by Joe Nobody
As he strolled across the square, the entire mood of the throng changed. Like someone had flipped a switch, one of the grieving mothers wiggled away from her husband, bent and hoisted a rock and then rushed at the dead interlopers. With an ear-splitting scream, she pummeled a soldier’s remains with her stone. A moment later, there were dozens of women following her example.
Hack was taken aback by the viciousness of the display, the women cursing and throwing as fast as their arms could move. Apache Jack appeared at his side. “They would administer the same punishment to a prisoner,” he noted. “Sometimes it is best not to be taken alive.”
And that’s when one of the bodies moaned.
“One of them is still alive,” Hack turned and shouted to the uncle. “I want to talk to him… get answers to my questions. Please stop them.”
But no one seemed to heed Hack’s request, the assault continuing without interference. Hack quickly directed his entreaty to the girl’s uncle, “Please, sir, please stop them! I think these men were spying on our project, and the only way I can be sure is to interrogate the survivor.”
Several of the older men huddled, a few throwing glances at the toymaker during the brief discussion. Finally, one of them separated from the others and said, “Only for you, Grandfather. And when you’re through, we want him back.”
Stepping forward toward the women, the uncle shouted and barked a series of words. It took three more attempts before the assault was halted.
Hack rushed forward, bending over the man he hoped was still breathing. The pulse was weak, but there. He turned to the Apache and instructed, “Load this man onto my cart. We need to keep him alive long enough for me to ask a few questions.”
As soon as he was sure the victim was being loaded, Hack spotted a young warrior briefing the tribal elders, presenting them with everything the warriors had discovered at the camp and removed from the dead.
Hack shouldered his way through the crowd, taking a knee to examine the loot.
There were three M4 carbine rifles, the short-barreled variety, all equipped with cancelation devices. “Not regular infantry,” he noted. “Probably Special Forces.”
Picking up one of the captured night vision goggles, he half turned to the Apache and exchanged a knowing nod. “Definitely Special Forces.”
The dead soldiers’ dog tags had been removed, along with their boots, wallets, and all of the contents of the packs. No one protested as Hack sorted through it all.
“These men were carrying 3-day assault packs and minimal ammunition. They were here to gather intelligence. I fear that they were intentionally positioned here to spy on the project.”
The missing girl’s uncle appeared in the circle of men, his face neutral. “They didn’t kidnap my niece,” he admitted with a sad voice. “She was hiding from them. Until the last moments, they didn’t know she was there.”
“How many got away?” Hack asked, ignoring the uncle’s admission.
“No one escaped us,” came the report. “They moved like ghosts and fought like demons, but there were only three.”
Hack turned to the local chief, “I have no use for the weapons, but I would like to examine the rest of their equipment and belongings. Is that acceptable?”
“Yes. But when you are finished, all of the captured equipment should be distributed to the families of the dead men. It is tradition,” replied the headman.
“Will do,” Hack replied, knowing that some of the hardware carried by the trespassers would feed the widows and orphans for a year.
Without another word, the toymaker pivoted and began walking with purpose back to his car. “This is very troubling,” he confided in the Apache. “Very troubling indeed.”
The president was completing his nightly routine, preparing to turn in after another day of frustration.
Enjoying his evening vice of a cigar and two fingers of brandy, the chief executive reflected on the events of the day. Like any commander, he tallied the small wins and losses, his mental scorecard used to judge the effectiveness of the campaign overall. Did he win today? How badly did he lose? It was a long-time habit, common in such competitive men.
“If I were a baseball coach, I wouldn’t be expecting to have my contract renewed,” he whispered to the empty room. “If I were commanding an infantry platoon, I’d anticipate being relieved.”
But what really was bothering him the most was missing the time he’d set aside to be with his grandchildren.
Sure, they were safe and sound at Camp David, far better off than the vast majority of their generation. David and Samantha lived inside the iron ring of security provided by the Secret Service, were well fed, received private tutoring, and slept in a warm, dry place.
But the grandfather knew they needed more than just three squares to mature into rounded, adaptable adults. They needed family and love.
A polite knock on the door interrupted the president’s bout of introspection, the Commander in Chief surprised by the appearance of an Army chaplain and one of the generals.
Before he even greeted the two arrivals, he realized the purpose of their visit. His son.
The chaplain began, “Sir, my apologies for interrupting you so late, but we thought.…”
The president didn’t let the man finish, “Dead? Confirmed? Missing? Where?”
The general stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Missing, presumed dead, sir. New Mexico.”
“And how do we know that, General? I thought he deployed on that mission only a short time ago?”
“He was in the middle of uploading a situation report when his team was attacked, sir. The satellite phone he was using remained connected for some time.”
“I want to hear it,” the president barked, his tone harsher than intended. Softer, he added, “Please.”
“Sir, I’m not sure that is a good idea at this time,” the chaplain interjected. “If you would care to sit and discuss the situation, I’d be happy to….”
Again the president interrupted. “While I appreciate your position and concern, Chaplain, I’m in no need of such unearthly support at the moment. I would like to hear the tape, General.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the senior officer, moving to pick up a nearby phone. After a series of inaudible orders, he returned the receiver to the cradle and reported, “It will be here in a few minutes, sir.”
The president fought hard to keep his emotion in check. While any normal father would be free to express whatever anger, remorse, or grieving he experienced, the chief executive was not a normal parent.
As the time passed slowly by, the president tried everything he could think of to keep himself calm. Internally, he argued that millions of parents had received similar visits. He tried to find solace in the fact he hadn’t physically seen his son’s body, and until that moment arrived, there was always hope.
His troubled mind then journeyed to the core of support that had carried him through so many similar difficult times. Fundamentally, the president’s mind functioned with a profound military influence. He tried to justify his son’s death with all of the tired excuses. He was serving his country. He was doing what he wanted to do. He died for a purpose and with honor.
None of it worked.
And then thoughts of Samantha and David came rushing to the forefront of his thinking, a tidal wave of guilt crashing against his soul. Missing his scheduled time with them took on a new, immensely painful meaning.
Staggered by it all, the president lost his grip on his brandy glass, the heavy crystal impacting the floor with a loud thud and shattering rattle.
The Secret Service instantly appeared, drawn by the sound of the broken tumbler. They helped the dazed father to a nearby chair, one of the agents on his radio calling for a surgeon.
A hundred questions came at the president, seemingly all at once. Are you okay, sir? Are you experiencing any shortness of breath, sir? Are you feeling any pain, sir?
In a way, the barrage of inquiries wa
s helpful, angering the president so much that his thoughts were temporarily distracted from his son.
“Would all of you fucking mother hens get the hell out of my face?” he growled. “I’m just fine, thank you. I dropped a glass for Christ’s sake. Can’t a man be clumsy every now and then without it being a national emergency?”
The triad was interrupted by the arrival of a junior officer caring a laptop computer.
“I don’t think it’s a good time to listen to this transmission,” someone said, but the president would have none of it.
The chief executive, surrounded by staff, huddled over the computer’s small speakers, his experienced ear dissecting every word and sound. Three times he asked that the recording be paused and rewound.
When it was over, he stared up at the general and said, “I admit that it sounds like my son was badly wounded or killed, but there’s no proof. I assume he will be listed as missing in action?”
“Yes, Mr. President, that is standard procedure.”
The POTUS rose from his perch, ambling to the fireplace with a blank expression. After a bit, he spoke, his voice filled with the ice of revenge, “If the Alliance is to blame for this tragedy, I will personally lead the 4th Infantry Division right into Alpha and kick their sorry asses.”
Not a single person in the room doubted his words.
Realizing he was on the edge of appearing vengeful and out of control, the president forced down the rage that threatened to boil over. “And, we need to get a team into Los Alamos pronto. Right now. If someone is playing empire-builder in that part of the nation, I want that nuclear material out of their reach.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” acknowledged the general.
“One last thing, gentlemen, I will inform my grandchildren about their father as soon as more facts are known. I want to do this personally. No one is to breathe a word of this to them. Is that understood?”
After the chorus of “Yes, sir,” and “Of course, Mr. President,” died down, all of the visitors quickly filed out of the room, leaving a man who suddenly found himself feeling more like a helpless father than a powerful leader.
Grissom was sure he’d died in battle and been cast into hell.
Overcoming the throbbing behind his temples, the sergeant struggled to open his eyes. There, lurking a short distance away, was surely a demon.
The evil being possessed the shape of a man, but that’s where the resemblance ended. White streaks of ash crisscrossed its face; bones were braided in the beast’s dark mane.
Unable to look away, Grissom squinted to clear his vision. Since when do the devil’s troopers carry AR15s? his aching, confused brain managed to wonder. And wear wristwatches?
The Apache standing guard over the prisoner sensed his charge was awake. Stepping closer to examine the bound captive, the tall warrior strode to the door and barked a few words to his superior.
Grissom was again confused when another mythical figure appeared. This time the apparition seemed more like an angel than a fiend, its flowing white hair and kind eyes in stark contrast to the other creature in the room.
“Sergeant Grissom, I presume?” Hack asked.
“Yes,” the PJ croaked. “Am I dead?”
“No, not yet,” came the honest response. “Are you in much pain?”
“Yes,” the soldier replied as he began gingerly testing his limbs.
“You have a stab wound just below your left shoulder blade, but it has stopped bleeding. I did my best to bandage it. I hope you’ll pardon my sloppy work. Your right shoulder is severely bruised. But the worst of it is the blow you suffered to the back of your head. That had me concerned.”
Grissom’s medical training took over, “Do you have any aspirin? There’s some in my med-kit if you don’t. It would help to thin the blood.”
Hack produced a bottle of water and two tablets from his jacket pocket, and proceeded to help the bound man swallow and drink. “So you’re a Para rescuer. I’ve read about your training. Impressive.”
“And you would be?”
“You can call me Hack,” the toymaker responded. “Most of the locals call me Grandfather. My real name is Schneider.”
Hack watched as Grissom slowly recovered, eventually helping the man to sit upright on the cot. “I have some questions for you, Sergeant. Now I know enough about Special Forces operators to know you’re pretty tough men. My Native American friends think you’ll require certain painful inducements to answer my inquiries, but I disagree. We’re not at war. I’m not your enemy.”
Wincing from the pain, the prisoner responded with a smirk. “Given how my head and body feel, you could have fooled me. If I’m not your enemy, I’d sure hate to see how these people greet one.”
Hack chuckled, “They thought you were some vagabond that had kidnapped a village girl.”
The statement helped clear Grissom’s thoughts, opening a door for his memory to refresh. “Yes, I remember the girl. We had no idea she was there. So now that we have that all cleared up, why are my hands and feet still bound? Why is there an armed guard… or whatever you call that thing… leering over me?”
“Because we’re still not sure exactly why you were trespassing on reservation land. Hell, for all we know, you and your friends were some rogue deserters come to loot and pillage the neighborhood.”
The sergeant shook his head, the painful movement producing another grimace. “No, we aren’t deserters. But just in case I’m lying, why don’t you haul me back to the nearest U.S. military base and let me prove it?”
Hack ignored the request, producing Grissom’s Geiger counter from his jacket. “And why would a team of Special Forces men be carrying a radiation detector around with them?”
“That’s classified.”
Hack leaned back, his cold eyes studying the captive with an intensity that made Grissom want to squirm. “I think that’s a very legitimate question, young man. For all I know, some crazy person has detonated a nuke or made off with a bomb and you’re chasing him. My neighbors and I might be in danger, and there you sit, withholding information that could save lives.”
“You and the people in this area are in no danger from radiation or any nuclear weapon. That much I can divulge.”
“So why are you here?”
The sergeant hesitated, trying to decide just exactly how much he should say to the exotic weirdo that was holding him prisoner. Technically, he could find no reason to withhold information, but some inner voice was telling him that Hack was dangerous… or at least not a friend.
Seeing his captive pause, Hack decided to up the ante. “Look, Sergeant, I’m not the head honcho around here. That role is shared among the governors and chiefs of the surrounding pueblos. Right now, down in the valley, there are a bunch of grieving widows and mothers who are planning a rather unpleasant demise for a man who butchered their family members. They’re quite creative, I might add. They’ve had thousands of years to refine their tortures,” he paused to allow the captive’s imagination a moment to register before continuing. “Now, I’m not without influence. If you cooperate, I might be able to convince them to spare your life. On the other hand, I’ve seen what these people do to prisoners, and it is most unpleasant.”
Hack shuddered as he recalled the images and then continued. “They will shove a small knife up your anus a few times, and then stake you down naked on an ant hill. Have you ever seen our desert army ants? They’re the size of my thumb and have incisors that can cut through moose hide. The last trespasser my friends caught… well… I could hear his screams all the way up here. He lasted almost 20 hours, God rest his soul.”
Grissom, with significant effort, ignored the threat.
Shrugging, Hack rose from his perch. “Up to you, Sergeant. If you don’t help me, there’s very little I can do to help you.”
“Those men attacked us!” the PJ protested. “We were only defending ourselves, and you fucking know it. I’m a representative of the U.S. military. Why would you l
et them torture and murder a man who was doing nothing more than serving his country?”
Hack shook his head, obviously frustrated that the young soldier didn’t get it. “If you hadn’t been trespassing on reservation land, none of this would have happened. No one would have died. Yet, my neighbors can be mellow, benevolent souls. They might understand that accidents do happen, especially in these troubled times. But you’re giving me nothing here, Sergeant. Nada. Zip. So the only conclusion I can make is that your intentions were nefarious.” The older man shifted his position in order to stare at the prisoner straight in the eye. “As far as the U.S. military receiving any brownie points? We’re talking about American Indians here. Did you ever study history regarding the treatment of America’s native peoples? Do you really expect them to give invading soldiers a break?”
Grissom’s mind was racing a thousand miles per hour. Cursing the pain that was adding to his confusion, he struggled to come up with a response. When Hack turned and motioned to the guard with a finger going across his throat, the sergeant wanted to puke.
Hack decided to give it one last try. “Sergeant, please be reasonable. You’re going to tell us what we want to know eventually. Why not speak up now rather than when you’re begging my friends to kill you quickly as you suffer those ferocious insects eating your bowels from the inside out?”
Grissom knew the man had a point. Everybody talked eventually. There was no military reason to delay the inevitable. Rescue, at least in the short term, was unlikely. He decided to buy time with partial information. “The irrigation system you’re building down in the valley was spotted via aerial reconnaissance. My superiors sent in my team to check it out.”
Hack scratched his chin while staring hard at the captive. Exhaling with disappointment, he said, “Oh, come on, Sergeant. Do you really think I’m that stupid? That little tidbit of a story is just plain insulting.”
“It’s the truth,” Grissom pleaded.
“Bullshit!” the toymaker snapped. “Why would anybody need a Geiger counter to check on an irrigation project? Why were you on the wrong side of the valley? Why not just drive up to the reservation’s border and ask rather than sneak around in the woods?”