Miller went to the shower and stood on the edge of the tub. He hoped he would be heavy enough to break his neck fast and get it over with. Placing his head through the loop, he tightened it in the back. He looked down and knew he didn’t have far enough to fall, but thought he would give it the old college try. Bending his knees, he counted to three in his head. On two his feet slipped and he was fighting to regain his balance. He tried to grip the shower head and the belt which didn’t help with his footing. His feet slid out from under him and he was falling in midair.
It took longer than he had realized. The milliseconds between slipping and feeling the jerk of the belt lasted forever. The jerk was the final instance he remembered. The snap of his vertebra in his neck stopped his heart and lungs instantly. His brain still had valuable seconds before it would finally shut off and disconnect him from the world. He couldn’t feel anything. He still took in sights and sounds. There was a pounding on the door as the guards tried to get in the room to rescue him. Their own lives were likely on the line if he died. To Miller, it was a final middle finger to the men that helped keep him a prisoner. The door flew open and the chair slid across the room as the guards rushed in gripping Miller’s body lifting to remove him from the belt. The guards looked down at him during his final moments. He couldn’t make the motion with his face, but he was smiling inside. He was free finally. It was his last act, but in it he was finally free from the life that was being forced upon him. He slipped away and was free at last.
The guard in the back of the room looked down at Miller’s body and couldn’t breathe. The guard leaning over him started to press on the chest then stopped, checking for a pulse.
“Help me. We have to do something,” the guard said.
“I don’t know what to do,” the guard standing behind said.
“He’s dead. We have to do something,” the guard by Miller replied.
The guard in the back stood at attention and looked down at the body. He pulled his service pistol out and placed it at the temple of his head, then fired. Blood, skull, and brain splattered on the mirror that broke from the gunshot. The guard’s body dropped to the floor adding to the confusion and gore of the situation.
“No!” the guard said watching his partner kill himself. Something about the guard’s reaction told him this would be his future if he didn’t do something at that moment. The guard looked down at Miller, accepting he was dead. The only thing left to do now was run. He didn’t bother checking for a pulse. Instead, he ran out of the room and was grabbed by more soldiers entering the room.
“Do you know why you are here?” a man in an expensive suit said, sitting across the table in the concrete room.
“I failed my job of watching the Vice President of the United States.”
“That is correct,” the well dressed man replied, flipping through papers in front of him. “Tell me again how this happened.”
“My partner and I were watching the massage therapist do her job with Vice President Miller.”
“You mean have sex with him?”
“He did, yes.”
“Did you find this odd, or was this something normal with their appointments?”
“He had received sex acts from her before.”
“Intercourse?”
“No, just hand jobs and blow jobs before.” The guards cringed at his crude description of the acts. His face winced wondering if this hurt his situation more.
“And this was not unusual to you?”
The guard thought about his reply for a second.
“We joked that we would have done her long before he had. Both of us thought she was attractive.”
“So because you would have had sex with her it wasn’t a red flag that the person you were guarding was doing it for the first time, in three years?”
“I messed up. I admit it. I should have known. I tried to get in there as soon as possible, but the camera was fogged over, and last I saw of him he was shaving. When the lens cleared we saw his legs slumped over the side of the tub, and, and…”
“And now he is dead. Do you know how this looks? How bad this makes us appear? You had one simple job, one, and you couldn’t do that right because you would have fucked a massage whore.”
The man pulled an old revolver out of his suit jacket and popped the cylinder out. He dropped all the bullets on the table and placed one back in the cylinder. Picking up the rest of the bullets he slid them in his pocket and slid the revolver across the table.
“At least your partner knew how to do the right thing when he saw what happened. Now you can do the same.”
The man stood up and left the room closing the door behind him. He turned to one of the guards.
“Make sure that mess is cleaned up by the end of the day.”
The man walked down the hall and the muffled sound of a gunshot caught his ear before he reached the stairs.
Chapter 2
United States Army Joint Base Lewis-McChord
South of Seattle, Washington.
Staff Sergeant Dallas Shannon rested his eyes after the march he did earlier that morning. Starting the day at 4am and hiking six miles with full gear and a rucksack was catching up with him. Forty pounds of gear was nothing to laugh at. In high school he might have found the idea of an early morning march with added weight a challenge to test himself. Now in his late twenties he wondered how he ended up on the opposite side of the country at Fort Lewis in Washington State. He had completed two tours in Afghanistan without a scratch. Everyone found that to be a miracle, with mortars and hundreds of rounds flying into the post daily. His Ranger unit had the intended job of going out to the local villages looking for returning Taliban on the border region. The men spent the majority of their time keeping their heads down and out of sight.
Dallas started to doze off as boredom set in. Just like boot camp and going overseas, the “hurry up and wait” mentality was starting to set in.
The war in Iraq was over and nobody thought about the boys being sent to Afghanistan for a forgotten war and forgotten terrorist attack. A middle school student during 9-11, Dallas entered military service after high school not because of the memories he had of that day, but for something else, a college education. While he came from a middle class family, their income wasn’t secure since they owned and operated local fitness gyms. While the so-called heath care industry was booming in the form of hospitals and quackery medical institutions, fitness centers came and went due to the public’s lack of interest. Every year around New Years and the early spring months, memberships would peak and the family stashed that money away to hold them over for the rest of the year. Early on they picked up on this trend and planned for it every year. Dallas enjoyed bodybuilding and weight training, but he didn’t want his life to be dictated by seasonal fads. He wasn’t sure what he was going to go to school for, but it would be something outside of running the family business.
As a natural athlete, Dallas passed the physical training test with high scores in everything except for cardio. Being a big guy, his muscle mass burned more oxygen than the normal Joe. After running laps around the track, Dallas was a few seconds away from almost failing the test. While Dallas was being hard on himself there was no comment from the administrators who liked the image of a large muscle-bound meathead in their unit. Dallas was the image of an army of one that the public relations guys could take advantage of over the years.
Not satisfied with the results of his PT test, Dallas took to jogging in the mornings to increase his cardio. Over the years, he had watched other weight lifters die of heart attacks and strokes because they didn’t have a well-rounded workout routine. He understood that their natural gifts might have come from weight lifting. Aside from those psychos who run every day and weigh a buck fifty, who the hell enjoys running? Dallas took the run time of the PT test to be a challenge and made sure to lower that time by minutes and not seconds. His muscle mass shrunk in size and he had more energy throughout the day, not needin
g naps like he once did. Once he lost a few pounds the special treatment from the officers disappeared and Dallas was left to work towards what he wanted. This was not a concept that was wasted on him. Being a grunt in the Army wasn’t where he wanted to end his military career. Looking into the options he had available, Dallas decided to set his sights on the Ranger Units and made sure to qualify for airborne training.
Once he transferred to another unit, Dallas moved across the country and received his wings. Afterwards, he went to Ranger training and was part of the twenty percent that made it through the program. Ranger training was tough and Dallas knew what to expect. He had done the research and prepared himself mentally for what was ahead. He took his training from bodybuilding and transferred those principles to the life of an Army grunt. With his young age, mental toughness, and natural athletic abilities he was able to work his way into a Ranger Unit and was shipped out to Afghanistan shortly after. He knew that was something to expect, but didn’t know the reality of the world they were being left in. The unit was given specific instructions on what they were to accomplish while in the country. However, that all changed when they found out the mountainside base overlooking a valley was the target of multiple daily RPG, mortar, and sniper attacks. The Taliban wanted to be back in power and were relentless in their attempt to take back their country. A book that was brought by one of the guys two years before was being passed around to all of the new guys coming in. In the story of Khe Sanh, the men saw comparisons between the men who were left on top of a mountain in the jungles of Vietnam and the mountains of Afghanistan. Granted the death toll and the open terrain was different, but the isolated location and lack of supplies and equipment were one and the same.
It was only when new commanding officers and reports demanded from Washington arrived at base did the men try to attempt a visit to nearby villages. The translators, many of them being former Taliban, were not trusted by the men. Dallas saw himself in the middle of a few firefights and he felt like he was battling ninjas who would appear, empty the banana clips of their AK-47, and disappear into the mountains never to be seen again. Frustrated with the war, Dallas was happy to be sent back home and learn how to fight a real war unlike the hide and seek he was experiencing firsthand.
Living in Seattle was the opposite of his deployment. Even with the drought that had been plaguing a region known for its heavy rain and wet forest, the green canvas that surrounded him was exactly what he needed after a tour in the dead terrain known as Tora Bora.
Having been raised in the Midwest, Seattle was closer to what he was accustomed to than the rest of the places he had been stationed. The Texas heat was something he never got used to. The men would make fun of him for being named Dallas and hating the city he was named after. Once he started his Ranger training he felt at home.
Lunch was being served in twenty minutes, forcing Dallas off the bunk and dressing for the mess hall. He would eat the poor quality of calories offered by the military and supplement it with his own stash of protein shakes and amino acids he had to hide from the rest of the guys. He did catch one of the men going through his things and quickly made an example of him.
Nick was the kind of guy who thought he was talented, sneaky, and special. Dallas knew that he was none of these things and made sure Nick knew it. Returning to his bunk after a long run Dallas caught Nick at the side of his bed with a handful of fat burning pills and amino acids. To no surprise Nick thought Dallas was sneaking drugs onto the base and wanted his “fair share” of the stash. Dallas picked the man up, tossed him on the bed and jammed a dozen fat burner pills into the man’s mouth forcing him to swallow.
“I ever catch you going through my stuff again I will end you.” The look in Dallas’ eyes forced Nick to keep his mouth shut. Dallas’ meaty hand pressed over Nick’s mouth also helped with the silence.
An hour later a sweaty and hyper Nick was seen shaking and jittery. Unable to sleep for two days Nick went to the infirmary where he was first told to “suck it up.” When his heart rate jumped beyond two-hundred beats per minute while sitting on the cart, the doctor admitted him and he was reprimanded. Nick never said where he had received the pills, instead saying it was his own doing.
The story about Dallas and Nick traveled and there was a new sense of fear and respect for the man some referred to as a dumb ox.
The chow for lunch was leftovers from breakfast, calorie dense pasta, and sugar loaded fruit. Dallas took the meal and added a few cartons of milk. Life on the base was simple and organized, that was something he enjoyed. Little thinking or planning was needed and all he had to do was fill out some forms for approval on classes and the schedule was set. That night he had a class scheduled for reading topographical maps. It wasn’t needed since he had already passed it and studied that at boot camp. Still he signed up since he had trouble reading the damn things and constantly needed a refresher course to keep up on the subject.
Even after a tour in Afghanistan, Dallas was flirting with the idea of making the military his career. His time was coming up for either leaving or re-enlisting. As a Ranger, many expected him to sign up for a few more years. After all, why continue to take classes and move up the ranks if he was simply going to be discharged and go back to civilian life?
Dallas looked into what he would need for a promotion and where his career would take him. If he was going to stay in there was no reason to continue on as an E5 Sergeant.
Back in the states with the wars overseas coming to a close Dallas was stationed outside of Seattle. The men in his unit were tough like him in their own ways. Each had their own disciplines and hobbies to carry them through their daily monotonous routines.
Many of the men thought Dallas was from Texas given his first name and did double takes once they heard him talk with a flawless mid-western accent.
Budd Abbott, from the mountains of Kentucky, spoke with the southern drawl that many expected to hear from Dallas. While he sported a confederate flag tattoo he surprisingly got along well with the African American members of the unit, of which there were few. Jobs like recon and wilderness survival didn’t appeal to the urban raised men who enlisted. Units like Rangers and Seals were left to the “good ol’ boys.” If one was to ask at random who would like to volunteer to hike thirty miles, wait for three days to see a target, fire one shot, and hike thirty miles back to the landing zone, for fun, the list would be a small batch of white good ol’ boys.
To Dallas’ surprise, Budd was one of the first to welcome him into the new unit. There was always a time for hazing, but seeing the size of their new member the guys backed off leaving the hazing to a barrage of gay jokes and references to Dallas having a small penis that didn’t match the rest of his body. This was not the first time that Dallas had heard such comments. However, they were never from the women he bedded.
Raised in moonshine country, Budd was socially awkward and made comments that were inappropriate all the time. He had a habit of referring to blacks as “niggers” simply out of habit and not from some kind of racial superiority complex. It was how he was raised. He also had a habit of referring to anybody who wasn’t white to their offensive slang terms created by his backwoods culture. Arabs were “sand niggers,” “dune coons,” and “camel jockeys.” The Asians were referred to as “chinks,” “slant eyes,” and “gooks.” Anybody south of the border was a “wet back,” while Indians from southeast Asia were “rag heads.” Budd once confused a Sikh for a “rag head.” Dallas tried to correct him by explaining that the Sikh was in fact on their side and hated Muslims more than any American could. Budd responded with “they all look the same to me.”
Racism was common in the military and even the African Americans joined in. The only time they spoke up about it was when comments were made about people of their skin color or when those terms were used on others such as “sand niggers” and “dune coons,” partially because of the word they hate, but because it put them in a category with those they also hated.
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Clive Cabey was one of the only African American soldiers in the unit. What set him apart from the rest of the unit wasn’t his skin color, but his background as an immigrant. Born in Trinidad, raised in the Bronx and later going to college in the Midwest, Clive was an enigma in the unit. A tall stocky man he looked like any other man in the unit, but when he spoke his voice grabbed the attention of those around him with a deep tone like that of an Austrian. His accent was thick even though he spent most of his life in the United States. Dallas quickly learned that Clive was highly intelligent with three Bachelor’s degrees and was still in school during his spare time working on a fourth.
“Why the hell did you join the Army? Free education?” Dallas asked at lunch in the mess hall one day.
“9-11. I was raised the Bronx. Nobody messes with my home town.” It was easy to see where Clive’s loyalty lay. That day was something he would never forget watching it on a television in a dorm room.
“What were you going to school for when it happened?” Dallas continued on.
“I was going to become a priest.” Clive answered like it was something normal that people said all the time.
“You doing that when you get out?”
“In the Greek orthodox religion if one kills another human being they cannot become a priest.”
“So why didn’t you become an officer? You have the education.”
“I wanted to blow shit up. So far, if I get out now, I can go back and finish seminary school. If get deployed, and I know that I killed someone then that option is off the table. At the moment, I’m good.”
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