of a riot on his hands. “Sergeant Stiles will answer a few questions.” No surprise, the guys in the front row got to ask the questions but the answers were brief and not very illuminating. When the deputy said, “That’s all we have time for,” Elizabeth surprised everyone, perhaps even herself, by jumping up on her chair and shouting, “I’m from Muleshoe, Sergeant Stiles, and we need to talk! Ask to see me, my name is Elizabeth Krane. I’ll be waiting.” Some reporters laughed at her brash behavior and others nodded approvingly at her unusual technique. But there was no reply, the deputy had Brandon by the elbow and was showing him to the exit used by the Wing Commander just a few minutes earlier. Reporters chased after them only to find that the door was locked. The anger in the room was palpable. There was well reasoned outrage. Elizabeth carefully dropped down from her perch as reporters began their exodus, each grabbing a prepared handout as they filed out.

  As he was escorted back to the hospital, Brandon asked for permission to speak with the reporter from Muleshoe and Elizabeth had made certain the authorities knew where to find her. At 3 pm she stood at the foot of Brandon’s bed.

  “Are you sick? You don’t look sick,” she said.

  “No, I’m healthy as a horse, but the brass wants me rested. No doubt they’ve had enough of this circus and want me gone so they’re taking no chances. Who knows, they may have a few more questions to ask.”

  “I have a few questions of my own,” Elizabeth said.

  “I’ll bet you do, but you aren’t from Muleshoe.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I know every pretty girl in the county but they’re minor leaguers and you’re not. You look more like a movie star than a writer.”

  “Well let’s have dinner tonight and talk about a movie. I’ve already been told of a great restaurant near here.”

  “The doctors won’t release me just yet. Maybe another time.”

  “You escaped from Iraq. Are you telling me you can’t escape from this hospital?”

  Brandon laughed. “Man you are one feisty filly, Ms. Muleshoe. Okay, tell you what. I’ll jump the fence at 1800 hours, right after they bring me my Jell-O. There has to be a back entrance to this building; meet me there.”

  “Okay, soldier, don’t you stand me up, I came a long way for this dinner date.” She saluted with a smile on her face that made Brandon weak in the knees. It was a good time to be flat on his back.

  1800 hours -- Emergency Entrance To The Ramstein Base Hospital

  At 6 PM Elizabeth’s rental car was parked facing the emergency entrance and she had perched herself on the hood so she’d be easily spotted when Brandon came out. Ten minutes later she was becoming worried. That’s when Brandon’s deep voice startled her. “Nice car.”

  Elizabeth swiveled to look behind her and slid off the fender to the ground. Her skirt slid upward to mid thigh and she noticed Brandon’s eyebrows lift and his lips purse as if to whistle. “There’s a side door,” was what he said, and he answered her unspoken question too. “Sure, I’ll drive.”

  The roasted pig knuckles were mouth-watering good and the chilled Rhine wine made the room seem mellow. It was the best meal Brandon thought he’d ever had and he knew that he’d never had a more attractive dinner companion. Elizabeth dabbed the corners of her mouth and set the napkin aside.

  “Sergeant Stiles, we’ve talked about home, family, even the Cowboys’ chance of winning the Super Bowl, but we haven’t talked about you, about your story, about your disappearance and resurrection from the dead. I’m not shy and I’m not afraid to ask for special treatment. We Mules have to stick together you know.”

  “If we Mules are to stick together, you’d better start calling me ‘Brandon.’”

  “That’s a wonderful idea, Brandon.”

  “May I call you Elizabeth or do you prefer ‘ma’am’?”

  “If you’ll give me exclusive rights to your story, Brandon, you can call me whatever you want, but exclusive means that when Oprah calls or Sixty minutes calls, you have to say, ‘talk to Elizabeth, she’s from Muleshoe’.”

  “No- you’re- not.”

  “But I am from Texas and I was born in Sherman. Doesn’t that count for anything? I haven’t slept in days, and I’m paying for dinner.”

  “You don’t look sleepy but you can pay for dinner. I don’t have any money.”

  “You can pay next time.”

  “Run that by me again, Elizabeth? I may be suffering from wishful hearing. Did you say ‘next time’?”

  She raised her bedroom eyes to stare deeply into Brandon’s soul. He was lost, swimming, intoxicated, not by Rhine wine but by the breathtaking beauty of the gorgeous woman from Texas. The candle on the table flickered in a light breeze casting upward light that placed her features in soft shadow that only served to accent her beauty. Her full lips, high cheek bones, perfect teeth, hazel eyes with flecks of gold, sparkled in reflected light like deep pools of warm invitation, lighted from within. Reading his thoughts, she smiled and took his breath away.

  “So, what do you say?” he heard her say as if from another room.

  “To what?” he answered, clearly distracted.

  “Your story. My exclusive. You Brandon. Me Elizabeth.”

  “Oh, yeah, sure. I forgot for a moment. Must be this sudden change in my life, Elizabeth, I mean, the ah, ah, conditions from what I…”

  She smiled and reached across the table to place her hand on his. He felt a shock. “You know something, Brandon, you’re a very likable guy. Tell me, how did you get all the little cuts on your face?”

  “At Ankara I whacked off three years of beard with a disposable razor. I don’t recommend it. I know I’m a mess, but look, see, I still have all my teeth.”

  “Yes, I noticed that. They go well with those Paul Newman-blue eyes.”

  At that moment two Air Policemen approached to flank Brandon’s chair. The senior man spoke. “Sorry to spoil the party, Sarge, but we have orders to bring you back to base. You have some people upset over your departure and I think those clothes might not be yours.

  Elizabeth feigned surprise, “Do you mean I’m having dinner with an escapee?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He’s apparently got a lot of experience. No need for cuffs is there, Sarge?”

  “No, no need at all. Ms. Krane and I just wanted to try the pig knuckles and they’re as good as advertised. Hospital food, on the other hand, leaves a lot to be desired.”

  As the two big policemen lifted Brandon to his feet, Elizabeth extended her hand and Brandon took her card. “Call me.”

  “Absolutely.” To the policemen he asked, “How did you find me?”

  “We didn’t. We found her. We found the Passat.”

  Brandon cocked his head and looked at Elizabeth with feigned disappointment. She smiled sheepishly and mouthed—sorry. As he was led away, she exhaled and felt the beat of her heart.

  The Flight Home, Destination D.C., Andrews Air Force Base (5 September 1994)

  The flight from Ramstein was delayed due to stronger than forecast headwinds. There was no reason to fret, the C-141 had just completed an aerial refueling and was making headway as best it could, but a member of the reception committee was worried. His concern wasn’t for craft or crew or the passenger on board. He feared loss of face time on TV.

  C.K. McNamara thought the news crews would pack-up and leave, go on to other assignments, and that would not do. He repeatedly checked his watch and asked an aide, “What the hell is the problem here, Michael? This is a priority-one flight? It should have been here thirty minutes ago.”

  The Aide pretended to share CK’s concern and each time the question was posed, he sped away to find out. Actually, he never sought an answer because the reason for delay was already known.
He’d get a sip of water or stop to talk to a friend, and then hurry back to breathlessly report.

  “They’re on the way, sir. They’ve been fighting stronger than forecast headwinds since the Isle of Man, but they should be here any minute.” The report was a little different each time. He would say the pilot had increased his cruise Mach to redline or climbed or descended to find a better cruise altitude. It wasn’t lying exactly; it just made the report more interesting.

  CK spotted Elizabeth Krane with her camera crew and waved. He’d read about her in Texas Monthly magazine, she apparently was as smart as she was pretty, which was saying something, plus she had recently been acclaimed as one of the most believable and trusted Texas journalists. To curry favor, CK planned to field her question first.

  The Starlifter touched down on Runway 19L and rolled another nine thousand feet to the end of the runway. F-16 escorts flew in formation with the transport down to three hundred feet where they made a low level pass over the runway. The crowd cheered when the fighters rotated, lit burner and rocketed vertically to ten thousand feet. A minute later, all eyes reluctantly returned to the lumbering transport taxiing toward them.

  Brandon was allowed to deplane first. He descended the mobile stairs waving to the crowd, and saluted the brass and the flag upon reaching the tarmac. He was directed to an array of microphones as cameras clicked and whirred.

  “It’s good to be home. I can’t tell you just how good, but I have dreamed of this moment and it sustained me through difficult days. We are so blessed to live in this great nation which I have been proud to serve in peace and in war. God bless you and God bless America.” Brandon waved and was quickly guided to a waiting car.

  “Mister Secretary, Mister Secretary,” the legion of reporters called out, hoping to get his attention.

  C.K. McNamara held his hands up to establish order saying, “Yes, Elizabeth, I believe you have a question?”

  In truth, she didn’t, not yet. She preferred to listen to the questions of others and to the answers given before speaking. This had served her well over the years because she always asked questions others had missed, questions which cut through the chaff and got to the heart of the matter.

  “Thank you, Mister Secretary; I’m Elizabeth Krane, News9, Dallas-Fort Worth. I am here this afternoon to welcome a native Texan home. Chief Master Sergeant Brandon Stiles was thought to have died in Iraq over three years ago, but he has miraculously survived. You recently retired from the Office of Secretary of Defense, and are now a candidate for elective office, seeking a Senate seat in his home state. Which hat are you wearing this afternoon, Senator, excuse me, Mister Secretary?”

  “That’s okay, Elizabeth, you can call me Senator and I hope others will after the election in November.” CK smiled broadly at the camera.

  “Let me rephrase, sir, a few days ago you accused Sergeant Stiles of treason. Now that he’s been through the debriefing process, do you still feel the accusation is valid?”

  “Elizabeth, I brought a large exclamation point with me today that I would like to append to my earlier remarks. As SECDEF I followed this case and knew the Sergeant was alive and well for quite some time. He has actually been in some business over there lining his pockets.”

  “What business would that be?”

  “Monkey business, Elizabeth, monkey business. He went to Iraq with a typical soldier’s bank account and has returned with millions in an offshore account. My question is not ‘did he sell us out’ but why and how? Don’t be fooled by patriotic words. Always look for patriotic deeds. This man who saluted our flag today belongs in a military prison. I have arranged a Congressional investigation of this defector’s self-aggrandizement at our nation’s expense. I hope you will be on hand tomorrow when I expose this fraud.”

  “Tough talk from our hard-hitting former Secretary of Defense, C.K. McNamara. Reporting from Andrews Air Force Base, Elizabeth Krane, News9.”

  Party At Smitty’s

  Only Phil’s Stetson might pass for a party hat, and there were no balloons and no confetti, but those assembled were in a party mood equal to that of any political convention. Extra chairs had been brought in and arranged for TV viewing by Henry, the Orderly, while Smitty, with new batteries for his remote, controlled the ever important mute button. Every network promised to break into regular programming to cover Brandon’s return but because of the flight delay, Smitty had been repeatedly asked to search the airwaves just in case, as Willy so succinctly put it, “Some moron at the station has his head up and locked.”

  When the C-141 touched down at Andrews, the party goers cheered loudly and Henry popped in to remind them they were on a hospital ward.

  “Hold it down to a loud roar, fellas, or I’ll have to boot you out. This is a hospital, not Texas stadium. I’m in enough trouble letting you guys bring a case of beer in here.”

  Phil answered with mock seriousness. “Henry, this is not just beer, this is Schlitz, premium ale to be quaffed on important occasions not just every day after five.”

  Smitty had mastered the index-finger-to-thumb signal and he used it now to signify compliance. “You’ve got it, Henry. Not a peep.”

  Raucous laughter followed. Willy pulled a beer from the case and offered it to Henry.

  “Truce?”

  The orderly looked over his shoulder down the hall and stepped inside. “Okay, one quick one. What are we celebrating?”

  Raul stood. “Amigo, we are here to witness the return of our compadre, Brandon Stiles, from his captivity in Iraq.”

  Bottles clinked to the voiced sound of “Ooh-Rah.”

  “Really? C.K. McNamara said he was a traitor.”

  “See, Willy? People believe that crap.”

  To the Orderly, Raul said, “Just because some jerk says the Redskins are gonna whip up on the Cowboys don’t mean it’s true. Fact is it makes him a crazy mother. You understand?”

  Henry nodded and gulped his beer, draining it quickly. “Thanks for the beer. I have to run.”

  A low murmur of amusement followed his exit.

  “Quiet guys, the exit stairs are in place. He’ll be walkin’ and wavin’ any second,” Jerry commented.

  It was true and they cheered his every move. When he spoke, there wasn’t a dry eye in the place. When CK had his time at the microphone, the tears dried up and cursing continued into the commercial break.

  “Gentlemen,” Smitty called. “The enemy has spoken. Tomorrow afternoon, CK will address a Congressional panel. Daniel will be there with Brandon and he will personally cut CK’s balls off and hand them to him.” Smitty silenced the cheering and continued. “Daniel won’t be alone. John Keiley will be there too. He’s a standup guy over at CIA. He knows we aren’t allowed access to classified material, so he has promised to handle that for us. He has the transcripts and he has the copy of Brandon’s personnel records that Sam provided. John will inform CK that he has them and that may cause CK to rethink his position if he intends to twist any facts. Harold, did you leave a tip on the Secret Service hot line?”

  “Yes, I recorded the message at high speed and muffled it too. It sounds like a chipmunk with a cold.”

  “You watch too much TV, Harold,” Jerry observed. “The Feds will clean it up and that chipmunk will sound just like Harold Pruitt on Calhoun Street in Temple, Texas.”

  Harold looked shocked.

  “Hey, man, don’t worry! They still won’t know who you are unless you called from home.” There was a pause. “You didn’t, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t.” Relief and laughter followed. “I said that the missing Gunnison money might be as close as Austin and the Headquarters of the Committee to Elect C.K. McNamara.”

  “Good boy, Harold. You did good,” Smitty croaked. “What about the media?”

  “I called all the major papers and broadcasters, maybe ten all together, saying, ‘have
you heard? The Feds have linked C.K. McNamara to a robbery in Gunnison, Colorado’.”

  Department Of The Treasury, Washington (Same Day)

  “Finally, gentlemen, we have a break in the case, in fact… we have several.” Special Agent Ralph Gibson, briefing officer, turned and pulled down a screen. His power point presentation began.

  “As you know, the Gunnison Gang was killed last night when they returned to Security Storage to transfer the cash packs to their van. Our agents and those of the FBI held good defensive positions. Other than the van, which was quickly disabled, the Gunnison Gang had no cover. They were surrounded, out gunned…nevertheless, they refused to surrender. No additional cash packs were recovered.

  “This is a map of the I-35 corridor running from Austin to Hillsboro where it splits into I-35E to Dallas and I-35W to Fort Worth. The day before yesterday, thirty-six fifty-dollar bills belonging to the Gunnison shipment were recovered by a bank in Dallas from a deposit made by a clothing store at the Galleria mall. Those were the first bills to hit the street, but weren’t our first break in the case. That came from Austin, from a bank with a quicker response. Guaranty Federal Bank has recovered tens of thousands of dollars from several sources, all media related, all tied to C.K. McNamara’s Senatorial bid. Finally, Republic Bank in Dallas has turned over twenty-four bills it received from American Airlines at DFW airport. American Airlines had over fifty thousand passengers pass through DFW yesterday, but only eighty-two of those originating there paid cash for tickets or upgrades exceeding two hundred dollars. American has cooperated fully and we have a list of names including three individuals who paid twelve hundred dollars or more in cash.”