by Patrick Dent
As he walked along the hallway of CIA headquarters, Fulton was reeling from disbelief as what he had just heard. Killing American soldiers?
* * *
Fort Benning, Georgia
Mastagee rubbed his eyes and glanced at his watch. It was 0345 hours. Fifteen minutes until I'm relieved, he thought. With reveille at 0500, he would face a grueling day tomorrow. Such was the nature of fire-guard, an ancient discipline invented by the Romans, ostensibly for the purpose of guarding against fires. The real purpose of fire-guard was to teach soldiers to operate with precious little sleep.
At least he had a tent for the evening. If he'd been left outside, he couldn't have slept at all with the mosquitoes on a rampage as they were. Mastagee saw someone approaching in the darkness.
“Halt, who goes there?”
“Man, cut that shit out. You know who I am,” Gip replied.
“What are you doing up? Are you my replacement?” Mastagee asked.
“No, Man. I set my watch to go off just before each watch. I'll be sound asleep again in three minutes, after you and I conduct a little business.”
“Business? Uh, I've got twelve minutes left in my shift, then I'm off to sleep - for an hour, at least.”
“Yea, and what're you going to have for breakfast?”
“I don't have C-Rats to cover breakfast. No one does.”
“I do. I've got cigarettes, C-Rats, even a chocolate bar.”
“Doesn't it bother you to miss sleep like this?”
“Hey, I grew up in the South Bronx. I've never slept more than two hours in a row in my life. Besides, business is about supply and demand. I've got to go where the demand is.”
“Chocolate, you say?” Mastagee was interested.
“Hershey, an American tradition.” Gip grinned.
“How much?”
“Five bucks.”
“Five bucks! That's a rip off!”
“Another American tradition,” Gip responded with a broad smile. His ultra white teeth seemed iridescent in contrast to his dark brown skin. The moonlight accentuated this effect. Mastagee knew that Gip was one of his supporters – he really didn't have any friends – so he didn't take offense at the price. He reached into his pocket and paid market price for the Hershey bar. Within a few minutes, both soldiers were sound asleep in their tents. One combat skill they had both acquired at Ft. Benning was the ability to fall asleep within minutes - anywhere, any time.
* * *
The next morning John looked over Gip's shoulder at the map, trying to locate just one landmark. After two days in the forest, they were tense and exhausted. As platoon leader, John knew he had to maintain a facade of complete control. By watching Sergeant Peters and the other drill instructors, he had learned that military leaders must be infallible. So, they either made no mistakes – unlikely - or displayed a good game face. The theme was calm. Calm begets calm. He asked, “What's our heading this morning?”
Gip replied, “Best I can figure, due west until we pass this point.” He placed his finger on the map. “Then north until we hit the last rendezvous point.”
“How far west?” John asked in a whisper.
“Uh, I'm not sure,” Gip whispered in return, “I can't find a landmark to nail down our position, and I don't know what the landmark for the next turn is either. All I know for sure is we should be heading west.”
John leaned close to Gip's ear, “You're sure about the west part? Or is that a SWAG?
“It's a genuine sophisticated wild assed guess.”
“Shit. I guess that'll have to do. We hump in five minutes. You just find me that landmark. And act like you know what you're doing,” John said. He knew leadership meant making fast decisions with imperfect information.
The day was just like any other – tedious, boring and hot. A jaunt through Sand Hill in August was like working out in a sauna, while wearing seventy pounds of clothes. Even with water breaks on the quarter hour, dehydration set in so rapidly that three soldiers passed out from heat stroke and were removed by the Safety NCOs. Those lads would have to start a fresh bivouac with another platoon. John was talking to St. George, a short, stocky kid with a mouth the size of Texas, when St. George succumbed to the heat. Right in the middle of a sentence, the guy's face went blank, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell flat on his face. John had never seen anything like it.
Gip eventually spotted a thick grouping of colossal oak trees. A landmark! At last! From there, the way became obvious. They turned north, moving at a brisk pace. John guesstimated that if the path was this clear all the way, they would reach the rendezvous point in time for their nightly four hours sleep.
John was dead on. They reached the campsite at twenty hundred hours. Weary young men shambled about setting up tents. Tonight, no one gathered firewood to heat C-Rations. Cold food and quick sleep was the silent consensus, except for those who pulled fire-guard duty.
* * *
Later, as John was unrolling his sleeping bag, Gip shook him and asked, “Hey, Man. I got a question for you. Why didn't you hit me back the other day?”
“Because I like you,” John said. “Besides, I never hit someone unless I mean business.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Gip asked.
“It means that a single punch can change the course of a man's life. A single punch can wipe out a bloodline. A single punch landed me here.”
“Man, you are so full of shit!” Gip said, kicking dirt on John's boots.
“Okay, Jackass. See if those flaps of skin on either side of your head work. You don't understand. I'm not bragging. I was captain of my high school boxing team. They called me 'one punch Drake' because I have a unique way of fighting, that's all.” John's tone was completely casual, but Gip detected the scent of bullshit.
“And I suppose you're gonna share this unique method with me?” Gip jibed.
“Look, in every fight, there will come an instant, just a fraction of a second, where a single motion will disable the opponent. I have the gift of recognizing that instant. I typically never throw more than one punch in a fight.” John said this matter-of-factly, without the tone of boasting. “The down side is that hitting someone in that moment of vulnerability can seriously injure them. Now, most guys swing for the head. That's the worst target - it's highly mobile and encased in bone. The true weak points are the larynx, solar plexus, heart, groin and knees. A true blow to any of those places will incapacitate an opponent instantly.”
John saw from Gip's expression that he was reassessing John. The two men shared a quiet intensity one rarely experiences.
Gip asked, “Hey, what are you in here for?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I know you're in for 'special processing'.”
“You first,” John insisted, even though he already knew Gip's story.
“What do you think, Man? Drugs! It was a real bitch too, 'cause it was just weed.” Gip paused. “Man, I was all squared away before I got busted. I was on full academic scholarship to SC State.”
“You were on academic scholarship?” John responded with a skeptical sideways glance.
“Yea, Man. They took one look at my grades and said, 'You're black and you made a D? Let's get this boy some scholarships and shit!' ”
They both burst into laughter.
“Manslaughter,” John said. The laughter stopped.
“Damn, Man. What did you do?”
“I threw one punch.”
Gip realized that John was not bullshitting him. He asked, “So, where did you learn this one-punch technique?”
“From my father. He taught me how to focus all my physical and mental energy into one movement.”
“Well, that was mighty sweet of him,” Gip said. “Let me guess, he imparted this lesson by beating the shit out of you, right?”
John tapped the tip of his nose with his finger.
“I never knew my dad,” Gip said. “He skipped out on my mother befor
e I was born. Now, I guess you're thinking that I missed out on a lot of ass whippings, but I got my fair share.”
“Most of the violent crime in America is black on black, they say,” John responded.
“Well, whoever 'they' are, they're full of shit. When I was growing up, my mother had always told me that we had to stay in a certain area of the city. She never said why. Well, like most teenagers, I was curious and fearless. I crossed 47th Street and made it two blocks before six white dudes popped up out of nowhere. They roughed me up, tore my shirt off, but I got a few solid licks in. Then, four of them held me while the other two whipped me with pieces of garden hose. We didn't have hospital money, so I spent two weeks laying face down on my bed while my mamma kept my wounds clean. That was the best she could do for me. No pain killers, no antibiotics, nothing.”
“Man,” John said, “You have no idea how closely I can relate to that. And I'll tell you another thing, it makes me ashamed to be a white person.”
“Forget all that white and black stuff. Be proud that you're a warrior. Life has made us both hard, like steel. And once you've got the steel, you'll always have it. Hey, I gotta know one thing. This one punch you threw, did it kill somebody?”
“Yes.”
“Did you mean to kill him?”
“When I was twelve, I took a vow never to kill another living thing. It was an accident,” John said.
The two sat in silence for several minutes. John paid close attention to the nature surrounding him. Bullfrogs were croaking in the swamp, almost drowning out the constant hum of mosquitoes. John grinned as he recalled the joke that the state bird of Georgia was the mosquito. Gip constantly swiped and slapped at them, but the mosquitoes did not seem to have an appetite for John's blood. Then, John saw a rarity. A white dove perched on a nearby limb. He was transported back in time to his first and last hunting trip. It struck him that what the world considered a symbol of peace was to him a symbol of cruelty.
John laid his head back against a tree and rested his eyes. Less than thirty seconds had passed before he felt an unidentified object pressed aggressively to his throat. “You're dead,” Sergeant Peters said in an icy tone. “I just cut your throat.” He removed the pine branch from John's neck. “If this had been combat, I'd have me a brand new American M-16 to use on your comrades.” He stared into John's eyes, waiting to see his reaction.
“No excuse, Sergeant!” John responded, keeping his eyes straight forward.
“Drop and give me a hundred,” Sergeant Peters said before receding into the darkness.
* * *
Langley, Virginia
Special Agent Fulton sat alone on the couch in his apartment, his head in his hands. He was revolted by what the DCI had told him. The initial shock had worn off and been replaced with anger and confusion. Murdering American soldiers was unthinkable to him. All along, he had known that Project Crossfire would result in collateral civilian losses, but that was an inevitability of war. His mind swirled like a tornado.
During his career with the FBI, he had clearly been one of the good guys. Now, the DCI had thrown him a curve ball we wasn't sure he could hit. He stood and paced his living room. The shag carpet felt pleasant to his tired, bare feet.
Whenever Fulton faced a dilemma, he tried to break it down into bite-sized pieces. First, he must decide whether he was capable of executing this mission. If that answer was no, then his career with the CIA was over. Maybe the FBI or DEA could find a slot for him. If the answer was yes, he had to personally select a commander for the mission. He would have to look that man in the eyes and recruit him for a suicide mission. That man would in turn unwittingly recruit a group of dead men. The thought made him nauseous.
Fulton paced for hours, occasionally trying to sit, but jumping up every time his rear touched the couch. This was by far the most difficult decision he had ever faced. He was disillusioned. How could he have been so naïve as to think he'd have a successful CIA career without getting his hands dirty? He knew that the price of liberty was the blood of patriots, but the murder of those patriots by their own government was an entirely different matter. Or was it?
Pete Townsend had once sung, “There's no easy way to be free.” That simple, but powerfully insightful statement washed over Fulton's mind. Deep inside, he knew the DCI was right. He understood that the needs of his country outweighed the lives of a few dozen soldiers. Still, he viewed himself as a cannibal.
This was the pivotal point in his career. The decision he made today would be permanent and irrevocable. Either he possessed the ability to do whatever was necessary for the greater good, or he didn't. Once he crossed that line, there would be no turning back. The end justifies the means, he tried to convince himself as he paced.
Fulton plopped down on the couch in exasperation and lay on his back rubbing his temples. His tension headache had begun at the base of his skull and worked its way progressively forward. The end justifies the means. Was that the rationalization of an evil man or a fundamental truth of the universe? The path of righteousness wasn't as clear to him as it had once been. The older he became, the more corrupt he realized the world really was.
Could he face the corruption? Embrace it? Make it a part of him? He was fighting for the greatest nation in history.
“I can do it,” he spoke aloud. Fulton repeated the statement again and again. Eventually, it became true. Speaking the words somehow hard wired the thought into his mind. He was decided.
In the right frontal lobe of the cerebrum was an area called the executive complex. This region governed Man's fundamental sense of right and wrong. Fulton had permanently stretched his executive complex, making it flexible, adaptable. Sometimes good people must do evil things to defeat an even greater evil. It wasn't a rationalization. It was simple logic.
With that epiphany, Fulton became what he needed to be – a monster. Now, all he needed to do was select a commander. He knew just the right man for the job. He lifted the phone and dialed the DCI's secretary.
Chapter Eleven
Fort Benning, Georgia
“Charlie Company, a-ten-hut! Right face! Column right march!” Sergeant Peters was barking orders at Charlie Company for the last time. They came to him as boys, and after thirteen weeks, they left him as men. Through two wars and almost twenty years, Peters had led his nation's youth along the path to manhood. His was a thankless job. The recruits never appreciated the sacrifices he made for them. They didn't notice that he slept exactly when they slept, and that he ran every mile they ran.
But Peters did not need their validation. His performance was measured in pushups, miles run and standardized test scores. If his recruits improved in these areas, he knew he had done his job; that their chances of surviving combat were improved. He was particularly proud of his miracle transformation of Mastagee. The kid had eventually toughened up enough to pass the exit physical.
He was also happy with his decision to endorse Drake and Gibson for Ranger School. Though both were full of piss and vinegar, they were smart enough to harness and channel their energies. There was great potential in these two. They were the only two recruits in second platoon that picked up on the game. They kept their chins up and their emotions off.
He surveyed them for the last time, marching in perfect cadence, in full dress uniform, on their way to the ceremony that officially declared them combat-ready soldiers.
“Charlie Company, eyes right! Present arms!”
In unison, two hundred soldiers saluted General Dalton and his staff of senior officers.
* * *
As he peered into the crowd, John caught his first glimpse of Tammy in thirteen weeks. Just then, she was the most beautiful and welcome sight he had ever seen. Her face glowed when she caught his eye. She waved frantically, a gesture he was not free to return. Both her parents were with her, showing support for Tammy and John.
His parents were also in the crowd, sitting nowhere near Tammy's family. This was no surprise. It merely sol
idified his resolve to never revisit Beaumont. This vow would become the first of many John would reassess in the months that lay ahead.
Throughout the graduation ceremony, John daydreamed. Although the thought of combat was terrifying and even repulsive to him, he knew Rangers received preferential treatment, and Ranger School was his best shot at not being separated from Tammy for extended periods of time. He had given a great deal of thought to fighting in Vietnam, and had decided joining Special Ops was far superior to living in the jungle for a year as a grunt. Most Ranger missions were surgical in nature, with periods of respite between. The war showed no sign of ending soon, and he just knew Vietnam was his destiny.
* * *
The next day, the Justice of the Peace married John and Tammy in a ceremony lasting no longer than five minutes. Tammy's parents attended, but the Drakes, as expected, did not. On the courthouse steps, they threw the obligatory rice, and wished the young couple a happy honeymoon and life together. Beer cans jingled behind the car as John drove their Challenger toward the national forest, where they enjoyed a modest camping honeymoon.
* * *
Fort Benning, Georgia
“Gentlemen,” Master Sergeant Hicks announced, “Welcome to Zero Week. Sixty two days from now, roughly one half of you will be declared United States Army Rangers, the highest honor an infantryman can receive outside of combat. Those who can withstand the rigors of the course will become members of the best-trained combat force in the entire world.
“The Ranger Course is sixty one days in length with an average of 19.6 hours of training each day, seven days a week. The emphasis during the course is on practical, realistic, and strenuous field training, designed to develop skills relevant to fighting the close contact, direct fire battle. You will be exposed to conditions and situations closely approximating and often exceeding those encountered in combat. Fatigue, hunger, the necessity for quick, sound decisions and the requirement for demonstrating calm, forceful leadership under conditions of mental and emotional stress are all essential elements in the Ranger Course.