New York Minute

by Bob Mayer

Kane glanced at him. “You selling them?”

  “You buying that?” Merrick snapped, indicating the .45. “You know how long it’s been since I’ve heard from you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I’m only a couple of hours away and I haven’t seen you in over a year. And that was when you wanted some range time. Now you need guns. I’ve got enemies I see more often. And Bahn wouldn’t mind you stopping by and saying hi.”

  Merrick was married to a Montagnard, one of those who’d come with Thao, Van Van and the others.

  “I’ll make it back here,” Kane promised. “For a visit. For real.”

  “Yeah.” Merrick didn’t sound convinced.

  Kane pushed the release, the slide slamming forward. “Trent paid me a visit the other day.”

  “I don’t want to know,” Merrick said. “I’m not even here.”

  “I respect that. Giving you a heads up on a mutual enemy.”

  “I’ve been fucked over and I wasn’t even on that chopper,” Merrick said. “But we did plenty of other stuff that was off the official books. There’re a lot of people who want all of that to stay deep and buried. Especially Countersign—“ Merrick suddenly stopped. “I gotta ask you, Will. Are you wearing a wire?”

  Kane wiped his face, leaving a muddy smear. He pulled off the sopping t-shirt, unbuckled his belt and dropped trou.

  “Geez,” Merrick said. “I didn’t need to see that.”

  Kane pulled up his pants and buckled. “Yeah, you did. If you asked, you did. And you were right to ask.”

  “That shit is gonna follow us for the rest of lives. I got passed over for Sergeant Major. I checked with my branch. Told me, in so many words, forget about it ever happening.”

  Kane pulled his sweat-soaked t-shirt on. “Vietnam is our curse.” He loaded a magazine with .45 rounds.

  Merrick laughed bitterly. “Fuck ‘em.” Merrick was R.O.A.D. Retired on Active Duty. “I just want to get thirty, retire, and open up a gunsmithing place back in North Carolina near Bragg. Bahn needs to be around her people.”

  Kane inserted a magazine. Chambered a round, cocking the hammer. Ten dropped the magazine, added a bullet, and reinserted it. He pushed the safety into place. Holstered it.

  “Feel better?” Merrick asked.

  “A bit.”

  “Remember the pull will be tighter.”

  “Roger that.”

  Merrick extended another .45 still wrapped. “Might as well put this away for a rainy day.”

  Kane accepted it.

  “Did Trent take your weapon?” Merrick asked.

  “I’d like to see him try. I gave it up to a cop.”

  “Why?”

  “He asked. Nicely. It’s complicated.”

  Merrick was working on another case. “Cop take the High Standard? That’s not good. Someone might wonder where it came from.”

  “That’s a different story you don’t want to know. The cops don’t have it. Don’t worry, no one is going to try to figure out where it came from.”

  “What did Trent want?”

  “Me to be his asset.”

  “To do what?” Merrick asked.

  “He didn’t specify.”

  “Fuck him.”

  “Yep.”

  Merrick stopped unscrewing the lid. Reached into a rucksack and pulled out a bag of ammunition. “My latest batch.” He handed it to Kane, then went back to the lid.

  Kane looked inside. Several boxes of .22 caliber.

  Merrick put the lid aside and handed another oilcloth package to Kane. He unwrapped a High Standard in mint condition. There was no serial number that needed to be etched away. These were made for direct consumption by the CIA. Diverted years ago from 1st Special Forces Group in Okinawa which had handled logistics for covert ops in Vietnam. How these ended up here was a long story.

  “Check this out.” Merrick unwrapped a larger item. “My weapons man would give his right nut to get his hands on this.”

  Twenty-two inches long with a folding metal frame stock, made of stamped metal, the Swedish K submachine gun was a classic among Special Forces. The box magazine held 36 staggered 9 by 19mm rounds, more than comparable submachine guns. It only had an automatic mode, but the cyclic rate was so slow, a capable gunman could fire single shot accurately via trigger control.

  Kane held out his hand.

  Merrick feigned surprise. “Seriously?”

  “You wouldn’t have shown it if you weren’t offering.”

  Merrick laughed and handed it over. “Are you going to war?”

  Kane fired the .45, the recoil familiar and solid. Emptied and dropped the magazine as the slide locked to the rear. Reloaded, unlocked. Fired another magazine, shredding the silhouette they’d set up on the range. All head shots.

  “For a city boy, you can shoot,” Merrick acknowledged.

  Kane picked up the magazines, wiping them clean. Then he policed the expended brass from thirty minutes of firing. He’d also fired the K, stitching 9mm into silhouettes, familiarizing himself once more with the feel of the trigger and single shot control.

  “What’s the scoop on the Colonel?” Kane asked.

  “Last I heard he was retired in the deep woods in Maine,” Merrick said. “His wife left him.”

  “That sucks. He got a raw deal.” Kane separated 9mm and .45 brass into boxes for Merrick to take home and reload.

  The C-130 circled overhead, race-tracking to drop another stick of parachutists.

  “You have access to any smoke grenades?” Kane asked.

  Merrick shrugged. “Sure. Back at the team room. Anything else? Tac nuke maybe?”

  The latter wasn’t exactly a complete joke. The most classified mission a handful of teams in 10th Group had was to parachute in, infiltrate a target, assemble a tactical nuclear weapon and arm it. The prevailing wisdom was that the delay they were told was built into the detonator didn’t exist. A target that required a nuke was more important than a handful of Green Berets.

  “If you’re offering,” Kane said.

  The team room was the top floor a worn World War II era two story barracks, built from a set of plans that had dictated the erection of tens of thousands of similar buildings on hastily expanded military posts all over the country decades earlier. The exterior was faded white planking. The interior had a concrete floor on the first level, where the latrine was, and creaking wood on the second. How many thousands of soldiers had passed through here was evident in the ruts worn in the wood stairs.

  The team room contained a large wood table that could seat all twelve members. The team number, 225, was inlaid on top of it with tile along with a Special Forces crest etched into the surface, a labor of love and time by some past team member. A fridge was between windows, ostensibly issued to hold the team’s radio batteries, but doing double-time with beer from which Merrick helped himself. There was, of course, no air-conditioning and the open windows did little to reduce the heat.

  “Pretty much the same at it was in ’68,” Kane said.

  Merrick pointed. “New log.”

  In one corner of the room was a six-foot high log. Assorted axes and throwing knives were impaled in it. Chips of wood from previous strikes littered the floor. The walls were covered with plaques from foreign units the team had trained and conducted missions with over the years. Norwegian Jaegers, Danish Fromandkorpset, British SAS, Italian Paras, German Fallschirmjager and GSG-9 and other countries elite units. Most of the plaques had some sort of edged weapon on them along with an inscription of martial brotherhood. Kane and Merrick had participated in some of those training missions before getting their orders reassigning them to Fifth Group in Vietnam in late 1968, a deployment that had embittered Taryn, who’d returned to New York City with Joseph while Kane went off to war for a second time. She’d hoped they could settle in Massachusetts for a few years, have a semblance of family life. Kane’s return to the war had not gone over well. She hadn’t believed his lie that it was the Army
’s decision, not his own.

  Kane had dried off after a quick shower in the small stall in the open latrine. He’d shaken the dirt from his jungle fatigue pants and put on a fresh gray t-shirt. Slid on his denim shirt. The Swedish K, extra .45, and ammunition were in the trunk of the Shelby along with a half-dozen smoke and CS grenades. Merrick had given him several boxes of specially loaded 9mm rounds for the K. Along with hot loads for the .45 in the holster. The High Standard was in the map case.

  “Have any det cord?” Kane asked. “Blasting caps? C-4?”

  “How much shit are you in?” Merrick asked.

  “I’ve got the CIA, the NYPD and a mafia enforcer all up my ass. Things have been better. I need to be able to defend as needed. My place has been broken into twice already”

  Merrick looked uneasy. “We had some douchebag in Third Battalion try to sell C-4 to some assholes in Boston and get caught. The brass has done shakedown inspections since then.”

  Kane stared at him. “You don’t have the goodies box?”

  “This ain’t ‘Nam,” Merrick muttered. But he led the way across the hall to a room that held a dozen wall lockers. Rucksacks rested on top, packed ready for deployment. There were several large, green wooden boxes with locks on them containing the team’s radios, engineering and medical gear. Several barbells were scattered on rubber mats along with two benches. On the interior wall was a section of heavy pegboard with ten-inch wood pegs inserted in various holes.

  “The old wall,” Kane noted.

  “A few of the guys still work out on this,” Merrick said. Then he showed that he was one of those guys as he grabbed two pegs and stuck them in the highest holes he could reach. Pulled himself up with only his arms. Stuck out his right foot and rested it on a peg already in place. Advanced one hand up, then the other until his head just below the ceiling. Spread his feet to rest on pegs. Pushed upward on the ceiling and a section lifted out of place. The lines were so perfect it had been unnoticeable unless someone knew what they were looking for.

  Merrick climbed into the attic dead space and out of sight. A minute later he lowered a box. Kane grabbed it and set it on the ground.

  “I’ll wait up here,” Merrick said, tossing him the key ring.

  Kane opened the box. An assortment of demolitions, grenades, mines, and ammunition, all of it illegal outside of the ammo depot or a war zone.

  He took C-4, a box of blasting caps, a roll of det cord and put it in his rucksack.

  “Engineer is going to be up my ass when he sees it gone,” Merrick complained from the edge of the hole. “Took him quite a few range trips to scrounge this.”

  Kane checked the rest. Appropriated two frag grenades. Then a green bag containing a Claymore.

  “Booby traps in a private dwelling are against the law.” Merrick added: “I think.”

  “We both know about the law.”

  “No shit. Remember, front toward enemy.”

  “What if I’m surrounded?”

  “Then you can attack in any direction,” Merrick said.

  Kane closed the box, locked it. He passed it to Merrick who pulled it into its hiding place, then replaced the ceiling and climbed down.

  “You want to go to the Fort?” Merrick asked, referring to a bar right outside the gate in Ayer. “Some people you know from the old days will probably be there.”

  “Got a long day ahead,” Kane said.

  “Heading back to the city?” Merrick asked as Kane shouldered the ruck.

  “Got a detour to make first,” Kane said.

  They walked outside into the bright sun.

  “There’s a bad heat wave coming this week,” Merrick said.

  “I’ve heard.” Kane stuck out his free hand. “I appreciate your help.”

  Merrick reached past the hand, gripping his former teammate’s forearm. Kane wrapped his hand around Merrick’s forearm, the greeting they’d originated on the team in Vietnam after someone said that was how Roman Centurions greeted each other. Probably total bullshit, but the tradition had taken. As had the next:

  “Lions and tigers and bears, oh my,” Merrick said.

  Kane gave the reply. “Yea, though I walk through the valley in the shadow of death I will fear no evil, for I am the meanest motherfucker in here.”

  “But watch out for the flying monkeys,” Merrick warned. “They show up when you least expect them.”

  WEST POINT, NEW YORK

  Despite four years of blood, sweat and tears while wearing Cadet gray, and the eventual bestowing of the Ring, a diploma, and a commission, Kane felt like an interloper as he drove the Mustang through the village of Highland Falls to the main gate and onto the hallowed grounds of the United States Military Academy. Of course, two of those three bestowments were no longer part of his life.

  The battlements of the Thayer Hotel frowned down on him from the right, as disapproving in their own way as Mrs. Ruiz. To the left was Buffalo Soldier Field, where cadets played required intramurals during the Academic year. A sidewalk edged by a stonewall appeared on the right, overlooking the Hudson. Officer quarters were on the slope to the left as he approached the main ‘campus’ of the Academy.

  Despite the air-conditioning as promised by the Kid, his hands were sweaty on the wheel. No matter how much time or distance a graduate chiseled out away from the Academy, most had a Pavlovian response upon returning. A twisted knot of dread that rose from the pit of the stomach and spread through the chest. Unbidden, the ‘Sunday Night Poop’, part of the plethora of irrelevant nonsense every plebe had to memorize, intruded unbidden into consciousness: Six bells and all is well. Another weekend shot to hell. Another week in my little gray cell. Another week in which to excel. Oh, hell.

  The Academy even made its misery formal.

  For Kane the feeling had initiated unbidden as he drove across the Bear Mountain Bridge from the east side of the Hudson via Route 202. He supposed there were graduates who grew excited as they approached their alma mater; MacArthur probably had a hard on as he’d been driven from the city to give his epic Duty, Honor, Country speech.

  Kane slowly drove past the old hospital, then buildings named after significant figures in the Academy’s history: Sherman Barracks which, interestingly, was across a courtyard from a mirror image: Lee Barracks. Grant Hall. Pershing Barracks. The buildings were sheathed in gray stone. He turned right after passing Bartlett Hall and parked on the roof of Thayer Hall, the former indoor riding hall overlooking the Hudson that had been converted to classrooms with few windows to enjoy the view.

  Kane walked toward the Plain, stopping near Patton’s statue. Old Blood and Guts, class of 1909, cast in bronze, had his famous pistols on his hips, a helmet on his head and his hands held a pair of binoculars as if he were searching for a new enemy; another warrior who’d wilted without a war to fight.

  Kane gazed across a tennis court. There were new barracks flanking the Mess Hall and the statue of George Washington; they’d been under construction when he’d graduated. In front of them was the flat green parade ground. He could smell the freshly cut grass. Kane was trying to recall and drawing fuzzy images.

  Even in summer, the Military Academy was bustling with activity. Beast Barracks for the future class of 1981 was a week old. Squads of New Cadets were drilling on the Plain under the harsh supervision of upperclassmen. The latest additions to the Long Gray Line stumble-marched, hair shorn, brains overloaded, emotions savaged, most of them in a condition approaching shock, the infamous tearing down to build something new, not just a warrior, but a leader of warriors.

  That was the theory since the Academy’s founding in 1802 by Thomas Jefferson, a surprise move by a mostly anti-military President. His goal had been three-fold: to establish a cadre of officers for the fledgling Army that wasn’t aristocratic; one drawn from all parts of the nation to avoid being politicized; and finally to train engineers for a country that was rapidly expanding.

  The members of ‘81 weren’t Plebes yet, having to get t
hrough the hell of eight weeks of Beast in order to gain that lowly title. They were New Cadets. Beanheads. Smacks. Crots. Among the nicer things they were called by the cadre, many bent on regurgitating the abuse they’d suffered a few years earlier.

  An anomaly caught his eye. Some of the New Cadets were different. It took Kane a moment to understand. A new wrinkle that had started with the class of 1980, which had entered the previous year in 1976, was a sprinkling of women among the New Cadets. Their forms singled them out from their peers. He experienced a moment’s compassion because if they could be spotted so easily, it meant they couldn’t ‘ghost’, a key survival tactic for Beast and plebe year. That was one area in which Kane had actually had an advantage due to his childhood in the Bronx. He’d mastered ghosting when taking the subway to high school, where one never made eye contact or drew attention. It didn’t occur to him he’d learned it at an even younger age when everyone in the home whispered and walked on tiptoes when the head of the household worked night shifts and slept during the day.

  The Yearlings, sophomores, were further west on the military reservation at Camp Buckner, receiving training on the various combat arms by a contingent from the 101st Airborne.

  Third year cadets, the Cows, were scattered around the world, training in regular Army units as a form of sub-lieutenant. The ‘cow’ designation dated back to the old days, as did most things at West Point, when the only leave the cadets received in their four years was a long break between the second and third years. The cadets would travel home by train, horse, boat and foot, to mother’s cooking and come back to the Academy overweight and out of shape; thus Cows.

  The newly minted Firsties were the leadership cadre at both Beast and Buckner. Top of the heap, keeping the cycle churning as it had for 175 years. They swaggered as if they owned the world, with little inkling of the dark possibilities ahead.

  Kane turned away from the spectacle. He pushed open the door to the library next to Bartlett Hall and entered this bastion of knowledge. It was practically empty since the Academic Year was weeks away, not that it was packed then either. A single, matronly woman manned the front desk. She glanced at him, then went back to cataloguing.