by Thom Whalen
* * *
Riding through the night in Randal’s pickup was an eerie experience. Everything was black but for the oval beams of the headlights picking out the yellow line, the gravel on the shoulder, and glimpses of trees flashing past. The engine chugged and ticked. The tires whined against the asphalt. Randal said nothing.
We were both tired from working all day and had no idea what to expect in Utica. All we knew was that Randal’s life depended on what we could learn about Billy Paul’s last days; and that our only lead was a stranger named Gus Hadley who had once been tight with him.
After an hour on the road, it was eleven o’clock and Randal began muttering.
“What?” I asked.
“Charley,” he said. “I can feel him. Charley’s out there.”
“Who’s Charley?”
“Charley,” he said more loudly. “Charley all around.”
I looked at Randal. The night had cooled off but he was sweating profusely. Great salty beads were rolling from his hairline down his forehead. He wiped at his brow with the back of his wrist.
“We’re in the free-fire zone, now,” he said. “Get that M-sixty deployed, stat! We’re heading into an ambush. Don’t you see the sign?”
“What?”
“Lock and load, Gunner!” he shouted. “Get ready to suppress.”
“What?”
I felt the little pickup accelerate, pressing me back into my seat. “We’re committed now. We gotta run the gauntlet. No choice. We’re going for it! Hang on, soldier!”
“What?”
The pickup began to shake and rattle. We were bouncing so hard, I’d swear the wheels were leaving the road. Every bend in the highway was a unique scene in this nightmare movie.
“Incoming!” Randal screamed each syllable independently. “In! Come! Ing!” and swerved into the oncoming lane. Then back into our own lane, then across the line again. The Datsun’s aging shocks couldn’t keep the oscillations of the suspension in check. The springs whimpered in protest at the abuse. The little pickup rocked and rolled like a sassy woman’s hips.
The road was almost deserted this late at night. Almost. Headlights came around a corner less than two hundred yards away. We were in the oncoming lane. The truck’s beams pierced the darkness high above us. It was a semi, hauling a load. It couldn’t stop if it wanted to.
“Bogie at twelve o’clock!” Randal shouted. “Bogie closing fast!”
He was drowned out by the bellow of an air horn. The driver was leaning on it.
With a violent twist of the wheel, he steered back into the proper lane.
The semi’s bumper missed us by less than a foot, I swear.
The air horn was so loud, it drowned me out. That was a mercy. I didn’t want Randal to hear me screaming like a little girl.
“You can’t let ‘em take me, Gunner. No matter what. You save a bullet for me. You got that. You save the last bullet for me. You can’t let them take me again. Never again!”
The pickup practically soared over the crest of a hill. The speedometer pegged on the downgrade.
It didn’t matter that we were on a highway in upstate New York. Randal was in ‘Nam and this was combat and I knew with all my heart that I was going to die.
I had to do something.
“We got ‘em, Randal!” I yelled in desperation. “We got the bogie!”
“We got it?” The pickup slowed a mite.
“We got it. It’s down. We’re almost back at base. There’s nothing but friendlies here. We’re out of the fire zone.” I was using up every bit of jargon that I could remember from news reports and war movies.
“We’re out?”
“Yeah, captain. We’re out.”
The pickup eased back down to the speed limit.
“Whadya mean, captain? I ain’t no officer, Gunner. I work for a living.”
I didn’t know what to say so I said nothing.
Randal fell silent for a long time and kept driving toward Utica. There were more lights here. Farms, houses, some roadside businesses.
When we were almost there, he said, “I’m stateside, aren’t I?”
“Yeah. Upstate New York.”
“Good.” He shook his head. “This is a good place to be.”
After another few minutes, he said, “We got a man to see here. Gus Hadley.”
“Yup.”
Randal was bat shit crazy for sure.
I wondered if he would let me drive back to Wemsley.