Grenada, 1983
It was just last night that Spec Four Alex Dahl had been drinking gin and tonics with Jones and Mifflin in that one bar with dimly lit blue lights in downtown Seattle. Drinking so late on a school night, and so far from post was generally inadvisable, but Mifflin was a short-timer, due to be discharged in less than a month. Dahl felt that it was his personal responsibility to keep him out of trouble, and Jones was always up for a drink any given time, day or night, when protocol dictated.
They were going to head back to the barracks, but then the three girls showed up. They were college girls. Seattle was a college town. Why they ended up in this particular bar was anyone’s guess, as it wasn’t a college bar. But then again, it wasn’t a GI bar either. And it was otherwise empty. Conversation turned from shop talk, the usual military stuff and the boasting, like ‘I can make a head shot at five hundred meters with a sixteen’ or ‘I once humped a hundred pound pack sixty miles with full ammo.’ They suddenly sobered up, immediately.
Now let’s say you could assign an advisor to the scenario. Had the advisor known that the three girls were on the way in to the dimly lit bar, probably taking cover from the rain, which happened pretty much continuously in this place, he or she would have had the three soldiers relocate immediately to the round table behind the bar stools. But there was no advisor. They were on their own. The girls, however, did choose to take the round table behind the bar stools, facing the backs of the boys.
The girls were in their senior year. That meant that they were roughly the same age as the boys, maybe even slightly older. It was clear that they were GIs; all three had the characteristic short, high, and tight Ranger haircut, which was just shy of a Mohawk.
In the pecking order, Dahl was senior. In the social order, Jones was the first to seize the opportunity to hit on a girl. Mifflin never had great luck, and wasn’t terribly attractive. Girls liked Dahl, but he was somewhat shy. But they all liked the game, and hated it too. “Mind if we join you? It’s a little awkward with us sitting here with our backs to you.” Good going Jones, you nailed it on the head. Now it was a table of six.
Now the posturing turned to a different type. The dynamics would soon determine who would be paired with who. Three is an awkward number though. In a situation where there are two guys, and two girls, they pretty much pick out each other from the very start. Or, more accurately, the girls pick who they want. If it were two girls, and a lone third girl, it would be easier. The two best buds would pair it up with the two girls that arrived together. And the two loners would pair. Or not. But two groups of three becomes a special problem.
In the end, it was Jones that got lucky. Dahl and Mifflin took a cab ride back to Fort Lewis. The three girls took a cab back to their dorm at the University of Washington, along with Jones, who hit it off with the redhead. Well, good for him.
Spec Four Dahl sat on his cloth seat, with his pack in front of him, and jump gear hanging behind him, leaning forward on his M60 machine gun. The Rangers weren’t wearing their chutes, as the initial ops spec called for them to land and perform a ground deployment. Dahl was undecided about the new Kevlar helmet, referred to by the acronym of ‘PASGT.’ Unlike the trusted steel pots, it was one piece, and contained no steel shell that you could use as a washbasin or even to boil water in. And it was heavier. To his right was PFC Mifflin. Both were loaded down to the hilt and about to get their first taste of actual combat. To his right should have been Spec Four Jones, except Jones wasn’t there. He never showed up. He missed the morning alert, which was an actual combat deployment. Jones may have gotten lucky last night, but this morning, he became very unlucky. Missing a morning formation would get you a formal chewing out by Top, but that would be the end of it, as long as you didn’t turn it in to a habit. Missing a deployment, however, is generally a career ending move. He would likely perform garrison duty during the period of deployment, and then once the unit returned and things calmed down, he would likely be reassigned to a straight leg unit. Kicked out of the Rangers. They would probably send his ass to Germany. That’s where they send all of the fuck ups. It’s rumored that in a few months, they will start sending everyone that way to bulk up the presence in Western Europe.
Feeling for the black leather holster attached to his web gear, he confirmed that his sidearm, an M1911 .45 automatic pistol, was present. He had a problem with the holster latch. Normally, an Eleven Bravo ground pounder doesn’t get a sidearm, but squad level machine gunners are authorized to carry them. Carrying the pistol is more of a status symbol; if things went so badly that his primary weapon was out of ammo or not functional for whatever reason, and the enemy was close enough for the pistol to be in effect, it was probably over anyway. They used to joke that he should count the rounds as he fired them, to ensure he had at least one left for himself.
The thing about deployments is that, during a training exercise, you know it’s coming, and you can prepare for it. If it’s an all-out war, you also know about it and can plan and prepare accordingly. Grenada was neither. It was basically a neutralization mission for Grenadian and Cuban troops, as well as a rescue mission for university students and displaced governmental heads. There was no planning to speak of, just jump in planes and make it happen. So far, the mission has been one cluster fuck after another. It’s moving, just not smoothly. Just not pretty. You watch the movies. The Dirty Dozen. They make it look easy. This is no movie. It’s reality.
The vibration of the HC-130 transport aircraft made it impossible to get any sleep in route to the deployment location. Captain Tyrell Lewis was tired. He hadn’t slept in nearly twenty four hours. He was in the lead of the HC-130 ‘Talon’ aircraft, which was currently in a holding pattern seventy five nautical miles east of Point Salinas military airport in Grenada. The mission? The two lead ‘Talon’ transports would conduct a low level drop of Rangers at the end of the airfield to secure the field and clear it so the remaining three ships could land and deploy the remainder of the troops and equipment. Initially, they would capture the airfield, then race to the American university to free student hostages, among many other missions occurring simultaneously on the island, since the invasion was authorized to thwart a Cuban and potential Soviet presence.
It was a troubled mission from the start. The lead Seal team had previously lost some men in the amphibious assault. One of the UH-60 Blackhawks was shot down in an airmobile raid to free hostages at the Richmond Prison. Lewis himself had some command and control issues. He didn’t know exactly who the offenders were, although he had a pretty good idea, but he found a grenade in his office chair back in garrison. That was an administrative adaptation of the placement of a grenade in an officer’s boot, to signify that if the officer did not change his patterns of behavior to the aggressor’s liking, the next encounter with a grenade would not have the benefit of a pin in place. The act is referred to ‘fragging’ an officer.
Lewis was on the edge. Maybe it was racial. Maybe a couple of the junior noncoms felt he was riding them too hard. Maybe it was a combination. He didn’t know. A full investigation and subsequent disciplinary action had been planned, but that was all put on hold when the alert to mobilize for Operation Urgent Fury sounded.
Frankly, he was on that lead bird for the ride. He was baggage. He never should have been there. He should have been in the lagging three birds acting as the commander instead of letting his XO take charge so he could be in a different plane than Sergeant Mueller and Corporal Starr. It’s not that he didn’t trust them, but, well, it’s that he didn’t trust them. They were the subject of the investigation. It was sort of a chicken shit move, and had the Colonel got wind of the change had the mobilization been more organized and less chaotic, he would have gone ape shit.
More bad news came. An AC-130 gunship circling the area detected vehicles and personnel on the runway. That meant two things. More resistance than was previously expected, and the decision to airdrop the remaining three ships’ worth of soldiers and equipment, versus landing and unloading on the ground. That meant a frantic effort aboard the aircraft to reconfigure the Rangers and equipment with chutes. To compound matters, the number one ‘Talon’ HC-130 lost its inertial navigation system twenty five nautical miles off Point Salinas and had to call for a ‘no drop.’ Consequently, it had to fall behind the number three ship, and the decision was made to drop all at once, and several hours later, in the darkness.
The HC-130’s encountered small arms and antiaircraft fire as they made a low pass at the minimum 500 foot drop level, and deployed Rangers and equipment. Captain Tyrell Lewis found himself in the midst of a fairly large gaggle of Rangers scrambling to shed their chutes and to configure for battle.
Lewis was in a cold sweat. He made the decision to rejoin his company and take charge of it from the XO. Problem was, where the hell were they? Orders were being barked. Squads assembled. Things started working like magic. Rangers train for this kind of thing.
Out of the darkness, away from the pack, two figures appeared, as Lewis relieved himself. He recognized the faces in the faint light. They were grinning ear to ear. Mueller. Starr. The very two he needed to avoid.
“How you guys doing?” Lewis asked as he buttoned up his BDU pants.
“Swell SIR, how are you doing, SIR?” Mueller asked, in a baiting voice. It was obvious that the grenade he left didn’t get the message across.
“Look, I know you guys got some issues with me, but I’m going to ask you to put them on the shelf until we get this mission complete, you understand that?”
“We understand perfectly, SIR, we just came to help you out, SIR.” It was clear that Mueller and Starr were not there to help him out in any way, shape or form.
The first shots fired by the Ranger teams against the Grenadian and Cuban aggressors sounded off in an uneven staccato as the teams alternated advancement with covering fire. A moment later, Lewis encountered his ultimate worst dream. And it wasn’t a Cuban soldier with an AK-47 pointed at his head; the Cuban soldier would have probably preferred to take the captain hostage. No, it was an American issue M1911 .45 automatic service pistol, leveled just below the rim of Lewis’ helmet.
One single shot rang out. The bullet entered his head, but did not exit. Lewis fell backwards to the ground. Nobody ever heard it. It didn’t even make an audible noise to anyone engaged in advancing the movement to the control tower building. Mueller tossed the pistol on top of Lewis’ lifeless body.
“C’mon,” Mueller said softly to Starr. “We gotta get with the unit. Let’s kill some more motherfuckers while we can.”
Upon return from Grenada, Spec Four Alex Dahl’s next move was supposed to have been to be promoted laterally from Specialist Four, to Corporal E-4. That meant he would become a squad leader. He would trade his M-60 machine gun for an M16A1 assault rifle, like the rest of the leadership below Company Commander. And actually, it got better than that. He took and passed the E5 board and First Sergeant Wilson pinned his sergeant stripes on his uniform personally. Then, not more than two days later, the MPs came for him during the night, cuffed him, and hauled him away at gunpoint.
It was all like a very bad dream. They really wouldn’t say exactly what he was doing there; they probably didn’t know. Dahl was facing a court martial under the Uniform Code of Military Justice, not some kind of civilian trial where there were all of these rights and advisements and whatnot. There were rumors. The word in the pen was that Captain Lewis had been shot by friendly fire. As in deliberately. Murdered, in cold blood. Fragged.
Life was rough. He was in chains. There were hard work details. The MPs looked down on him as the worst traitor scum that could possibly occupy the earth.
He was cut. Bloodied. His hands were ripped from heaving the rough concrete blocks with his bare hands. But he was strong. He was pushing six feet tall, and only weighed one hundred and seventy pounds, but it was pure muscle. He had hard, angular features. He resembled a kick boxer. He was a kick boxer. He fought in semi-professional PKA full contact matches. And won. Consistently. Few people could kick his ass and those that could, outweighed him by fifty pounds or more. He had a reputation for being a skilled fighter, a damned fine machine gunner, and one of the best marksmen in the unit, with any weapon.
The two MPs clapped the nightsticks in their hands as Dahl took a shower in solitude. The stinging hot water and soap actually felt good, as it made the muscle ache seem to go away.
"You like that, you fuckin' puke?" The tall MP with a shaved head towered over Dahl, who was curled on the floor in pain, letting the warm water rain down on his body. Dahl ignored him. "I'm talking to you. And when I talk, you listen, and you respond."
Dahl continued to ignore him, staring in to space. The MP delivered a hard, swift kick to his stomach, causing Dahl to reel over in pain.
"Sarge, come on, ease up on him." The young, black MP, also with a shaved head said.
"I don't like assholes like that. Killing our own. I'm gonna head back to admin. You clean him up and take him back to his cell then."
"Yeah. Yeah sarge, I'll do that." The tall MP left the room. The young, black MP turned the water off, and tossed a brown issue towel to Dahl. Dahl didn't attempt to catch it, and it fell into the pool of water. "Man, I'll give you one more towel. One more towel. You let that get soaked, you're going back wet.” Dahl looked up at the young, black MP. He extended his arm and took the second towel. "Yeah, I know what you did." the MP spoke. "But I also believe you deserve a fair shake until your trial."
Dahl looked up at him and spoke. "I don't even know what I did. All I know, is you guys came for me in the night, cuffed me and stuffed me, and I've been getting the crap beaten out of me every goddamn day, and night."
"You don't know? You're being honest? You really don't know?"
"I really don't. Nobody will tell me."
"They say you killed a captain. Your own company commander. Captain Lewis."
"What?"
"You heard me."
"Where? How?"
"During deployment in Grenada. You shot him."
"They say I shot Captain Tyrell Lewis? Why?"
"I have no idea. Are you saying you didn't?"
"No. No! I mean, no, I didn't! Why would I shoot the man? I respected him!"
"That's not what the scuttlebutt is. Look, you're facing a court martial and a possible death sentence. I'd stay quiet for now until you can talk to your lawyer. Your JAG attorney is scheduled to visit you tomorrow."
It was a rather healthy assignment to lob to a first lieutenant, but the major felt that it would be good experience. It was a pretty cut and dry case. There was a preponderance of evidence. First Lieutenant Shatz really only had to ensure that due process via UCMJ was delivered. Dahl was pretty much beyond hope for any kind of defense. At least that's how JAG command viewed it.
He had been in the interrogation room before, sitting on the sidelines, taking notes. Then he started interviewing. He did a good job. He was careful. Meticulous. And the thing about it, was that there was absolutely no advantage career wise, or evaluation wise to do some sort of grandstand move to proclaim Dahl's innocence. He just, purely and simply, had to go through the motions.
The room was only slightly less stark and sanitized than the holding cell in which Dahl had resided for the past five days. Dahl was handcuffed, and the mere mention of a code word would have a storm of MP's descend upon the room. No, there was no expectation of privacy. This was UCMJ, not Perry Mason. The wooden table had a long history of etchings implanted from the thumbnails and metal cuff edges of inmates for a series of years. Some of the images were heartbreaking. Some disturbing. All were desperate.
Lieutenant Shatz paced the room, pretending to study the contents of the manila file folder containing the case paperwork. He did it as a reason to stall. He already studied the material. He knew it in his sleep, but he wanted some quality time. He wanted to get a read on Dahl.
Alex Dahl himself was actually somewhat in a state of acceptance and denial at the same time. He was almost beginning to doubt his own mind. He watched the lieutenant pace the room, dressed in his Class B uniform consisting of his dress green slacks, black shoes, short sleeved shirt, epaulets, and no tie.
Shatz plunked the manila folder on the table and took a seat facing Dahl. "Do you know why you're here?" Shatz asked. Dahl damn well better know.
"They say I killed Captain Lewis." Dahl replied.
"Hmm. Yes. Didn't they tell you that when they arrested you?"
"No, they didn't."
"They probably should have. They weren't required to."
"So, does that mean anything legally?"
"No, not really."
"Sir, are you on my side?"
"Sergeant Dahl, I am assigned to represent you as your defense attorney for your upcoming courts martial for the murder of Captain Tyrell Lewis, your former company commander."
In other words, no. Dahl could read between the lines. "Sir, no offense intended, but do I have a right to a civilian attorney?"
"No offense taken, sergeant. Sure. You do. They cost money though. And I can assure you that you don't have the money it will take to hire one for your case."
"I didn't do it."
"Well, I have to tell you, there is a hell of a lot of damning evidence and testimony that says you did. Before you speak, let me just tell you what's out there. First of all, your issue M1911 service pistol, the one you were issued by virtue of being an M60 gunner authorized to carry a sidearm, was found on top of Captain Lewis' body. With your and only your fingerprints on it. One shot was fired. The shot that entered the captain's head, which was ballistically determined to have been fired from your weapon."
"Sir, someone had stolen my pistol. I reported that when I turned in my sixty to the arms room."
"But you had a motive." The lieutenant said. "Two days before the mobilization alert came, Captain Lewis had discovered a live grenade placed on his office chair. It was a warning. It had your fingerprints all over it."
"Sir, I was issued three grenades at the range. I threw two. I turned the unused on back in to the arms room."
"Negative, sergeant. The inventory chit indicates that no grenades were returned. You are saying you threw two and did not throw the third?"
"That's right sir."
"Think about it. That doesn't look good."
"But I have no reason in the world to want to kill Captain Lewis."
"Is it not true, that you had an argument with Captain Lewis over a drinking incident in the barracks, and he was going to issue an Article 15 to you, costing you one or two stripes?"
"It's true, but we got through that. The first sergeant tore that Article 15 up. I mean, I have no ill feelings about that. I probably would have deserved it."
"Is it not true that you were heard citing racist comments against Captain Lewis? As well as anti-Semitic comments?"
Shatz’s eyes narrowed when he said 'anti-Semitic.' That hit home. "No, absolutely not. That's a lie." Dahl pleaded.
Shatz took a small voice recorder out of an open briefcase sitting on the table and hit the play button.
'...Lewis and the rest of the fucking niggers, and the goddamn kikes too.' Then the clip abruptly ended.
Dahl turned pale. "Sir, can you replay that voice clip in its entirety?"
"You're saying there is more?"
"Yes sir, a lot more. You're taking what I said out of context."
"So you admit, you said that."
"Sir, I was quoting someone else."
"You were quoting someone else. Who might that be?"
"Sergeant Mueller."
"Sergeant Mueller. He was the one that came forth, and reached out and provided this sound clip. He was horrified. So was the rest of his squad. I have to tell you Dahl, it doesn't look good and you have extreme odds stacked against you."
"What do you suggest I do sir?"
"You'll have your day in court. Personally, I think the best thing you can do is plead guilty, and argue that you were under extreme stress. PTSD. Maybe they will spare your life. But, any way you break it down; you're looking at a retirement condo in Leavenworth. I'm sorry Dahl, but I don't see a way to get you out of this one."
They say everything happens for a reason. Even the bad things. That's what Mom used to say. But it's hard, real damned hard, to find a positive out of this situation. It's like they weren't even listening. It's like nobody really wanted to be there in the first place, and they just wanted this whole thing to end right now so they could get on to the next court martial, get that over with too and then go drink at the O club, claiming a hard day at work and a long extended trial for being late to dinner.
And it's hard for them to be sympathetic to his plight. He was a soldier. He signed up to die if need be, no questions asked. And there were losses in the conflict. Hanks. Lejune. Personal friends of his. Would they trade their spot in heaven and their posthumous medals to be alive, sitting in the executioner's chair with the possibility of living out a tortured yet viable life? Nobody knows the answer to that. Particularly Hanks or Lejune. That decision has already been made for them. But Dahl figured if he went, he would have gone like Hanks or Lejune. Honorably, not in disdainful shame.
The worst part of it was that he didn't deserve it. He was set up. Who? Why? Mueller? Starr? Those were a couple of bad dudes. Rotten apples. They try to weed guys like them out. They do a very good job of weeding the bad ones out in Delta Force, and a pretty good job in Special Forces. But, fundamentally, Rangers have a different mission than Delta and SF. The Rangers are a quick reaction force. Character is important, but it isn't necessarily mission critical like it is in Delta and SF. That's why the Muellers and the Starrs can exist, like they can in the line units. It's a shame, frankly.
Lieutenant Shatz sat in the seat next to Dahl as the colonel in the middle of the panel cleared his throat. The colonel spoke. "Sergeant Dahl, do you wish to say anything further in your defense?"
Dahl replied with a dry throat. "Sir, with respect to the court martial board, I do not feel I have had a fair trial. I am innocent of the charges made against me."
"Sergeant Dahl, and this is the last time myself, or anyone else for that matter will address you as sergeant, I am truly sorry you feel that way. Everybody feels like they are the victim. But the fact of the matter is, we were in a state of war, fighting an armed enemy in a conflict where the absence of victory could have led a chain of events leading up to the possibility of nuclear war. We needed every man, every resource, to be functional and dedicated towards defeating the enemy. Your selfish personal vendetta against Captain Lewis, is, in my opinion, worse than leaving your unit to fight for the other side. As far as I'm concerned, you aren't just a murderer, you have committed treason."
"But sir, I..."
"Remain silent please. There is nothing further you can say at this point. The evidence has been reviewed and considered, and it is the unanimous opinion of this board that you are guilty of the charges levied against you. Sergeant Alex Dahl, this board finds you guilty of violating 918, article 118 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, for the premeditated murder of Captain Tyrell Lewis. Effective immediately, your rank is reduced to private, pay grade E1, and you will forfeit all pay and benefits. You will be reassigned to the military disciplinary barracks in Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, for the remainder of your term, which will be extended for life. The board will reconvene at a later time to consider the death penalty. Private, you are dismissed."
"Sir?" a voice spoke in the audience, addressing the colonel.
"Yes, first sergeant?"
"I'm the one that put those stripes on his shoulder. If I may sir, I feel it is my responsibility to take them back off."
"Very well, first sergeant, as you wish."
First Sergeant Wilson approached Alex Dahl, standing at attention in his dress greens, flanked by two military police guards also in dress uniform. He got very close to him, right in his face. Dahl whispered to him. "Top, do you really believe I did this?"
"I don't know, Dahl, I thought I knew you better than that. I have a damned hard time believing it, but, damn, they got you, and got you bad."
"I didn't do it, Top."
"Then may God help you at this point, Dahl, but for now, I have to do my duty."
"I understand."
Wilson looked into his eyes. They both had a level of mutual disapproval and anger towards each other, but at the same time, a huge amount of respect. Top would go to bat for him any day of the week, as easily as he would drop him in the front leaning rest position for a half hour then assign him to KP duty for a solid month. But Wilson didn't come to bat for him this time. It wasn't his place. It was out of his league. Or just maybe, Top had another agenda. It was an uncomforting thought, but it seemed like the deck was stacked against him. And somebody is doing this deliberately.
Wilson grabbed the edge of the three stripe cloth rank insignia on the right side of Dahl's dress green jacket and unceremoniously ripped it off, taking a chunk of the uniform with it. He then did the same to the left side. After that, he did the same to his sewn Ranger tabs, and lastly, he reached behind Dahl's lapel, pulled off two snap-clips, and pulled the three-row cluster of service ribbons from his chest.
The beating that night was the worst it had been. Dahl was officially a persona non-gratis at this point. At least the trip to the infirmary got him out of his cell and away from that tall, asshole MP. At one point, he actually thought that son of a bitch was going to try to fuck him in the ass. Then the young, black MP intervened.
His name was Huff. Staff Sergeant Huff. The tall MP. The asshole. The faggot. Frankly, calling that asshole a faggot was demeaning to gay people. Dahl had no issues with gay folks. But Huff could rot in hell.
It was like a perfect storm. They were going to ship him out to Leavenworth in the morning. They say Leavenworth is one of the worst nightmares an interned soldier could possibly have. The mortality rate is high, primarily due to suicide. Dahl was strong, but once in Leavenworth, there was no going back. You aren't getting out. Escapes simply don't happen. It's easier for a gold bar to walk out of Fort Knox on its own accord.
The alert came. It was a base wide alert. Another Grenada? Or was it just a readiness test? It was the first base wide alert since Grenada, so nobody, absolutely nobody, took it lightly.
They say that the military police holding facility was basically unmanned except for essential personnel. Detainees were on lockdown. MP's and guards were busy preparing for a general mobilization. Well, except for a single MP. That was Huff. He was the NCO in charge. The sound of that baton ringing on the cell bars was familiar. It drew near, and the adjacent cells were empty. Corporal Jackson wasn't there to play interference. Huff was going to beat the shit out of him again, and there would be no witnesses.
"Hey asshole, put your arms out the bars." Huff reached for his handcuffs.
"Fuck you." Dahl replied.
"You want to play it that way, huh?" Huff grabbed his Taser, unlocked the cell, and entered, with the Taser pointed at Dahl. "Turn around. Lean against the bed. And drop your pants."
"Make me, faggot."
Huff turned red. He fired the Taser straight into Dahl's stomach, then stared at Dahl in disbelief as Dahl ripped the Taser talons from his skin. Huff was unsure of whether to charge Dahl, or retreat out of the cell. It was a bit too late to retreat. His hand was occupied by the Taser. He dropped it and reached for his pistol.
That momentary inaction cost Huff his advantage. In a single motion, Dahl leapt upwards from his seated position on the bed, knocked Huff’s shooting hand aside with his right arm, hooked the back of Huff's neck with his elbow, and brought Huff's face downward, smashing his nose with his knee. He then secured Huff's nightstick, and used it to place Huff in a chokehold until he quit moving, and slumped down on the floor.
Surveillance cameras would later reveal that in the confusion, it was actually Dahl dressed in Huff's fatigues, who unlocked and locked the security doors with his keys, and walked out the front door with nobody around, vanishing into the night.
Exactly why it was that the MP staff sergeant was leaving the base in his personal vehicle, a Ford Bronco, was unclear but the junior enlisted Infantry guards weren't one to question an MP, particularly an NCO. Besides, it was people coming in they were concerned with, not people leaving.
Corporal Jackson was the first one to discover Huff, locked in the cell, which formerly held the now private Alex Dahl. He was alive, gagged, and hanging upside down by his ankles by his cuffs, which were locked to a light fixture. And Dahl didn't leave the keys, so Jackson couldn't get him down.
The commanding officer of the MP unit was a captain. He stared in disbelief as the workers used a hacksaw to break the handcuff chains apart, so that the naked man, hanging upside down by his ankles, could be freed.
"Sir" Jackson said. "I have no idea how the hell Dahl could have managed to get Huff up there, in a position like that, by himself."
"Well, corporal," the captain replied. "I'm more impressed by how he was able to get that nightstick to stay in his ass without it popping out."
Once free of the black MP armbands, Dahl looked pretty much like any other GI running around in BDU fatigues. His basic problem was that by daybreak, he would be the subject of a massive manhunt. That meant two things – he wouldn't have the luxury of driving Huff's rather piece of crap yet serviceable Bronco much longer, nor could he parade around in a military uniform much longer either, particularly one so ill fitting.
Instinctively he drove south. Fort Lewis is very close to Seattle. Canada was a stone's throw away, however, attempting a border crossing either way would be a grave mistake. Perhaps they might expect him to flee to Canada. He could have made the border before all hell broke loose if he wanted to, but there were several things wrong with that. He had no identification. At the very least, he'd need a driver's license to cross back into the United States. He couldn't use Huff's. Plus he had little money and no Canadian currency. And it gets cold in Canada. The best plan was to go south. They would probably expect him to travel the Interstate on I-5 to get some mileage away from Fort Lewis, and that is exactly what he did.
It was early morning by the time he reached Portland. He couldn't keep driving the Bronco. He knew that. He also needed some clothes. The problem of clothes was fairly easy to solve. He happened to spy a Salvation Army clothes drop in an empty shopping center. He almost went there, but the probability of finding a set of clothes that would render him fairly inconspicuous was improbable. There was, however, a discount clothing store in the lot. It was a fairly run down lot, and while some of the stores had security systems, this one did not. It wasn't a chain, just a mom and pop store. Philosophically, Dahl wasn't a crook. He didn't believe in robbing people and stealing their stuff, particularly mom and pop store, but he was in survival mode. These were extenuating circumstances.
Huff's folding pocketknife easily defeated the store's back door, which was not secured with a deadlock. Why, in this day and age, a store wouldn't have a deadlock was something that made no sense, but then again, maybe they don't expect much crime here. But there is the old adage – you get what you pay for. The loose bins of clothing items looked like the Salvage Army collection. Huge, gigantic jeans with gaudy stitching. Almost nothing looked normal in here. It took some doing, but he managed to scrounge a couple pairs of decently fitting jeans and some slacks, and some polo shirts, a collared shirt, a belt, athletic shoes, socks, a travel bag, and a warm jacket. And, Huff’s issue 1911 A1 pistol.
Huff's wallet, sans his cash and credit cards, and his uniform and boots, were unceremoniously thrown in a dumpster. The two hundred and fifty dollars in cash would certainly secure him a bus ride out of town, but he could neither afford to squander cash, nor could he risk public transportation. He climbed back in the Bronco, which had less than an eighth of a tank of gasoline in it, and drove in the outskirts of Portland, and passed a salvage yard. The yard itself was gated but there were two rows of broken and partially dismantled vehicles sitting outside in the gravel. Dahl parked the Bronco in one of the rows, found a small tool kit in the back of the Bronco, removed the plates, and chucked them in the engine bay of a rusting semi on blocks, where they wouldn't be found for years possibly.
A thought occurred to Dahl. He wasn't within walking distance of anything that could serve as transportation, and that included a functional car that could be hotwired. Leaving the Bronco here didn't really serve that much of a purpose. Who cares if it was discovered? Any place he might leave it, he would be hundreds of miles away before it mattered when they found it. He climbed back in to the Bronco, and headed back towards the Interstate, heading south, stopping at the first truck stop he encountered. The Bronco ran out of gas on the off ramp.
Trucks. They drove hard, and they drove far. How wise was it to hitch a ride? By sunup, the local news networks, if not the national news networks, would have his face plastered all over the television screens. But a truck ride wasn't entirely off the table. They didn't just haul box trailers. There were quite a few flatbeds parked in the lot, hauling various pieces of large equipment, steel and concrete structures. Like the truck carrying precast manholes. He could camp out in one of those. Just have to be careful of where they are going. If these things were made in the United States, they were probably headed north. The truck was Canadian. Maple leafs were stenciled on the manholes. That meant on thing – they were made in Canada. Rest assured they weren't heading back to Canada. No telling where exactly they were going, but anyplace away from here is better than here.
Despite the cold chill, the manhole itself provided some shelter from the wind and the exposure. Dahl put on three layers of shirts, two layers of pants, and curled up in the jacket inside the concrete structure. He actually fell asleep. He was completely exhausted from the previous week and a half of constant abuse and torture. The day was starting to break as he woke from the gentle rocking of the flatbed trailer, as the massive Peterbilt diesel tractor cycled through its gears, and gained speed on the Interstate. Dahl went back to sleep, unaffected by the noise of the road. He was cold. Even the multiple layers didn't eliminate the chill that filtered through the crevices of the concrete structures as the rig sped down the freeway.
He was a free man. But just like they used to say in grade school in civics class, freedom has a price. The one thing he needed and did not have was a source of income. He would need food. He was starving as it was. The meager lunch meal he ate in the cell, which tasted a bit like it was spiked with urine was the last thing he ate. The absence of a glycogen buildup from proper nutrition only added to the bone chilling cold.
The rig made a couple stops. It was already dark, nearly ten PM by the time it reached its apparent destination. Dahl had been on the road for over fifteen hours. The location was unmistakable. The Las Vegas skyline was unique. The manholes were probably destined for the massive grading operation for some sort of residential subdivision. It was too late to receive them, and the trucker was likely resting in his sleeper. They would be unloaded in the morning. Staying aboard for the night was a no-go. He needed food, badly, and water. And warmth. He knew from experience that hypothermia was about to set in. He learned that in a deployment to Alaska. He could still move. He hadn't stood up in the entire time, and badly needed to relieve himself.
He climbed off the trailer, and heard a sharp voice. "You! Who's there, eh?" It was the truck driver.
"Sorry. I was just trying to find a place to sleep." Dahl replied.
"Well, don't be sleeping in my truck. Move along now."
A Canuck. Was he listening to the news? Who knows? Could he put two and two together, and surmise that the individual might be Dahl on the run? Possibly. Would he even care? Probably not.
As luck would have it, the walk to a gas station, with a fast food restaurant on the opposite corner, was not far. It was about to close its doors for the night. Again, cash conservation was key. Dahl ordered a small hamburger off the under a dollar menu. “We’re going to be locking the doors in five minutes.” was the manager’s announcement as he made one last sweep of the restrooms. Dahl slipped into the restroom, and crouched on top of the toilet lid holding his bag, waiting for the manager to open the door again to ensure he was gone. The door opened and closed again. He took the bait.
A short while later he heard the last of the employees walk through the front door, and then the sharp click of the rotary lock set as the front door was secured. Dahl exited the restroom and examined the restaurant. The doors were alarmed but there were no movement sensors internally, at least that he could tell. He wasted no time in firing up the grill, still warm from use, and a deep fryer, and cooked up a healthy meal of several half pound frozen hamburger patties, buns, onion rings, and fries. Over the course of a two hour cooking spree, he consumed four double hamburgers with all the fixings, a whole bag of onion rings, and enough leftover patties and buns to fill three plastic salad tubs. This would be enough food to last a couple of days at least.
Dahl was sound asleep on the restroom floor when the sound of the front door lock set jarred him awake. It was still dark outside, and the opening crew would most likely attribute the mess on the grill and deep fryer to an inattentive night crew. He slipped out the doorway unnoticed, and headed to the highway.
The big question was where to go from here. Dahl was youngish looking, with sharp cut features and short, close cropped hair, and he was developing some beard stubble. His presence was more commanding than his outward appearance would initially indicate. He was thin and wiry, resembling any other young homeless vagrant traveling the country in search of handouts and some undefined destination. He was far enough away from Washington that he probably didn't have to worry too much about getting caught, as long as he didn't fuck up and get picked up by the cops for doing something stupid. He thought about the gun in his travel bag. It was both an asset and a liability at the same time. But, then again, rationally, if it came to the point where the cops would be searching his stuff, it was all over anyway. One run of the prints through the NCIC and it would be all over.
The year was 1981. They nicknamed him ‘the kid’ for his youngish appearance. They were all older, mostly cops, ex-cops, and the weekend paramilitary survivalists. The only guy close to his age was the guy in his twenties that organized the events. They would meet out in the middle of the desert at an improvised shooting range, which would be configured for every urban combat scenario imaginable, including bar counters and vehicle props. It was the local combat handgun competition league. There wasn't a hell of a lot else to do in the middle of the Mojave high desert in Kern County, California.
The one thing that Alex Dahl was really good at, in addition to being a practiced martial artist, was marksmanship. Pistol, rifle, shotgun, you name it, Dahl could send rounds where they needed to go, more accurately than everyone else, and faster than everyone else. After one season, Mark decided to move him to the advanced class. He held his own, and came in second place at the end of the season, losing only to one of the members who spent years shooting in national competitions.
The awards ceremony was somewhat awkward. Dahl was eighteen, not quite only enough to drink legally, however, this was a place and a time where generally people didn't get that uptight over it. They were all ordering beer at the pizza restaurant. Dahl wanted to be different. The waitress approached him to take his drink order. “What would you like?”
“I'd like to get a glass of wine.” Dahl replied.
“What kind?”
“The cheapest!”
He will be all right. The crowd of men laughed and joked about Dahl’s remark.
They say Roger had connections to the mercenary world. He was reputed to be ex-Special Forces. Some say he was a former CIA spook. He wasn't one to either confirm or deny the rumors. But corner him in private, and he can talk the talk like he actually knows what the hell he’s talking about. He had a thick, short white beard, and he had access to weaponry most could only read about in magazines.
Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was simply the need to generate business. As the crowd started to break up, Roger took a seat next to Dahl at the end of the long wooden bench, out of earshot of the others. Dahl was picking at the last remaining slices of that chicken pizza with Alfredo sauce that Mark liked but nobody else seemed to care for.
“Hey kid,” Roger spoke in a subdued and slightly gruff tone. “What do you plan on doing?”
“What do you mean?” Dahl asked.
“I mean for a living. I know you're screwing around with those classes in the community college.”
“Navy maybe. Marines maybe. As an officer. I want to get my degree and go to OCS.” Officers Candidate School was good enough for Pops, right?
“What do you want to do there?”
“Fly. Be a pilot.”
“I see. Anybody ever tell you what your odds are of getting a pilot training slot? Even the academy guys have to fight for those. And they have first dibs.”
“Yeah, that’s what people are telling me. Sometimes I want to say screw it and enlist in the Army. You know, Green Berets and all that.”
“Now you're talking. I think you have a good aptitude at that. I think you have a good heart for it. I think you have just enough of that inside craziness you could make it work.”
“Thanks.”
“But I got an alternative for you that you may want to consider...What do you know about mercs?”
“Mercs, as in mercenaries?”
“Yeah, that.”
“I don't know, I read about those guys in the magazines. Gung Ho, Soldier of Fortune. Seems like a hard gig to land.”
“It's not a hard gig to land, you just have to know the right people.”
“I don't know the right people.”
“Maybe you do know the right people, you just don't know it. If you did, is that an option you would consider?”
It actually was an option Dahl was willing to consider. He was getting stir crazy in the desert. He wanted to do something. Be something. And not in two years. Right now. “I'm listening.”
“There is an opposition force being formed in Zimbabwe, formerly known as Rhodesia prior to 1980, to take the country back from Mugabe. Word on the street is that one of Robert Wall’s men, a general, is behind it.”
“Who is Robert Walls?”
“Head of the Zimbabwe Army; he reports to Mugabe. Anyway, I can get you a slot in that force, a paid ticket to Africa, and a check for ten thousand dollars as a sign on bonus.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
"Sounds risky."
"It is risky. Two years ago, I signed a group to join the Rhodesian Foreign Legion. The following year when Rhodesia fell, all but one were killed. That one that survived, however, is doing handsomely in Somalia right now."
"I'll think about it, but I just don't know. I've already been talking to an Army recruiter."
"The offer stands, any time. It's rare that I come across the right combination of skill set and intelligence."
Dahl's energy was restored as he walked along the side of the lightly traveled highway. He could see the Vegas skyline out there. He thought about Roger. It's been, what? A little over three years since they had that conversation in the pizza restaurant? Is he still there? Of course he's still there; he's a desert rat.
In a sea full of dead ends, non-opportunities, and an endless barrage of people that want to do you in, no matter what you do and who you are; Roger might possibly be the key here. Kern County, California. The Mojave Desert. That's the key. If there were one person that could possibly set Dahl on some sort of sustainable track, it would be Roger. At least, that's how Dahl rationalized it. Dahl didn't grow up in the desert. When he left the Philippines with his parents after high school, he associated those islands as home. He loved those islands. He didn't really love the desert. To the casual observer, the desert was lifeless. To the pheasant hunter or mountain walker, the desert was anything but lifeless, but it was still arid, stark and plain.
There was another reason to go there, however. Maria Stoddard. Her long, bleach blonde hair and blue eyes captivated him. They took a couple of classes together. Dahl may have been many things, but a ladies' man he was not. It would be a skill that he would eventually develop in life, but not after years of awkward and strained attempts at forming relationships. Maria was arguably the first girl, who just happened to be drop dead gorgeous, that he could actually talk to, and communicate with on a civil and intellectual level. But he didn't fail. He feared rejection more than he feared death itself. No, he didn't fail. He didn't even try. But, as he was beginning to learn, failing to try was a failure within itself.
A Nevada Highway Patrol car passed by him, then it slowed down, did a U-turn on the highway, doubled back, and stopped beside him. “Fuck,” Dahl muttered under his breath. I hope this cop isn't an asshole.
"You going someplace?" A female voice asked.
He hadn't even contemplated that question. He was headed to California, but he was walking the wrong way. For that matter, he didn't know where he was even. At least, not exactly. Let's just keep things simple, and try to ditch this lady. "I'm headed to Vegas."
The cruiser slowly crawled at idle as he walked. She was looking at something. Flipping through sheets of something. Eyeing him. "It's a long way."
"I know, I'll be alright." He knew what she was looking at. Wanted printouts.
"You got a name?"
"Sam Hill."
A call came over the radio. She responded, did an abrupt U-turn and sped away with lights flashing.
He suddenly realized that he was vulnerable. Real vulnerable. Walking alongside the road was a no-go. That could have gone badly. He turned around, and walked back towards the enclave with the gas station, fast food restaurant, and trucks staged at the side waiting to unload their cargo. The large bearded Canadian man was standing outside of his cab, securing the chains on his now empty flatbed trailer. Dahl engaged him. "Excuse me?"
"Yes?" The man asked, not pausing to hang the tie down chains on the side carriers.
"I'm lost. Can you tell me how to get to Ridgecrest, California?"
"What? Where is that, eh?"
"Never mind."
"Hold on. Just give me a couple minutes and I'll try to help you." He gave the ratchet one last twist to tighten the stowed chains, dusted off his hands, and climbed in his cab. "Where did you say you're headed again?"
"Ridgecrest, California."
The man flipped on the power button of his CB radio and spoke. "Breaker one-nine, this is the Maple Leaf Express. Anyone headed near Ridgecrest, California got your ears on?"
There was long silence. Then the radio sounded. "Maple Leaf Express, this here's Daddy Warjets. I'm headin' to China Lake Naval Station, come on, what's your twenty?"
"This here's Maple Leaf. I'm ten miles south of Henderson, about head on fifteen east to pick up another load. I got a rider looking to go there, eh?"
"I'll be passing by your area in ten minutes. Tell that rider to be ready. I'm in a red cab-over Freightliner, pulling a lowboy with a 'copter on the back."
"You hear that? Red truck with pulling a low trailer with a helicopter. Tell you what. Hop in, I'll take you to the Interstate, but you're going to have to get to the other side."
Dahl climbed into the cab. The driver fired up the rig, and made a large, sweeping turn in the desert sand to re-enter the roadway. Five minutes later, they were at the freeway onramp to I-15. "You can get out here. Run across the overpass, and get on that freeway. He'll be here any minute. He won't wait for you."
"Thanks so much."
The sign was posted, no pedestrians or hitchhiking. Dahl however, could actually see the approaching truck in the distance. He raced down the onramp, scanning for police cars. The truck slowed, applied its turn signals, and pulled off to the side after the onramp. Dahl raced to the cab, and climbed inside.
For some reason, he felt as if he was riding higher in the red cab-over tractor. He wasn't really, it's just that in front, there was nothing. It was like being on the second story of a double decker tour bus, except the driver was sitting on the left side, not down below.
The red haired man was enormous. He double clutched the rig, and started cycling through the gears to attain some speed before merging back into the slow lane. "So you're goin' to Ridgecrest? What business you got there?"
"I got friends there. Friends that will help me get a job."
"Get a job. Yeah. We all need a job. I can't stand working at a job. I could never work a normal job. That's why I drive trucks," the driver drawled.
"Looks like a lot of work." Dahl remarked.
"I reckon, but it's only a lot of work when you're loading and unloading. Even then, that's not too much work. Usually someone else does that."
"What's the helicopter for?"
"Who knows? Picked it up at Camp Lejeune. Marine bird. Hauled it all the way across country. Why they didn't fly it, I don't know. Guess it's cheaper to throw it on a truck. Hell, I know it flies, they actually flew it on to the bed. They'll probably fly it off the bed too. I used to ride around the back of those damn things in 'Nam, back when I was a marine."
Bite your tongue, Dahl. Don't engage in a military conversation. Don't reveal your background. Alerts are out for you. "Yeah, I've always wanted to go military myself."
"All you missed was the bullshit. I was drafted. Ain't turned my head back since they discharged me. Hey, you hear about that one kid from Fort Lewis, that Ranger? Escaped from the stockade? Killed his captain. That's some crazy shit."
"Yeah. You never know what goes through these people's minds."
"Wonder where he is." The driver pulled out a plastic bag of some green, moldy looking strips and pulled one out. "Jerky?" He waved the bag at Dahl.
"Thanks. I'm good."
"Just fuckin' with ya. I wouldn't eat someone else's moldy shit either. Got any family out there?"
"They are in Idaho." That actually was not the truth. They were in Wisconsin. That's where Mom and Dad chose to retire, to be with the relatives. They spend nearly all of their adult lives travelling the globe with the military, and decide to settle down back in Wisconsin. Why? They hate it out there. They wish they were back in California. As much as Dahl would have liked to go running back to Mommy and Daddy for help, that would be the last place he'd want to be. It's the first place they will look. Their house is probably already under surveillance and their phone already tapped.
The truck’s engine had a familiar sound to it. It was an older rig, from the 70s, equipped with a General Motors two stroke diesel engine, which made the characteristic high-revving and sharp tapping sounds. Those motors powered much of the older military hardware, such as the M113 personnel carriers. They packed a lot of power for their size, but they were thirsty, made a lot of noise, and spewed a lot of fumes. “Hard to sleep in this thing, isn’t it?” The driver asked.
“Sure is.” Dahl replied.
“Two stroke diesels. I love ‘em and I hate ‘em. They got a lot of pull, but they smell and they’re noisy. At least, though, you don’t fall asleep when you’re driving.”
The truck approached the gate at China Lake Naval Weapons Station. It seemed kind of odd to have a landlocked naval base, but that’s where a lot of airborne missile and bomb systems were developed. You could shoot a lot of ordinance in that dry lakebed and not upset the environmentalists excessively. As soon as Dahl stepped down from the cab, he realized why he didn’t really crave the place. It just wasn’t home; there was nothing for him.
There’s one thing about returning to your hometown. Everyone knows you. It’s a good thing this wasn’t his hometown. For a no-name desert locale, it was a fairly sizable city, and not that many people knew him, and fewer knew him well. The chance of being recognized on the street was fairly slim; it’s good to be obscure.
Curiosity got the best of him. He knew where Maria Stoddard lived. She was in the phone book. Not personally, as Maria Stoddard, but her family had a house here. She went to that community college. Was she still there? Probably not. It’s a two year program. Some of the older, ‘professional students’ take classes for fun more than for achievement, and string it out over several years. Maria was not one of them. Was she still even here? There is only one way to find out.
The pay phone in the booth next to the coffee shop was missing pages, but at least they had left the ‘s’ section. Daniel Stoddard. That’s her father. He never met the man, and had no idea what her mother’s name was. But he dropped some change in the phone, and dialed the number. A woman answered.
“Hello?”
“Yes, hi, I’m looking for Maria Stoddard?”
“Maria? Who is this?”
“My name is Jim. Jim Smith. I’m a former classmate of hers.”
“Well, Maria is currently living in Texas. She was married last year.”
Dahl took a long pause. “Well, I’m glad to hear. Please relay congratulations to her.” He did not sound convincing.
“I’d be happy to forward your name and number to her if you would like.”
“No need. Thank you very much.”
He placed the receiver back on the hook. Like what in the hell was he going to say to her anyway, even if she was there? Hi, this is Alex Dahl? Right. No, the purpose of the call wasn’t to contact her. It was more just for confirmation of what he figured probably happened. That’s actually a good thing, because certainly, at this stage in his struggles, a future with her was an impossibility. For that matter, a future in itself was looking rather like an impossibility.
There was the school up the road. It would probably be a fairly bad idea to poke around up there. Someone might recognize him.
But he did have to make one stop. A risky stop. The problem was, he didn’t know what Roger’s phone number was, or where he could find him. There were only a few that did. The one person in particular, was Bob. Bob owned the gun store that they all shopped at. That is, all the guys in the competition league. It was sort of the central rallying point, plus people just showed up to hang around and shoot the breeze.
Could he trust Bob? Even if he was unaware of the manhunt, and he probably was, it would just be a matter of time before he mentioned, ‘Alex was in here the other day,’ to the wrong person, and then the authorities get summoned. But finding Roger was like looking for a needle in a haystack; he had to risk it.
That familiar looking Dodge four wheel drive was parked in front of the shop, Bob was there. But so was someone else. A Chevy Nova was also parked out in front. Twenty minutes later, a bearded man carrying some boxes of ammo emerged, and drove off in the Nova.
Bob was standing behind the counter. He looked as though he had seen a ghost. “Hey... Alex, long time.”
Damn. He knows. “Yeah. Hey listen, remember Roger? You know, CIA Roger?”
“Sure,” Bob replied in a nervous voice.
“He still around?”
“Yeah, as far as I know.”
“Got his number? I kind of need to talk to him.”
Bob tore off a page from a small notepad, and shuffled through a Rolodex, and wrote down a number, and pushed the note pad across the glass-topped counter to Dahl. “There you go.”
“Thanks.”
“Sure.”
Dahl walked out the door. That was a weird exchange. Bob was always a fairly quiet guy, but in his own way he could still manage to talk your head off, and maybe try to sell you a carbine or a revolver in the process. He couldn’t wait around for the city bus. He had to do a fast paced ‘range walk’ to the nearest pay phone, at the hardware chain store up the road, and hope that he could call Roger.
Then there was the trust issue with Roger himself. Could Roger be trusted? Probably, especially if there were some money to be made in the process. He hastily put some coins in the phone and dialed. The phone rang several times and then went to an answering machine. Dahl knew he could get away with this once, but probably not twice. Dahl left a message. “Hey Roger. This is Alex Dahl. If you get my message, please meet me at the pizza restaurant tonight at eight o’clock. I need to talk to you about something. I want to take you up on your offer.”
Dahl’s stomach was starting to feel slightly sick. Things were going to start getting complicated, and in a hurry.
The key thing now is to stay out of sight, and off the radar. That was going to be damned difficult to do. For all he knew, city police and county sheriffs were busy making copies of facsimiles of his face and distributing them.