Eden Bound

by Darrell Maloney

  “Very funny. Don’t quit your day job.”

  “Think I can borrow them for a day or two?”

  “What? All four of them?”

  “If they’re available.”

  “Does this have anything to do with all those cars those guys left circling the base, like the way they circled the wagons back in the Wild West?”

  “Good guess. Can you help me out?”

  “Of course. I’ve owed you a big favor for a long time. Now I can finally pay you back.”

  “You owe me no favors, Tommy. That recommendation was well deserved, and you owe me nothing.”

  “Okay, then. If we’re even Steven now, then I’ll do this for you and then you’ll owe me. We can sit down for a beer sometime soon and call it even.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “They’re all yours, as long as you need them. When and where?”

  “How about our main gate on Military Drive, oh eight hundred tomorrow?”

  “Sorry, buddy. I don’t speak military gibberish.”

  “Eight a.m.”

  “Okay, I’ll have them there.”

  The favor Tommy was referring to happened almost three years before, at the beginning of the first thaw.

  Tommy started his towing business a few months before Saris 7 hit the earth. When the world froze over, ice and snow began to cover the roads. Most city employees deserted their jobs to stay home with their families and the streets didn’t get plowed. They soon became impassable. And few people got out anyway.

  No driving meant his towing jobs were nonexistent.

  He’d have gone bankrupt, but the courts were closed. No one could file for bankruptcy or do anything else that required a judge or county commissioner’s signature.

  The nice thing was this: his creditors couldn’t come after him either.

  The bank which financed his tow trucks went out of business. And even if they were still operating, they wouldn’t have been able to repossess his trucks anyway.

  So for seven years Tommy’s trucks sat idle, his business in limbo.

  Then the thaw came and Tommy was desperate to get rolling again.

  A friend told him that Joint Base Lackland had abandoned cars all over the place. The base exchange and commissary parking lots were overflowing.

  Base housing still had cars in the driveways which belonged to people who’d committed suicide. So did pretty much every parking lot on base.

  Tommy went to the base to ask for permission to start towing them.

  And to get treated for a vicious cut he suffered when slicing a block of cheese that same morning.

  The bleeding finger was the most pressing of the two issues, so he went to Wilford Hall first.

  And there he bumped into Morris Medley in the hallway.

  Tommy figured a man with silver eagles on his epaulets must be a pretty smart guy, so he introduced himself and asked how he went about putting in a bid for the towing contract.

  Morris Medley, like Tommy, was a sociable guy, and the two hit it off immediately, becoming instant friends.

  They shared coffee in Medley’s office while Medley made phone calls.

  First to the legal office, then to the transportation office.

  Medley got some favorable responses, for as it turned out others were discussing ways to get rid of all the abandoned cars all over the base as well.

  Medley highly recommended his brand new friend and Tommy got a contract to remove over three hundred cars and pickup trucks from the base.

  His business was back on track and he owed his friend Morris a huge favor.

  It was time for that favor to come due.

  -20-

  The United States Air Force has a saying:

  If you’re early, you’re on time. If you’re on time, you’re late. If you’re late, you’re dead meat.

  Interpreted into English, it simply means this:

  The Air Force prides itself on being either on time or early. Early is better. And if you think about it, it makes sense.

  Whether Air Force fighter jets are headed for a rendezvous with an aerial refueling plane over the mid Atlantic, or delivering spare airplane parts and needed supplies to a war zone, time is of critical importance.

  Time isn’t just money.

  When it relates to military missions, it can cost lives as well.

  Damaged airplanes cannot be repaired if critical parts don’t show up or show up late. Sorties have to be cancelled. Close air support that ground troops desperately need may be late in arriving.

  Or may not arrive at all.

  Sorties are scheduled to the minute.

  A flight of six jets scheduled to take off at oh five forty six must take off at oh five forty six.

  Or all kinds of bad things can happen.

  In that respect the Air Force is just like the other branches of the military. All branches know how important it is to be on time, because they do many of their missions jointly: augmenting and supporting each other.

  They can’t complete a joint mission if they’re not on the same sheet of music or on synchronized schedules.

  The importance of being on time was one of the first things Colonel Morris Medley learned when he accepted his Air Force commission.

  He didn’t have screaming eagles on his collars back then.

  He had the single gold bars, or “butter bars” of a second lieutenant.

  A week into the job he had a patient in one of the exam rooms waiting to see him for an early morning appointment.

  He forgot to set his alarm clock and overslept.

  The appointment was at oh eight hundred hours: eight a.m.

  At 8:05 an orderly reported, in accordance with hospital procedure, that 2Lt Medley was nowhere to be found.

  The ward chief, a major, was generous enough to give him an extra five minutes.

  When Medley was still missing at 8:10 the major assigned another physician to the patient and told the orderly to send Medley to his office the instant he walked through the door.

  At 8:30 a harried Medley rushed through the door, apologizing with every step for being late.

  “Major Ronsted wants to see you immediately, lieutenant.”

  “But I have a patient waiting.”

  “He said immediately, sir.”

  Medley sheepishly went to the major’s office, reporting in sharply with a salute. The formal report is the only instance in the Air Force when salutes are rendered indoors, and they usually aren’t happy occasions.

  Once his salute was returned, Medley stammered, “I’m sorry, sir. I overslept. It won’t happen again.”

  The major chewed out the still wet-behind-the-ears officer.

  When he paused, Medley saw his chance for escape and said, “Sir, if I may be excused? I have a patient waiting in Exam Room 2.”

  “No you don’t.”

  “I don’t? But…”

  “Your patient had a heart attack and died at oh eight ten.”

  Medley’s jaw dropped. He honestly didn’t know what to say.

  The major went on.

  “They just moved his body downstairs to the morgue. If you had been on time you’d have been in the room with him. You could have called in a code blue. You could have started CPR.

  “You could have saved his life.”

  Medley couldn’t find the words.

  Major Ronsted was lying, of course. And though lying wasn’t proper Air Force procedure, he thought it was the best course of action to teach the young officer a lesson he’d always remember.

  He laid it on even thicker.

  “Go wait in Exam Room 2. Your patient’s wife is on her way in and should be here in about half an hour or so.

  “While you’re waiting you can think up some words to explain to her that your ineptitude and carelessness resulted in the death of her husband and the father of her children.

  “That is all.”

  Medley thought he was going to pass out.

  He had chest pa
ins and thought he was going to have his own heart attack.

  He sweated bullets for half an hour longer, trying to find the words to console a woman who lost her husband. All because of his inability to set a damn alarm clock.

  Finally Major Ronsted walked into the room.

  “Did you find the words to explain yourself?”

  “I think so, sir. Is she here?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “There is no grieving widow. There is no dead patient. But there damned well could have been.”

  Other men might have been angry for being played the fool.

  Morris Medley wasn’t the type to get angry.

  He was a kind and compassionate soul who wasn’t born with hate or anger genes.

  He messed up. Big time.

  And he was as remorseful as he could possibly be.

  But he wasn’t angry.

  He was relieved. But not angry.

  Only one other time, in the thirty odd years that had passed after that day, was he late to an appointment.

  That was the day he was hit broadside by a drunk driver who ran a red light. He spent the next five days in intensive care but survived.

  The first thing he did when he regained consciousness was have the nurse dial a number for him and hold the phone to his ear.

  So he could apologize to the man he had the appointment with for not showing up.

  Yes, Morris Medley learned his lesson that morning he overslept.

  He was as precise as an expensive Swiss watch.

  And at oh eight hundred hours and zero seconds he was standing at the main gate watching for Tommy’s tow trucks.

  -21-

  Tow trucks were pretty much unchanged for decades.

  A man who drove and operated a tow truck in the 1940s could climb into one made in 1985 and feel right at home.

  There was no new process to familiarize oneself with.

  No learning curve.

  It might be shinier and newer and might have a prettier paint job.

  But everything worked the same way it always did.

  Then, in the last decade of the twentieth century, somebody found a better way.

  And every tow truck driver in the country threw a party.

  Not really. But they could have if they’d wanted to.

  The attachment on the back end of many modern tow trucks comes by many names.

  “Lift and Carry.”

  “Tow Bar.”

  “Tow and Go.”

  “Pick and Roll.”

  What one calls it doesn’t really matter much.

  It’s what the attachment does that’s important.

  It allows the driver/operator to back up to the car he’s towing and, without getting out of his cab, maneuver the lift bar beneath the car and pick it up.

  Then he merely drives away with it.

  This method wasn’t meant for long range towing.

  It was meant to get the car out of a dangerous situation and to a safe nearby spot, where the driver can do a better job of securing it.

  But it was a very handy piece of equipment, and revolutionized the towing industry.

  Nobody was more glad to see the innovation than repo men, who made a living recovering cars from deadbeats who didn’t make their payments.

  Very often the deadbeats took offense to the bank having the nerve to want its car back, and sometimes recoveries got violent.

  Any repo man who hasn’t been shot at a few times just hasn’t been working hard enough.

  The quick tow bar made it possible for the repo man to back up to a car and grab it, then get the heck out of Dodge. Hopefully before the deadbeat knew what hit him.

  Although it wasn’t meant for long-distance towing, it was perfect for this project.

  Each of the cars surrounding the base only had to be towed a few blocks to an empty parking lot.

  And icy roads meant the operators would not be driving like bats out of hell. They’d be slow and careful.

  Mike Suarez stood next to the colonel and watched the first of the rigs grab a Toyota and immediately drive off with it.

  “Morris,” he said. “I could kiss you for setting this up.”

  Colonel Medley sidestepped to put a little bit of space between the two of them.

  “If it’s all the same to you, Mike, I’d prefer you didn’t. No offense, but you’re not really my type.”

  Suarez smiled.

  “How long do you think it’ll take these guys to get all the cars moved?”

  According to Tommy, their boss, they shouldn’t take more than four days. But they’re shooting for three.

  “Shoot. It would probably take my guys a month, the way they keep finding excuses not to come in.”

  “That’s the problem when working with only volunteers. They’re not getting paid, so they have no real stake in the project.

  “Now don’t get me wrong. I’ve worked with many outstanding groups of volunteers over the years.

  “But workers who are getting paid to do a job have a reason to come in every day and give it their best effort. If they don’t they might lose their paycheck.

  “Then it may be their car the repo man comes after.

  Mike observed, “We need to throw a beer party for these guys, and for their boss, when the job is done.”

  “Oh, I’m quite sure that would make them happy. Ten year old beer that wouldn’t even make suds when the bottles were opened. I’m pretty sure they’ll pass.”

  “Gee, Morris. You have no faith in me at all, do you?”

  “Not much, no.

  “Why? Do you have something up your sleeve?”

  “Just my arm.

  “But it so happens that my arm joined with my other arm during the thaw and planted a boatload of hops and barley. And I bought a big batch of yeast from a wholesaler that was trying to get back in business and needed an influx of blue money.”

  “Where in heck did you get barley and hops seed?”

  “The same guy had connections. He turned me onto the seed guys, who not only gave me a good price but taught me how to grow them too.

  “So now you might say I’ve added brewmaster to my long list of talents.”

  “Long list of talents?”

  “Okay, maybe not such a long list. I’m a great poker player. So I guess I only have two achievements on my list. But two is more than one.

  “Was when I went to school, anyway. And I don’t think the world has changed that dramatically.”

  “So, you've been brewing the stuff in your bathtub, like old southern hooch?”

  “Close. I’ve got three big vats in my basement I bought from a salvage company. With last year’s crop I was able to make three hundred bottles. And that was after I put aside enough seed for my next crop. Now that I have the first year’s crop under my belt and know what I’m doing, I’m hoping for five hundred bottles next time.”

  “Ah, but is it good?”

  “I’ll let you be the judge of that. You have my address, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “Would you tell Tommy and his drivers they’re invited? Saturday night at six. Don’t be late.”

  Medley smiled. He quite honestly said, “Not a chance.”

  -22-

  As Mike Suarez and Morris Medley carried on a casual conversation about the fine art of beer making they didn’t realize they were being stalked.

  Perhaps stalked is the wrong word.

  There certainly wasn’t anything sinister going on. Nobody was in danger of being hurt.

  But as the two men talked with their backs toward the base, a hulking Humvee crept slowly up behind them.

  Marty was behind the wheel not because he wanted to be. He was tired and hadn’t slept much the night before. He’d have been happier rolled into a ball in the back of the vehicle taking a nap.

  But nobody else felt comfortable.

  Marty had been driving big rigs for most of his adult life.

  He dro
ve the northern tier states in the harshest of winters, when most other drivers parked their rigs at truck stops for days at a time.

  He navigated icy roads better than most drivers did on dry pavement.

  He delivered his loads safely and on-time, and had a well-deserved reputation in the trade as one of the “go-to” guys who never turned down a load.

  No matter how bad the roads got.

  The city of San Antonio had very dedicated people working in its roads and grounds division.

  And they worked damned hard.

  But in a world where the temperature never went above freezing, every bit of precipitation added to the ice problem.

  Every rain, every drizzle, every fog, every dew.

  Not just in the winter time, but all year round.

  The thirty man crew was out and about each and every weekday, and sometimes on weekends.

  But try as they might, they just couldn’t keep up with the workload.

  There simply weren’t enough hours in the day to keep every street in San Antonio snow and ice free.

  Not enough equipment either.

  So like it or not, and despite the fact he was tired and wanted to take a nap, Marty was stuck with driving duty.

  But hey, it could be worse.

  On the first leg of their journey, the trip from Eden to San Antonio, he had to drive a snow plow with front end damage.

  He fought the steering wheel for way over a hundred miles until it finally gave up the ghost when they were almost at their destination.

  He abandoned it in the middle of the highway because that’s all he could do.

  He and Brad went back looking for it not long before and couldn’t find it.

  Exactly where it went was a mystery, until Mayor Al called the mayor of San Antonio.

  Mayors in Texas, and likely other places as well, are part of a fraternity. It’s a society of favors one does for another. Usually they’re reciprocal, and both participants know and expect that each favor will be repaid someday, perhaps in a totally different way.

  Other times it’s simply done to help a brother or sister out.

  Another thing about mayors is that they generally have their finger on the pulse of everything going on in their town or city.

  And if they don’t know everything, they know who to go to to find out.