Battlemind

by Michael Waddington

  Jefferson landed hard on the driveway, his head glancing off the side of the van. Warm blood oozed from his forehead. Knees dug into his back and neck. He felt the cold metal cinch of handcuffs, which immediately restricted blood flow into his wrists.

  "Daddy!" Aliyah was frantic. Birthday balloons floated away, dancing merrily on the slight breeze. The sight of the bright Mylar bouquet starkly contrasted the horror show unfolding on the ground.

  One of the six men in full body armor grabbed Aliyah's arm. Gabby reacted with the ferocity of a tigress. "Get your damn hands off my baby," she said. She snatched her daughter to her chest and shoved the business end of a five-inch heel into the man's calf.

  "Fuck!" He reached for her.

  "Dawson! Damn it! Dawson!"

  The man stood rigid. "Yes, sir."

  "Quit fucking around. Secure the prisoner and get in the vehicle."

  "Yes, sir."

  Gabby released her terror. "Who are you, and what are you doing to my husband?"

  The man in charge spoke. "Ma'am, I'm Deputy Marshal José Rivera, with the U.S. Marshals Service. We are executing an arrest warrant on behalf of the U.S. Army."

  "The Army? For what?" Gabby searched his face for answers.

  "For murder."

  "What? Are you crazy? He didn't murder anyone."

  "Calm down, ma'am. I promise you no one will harm your husband unless he resists."

  "Resist?" she said. "He can't even walk."

  Without another word. The men tossed Jefferson through the van's side door. Motors revved. Tires spun on the pavement, and they were gone.

  Shortly after that, at Fort Custer, 634 miles across West Texas, an officer answered his phone. "Colonel Paine, speaking." Colonel Covington Paine knew that no one from his staff was calling. No one on his team dared to ring after 2200 hours without a good reason.

  The voice was pleasant, sure of itself, and female. "Colonel, this is Rose Sanchez. I am a blogger with the Independent Online Press, and I have a few questions."

  "You're with whom? And, you are a what?"

  On the other end of the line from a confused and increasingly irritated Paine, Rose Sanchez grinned a little. At least the man knows his grammar, she thought, even if he doesn't know about blogging. Blogs were still an oddity. The term "blog" had only been recognized by the Merriam-Webster Dictionary the previous year.

  "It's a web-based log, sir, called a blog," Rose said. "I'm an independent news reporter."

  "I'm sorry, I don't even talk to legitimate reporters, ma'am," Paine responded.

  Before he replaced the handset on the receiver, he heard one word. "Sangar."

  "What did you say?" he asked.

  "Would you like to comment about the new prosecutions coming out of Sangar Prison?"

  Paine clenched his teeth. Years of Army training immediately engaged. "I have no comment," he said.

  "What are the charges?"

  "No comment."

  "Who are the defendants?"

  "No comment."

  "When are the trials?"

  "Miss, what don't you understand about 'No comment?'" Sanchez kept firing questions. Paine's head began to hurt. "Ma'am. I need to apologize." Thinking she was about to get the scoop, Sanchez finally quit talking. "Manners cost nothing," Paine said. "I was ill-mannered, and I am sorry."

  "Does that mean you would like to comment on my story about the atrocities that occurred at Sangar?"

  "No, not at all. Goodnight," he said and hung up.

  Rose Sanchez closed her flip phone and sank into the couch. She knew how to get what she needed. Her source was unimpeachable, but she could tell by Paine's reaction she'd jumped the gun.

  Rose did not particularly love writing. She hated the hours and the research, but the internet was making celebrities out of all sorts of people, and she might as well hop on the bandwagon. A little over a year ago, she'd decided to try her hand at a blog. Get enough suckers to follow you, and suddenly, advertisers were throwing money at you.

  Recently, she'd uncovered a route to more exciting stories. Stories that might lead to more advertisers and bigger paydays. Rose did not care about journalism. She wanted notoriety. Her pursuit of stories was less than orthodox. Ten years as an aspiring gymnast failed to produce an Olympic career. A five-inch growth spurt when she was 14 torpedoed her chances on the uneven parallel bars. Still, she had developed certain physical flexibility she employed to pry information out of whatever source she could find.

  She thrived academically in her four years at Georgetown University and developed a broad range of valuable connections inside the Beltway. Stunning eyes, long legs, and a fastidiously maintained physique were as valuable to her as dogged persistence was to Woodward and Bernstein. Male, female, single, married, no one held out long when Rose Sanchez achieved journalistic missile lock.

  She heard the knock she'd been expecting. That would be her contact. Rose stood, slipped out of her panties, and walked to the door wearing only a casually buttoned men's dress shirt.

  Chapter 7

  Sergeant Jefferson fidgeted in the middle bench seat, as the van headed west on Interstate 20 from Dallas to El Paso. They had been driving non-stop for five hours. Next to him sat Army Reserve Sergeant Rodney Cullen. Cullen was arrested the same night as Jefferson. In the back of the van, a third man slumped alone. He sported an un-military growth of facial tumbleweed and unwashed, almost shoulder-length hair.

  "What's your name, buddy?" Cullen asked the grungy man.

  "Everybody calls me Greaser," the man said, raking his fingers through his hair.

  "Where you from?"

  "Around."

  "Have we met before?"

  "Maybe."

  "Did you work at Sangar?"

  "For a while," Greaser said. "They sent me home early."

  "Weren't you in second platoon?" Cullen asked.

  Greaser nodded, slouched down in his seat, and closed his eyes.

  Jefferson leaned into Cullen and whispered, "You know that dickhead?"

  "Yeah. He worked the front desk at Sangar Prison, the night shift," Cullen replied.

  "Oh, yeah. I remember. His nasty ass always smelled like rotten meat," Jefferson said.

  Aaron "Greaser" Strickland bounced around a lot as many junkies do, after returning from Afghanistan. His attendance at his monthly Army Reserve drills was sporadic. He used forged doctors' notes to avoid AWOL charges. Finding Jefferson and Cullen had been easy for the Army. Strickland, however, posed a bit more of an issue.

  The night of Jefferson's arrest, the U.S. Marshals Service raided Strickland's last known address only to find a dozen illegal Mexicans occupying the one-bedroom apartment. The next day, they tried his mother's house on the outskirts of Fort Worth. No luck. Meanwhile, Jefferson and Cullen languished in a Dallas jail. Eventually, the Army learned that Strickland was already in custody, pending trial for a DUI. A local judge happily released him to the Army's outstretched, prosecutorial arms. Once all three men were collared, they began the nine-hour ordeal to El Paso in a 15-passenger van.

  The van motored west as Jefferson settled into his seat and tried to get some rest. It was no use. His uncertain future, his bladder, and the throbbing pain caused by the tight handcuffs kept him awake and uneasy. "Hey, I'm about to piss my pants," Jefferson called to Private Bo Kaminski, the military policeman driving the van.

  Kaminski, a kid barely out of Basic Training, was nodding off. His fourth Red Bull hadn't worked. "Alright, we'll stop at the next exit, but just long enough to take a leak and get some gas," Kaminski said over his shoulder.

  Ten minutes later, Kaminski pulled the van into a 24-hour Shell station in Stanton, Texas, and parked at a gas pump. In the passenger seat slept his partner, Sergeant George Booth, a long-time MP. Sergeant Booth was a squat man in his late 30s, with a thick Afro nowhere close to being in line with Army regulations.

  "Booth, get up." Kaminski nudged his partner. "We gotta get gas."

  "Pump it
yourself, Private," Booth mumbled, barely awake.

  "What about the prisoners?" Kaminski asked. "They got to pee."

  "Let 'em take a leak," Booth said. "But keep an eye on 'em."

  Kaminski got out of the van and opened the side door. After the passengers crawled out, the group trudged toward the mini-mart. Inside, Kaminski bought another energy drink and a can of Skoal dipping tobacco. "Make it quick," he said to the captives, trying to sound authoritarian.

  The prisoners nodded in agreement and moved toward the men's bathroom near the back of the dingy service station, their hands and feet still shackled. Kaminski turned and walked outside to pump the gas.

  "This is typical Army bullshit," Jefferson said. "You see any officers in handcuffs?"

  "Fuck no." Cullen gritted his teeth. "They always blame the enlisted."

  Strickland, head lowered, growled into his tee-shirt. "I'm gonna get the fuck out of here. I'm not going back to jail."

  "You won't get far," Cullen said. "We're in the middle of nowhere."

  Strickland ignored him and shimmied toward the counter, his chains dragging on the floor. Behind the cash register, a skinny clerk in a pink halter top restocked the cigarette display. "Sweet tat," Strickland said, pointing to a purplish butterfly tattoo on her left shoulder. The clerk smiled, revealing mangled teeth, meth teeth.

  Cullen watched the interaction from across the store. "That guy's got balls," Cullen said to Jefferson as he gestured at Strickland with his thumb. "He's hitting on that chick while wearing shackles."

  "Fuckin' loser," Jefferson muttered as he slammed the bathroom door open and shuffled inside. Cullen followed. Jefferson used the toilet and walked out of the bathroom. On the wall, he spotted a payphone and dialed the operator. He struggled to lift the handset to his ear; the chain around his waist restricted his movement.

  The phone rang. Pick up, pick up, pick up.

  He heard Gabby's voice, distant and echoing. "Hello?"

  "Will you accept a collect call from Tyler?" the operator asked.

  "Yes! Yes!" Gabby said. "Tyler? Is that you?"

  "Honey, don't talk. Listen. The MPs have me. We're headed to El Paso. They're going to court-martial me."

  Gabby started to respond, but Jefferson cut her off as he focused on Kaminski, who was capping the tank. "Gabby, I gotta go. Love you."

  He hung up as Kaminski hustled into the store and shouted, "Let's roll."

  Jefferson pushed open the bathroom door and hollered, "Hey guys, we gotta bolt."

  A toilet flushed, and Cullen exited. "Where the hell is Greaser?" Jefferson asked.

  "I thought he was with you," Cullen said.

  They did not have to search for long. Greaser was gone, and so was the clerk.

  Chapter 8

  "Fuck, fuck, fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!" Kaminski dry heaved in his mouth.

  "Calm down, Private," Booth said, as he rubbed his eyes. "Did you remove his shackles?"

  "No, Sergeant. Absolutely not."

  "No one expects you to hold his dick while he pisses. He couldn't have gone far. It's a flat area with no vegetation. Get in the van. We'll find him, and no one would ever know he'd been misplaced."

  Kaminski's heart pounded. "Fuuuuuuuuuuuck." They rode around the streets of Stanton, where 2,500 people slept, hoping to spot Strickland. The streets were barren, aside from the occasional stray dog. Two hours later, when the van stopped at a red light, Kaminski turned to Booth and said, "Let's call it a night."

  "No. We keep looking." Booth's bloodshot eyes glanced from side to side.

  "You assholes better call for backup," Jefferson said from the back of the van.

  Booth pivoted and locked eyes with Jefferson. "Shut the fuck up and watch it with the asshole stuff. You're in enough trouble." Jefferson rolled to his side and closed his eyes. At 4:30 a.m., Booth finally called Fort Custer to report the escape on his cell phone. "Local police are assisting," Booth told the MP dispatcher. Kaminski winced when he heard Booth lie.

  "Let me speak to the police officer in charge," the dispatcher responded.

  "My cell's at one percent," Booth said. "I'll have him call you." Booth hung up as if the phone had gone dead.

  Jefferson sat up, laughing, and said, "You guys are so fucked."

  The MPs ignored him. After a few minutes, Booth realized that Jefferson was right. So, he called 9-1-1.

  At 5:15 a.m., a police cruiser slid to a stop in front of the van. Deputy Sherriff Louis P. Fuller lit a fresh Camel cigarette and climbed out of the car. Nothing ever happened in this town after midnight. Who knew it would be a lousy night to hit the Jim Beam? Fuller, a jaded, white man in his forties, hiked up his sagging pants, pressed his black cowboy hat onto his head, and strolled toward the Army van. Booth lowered the window. The essence of stale sweat, microwaveable burritos, and unbrushed teeth smacked Fuller in the face.

  Booth and Kaminski sat in the van chomping away at their breakfast from the Shell station like they were cutting gym class in high school. Jefferson and Cullen slept in the back.

  "How the fuck did you two dumbasses allow a dangerous prisoner to escape in my jurisdiction?" the Sheriff asked.

  "He's not dangerous," Booth replied in a defensive tone.

  "Is he any less escaped?" Fuller's eyes narrowed to crinkled slits.

  "Officer," Booth said, "can you call in some backup?"

  "It's 'Sheriff,' and I'm the only backup you got." Fuller pulled a notepad and pen from his shirt pocket. "So, who is this escapee?"

  "His name is Greaser," Kaminski said.

  "Son." Fuller pointed his gloved finger at Kaminski. "You go around this part of the world asking if anyone's seen 'Greaser,' you're lucky if you only get half your ass kicked."

  Kaminski's body stiffened at the remark.

  "Now, about what time did he depart your supervision?" the Sheriff asked.

  "0225 hours," Booth said, attempting to sound efficient and military. The crumbs on the front of his shirt didn't help his case.

  Fuller cocked his head. "What in God's name have you been doing for the past three hours?"

  "Lookin'," Booth said.

  "Lookin' my ass." The Sheriff waited for some sort of reaction from Booth. He didn't get one. Fuller took a slow drag on his cigarette and exhaled in Booth's face. "Boy, your prisoner's long gone."

  Booth furrowed his brow as he slowly began to comprehend the shit-storm headed his way.

  "Tell you what, I'll forward his info to the Highway Patrol." Fuller keyed his radio handset, then stopped. "I can't call in 'Greaser,' you morons. Does this guy have a real name?"

  "Here it is." Booth flipped through the pages of his clipboard, trying to keep his composure. "It's Strickland. Specialist Aaron Strickland.

  "What does this clown look like?"

  "He's five feet nine inches," Booth said, "black hair, brown eyes, and a tattoo on his back."

  "What type of tattoo?"

  Booth pointed at the clipboard. "Says here, 'Marilyn Manson.'"

  Fuller rubbed his stubbled chin. "You mean Charles Manson, the cult killer guy?"

  "No, Marilyn Manson, the singer," Kaminski said as he rolled his eyes.

  "Who the fuck is that?" Fuller asked.

  "He's that satanic guy," Kaminski said, "the one with fake tits."

  Fuller's cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. "So, you're saying the prisoner you lost in my jurisdiction is a damn Satanist?"

  "I guess so." Booth shrugged.

  Fuller whirled and walked toward his cruiser, unleashing a barrage of obscenities so foul it made Kaminski blush. Back at his car, Fuller relayed Strickland's name and description to the dispatcher. Before he closed his door, he hollered back toward the van, "He's got a three-hour head start. You assholes better keep looking because I'm going home. This is most definitely not my fucking problem."

  Chapter 9

  Back in Dallas, he picked up on the first ring. "This is Reggie."

  A woman's voice, strained and agitated,
shot from the earpiece. "Reggie? Is that you?"

  "Who is this?"

  Gabby had not spoken with Reggie Jefferson in over seven years - ever since he went to prison. "It's me, Gabby, Tyler's wife."

  Reggie heard sobs. "What's wrong, sweetie?" Reggie asked. "You okay?"

  "It's Tyler," Gabby said.

  "Is he dead?"

  "No. God, no!"

  "Then what's up?"

  "Some men took him a few days ago. We came home. They were waiting. They used a taser. They did it in front of my babies! They took him away in a van."

  "What men?"

  "Marshals."

  "What'd Tyler do this time?"

  "He didn't do nothin'," she said.

  "What are they sayin' he did?"

  "The Army says he murdered someone."

  "Whoa. That's some serious shit."

  "Reggie." Her voice trembled. "I need your help."

  "Name it."

  "Can you meet me at the kids' school, Lee Elementary, off Grand Prairie Road?"

  "I'll be there in 30 minutes," Reggie said. "And sweetie?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Don't worry. Ain't never been no one tough enough to take me down - sure as hell ain't no one tough enough to take down my boy."

  Reggie Jefferson pulled his black Escalade with illegally tinted windows into the Lee Elementary parking lot as Gabby walked out the front door with her children. Reggie lowered his window and waved. Mirrored sunglasses blocked his eyes, but not the three-inch scar that zig-zagged from his left eye to his left ear.

  "Nice to see ya, Gabby." Reggie lowered his sunglasses. "It's been a while."

  Gabby gave an apprehensive smile. "Thanks for meeting me on such short notice."

  "Who's that?" Elijah pointed a small finger at Reggie. His voice was skeptical.

  "Don't be rude." Gabby squeezed the boy's hand.

  "I'm your gramps," Reggie said with a chuckle. "Didn't nobody tell you about me?"

  "I thought you were dead," Elijah said.

  Gabby, embarrassed, put her hand over Elijah's mouth and said, "You best shush your mouth."

  Reggie roared with laughter. "I ain't dead yet, son."