Yada, Yada, Yada.
********
At 1330 they arrived at Fish Lake Trailhead leading to Cheney Trailhead and began their hunt on the asphalt trail surface which was radiating a nauseating ray of heat, but W.W. and his kittens were acclimated to the summer heat and barely noticed the sweat pouring from their bodies; they hiked along to take up the positions most favorable for attack.
About a mile along the trail, W.W. posted lookout A and further along around a bend and around a mound with tall grass and a few shrubs he placed lookout B. With both lookouts in position he moved back toward the middle location between the lookouts and the other 16 kittens. He instructed the group to act as if they were taking in Nature and enjoying the rolling hill and sharply shaped basalt geological remnants.
Several lone hikers and a few couples passed by W.W and his group but they were ignored; they were waiting to cash in on the BIG kill.
After almost an hour of waiting and watching W.W. had his kittens disperse in groups of twos down and up the trail and then they looped back and started over. If the lookouts spotted anything of killing interest, they were to alert W.W. via their walkie-talkies.
Another 45 minutes passed before W.W. received word from his down trail lookout that a group of 11 hikers were headed toward him and the trailhead.
W.W. signaled to his kittens; that is, the ones he could see on the trail to get ready to attack. The kittens he could not see knew the routine, so they immediately headed toward the center, so to speak.
The kittens kept their handguns in their fanny packs … out of site. Those with the long knives wore long pants so they could hide the weapons undercover within the denim trousers. They made sure the blades were sheathed to prevent cutting themselves but also made sure they were easily accessible and ready for action.
Yada, Yada, Yada.
Anyway, as the 11 worn out hikers who had hiked for miles in the heat and early morning downpour and then heat again smiled as they walked up to and started to go by their stalkers and their soon to be executioners.
As soon as lookout A and B radioed W.W. that the coast was clear on their ends with no one in sight hiking either direction on the trail, W.W. signaled for his kittens to attack and with a vengeance they did attack. Firing round after round at the 4 man, 4 woman and 3 children group their bodies were scattered on the ground and most were mortified the instant they were shot and those that were still barely alive received the indignity of a face full of tobacco juice spit on them by the kittens. Then in short order the kittens lopped off their heads and kicked those heads like soccer balls off the trail and into the tall grass and as a last act of indignity a few of those bodyless heads received another face full of warm, thick, tobacco spit.
Meanwhile, W.W. stood back on top of a small mound and viewed the carnage with glee. When his kittens finished their work, he instructed them to search and pilfer the bodies for valuables—even kittens have to eat, and eating isn’t cheap unless you be a flesh-eating cannibal and that kind of meat is abundant.
As dark clouds raced across the sky above them and as they could feel the wind pick up and the first rain drops fall on them, W.W., satisfied with today’s events called in his kittens and in haste they made their way, soaking wet from the downpour with lightning flashing and booms of thunder at their backs they made it to their vehicles and got back on the road toward Liberty’s End Compound.
“Yada, Yada, Yada,” the kittens chorused as they loaded into the vans and were only silenced as they loaded up with more chew.
CHAPTER 7
THE DAYMARE
Note: From Jake Your Narrator: The three Curmudgeon teams drove out from their motel at 0600 and each headed toward their assigned area in the Palouse and Scablands to investigate previous mass murders. Team 1 with Bessie Mae driving along with Sue and Crockett were headed to Palouse Falls Trail. Team 2 with JoAnn driving with Patch sandwiched in the back with Brown Eyes on his right and Mustang Sally on his left side headed to Staircase Rapids. Team 3 with L. Lovey driving her sister K. Lovey riding shotgun, with Hell and Two Green Eyes and Nelly in the back headed toward Washtucna Coulee.
Patch was glancing out the windows at the landscape as the Sun climbed from the East quickly lighting up and warming the area. Brown Eyes and Mustang Sally had laid their heads on Patch’s shoulder and were dozing off. Patch didn’t mind because he did not notice … he was suffering from an acute anxiety attack … these attacks were rare in daytime while he was awake but he was half awake and half in the la-la land of sleep. The fact is he was experiencing a dayware.
A dayware … what is that?
A dayware = day + (night)mare … that is what it is.
So, while JoAnn drove them toward their destination Patch was experiencing a dayware in the form of a flashback … a recurring flashback that haunted him from time to time.
The flashback?
The dayware?
Yes, here it is:
Patch was recalling his retirement ceremony from the United States Navy. Standing tall in full dress white with medals and sword he listened to the Commanding Officer of Bremerton Shipyard recount Patch’s exemplary career. The CO said, Chief Warrant Officer Patch is one of the most decorated sailors of all time … a real-life hero, for sure.”
"Hero? Incredible? Bullshit!" Patch muttered to himself, cringing a bit now, feeling the old wounds opening wider, the blood-flow gaining momentum.
The CO continued, “... It all began in December 1967 when, as a Chief Petty Officer, Mr. Patch reported aboard Tomahawk, moored at Riverine headquarters on the Quang Ni Tri River near the Mekong Delta. The Tomahawk was an experimental fast patrol gunboat. It was much larger than the smaller Patrol Boat Rivercrafts or PBR's that had been patrolling the delta region for months. Forty-five feet in length and ten feet in breadth its fiber glass hull accommodated a larger crew, more armament, pathfinder radar and fathometer along with two larger, more efficient engines ..."
Patch had no trouble remembering the Tomahawk, her crew and that fateful day ... A regular PBR consisted of a crew made up from five to six members, with a Chief Petty Officer or First-Class Petty Officer in command. The Tomahawk, on the other hand, was commanded by a full lieutenant by the name of Meede -- Blackjack for short. Blackjack had two other young officers assigned under him: Ensigns Harvey Lynch and Wilbert (the Dilbert) Edsinger. Both young men were fresh out of the Naval Academy. Blackjack was an NROTC graduate, Ensign Edsinger had been assigned as Engineer under Instruction. The rest of the twelve-man crew was made up of Seamen and Gunner's Mates, and with the arrival of Chief Patch, the Tomahawk had its full complement.
The Tomahawk's engineering plant had been designed to provide propulsive power through twin diesel engines via a water-jet drive-train assembly that had never been used in combat before. The water-jets provided the thrust necessary to propel the boat through shallow waters at record speeds without using propellers. Patch had received specialized training on this new engineering plant. Not only was it his responsibility to keep the plant in good running order, he had also been tasked with monitoring and recording the plant's performance during the upcoming test phase, basically he was conducting a pilot study of a new propulsion system.
Tomahawk's armament included twin-fifty caliber machine guns with splinter shields mounted forward and two 20mm machine guns mounted aft, one on either side. An 81mm swivel-mounted mortar with a 20mm machine gun attached to it for close-range sighting was mounted just forward of the flying bridge. Aft of the bridge and just forward of the engine compartment, a new experimental multiple rocket launcher had been installed.
In addition to the heavier armament, there were assorted small arms, M-79 grenade launchers and hand grenades on board, Ensign Lynch's primary responsibility was to monitor all weapons systems, and if the opportunity presented itself, to record their effectiveness in combat.
If the Tomahawk proved itself successful, the Navy planned to use her and other craft like her in river interdi
ction operations involving search-and-destroy missions on the rivers in the Delta region.
It took Patch almost a week to get used to the tropical climate and to the boat itself. There was one thing, however, that he never got used to. From the very first day, everywhere he went, Ensign Edsinger was right there with him like a shadow. Patch did his best just to ignore the inquisitive young man. Ensign Edsinger, however, didn't seem to recognize that he was being ignored. He stayed right with Patch and whenever Patch looked at the young Ensign, Edsinger would be wearing a big shit-eating grin on his wide, oval face. But there was something weird, Patch noticed, about Edsinger and his smile. Every time Patch caught him with that smile on his face, the young man's eyes looked strange ... out of synchronization with the rest of his smiling face. "Those steel blue eyes are really weird," Patch had told himself. To him they looked like they were ... well, the truth be told Patch didn't know what they were or what they looked like. He couldn't put a finger on it ... not then he couldn't.
Patch was a good engineer; no question about that. He took his job seriously and enjoyed keeping busy. Being a loner by nature, he kept to himself most of the time. At first, he had overlooked Edsinger's constant presence. And, after a week or so, when Edsinger finally started asking questions, Patch had also put up with that. But, when three weeks had passed and Edsinger started making his own suggestions, then the story changed. Patch's thin patience cracked. He became belligerent and didn't hesitate to jump on the Ensign at every opportunity, reminding him that he, Chief Patch, was the Chief Engineer and that he, Ensign Edsinger, was the fucking trainee.
Curiously enough, Ensign Edsinger took it all in stride. Actually, he took everything in stride. He was one of those big, dumb, clumsy-looking fellows. He smiled a lot, giving onlookers the false impression that he was out to lunch all the time (aren’t most Ensigns?). Patch had him pegged as a weirdo, of course. But looks can be deceiving and in Edsinger's case, they were. Patch was always hidden deep within himself. Edsinger was different; he radiated a presence that said, "Hey, I like everybody." Perhaps this is why Patch disliked him. More than likely though, it probably stemmed from the fact that Patch disliked just about everyone.
"... The crew of the Tomahawk was made up of unique young men. They were men of uncommon talent and courage ... "
"... They were uncommon men who risked their lives daily. On the morning of March 28, 1968 ... "
It was one of those hot, muggy, cloudless mornings. Tomahawk got underway and headed south. There was a gentle breeze and the sea had a slight chop to it. The boat skimmed through the water effortlessly at forty knots. Patch was monitoring the gauge-board in the engine room. Edsinger was on the open bridge with Blackjack and Ensign Lynch.
After an hour or so, Blackjack ordered a more southwesterly heading at the confluence of three rivers and the Tomahawk turned with ease, leaving a small rooster tail in its wake. They hugged the mountainous coastline just below Saigon, in route to the Mekong Delta and one of the mouths of the lengthy Mekong River.
From the Tibetan Highlands, starting as little more than a trickle, the Mekong springs forth and threads its way through eastern Tibet and forms the boundary between Burma and Thailand on the west and Laos on the east. Traversing Cambodia and South Vietnam, it empties through a series of distributaries that crossover a triangular-shaped fan delta into the South China Sea.
It was toward one of these distributaries of the Mekong River that Tomahawk was now heading.
Turning to the right, they entered the Tri Nang So distributary. This particular mouth of the Mekong was about three miles wide but began to narrow as they moved along. The riverbanks were lined with dense jungle growth. Beyond the jungle vines were acres of rice paddies.
With a relatively straight stretch of river ahead of them, Blackjack ordered Patch to standby for highest speed as the test phase was about to begin. Patch checked the instrumentation and reported that all was ready. Blackjack brought the Tomahawk's speed up slowly: Forty-five, fifty and then fifty-five knots. The boat literally flew over the water like an unlimited hydroplane. Edsinger and Lynch were standing on either side of Blackjack, holding on tightly. Patch was strapped into his control seat in front of his engine room gauge-board, smiling. He loved the feel of the thrust generated by the whining water-jets.
The river continued to narrow, and the fathometer echoed back shallower depth readings with each passing minute.
Edsinger reported that the radar was malfunctioning. He was twisting the control knobs as they entered into a strange-looking world. It was a flat area -- flat as a table-top mesa, but much lower in elevation, barely above sea level. On both sides of them, the jungle growth thickened with the yellow-green vines jutting right out into the river itself. The dense foliage was literally crawling with hideous-looking insects and poisonous snakes. Beyond the jungle, they could see the endless rice paddies, but now the river was no longer straight -- it was beginning to twist and turn. This was the part of the test-run Blackjack had been both eager and apprehensive about -- eager because he knew that Tomahawk wouldn't successfully pass its test unless it was able to maneuver tricky river meanders at high speeds under varying conditions. He knew his swift-boat had to be able to negotiate sharp turns and to avoid sudden appearing obstructions and contact mines. Thus, he was eager to give his boat the ultimate test. But he was also apprehensive -- and for good reason. Unless overwhelmed in a surprise attack, receiving a mortal blow instantly, normally Tomahawk and boats similar to her would have been too much for the enemy to handle. But now they were deep within the enemy's front yard. The jungle and twisting river bends were perfect for ambush, suiting the enemy's style of fighting. Also, it wasn't uncommon for a patrol boat to hit a contact mine. If this happened to Tomahawk, it would be turned to jelly by the heat generated from such a blast. Plus, Blackjack had his crew at battle stations, knowing that any second now they could come under a heavy barrage of mortar and rocket fire. Yes, he had the crew at their stations, ready to fight if necessary, but he also knew that this particular crew was untested in actual combat. He also realized, uncomfortably, that his boat was further disadvantaged because its radar was down. They wouldn't be able to detect the presence of enemy small-craft ahead or behind them, lurking, waiting, hidden within the cover of thick vines and behind the many twists and turns of the river.
They were skimming along at a slower pace now. The river was no more than fifty yards wide and the foliage was so thick and high that they could not see the rice paddies behind it. The fathometer showed a depth of ten feet. As they moved along, sterile-looking sandbars began to creep their way out into the river from the narrowing banks. It was time to decide.
Blackjack considered his choices: He could abort the mission and return to home base or he could ignore the fact that his radar was down and proceed as planned. He chose the latter of the two. He didn't want to return to home base with only eighty percent of the test complete. If he did so, it would mean failure; it wasn't his nature to fail, at anything; failure was not an option.
"... Mr. Patch's actions that day are legion now. They rank right up there alongside the exploits of John Paul Jones, Stephen Decatur and Howard W. Gilmore. No one else ..."
"Legion? Patch muttered to himself as he shifted his weight to his left side, trying to prevent his knees from locking on him. They were legion all right," he told himself sarcastically, remembering...
Tomahawk was skimming along at a little less than forty knots. Having made the fateful decision to continue the test-run, Blackjack was busy studying his charts, looking for just the right leg of the river to put the last phase of the test into action. He noticed that approximately two miles ahead, the river widened and then forked in two different directions. The leg they were on now continued to the left and the new leg bent sharply to the right, forming almost a perfect inverted Y on the chart. This is what he had been looking for. He figured he could accelerate about two hundred yards below the forks and be doing full-speed
by the time the boat reached the turning point. At that time he would order the helmsman to turn sharply to the right, enabling Lynch, Edsinger and Patch to record the boat's performance during the high-speed turn. He checked the width and depth figures on the chart closely. Everything checked out. He gave the helmsman a rundown on what to expect. Then he waited, scanning the narrow waterway ahead of him. He had also informed Lynch, Edsinger and Patch of his intentions: Lynch and Edsinger were at the gun and rocket mounts, giving the rest of the crew its instructions. Patch was watching his gauge-board, still smiling, happy with what he was observing.
Except for the roar of the diesels and the swish of the water-jets, it was quiet. The smell of dense foliage, silt and sewage was heavy as Blackjack strained through his binoculars, looking for a landmark that would serve as his reference point for initiating his daring plan.
The wind howled across the top of the flying bridge. Blackjack and the helmsman were leaning as far forward as they could against the railing, bracing themselves against the wind and boat’s thrust. It was almost two o'clock by Blackjack's wrist-chronometer and it was hot, but the strong wind screaming across the bridge was invigorating to the skin. The seconds ticked by. Then Blackjack spotted his reference point. Up ahead, about two-hundred yards away, he could see a finger of jungle-growth that jutted out into the river to his right. He calculated that he could swing the boat to the left, clear the finger and then straighten out and open her up.
Passing by the finger jungle-growth, Blackjack waited until the boat straightened out and then yelled to the helmsman: "FULL SPEED AHEAD!" The helmsman pushed the dual throttles all the way forward. The bow of the boat lifted as the water-jets kicked in full thrust and the fiberglass hull lunged forward through the silt-filled water.
Patch was standing now, tense, feeling the excitement and anticipation building in his body. He was holding on to a wooden handhold in front of the gauge-board. Now and then he would glance over his shoulder to see if the twin diesels were okay. They were.
Murder in the Palouse Page 6