Con Trails/200 Sky Obscured

by Salvatore A. Joseph

  “Uh, I didn’t even notice,” is the smart-ass response.

  The two pilots both laugh as they enjoy their early morning flight. The sights and rumbling sounds are so amazing because we’re so close that—we can feel the G-forces and hear the engine’s loud rumble and purr all around them . . . as they yank and bank, loop and roll . . . as these two men play and have fun with John’s new toy.

  * * * * *

  Somewhat west of Florida, some 800 nautical miles away back in Texas, outside the Federal Building on Fannin Street in downtown Houston, a big White FedEx delivery truck pulls up to the rear loading docks. A delivery truck arriving at the Federal building on Fannin Street is not out of the ordinary. It’s nothing unusual here—FedEx trucks, UPS trucks, and the United States Postal Service make deliveries on-site every day.

  Today, the regular driver, Bill, has a somewhat heavy and large 285 pound cardboard box addressed to Special Agent Bob Irby. With the box securely placed onto his well-used aluminum hand-truck, the driver clears his way through the different maze of the building’s security set up. The diverse levels of required security were stepped up tenfold after the attack on the Twin Towers. After a good 15 or 20 minute delay because of the screening process, Bill is finally allowed into the lower level mail room. As soon as he delivers his box, Bill heads off down the streets of Houston toward his next stop a few blocks away at 800 Main Street.

  The cardboard box—this box, like all the others delivered to the Federal building—will have to be x-rayed and scanned for explosives before anything can be delivered out of the semi-bomb-proof mail room. Then and only then can it be delivered up to the squad room and Agent Bob’s metal desk.

  An hour or so later, Agent Bob gets the sturdy cardboard box delivered to his 7th floor office. A bit surprised and puzzled, Agent Bob was not expecting anything today. Eyeing the large box sitting on his metal desk, he wonders, “What is hidden inside. Who sent the thing, where did it come from, why is the cardboard container so damn heavy?” he ponders, “What in the world is packaged up so well on the inside? What could be in that darn box?”

  Attached is a regulation shipping label. Bob tries to analyze the writing, but no return address is listed. Furthermore, whoever sent the darn thing was clever enough to use a third party shipping service. Examining further, looking over the packing strip, Agent Bob spots where the paper indicates that whoever sent it paid the bill in cash. He wonders if deep down inside the container is perhaps something from one of the cases he might be working on or if . . . something from one of his past cases. Checking deep in the corners of his mind, he goes over his options—he didn’t order any early Christmas presents for either his wife or kids, and not something like a new set of golf clubs for himself. Oh well, he lets out a brief sigh as he sips on a bit of stale coffee.

  Digging into his right front pants pocket, Bob pulls out a small black 3” SOG brand pocket knife. A quick puncture slices the razor sharp stainless steel blade through the perfectly taped box as he tries to speculate what in the world is packaged so carefully deep inside the walls of the brown cardboard box. A final cut through the last bit of silver duct tape, and he stops and grins for a brief second . . . he stops to contemplate a flash of “What if” that the duct tape triggers in his mind. His mind races, “Could it be? May it be? What if . . . is it, could it be dangerous? Yes? No?”

  He stops and places his open pocket knife on the desk. A brief glance about the room and his mind shifts gears. Special Agent Bob knows full well Sal is no longer working on the big case, all the bank robbery cases. He further recognizes that Sal seems to have for real, retired, ever since he returned from those two weeks working out in Las Vegas.

  For some reason, Sal has dropped into a sort of self-imposed hibernation. He made only one brief appearance at Fuzzy’s Bar and none of his other friends, CW, Roberts, or Louis can figure out what is truly going on. CW was told it was about Sal and his ex having a big fight . . . so he thinks the gloominess is all about his ex-wife and kids. These two men were partners for years and ex-wives are well . . . ex-wives. Both men have at least one aggravating them from time to time. Hell, everyone in the Division has one nagging them somewhere. Det. Roberts doesn’t, if truth be told, care; he has enough of his own troubles to deal with. Bob understands far better about this instance than some of the others.

  He has seen Sal depressed before because they’re long-time friends, some fifteen years or so. They have definitely shared many a beer or whiskey together until the wee hours of the morning. Agent Bob knows firsthand about the one subject which can, to be honest, get Sal down and depressed. Hell, it even drags down Bob . . . Sal’s worry and heartbreak over his older brother never coming back home from the Vietnam War. As tough as Sal is, he always keeps the faith . . . and hopes one day that his older brother would be released and allowed to come back home.

  Something happened out west in Las Vegas to Sal and right now he doesn’t want to talk about it. Agent Bob planned on giving him a few more days to mull everything over. Bob figured ol’ Sal will show back up at Fuzzy’s Bar and things will get back to normal sooner or later. Special Agent Bob knows how to judge men and, too, he hopes deep down inside that Sal will somehow work it out on his own . . . or will ask for help from one of the boys. By staying away and not pestering Sal, Bob, in his own weird way, doesn’t want to burden his friend further.

  Pulling on the cardboard box top, Bob cuts the last bit of silver tape, opens the almost 300 pound heavy box, and peers inside. Removing the crumpled up pages of old newspapers used for packing, he reveals stacks and rows of cash—lots and lots of real money. Upon closer inspection, he notes there are literally hundreds and hundreds of neatly stacked lots of banded 100 dollar bills, all banded together just like the very day they left their assigned bank. All the money is here, close to one and one half million dollars-worth of money is sitting on Bob’s desk. Taped to the top of the cash is a simple white number ten basic letter envelope.

  He grins once again at the situation unfolding before him. Bob picks up the bright white envelope and looks it over. The envelope is a simple white, number ten un-sealed letter envelope, nothing more. Inside the enclosed paper packet is a single clean white sheet of twenty-pound typing paper. Agent Bob opens up the packet, and a small white business card floats gently to the ground. On one side of the white paper is a simple one line typed out note:

  “Thanks for the Memories.”

  Bob reaches down to the well-worn, coffee stained carpeted floor and picks up the business card. On the card is printed the same set of numbers like all the other ones left behind at the bank crime scenes.

  21 23 50 10 30 02 8

  He laughs out loud and says out loud, “They never used any of the money.

  “They clearly did it for fun, for the challenge . . . it was all a con. Just like old Sal figured out.”

  Standing at his desk, grinning like a school boy after his first kiss, FBI Special Agent Bob pulls out his cell phone from his belt clip and scrolls through the phone’s built-in electronic telephone directory. Scrolling up, then down Bob is trying to locate Sal’s cell phone number in the small phone’s computer chip database. On the correct name, Bob pushes the send button . . . a moment later the ring starts and on the third ring a drossy, sleepy, groggy voice answers. “This better be good, hello,” says a lethargic, an awfully sleepy voice on the other end of the phone connection.

  “Hey, it’s Bob . . . you better get your butt down here to my office . . . I think you’ll wanna’ see what was delivered here in the past few minutes by FedEx.”

  “Huh?” says Sal.

  Click, click as Bob hangs up. He will not answer and grins as Senior Detective Salvatore, like it or not, is on his way downtown to the Houston Office of the FBI.

  Special Agent Bob walks over to the coffee pot and pours himself a fine fresh cup of java, black with one packet of
sugar today, a treat he allows himself when he or his squad solves a big case. He takes a slow casual walk back to his gray metal desk at the far end of the work area. Back at his desk, he kicks up his feet and laughs out loud, a deep enjoyable gut laugh. With a slight grin again, Agent Bob tilts back in his chair, all the way back on the rear two legs and smiles up to the heavens . . . he loves it when a good case finally comes together.

  THE END

  EPILOGUE

  It takes courage to fight in our

  own war. It takes courage to fight

  someone else’s war . . . in peace may they

  rest, lest we forget why they died . . .

  Terry Kelly

  It is a well known and reported fact that somewhere over fifty-four thousand American service men and even a few women died during the Vietnam War. Accordingly it is the official number of names carved into the Vietnam Memorial Wall in Washington, DC. The real number is a little bit higher than that. Some of the soldiers who did survive never really came home from the War. Some soldiers are missing limbs; they can’t walk; they can’t see or hear; they are missing arms, legs, and in some cases, their lost souls are still out there on the battlefield. Some call this condition the tragic fifty-meter stare.

  You may have heard the story of the two friends since boot camp fighting side by side, and your buddy catches a round in his teeth. He is dead. Poof, in a flash like that, one second he’s your friend, your buddy blasting away next to you, and the next instant—he’s dead, really dead, with part of his head missing. It freaks out even the most hardened soldiers. The official title for this syndrome is PTSD—Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, the fifty meter stare off into oblivion. Although not always talked about, nor even reported in the news, after every war, the suicide rate goes up, way up.

  Additionally, and officially somewhere out in the area of Southeast Asia, are still some 2,400 soldiers listed as Missing in Action. On the Wall is a small vertical cross next to their names carved into the marble wall. This little cross or X indicates that the person next to the X means that this human being, this mother’s son, this wife’s husband, this father, this soldier is still Missing In Action.

  Perhaps they were killed or literally blown into a million tiny bits while in combat. Perhaps, they are long dead or consider, perhaps, that they’re still locked up in a North Vietnamese Tiger Cage, still being held as a POW, even though the War has been officially over since 1975. That part of the world has a different culture . . . an entirely different way to look at humanity . . . over on that side of the world.

  Many Americans hunt deer or elk and hang the stuffed animal heads on their living room wall. The Vietnamese soldiers hunted live men, real men and sought to keep them alive in tiger cages or small local prisons as trophies, like an Egyptian Pharaoh or King who kept live tigers or lions in a cage. These captured men are their prizes, their trophies on display. It offers them a higher status within their circle of evil friends. For many civilized people, this concept is difficult . . . no, it is impossible for most Americans to even comprehend any part of this.

  Do you think the War is over for those soldiers still missing in action? What about some sort of closure for their families? Imagine having to live a real nightmare day after day for the last forty plus years.

  Sounds far fetched . . . maybe not. For example, did you know that only a few years ago in 1997, 1998, and even as recent as 2005, Japanese soldiers, mind you—we are talking about World War-Two Japanese soldiers—were found alive on three different South Pacific Islands? It has been reported in the news how they, these soldiers were located on yes . . . three different South Pacific islands some 60 or more years after WWII ended. These men, these soldiers, were still on duty guarding their post, living off of the land still waiting for new orders or reinforcements to come along. They never learned or were informed the war was long over. Makes one think, doesn’t it?

  p.s. Do you know what the numbers 21 23 50 10 3 00 28 stand for? If so, email me the answer at—

  DetSal@DetectiveFirstClass.com

  . . . after 44 years it too is broken

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Detective First Class Salvatore A. Joseph retired after twenty-five years of police service. He chased armed felons—armed robbers for most of his career. Along the way, Sal took up flying and worked his way up from a small plane pilot to a Certified Flight Instructor. Later he was a Co-Pilot on a Lear Jet, followed by becoming a Captain on several different jet aircraft. Today, he is a Captain on two popular business airplanes: the Hawker Siddeley 800-XP Mid-Size Jet and the large cabin Challenger-601-3A series. He knows what he is talking about when it comes to hijackers or jet airplanes.

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  I am always happy to hear from my readers. Feel free to contact me via the Internet either at my web site address: DetectiveFirstClass.com or at DetSal@DetectiveFirstClass.com. I will always reply, but it may take a few days to get back to you if I am on a trip.

  A quick note about emails these days. Keep them simple without loads of add-ons or attachments. As you may well know, in today’s world, email from strangers may contain some form of a virus . . .

  If you by chance find a typographical or other error . . . . don’t blame me—blame my editor.