Tripping the Line

September 2001 – Al Anbar, Iraq

“We jump in thirty,” yelled the team leader.

Chris leaned back, breathing deeply, preparing himself to drop from the air and enter “The X”. As the Bell UH-1N Iroquois, helicopter, better known as the ‘Huey’, floated up and over the low hills of the Iraqi countryside, the marines watched the faded brown landscape pass beneath them through the open side doors. The fresh air helped to offset the oily stale metallic air from the interior of the metal box. He and five others sat facing each other in two rows of three, strapped in hard chairs with their backs pressed up against the vibrating fuselage.

Dusk was creeping across the sky to the east, but it was not quite dark enough for night vision. The helicopter had been flying due north at over 150 miles per hour for roughly an hour.

When not in wartime operations, moving across the open ground of Iraq was considered an act of war, but the six man team of Force RECON Marines had been dispatched to rescue three “independent” contractors who had been gathering intelligence in the region. The commander was clear with his orders.

“Our overpaid mercs are pinned down in a dilapidated farm house on the edge of a wheat field. I have assured command and the press that we are not, I repeat, NOT, going to rescue them.

“You all have been chosen to be a Recapture Tactics Team, or RTT, because you are trained in close quarters battle. As the RTT, you will conduct an In-Extremis Hostage Rescue before these men are killed or captured. Get in, get them, get out. We can’t afford to have them running their damn mouths. If you are caught, well, you know the drill, Donovan.” He ended by making eye contact with the team lead, Donovan. “No one knows we are there.”

The RTT waited for the signal to rappel from the sides of the Huey. Using hand signals, Donovan motioned for the co-pilot to drop the altitude to a height of fifty feet.

Abruptly, the helicopter angled and curved to the south. The pilot spoke over the radio, “The LZ is hot! Repeat, the LZ is hot! Recommend that we abort.”

Through the open doors of the sharply banking helicopter, the marines could see Iraqi soldiers arriving at the edge of the rows of wheat, constantly firing to hold the contractors in place inside the old shack.

“Hell no!” Chris yelled.

They are never going to make it. Even if we land and approach on foot, we are too late. The failures of the past were ghosts that haunted Chris’ sleep and cast a shadow over his waking hours. Since losing Smalls and his entire team, with the exception of Deely, just less than twenty miles from where they now flew, his new unit had been moved frequently.

And each move seemed like a failure. They lost two UN workers in East Timor, two journalists in Kabul, four Afghan informers in the search for Osama bin Laden, the twelve engineers – . Again. I’m not going to be able to save the people that I am supposed to protect. But I can.

Anger began to stir. As the slack man on the team, he was there to assist. He had absolutely no input on the decision to stay or leave.

Then Chris felt the familiar sensation begin to grow. The adrenaline induced speed of thought.

If I can harness this speed and adrenaline, I can save those men.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and the world seemed to slow to a crawl.

Chris welcomed the warm feeling of blood pounding through his head and the shades of red that crept into the corner of his eyes. He reached his hand across his front and released the belts that held him to the chair. He heard his leader tell him to buckle his belt, but by that time he had stood to his feet. The jerking of the helicopter seemed more like the slow rolling motion of a dock rather than a platform jerking left and right at over 100 miles per hour.

This helmet is going to just get in my way. So is this pack.

In the briefest of movements, he tossed his helmet across the helicopter into the team leaders lap and shrugged out of his vest and gear, dropping them onto the floor.

Donovan saw Chris moving quickly and barked orders, “Parker, buckle your belt. Parker, this is an order, stay in your seat, put on your gear. Parker!” Every word was lost in the roar of the engine.

He knew that at the speed he was moving, he would be gone before they could even register what had happened. He made sure the rappelling rope was attached to a buckle, he dove forward, grabbing the rope as he jumped, and watched as the inside of the helicopter disappear as he rushed toward the ground.

The speed of falling was nothing compared to the speed in which his mind processed what he needed to hit the ground safely. The rope snapped as it held tight against the buckle, and he began to swing in a momentum driven arc like the playground game of tether ball.

“Land now!” Donovan yelled through his com to the pilot.

“Can’t land right now, the soldier is hanging below us.” The pilot yelled into his headset.

Chris waited for the swing of the rope to send him back in the direction of the enemy troops, and then let go of the rope and calculated the angle he would land and the necessary speed he would have to roll to keep from being injured in the landing.

Then there was a gentle shift in weight, and the Huey adjusted to the change.

A glance forward showed him that he would land on the south edge of the field, now some distance from where the enemy troops were beginning to sweep through the field under cover of the tall wheat, toward the farmhouse.

Upon landing, he rolled twice and then carried the momentum into his feet in a full sprint toward the back of the enemy.

Donovan watched through the opening in the back as he saw the blur that was Chris Parker run toward the field. “You can land!” Then he motioned for the men to exit the helicopter and lie prone at the edge of the low hill the low hill overlooking the field and shack from the far end.

Resembling the periscopes of submarines parting the waves, the Force RECON team could count fourteen hostiles spread out and approaching the cabin through the tall wheat fields.

At the nearest edge of the field just below the team, they could see a solitary something moving swiftly toward the enemy, parting the waves of light brown crops like a torpedo through the same portion of the sea.

They could only assume that it was Chris, although the speed that he moved toward the hostile farthest to the right was inhuman.

They watched as he approached, and one by one, the soldiers dropped beneath the waves as the blur of movement swept from right to left, eliminating anyone in his path.

Chris let the adrenaline flow freely, and it felt as if the more he wanted, the more he had. He knew that he was moving faster than he ever had before. With some extra focus, he could hear and sense every Iraqi hostile creeping through the field.

From his jump, he had been able to tell that the enemies plan was to surround the cabin at the edge of the field and take prisoners. Otherwise they would have blown the cabin up by now and moved on. He had no intention of allowing that.

Systematically he moved from hostile to hostile, taking each by surprise, and making sure that neither he nor his victims made a sound. He used momentum to take them to the ground while muffling them with their own scarves, and then used any manner of weapon they happened to carry to immobilize them.

He neared the edge of the field and realized that aside from the fifteen or so that he had dispatched in the field, there were four standing guard by the two pickup trucks that had carried the troops.

Chris pulled up and the edge of the field and paused, ever so slightly to consider his options. His mind was processing the surroundings along with possible scenarios for the way this should play out. His plan became clear and the resolution sound.

Donovan tapped Evans on the shoulder and gave the signal that he should take out the men by the vehicles. Chris was moving through the men in the field and would be finished in a matter of seconds.

Evans slung his M24 sniper rifle around and adjusted the scope for the distance and the gentle breeze.

Chris walked directly into Evans’ line of sight, standing in front of the most obvious first target.

“Parker is intentionally blocking my shot.” Evans said softly.

“What the fuck!” Donavan exclaimed. “What’s his plan?”

“He’s talking, using a lot of gestures, and pointing at us.”

“Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.” Donovan mumbled.

“Now he has his hands out in front of him. They are tying his hands and moving him to the trucks.”

“What the -?”

“Sir, he just winked at me.”

“Get to the Huey, get down there, and finish our rescue. When that asshole gets back I’m going to court-martial him all the way down to toilet cleaner. He’ll be wiping shit from my boots when I’m done with his insubordinate ass.”

The sky had turned dark purple to the east and the setting sun to the west cast an eerie glow. Sergeant Chris Parker bounced around the back of an old Toyota pickup truck. Two AK-47s and four dark brown eyes were pointed directly at him. He sat with his arms and legs bound tight, head down, and eyes closed.

The Iraqi soldiers had gladly agreed to take an American infidel Special Forces soldier as a hostage in exchange for the four contractors that had sought refuge in the dilapidated farm house. This gift from Allah had cost them fifteen of their best men, but in the end would be worth it. The intelligence and knowledge they would glean would be worth hundreds of soldiers.

Chris’ head bobbed back and forth as he brought his focus within. Rather than lose the adrenaline and anger that had fueled his rage, he was merely holding it back, like a foaming, growling dog on a leash, waiting for the moment he would be released.

The team worked efficiently to clean the area, leaving no trace of anyone ever being in the place, and strapped back into the helicopter.

The pilot turned and looked at Donovan, with a questioning glance in his eyes, waiting for direction. Donovan was conflicted: His mission was to rescue the contractors; his sworn duty was to protect his men.

But what do I do when one of my men surrendered himself, will be tortured, and has many secrets to share.

He glanced at his watch. They had been at the site for twenty minutes. He motioned to the pilot to take off and talked through the mic, “Head to the village where Sergeant Parker was taken. It is not more than ten clicks northeast of here.

Evans and Costas, get on the fifty cals and get ready to make a mess.”

The Huey jumped into the air and angled sharply forward, quickly accelerating to max speed.

Chris was sitting inside a one room house. Legs crossed, hands bound behind his back. The men had tied a blindfold around his eyes and still thrown a thick black shroud over his head.

His senses were peaked, and he could hear the conversations carrying on outside. The language meant nothing to him, but the intent was clear. They had no idea what to do with him next.

Then a voice broke through in broken English. “I talk. He talk.”

Several men entered the building, and the hood and blindfold was pulled from off his head.

“Look to me!” The man yelled. “You tell us everything we ass.”

Chris smiled to himself at the humor of the interrogators mixed up words, but didn’t look up to make eye contact, which confused his integrator and increased the volume of his yelling.

“You look, or we will torture. Where you from?”

Chris opened his eyes, head still down, and looked under his brows across the room at the interrogator. “The hood.”

“So you do understand. Teach now and we will kick you swiftly. What is hood? Is a fort?”

A broad smile spread across Chris’ face. The humor he found in the broken English and the mis-used words were beginning to diminish his determination to eliminate this enemy camp. He was losing focus in the simple way these rag tag soldiers seemed so helpless. Then he realized that his laughter could also provide energy to his anger. His smile grew even more, so much so that he took on the appearance of a grinning jack’o lantern. He slowly raised his head to make direct eye contact with each of the men in the room.

Chris held to this alertness and tension as long as he could. He knew they wouldn’t allow him to stay there for long without talking. He only had to be patient.

The interrogator stepped forward and swung the stock of his rifle at Chris’ face. Where it should have made smashing contact, it swung cleanly through the air, and then Chris’ face was again exactly where it should have been.

“You will shit still! We will perish you. You know not the hurt feeling we provide.”

And that was it. He couldn’t contain himself any longer, and he started to laugh uncontrollably. He laughed so hard his side began to hurt and he rolled sideways. Ever growing, the laughter moved into hysterics – the lost maniacal sounds of someone who has experienced the worst and doesn’t have the tolerance to stand for more, and just doesn’t care.

The laughter came from deep within, and seemed uncontrollable. Chris continued laughing while curling himself into a fetal shape, knees on the floor.

Two men approached.

Chris pushed backwards, launching himself directly at the interrogator.

The impact knocked the Iraqi soldier through the open doorway, Chris landing on top of him, wriggling and squirming. The interrogator had a knife at his waist, and by the time he could recover from the blow, Chris had grabbed the knife and cut himself free.

Knife in hand, Chris fell into a regular pattern of destruction and dominance. To those he assailed, he was less a man and more a wind of pain and loss. The Blur dodged and moved at a speed greater than the mind could fully comprehend. In his path he left blood and gore, shattered and broken bones, disarmed and disabled weapons, and dead soldiers.

The longer he let himself stay within the anger and adrenaline fueled frenzy, the more his reality seemed to fade. Every time he turned, he could see people, or beings, in the corner of his vision.

After a moment, everything he saw had the same look as when a storm is pushing dark clouds towards you from the edge of the horizon, but the sun is still casting a bright glow on everything in front of the clouds.

Shadows and silhouettes moved and shifted, and Chris fought against the confusion. He continued to see more of what wasn’t there, and less of what was real. Small figures all around his knees were moving quickly, back and forth, swinging weapons at each other. Some carried swords…other carried massive battle axes or large clubs. A bright flash of light flashed and sparked every time weapons collided.

Directly above the Iraqi village, the air changed. The sky turned from clear azure to a rolling mound of clouds. Two colors swirled continuously. A dark crimson fog was casting an angry glow over the landscape, and wrapped into that redness, a dark grey strand that seemed to writhe.

“Leave. Now!” a voice boomed from behind Chris.

He jumped forward and spun. The movement seemed effortless. Much like running with the wind at his back, everything moved at the speed that he chose. There was no limit.

A figure in dark cloak and hood jumped from behind Chris, covering the 20 feet in one leap. Mid-air, his right arm swung around, and from his fingers extended four sharp blades angling toward Chris’ head.

Even after all of the fighting that Chris had recently endured, his mind still slowed down to an even more thoughtful state that during his moments of rage.

In less time than it took for the warrior to reach the apex of his jump, Chris’ mind began to reel. He is not human. Really big, at least ten feet tall. Ancient battle armor. Knives for fingers, pale skin, pointy teeth grinning, jumping long distances, deep swirling liquid eyes. It needs to die.

Thoughts continued to pour as he was still air borne on the way to slice Chris into two. How did I get here? How did he get here? Man, he is big. Why would anyone have teeth that pointy? Why would he be wearing armor?

The creature’s feet landed. His legs bent to lower him with the swing of his talons. He bent at the waist to gather strength from his stomach and back. His arm muscles strained to pull the claws through the rest of their arc

Chris stepped back and to the right, spinning his torso to the left. Four talons swept through empty space. His right elbow struck down on the monsters wrist and he felt the sick crack of shattering bone. He continued to spin his body in a counter clockwise circle, swinging his left elbow backwards toward the monsters face connecting just below the ear.

Normally, when a connection has been made, especially with bone, momentum stops. This did not. Upon contact, the victims head spun away from The Blur’s elbow, the impact was similar to a baseball bat connecting with a bag of beans. He was dead the minute connection was made.

Chris stared in shock at the pile of bone and flesh that lay in a heap beside me. This is not right. This is not right!

When he looked up, he was surrounded by giants, all of them with the same look and stature of the one he had just fought, some of them bigger and bulkier than humanly possible, carrying swords, battle axes, and shields. They did not move toward Chris. They stared, with a level of disgust that caught Chris by surprise.

A massive, armor clad warrior stepped forward. He held no shield, but in both arms carried battle axes, one arm extended toward Chris.

He spoke in a low gravely tone, spit flying from his mouth every time he pronounced a word with his lips. The accent was thick, like words spoken by a mouth with no tongue.

“hhuuuee…whoo yought beyong here in Shan Beyamush. Eave us.”

The men parted, and one, thin figure passed between them.

He did not fit with the others. Clothed in black, but wearing no armor, this one carried a sword at his waist.

The man stepped softly toward Chris pulled his hood back enough to show his crystal eyes. He wore layered clothes that all were shades of grey. His boots were dulled leather, and looked to have been worn for a very long time.

A clear voice addressed Chris. “He is right, you do not belong here.” Then with a tilt of the head, he studied Chris for several seconds. Leave this San Bellumus now.”

Chris didn’t move. His face wore a mask of wonder and confusion.

A Cheshire cat smile spread across his face, and revealed razor sharp teeth“Ah, I see. You have no idea what you have done. This is a – a bellumus is a battle ground, I believe that is a word that will relate to you. This is a San Bellumus, meaning a great battle ground. Your impact here will have heavy repercussions. Leave this place.” He spoke. His voice was deep and laced with authority.

“We are done here.” He quickly glanced behind him and then back at Chris. “You don’t know how to leave, do you? You have no clue how you arrived. If you are still here when Savonarola arrives, I think it will be your end. I, on the other hand, would be greatly disappointed if we do not meet again in the future.”

He signaled to the giant warrior. A massive hand reached into a leather pouch producing a small round object, tossing it at Chris’ feet. Chris felt himself falling into a pink light, the adrenaline rush fading fast. His body began to shiver uncontrollably and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. Then he collapsed into a heap. In the distance a soft repeating thud seemed to drift into his consciousness.

—–

“We have the village in sight. Night vision and infra-red show no movement. Several heat signatures behind walls. One contact in the open, not moving, prone.”

“Are you positive it is the correct village?” Donovan replied to the pilot.

“Yes, sir. The vehicles from the farm are parked outside one of the buildings.”

The pilot flew one sweep around the compound before landing the helicopter in a defensive position while the team swept the village.

Five soldiers met together in the center of the area, standing over the unconscious body of Chris Parker.

“Report.”

“We have eleven hostiles dead, three wounded. Twenty women and children in scattered huts, all unarmed and cooperative.”

“And Parker’s condition?” Donovan addressed Costas.

“Seems unharmed, in shock. Need to get him back.”

“Any sign of a struggle?”

Evans shook his head, “No sir, no weapons discharged. Chris’ hands are bloody and bruised though.”

“Fourteen hostiles down, no shots fired?”

“Yes sir.”

“Let’s get back to base. This hotshot bastard has some questions to answer.”

“I will report the mission was successful, sir. All accounted for and safe.” Summers, the radio man, replied.

“That is how I intend to write it up.”

The Alley

April 1, 2002, Baltimore, MD

He stumbled, his heavy dragging foot snagging a raised edge on the sidewalk. Catching himself with his hands against the pavement, soiled water splashed on his shirt joining the stains of coughed up whiskey and vomit. Chris stood and continued to wander aimlessly down the crowded sidewalk. He’d tried to rest, but sleep wouldn’t come when called. All that responded to his beckon were the ghosts of gun fire and the faces, face after face of those who had died by his hand.

His caked and cracked mouth cried out for water as he looked through window after window of the bars line the street. Trendy ones like “My Blues Heaven”, where the patrons inebriate themselves while someone plays blues and jazz music in the background. Or “Tequilaville” (and obvious copy from Jimmy Buffet’s “Margaritaville”) with piñatas in the shape of animals hang from the ceiling. A place that allows anyone to get a buzz with a Mexican flair. Or “Ben’s Sport’s Bar”, a spot where testosterone filled college students and middle age men that wish they were college students can suck down long necks while various sports programs play on ten flat screen high definition televisions that line the walls. Chris watched them through the darkened glass, seeing only the drinks in their hands, wishing it were in his.

Chris flinched as a crowd of co-eds emerged from the bar behind him, their laughter and clanging about transformed in his mind to more sinister sounds from the past. He turned abruptly into an alley to avoid the haunted noise. Since leaving Force RECON, had struggled to remain calm around throngs of people.

There was another group at the other end of the alley. Three laughed and shoved one another while a fourth relieved himself on the wall. Feeling trapped, Chris sat down in the empty space between the buildings, resting his back against a brick wall. He closed his eyes and wished they would all go away. He longed to be left alone. He thought about the bar again and the glass mugs full of escape.

The shadowy outline of four tall figures stood looking narrow lane, all looking at a homeless man. And then something went wrong.

A familiar voice carried down the alley. “Hey man,” was all Bobby said. Chris glanced at his friend, laying askew on the pavement. His eyes were blood shot and his thick grey bread was frazzled. His Yankees hat had found a new smug of black since Chris had last seen him. Chris hadn’t made many friends on the streets of Baltimore, but those he had, he cherished. He was happy to see Bobby still wearing the boots Chris had given him. A few months ago they had looked new. Chris remembered showing his friend how to lace up the nicely polished, military issue, shoes. He remembered Bobby’s giddy smile and the older man’s jog up and down the alley.

“It’s not a good idea,” Chris croaked to his friend. His throat burned. He tried to remember the last time he spoke.

Bobby didn’t hear. The old man was singular minded, in pursuit of cash to buy the one thing that might dull his thoughts. He stood and stumblingly approached the four men, his hand extend. “H-h-h-hey. Hey guys. E-exc-c-c-cuse me,” the old man muttered sheepishly. “H-h-hey, you got a few bucks. I just need a few b-bucks.”

Chris could feel in his gut the danger ahead. He pushed himself up, forcing his legs to support him. He squeezed his eyes tight, willing his mind to clear.

The fourth man turned and zipped up his jeans. They laughed and pointed at Bobby.

“P-p-p-please,” Bobby stuttered again, looking at the ground. “I. I. I just need a few bucks?”

“I. I. I j-j-just need a few bucks,” one of the men mocked.

“You smell like shit,” another said.

Chris moved closer.

“Listen,” Bobby said, stepping back. “I just need a few bucks.”

A jolt of hostility sparked in one of the young men. Shoving Bobby with one hand he yelled, “Why don’t you get a job you dumb piece of shit?” The rest of the pack laughed.

Chris stretched his neck to the left and then the right. The muscles ached and cracked as they loosened.

“You smell like shit you Old Fuck!” another said, escalating the situation by shoving Bobby with both hands. The drunken twenty-something resembled the caveman in evolution posters, striving to walk upright.

“Hey old man, got any extra change?” the shortest one with the build of a bulldog yelled with a drunken slur. He pressed Bobby against the wall. The other three moved in, surrounding the old man.

“I. I don’t want any trouble,” Bobby said, looking at his boots.

“What a waste of air!” came the third comment. This one was perfect. Perfect hair, perfect voice, perfect clothes. Chris thought that he probably was the star quarterback of some local college. After a second glance, Chris identified the short “bulldog” as a wrestler. Small and stocky but with no wasted muscle. Not many soft spots. The only one of the group that gave Chris pause was the quiet menace lurking in the back. He wore loose fitting sweats and a black Raven’s hoody. The dark figure’s stance was reserved. He was large and bulky, a head above the rest. Chris struggled to remember if this one had been with the others, or had he been in the alley already?

“I. I. I’ll just go,” Bobby said, easing forward. “I. I’ll j-just go.”

Chris and the big one exchanged glares. The hood nodded, acknowledging Chris’ presence. Chris thought that he saw a sadistic grin cross his face.

The bull dog moved into Bobby’s face. Looking up at the old man he barked, “Someone needs to teach you some manners you old piece of shit.” The others laughed. The bulldog gave Bobby a sharp jab to the ribs. The old man doubled over. The others laughed. The bulldog shoved Bobby to the ground and held his fists high in victory. The others laughed.

Chris appeared between the pack and his friend. His vision narrowed a bit as he welcomed the rage that flooded his system.

“Move out of the way!” said Neanderthal. Thick, dark messy hair, sloping forehead, no visible neck. His head was set on top of wide shoulders with dark hair down the neck.

Chris took a deep breath. The familiar chant stilled his mind, “I am focused. My balance is perfect.” Time slowed to a crawl.

In a low monotone growl, Chris responded, “You should move on.”

“This doesn’t concern you, asshole,” added the shorter one.

“You should leave,” Chris muttered through gritted teeth.

The large one in the back remained still. He radiated a cold hate. No emotion was visible beneath the hood.

There was a pause as the oppressors didn’t seem to know what to do next.

The break in the action just fueled Chris’ anger. He realized that no matter what happened next, they would not walk away untouched. He took another deep breath, an attempt to control the outcome to something that he wouldn’t regret afterwards. He stood with feet spread evenly and gained a balance from which to act.

For the briefest of moments, Chris felt remorse. His military career had ended because of situations like this. Situations where Chris was the only one between the oppressor and the innocent victim.

“Listen, skinny”, the caveman says, “this isn’t about you, so move along and don’t look back. Just get the fuck out of here.”

They didn’t know. They had no clue how this would end, but Chris knew. Chris had it all worked out. Every step. Every thrust. Every move. It was all over in his mind. Everything decided, except for the giant in the back. Chris mourned their pride. He mourned the pride that caused those in wrong to push bad situations further.

Every one of his senses tingled in anticipation. The sound of their increasing heart rates and shallow breathing, panting like dogs waiting for a treat. Chris was aware of the car that passed by on the street. He knew that there was not enough air in the tires by the sound of the rubber hitting the pavement. He was completely aware of the gentle breeze that brushed across the back of his neck, carrying the stench of dumpsters and rotten beer down the alley. Through it, he could still smell the stench of body odor emitting from the wrestler.

His senses told him one piece of critical information. The only victim that is remotely aware of the danger he was in is the silent guy that now stands behind his left shoulder. He wasn’t breathing at all.

Chris focused his eyes straight ahead, peripheral vision aware of the most minor micro expressions on the faces of his assailants.

In a voice no more than a whisper he urged them one more time, “Back down.” Not a request, not a plea, but a command.

They didn’t budge. Waiting for the reaction seemed like an eternity. Then he felt it. The hint of movement from directly in front of him. The motion started with the jock, who probably didn’t realize that he had moved while contemplating his first swing.

The chain reaction began.

Chris’ feet were steady and balanced. Hands loose at his side, arms slightly bent, legs straight but knees not locked. His breath slowly left his lungs. His pent up anger and energy over the past few months had been conserved, waiting for discharge. His fingers and toes tingled with anticipation.

The jock stepped forward and planted his right foot while his right fist came rushing forward.

“Nice stance,” Chris thought to himself, “This guy has done this before.”

Nostrils flaring. Friends grinning. They knew it would come to this. Something in them had wanted this all night.

Chris processed the movements that began in unison. The wrestler circling behind to the left, presumably to catch him after Jock hit him. The caveman hadn’t budged. The quiet watcher remained still tensed for action. All of this information was taken in and comprehend in less time than it took the swinging fist to move six inches.

Chris’ left hand began with an upward counter clockwise arc. His right hand dropped to his waist in a clockwise downward arc. As the left reached the top of its swing and moved out and away, the right hand swept up to intersect the punch that was now is about eight inches from his face. His palm turned outward to catch the back of the Jock’s wrist. His right hand locked onto Jock’s wrist, and continued the forward momentum pulling him across in front of Chris. The look of shock on the Jock’s face made Chris laugh. His left hand completed the circuit and landed on Jock’s back to push forward and sent him floating over Bobby’s still body to flop face down on the sidewalk between Wrestler’s feet.

Before the first victim had landed, Chris’ right foot shifted backward to absorb the motion. He kept the momentum moving along in the clockwise direction. His right hand swung in a level arc, his left arm continued its counter clockwise circle. His head swiveled to bring Caveman into view. Snapping his right hand out, Chris slammed a closed fist squarely into Caveman’s throat.

Chris processed the actions. His opponent may have seen it coming, but the young man’s wind pipe collapsed. He would be concentrating too much on breathing to cause any more trouble. Chris realized he needed to be careful, or these men would die tonight.

The watcher crouched back, preparing to pounce. The giant extended an arm straight down, the movements combined were faster than Chris had seen anyone move before. Still deep in focus, Chris sensed the shift in air, the gentle rustle of clothing, the energy expended. He could see something in the watcher’s hand. A knife? A gun?

“He will aim for under my ribs,” Chris told himself. All of this ran through his mind in less time than it took for Watcher to change the direction of his hand to swipe.

Chris dropped down, bending at the knees, and reversed direction to spin back to the left, placing Watcher directly in front of him. Then used the recoil motion to send his left hand swinging itself through an arc aimed for Watchers right hand at waist level.

But there wasn’t a hand. There were four extended claws, sweeping toward him. There was no way that an adjustment could be made to the current motion. The surprise sent Chris’ mind reeling, “What the hell is going on?!”

He knew that Watcher had registered the movement and realized that it had extended himself beyond what he can recover to defend.

The back of Chris’ left hand struck with enough force to knock the wrist sideways. There was a sickening ‘CRAK’ as the wrist and arm loosened from the breaking bones.

Chris continued and pushed up with his legs, building strength for his right hand as it streaked toward Watchers head.

At this speed and force –

A closed fist would shatter his jaw, knock out several teeth and leave him in the hospital from a concussion.

An open palm strike to his face would break his nose and leave him with permanent eye damage.

The added speed of an elbow across the face would break every bone on the left side of his face and cause possible hearing loss in his left ear.

By the way he is gritting his pointy teeth, whatever this thing is, he knows all of this. And realizes that there is absolutely nothing he can do about it.

Chris scanned the face of his victim, searching any sign of remorse. It wasn’t there. All he could see was a hope of survival, a possible chance for revenge, and dark eyes with no pupils.

With rage and satisfaction, Chris finished the movement, choosing the elbow to strike the victim.

Upon contact, he felt bones crumble and watched as life left the swirling eyes of the watcher.

The body dropped limp to the ground.

Shock settled in. Energy dissipated. With no new movement from attackers, the encounter had finished as quickly as it had started. Chris looked to Bobby to check his condition. He seemed fine. No pain that was out of the normal. Chris looked to the Jock, who was just turning to look at Chris from his prone position between the wrestler’s feet. With a quick nod, Chris indicated that they should collect themselves and continue the way they had been going before the violence.

Without a word, Jock stood, and with the wrestler, collected the wheezing caveman and walked back into the street. They didn’t look back.

Bobby looked up at Chris. “Hey Blur, got any spare change on ya?”

Chris helped the old man to his feet and said, “What did you just call me?” Quickly realizing that the question would never be answered by drunk Bobby, he quickly continued, “You need to be more careful.”

Chris let out a long sigh. The dryness of his mouth and soreness of his throat crept back. He forced a smile and stumbled away, his feet returning to their heavy, drag.

“Oh, Shit,” mumbled the raspy voice as he watched Chris walk away. “Oh, shit,” the same voice mumbled as sirens echoed through the street. The grey haired man hurried into the alley, and tossed Bobby a ten dollar bill. “Keep quiet, say nothing about any of this.”

“Whatever you say Carl,” Bobby slurred.

With ease, Carl lifted the body of the hooded stranger, threw the dead thing over his back, and walked back down the alley, away from the police car that had just entered from the other end.

Several blocks away, Carl popped open the cramped trunk of his old Honda Accord and grumbled, “Man do I miss the Ninety-Eight,” as he dropped the body in and slammed it shut.

A Friendly Reunion

August, 1999 – Camp Lejeune, NC

The maturing BMW twisted and turned through the jersey barriers. The concrete, triangular barriers created a serpentine path on the roadway that guided the BMW to a forced stop at the guard shack. The lance corporal military police officer waved the vehicle on after observing the red, enlisted sticker on the windshield. Chris pressed the accelerator, continuing down the straight and lengthy two lane roadway, through a corridor of luscious trees.

Approaching the busier portion of the base, red brick buildings dominated the landscape. Large steam pipes ran along the ground and jumped up at the edge of the roads to span across, allowing vehicles to pass beneath. Steam spewed out of sporadic joints, giving an industrial feel to the base, nestled in the middle of vast forests and nature. It was a hot, humid, sunny day.

Chris crept passed a platoon of Marines wearing olive drab shorts and shirts. They ran in formation while shouting cadence. Turning right, into a parking lot near a small brick building, he heard the brakes squeal lightly as his car eased into a parking space. Exiting his vehicle, Chris put his cover on and walked towards the bright red painted door.

He entered the building, took his cover off, and walked through the hallway that led straight into the heart of the mostly vacant section of the structure. The only sound in the hall was the clicking of Chris’ shoe on the tile floor. At the end of the hallway he arrived at an old, grey metal desk. Behind the desk was a Marine sipping coffee and reading the Marine Corps Times. Chris stopped and stood silently in front of the desk. Without moving his head or changing his body position, the Marine acknowledged Chris’ presence.

Once he reached the end of his article the Marine began to fold up his paper. “Good morning,” he said, focusing on folding the paper exactly. “What can I do for you?” His voice was monotone, as if he’d been saying the same thing to Marines every day for the last decade. Like a skipping record player that needed to be bumped, he wasn’t thrilled to be there and had long before grown tired of the repetition.

“Good morning staff sergeant,” Chris said crisply as he fiddled with his cover behind his back “I’m here to check into 2nd Recon Battalion.”

“Very well then. I can help you get settled in. I’m Staff Sergeant Richards. Welcome to Camp Lejeune.” The Staff Sergeant stood up, held his hand out and lifted his head to see who he was speaking to. “You look familiar.” His curiosity was on the rise.

Chris shook his hand firmly. “I get that sometimes.”

“No, I think I remember your face from something. Or from somewhere.”

Chris didn’t want it to be brought up, so he forced his eyes to wander around the room and changed the subject. “So, uh…will I be billeted with other guys from two-two?

“Oh, right. Yeah.” SSgt Richards began to doubt his own memory and resumed his regular chit chat. “You just get finished with the Basic Recon Course?”

“Yeah, kinda. I finished BRC a few months ago, then graduated from scout sniper school last week.”

“How was it?”

“Brutal. It was awesome training, but freakin’ brutal.” Chris cracked a smile, showing signs of his proud accomplishments.

“That’s what I’ve heard.” SSgt Richards turned around and opened a small metal lock box that was mounted on the wall behind the desk. He scanned through the keys with his fingers, then picked one up. “Alright sergeant, here’s your key. You’ll be in building 3029, room 212, with a few other Marines.” He handed Chris the key. “I’ll get the paperwork submitted for your meal card. But in the mean time you can sign in at the front of the chow hall on the ‘temporary assignment’ sheet.”

“Thanks staff sergeant. I appreciate your help.”

“It’s no problem sergeant. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“I will.” Chris slid the key into his pocket and walked down the hallway of the decrepit brick building, exiting through the bright red door.

A short drive later, Chris arrived at a large, three story, red brick building bearing the numbers “3029”. He stepped out of his car, walked around to the back, and put his key in the trunk’s keyhole. He shook the key gently, applying a slight twisting pressure. “It should be right about…there.” He softly spoke to himself, willing the stubborn lock to comply. With more gentle jiggling the trunk popped open. He pulled his olive drab sea bag out and slung it over his left shoulder, then he spun around and walked up the concrete stairs to the second floor. Chris continued down the concrete balcony, until he arrived at room 212. Hesitating for a minute, he prepared himself to meet his new roommates. With the key in his hand, he raised it up to the doorknob.

“Put that shit away man! That’s fucking gross!” voices muffled through the door.

A different voice with a broken French accent replied, “Dude that smells like your mom’s…” The door to the room swung open and a short Marine came storming out, bumping into Chris.

“Oh shit, sorry sergeant,” the short Marine said with surprise. The Marine’s name was Corporal Barnum. Born and raised in Trinidad, he was five feet six inches tall, and weighed 165 pounds. He had dark black skin, spoke with a thick accent, and wore his woodland digital camouflage uniform like almost everybody else in Camp Lejeune.

Chris looked down at the Marine. “Don’t worry about it corporal.” He nodded his head towards the door. “You live here?”

“Yes sergeant.”

“I guess that makes us roommates then.”

“Ah, man.” Corporal Barnum felt like he had ruined his only shot at a first good impression. He reached for the door. “Here, let me get that for… Wait… You’re the guy from Camp Pendleton, right? You were awarded the Navy and Marine Corps medal for saving the lives of like fifteen Marines?”

“It was only eleven. And it wasn’t that big of a deal.”

“It wasn’t a big deal? Sergeant, you were awarded the second highest non-combat medal possible and given a meritorious promotion for saving the lives of eleven Marines. I’d say that’s a big deal. The Marine Corps Times said you moved so fast that you looked like a blur. The title of the article was ‘Marine Saves Men in a Blur’.”

“Adrenaline helps men accomplish amazing things.” Chris pointed to the door with his right thumb. “Hey, you mind if I head in. This bag is getting heavy.”

“Oh, of course. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” Chris said as he walked through the door and took his cover off. He paused for a second to let his eyes adjust to the poorly lit room, after being outside in the bright sun.

“Son of a bitch! What the hell are you doing here?”

Chris could barely make out the shape walking towards him. He could tell it was a man with a large stature. “I’ve been assigned to this room,” Chris said, wondering who he was addressing, hoping it wasn’t going to be the third person this morning that was going to recognize him from the incident.

The large man wrapped his arms around Chris briefly hugging him, then let go and backed up a few steps. “It’s me man.”

Chris’ eyes lit up as his vision adjusted and he realized who he was talking to. “What are you doing here?”

“This is my room, man,” Smalls replied with a smile. “I live here.”

“No way. That’s crazy. What are the odds of that?”

“Welcome to our humble abode.” Smalls pointed behind Chris with his right index finger. “That dumbass there is Corporal Barnum.” He used the thumb of his left hand to point behind himself. “The guy dropping a deuce in the head is Corporal Faulk, and of course you know who I am.” He finished his sentence, smacking himself on the chest with both hands. Smalls hit Corporal Bagley’s left bicep with the back of his hand. “Dude, this is my best friend, Chris. I went to boot camp with this guy.”

“So you’re joining 2-2?” Corporal Barnum asked hopefully.

“I’m here.”

“You’re just in time for all the fun then. We’re deploying in a few months.”

Chris looked at Smalls curiously. “Is he serious?”

“Yeah man, we’re slated to go to Iraq and kill some shit.”

“Awesome. I can finally put this training to good use,” Chris said reflectively.

“We’ve still got some time left here though, so make yourself comfortable.” Smalls walked over to a bunk bed and smacked the mattress on the top. “This one is all yours. Unless you want to pull rank and take the bottom bunk from Corporal Faulk.”

The room was a little bit smaller than Chris’ old “studio” apartment back in Baltimore. It had two bunk beds and one bathroom. The walls were made of cinder blocks and painted a light beige color. The carpet was hard and didn’t have any padding to soften the concrete floor underneath. It was a standard Marine Corps barracks room.

“I won’t be a dick. I’ll take the top bunk.”

“Always the nice guy,” Smalls laughed as he walked over and sat on his bottom bunk. “I saw your name on the roster, said that you were checking in tomorrow.”

“That was the original plan, but I didn’t have anything better to do, so I figured I’d get it over with today.”

“Ah, I gotcha.”

Chris sat on Corporal Faulk’s bed. “How’s Alessandra and the family? Feels like it’s been a while since I’ve seen them.”

“Everybody is doing good. It’s been, what? About seven, eight months? We all hung out around New Years?”

“Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“Hey, how have you been holding up since the Pendleton thing?” He was concerned for Chris and didn’t want him being unnecessarily hard on himself. “We don’t have to talk about it. I just want you to know I’m here for ya, man.”

“I’m doin’ okay.” He said nodding his head. “Maybe we can talk more about it later.”

A muffled voice came from the bathroom, interrupting their conversation. “Aaarrgghh!” The toilet flushed. Corporal Faulk opened the bathroom door and stood still for a few seconds in the doorway. He was wearing only a pair of boxer briefs. Everybody in the room looked at him curiously.

“Everything come out okay?” Corporal Bagley asked with a look of concern on his face.

“Fuck yeah, bro!”

Corporal Faulk was a crude individual. It was rare that anything came out of his mouth without a curse word shortly behind it. He was born and raised in a small farm town in Delaware. His arms, chest, and parts of his legs were covered with tattoos. Most of the tattoos were black and white and depicted an intricate biomechanical skeleton that appeared to be beneath his skin. He was an average height of five feet, nine inches tall, weighing in at two hundred pounds of solid muscle and brawn. He was constantly taking nutritional supplements to supply his body with added fuel for his workout routine. Full of energy and enthusiasm, time spent with Corporal Faulk was always entertaining.

“That was possibly the best shit I’ve ever took without eating an MRE. I think I just gave birth to a god-damn telephone pole.” Corporal Faulk strolled over to the sink and began mixing his protein shake. “Maybe next time I won’t flush and let you check it out, Barnum.”

Only in the Marine Corps. You gotta love it. Chris thought to himself, looking at Smalls as he chuckled.

Smalls knew exactly what he was thinking and began laughing. “Don’t ask man. He’s in a world of his own.”

Corporal Faulk chugged his protein shake, dropped down to the floor, and began doing pushups.

Corporal Barnum was still standing near the door. “Yeah, maybe next time Faulk.” He grasped the doorknob. “Hey, I’m starving guys. I’m gonna get some chow. Anybody coming?”

“Sixty Eight more push…uugh…ups and I’ll meet you down…argh…there, fuck face.” The response came from Corporal Faulk without a glance, as he continued to push the floor.

“Corporal Smalls? Sergeant? Either one of you coming?”

Chris waved his hand dismissively. “I’m gonna unpack the rest of my stuff, then I’ll head over.”

“We’ll catch up to ya, man.” Smalls said reluctantly.

“Okay, I’ll see you guys down there.” Corporal Barnum walked out of the door and shut it as he left.

Smalls turned back to Chris. “Hey, speaking of holidays, are we still good for Thanksgiving?”

“Yeah, of course. I wouldn’t miss it.”

Smalls’ cell phone rang. “I’ll be right back. It’s the wife.” He stood up off of his bed and walked out to the balcony, “Hey babe…” The door shut behind him.

“Hi baby. How’s your morning?” Alessandra’s soft Latin voice replied.

“It just got a little better. Guess who showed up early?”

“Chris? He’s always full of surprises. You didn’t tell him, did you?”

Smalls rubbed the temples of his head with the middle finger and thumb of his left hand. “No, I didn’t. This is hard for me.”

“I know, baby.”

“…hey, I’ll try to call you a little later, okay? We’re gonna go get some chow.”

“Alright, I love you baby. Bye. Oh, tell Chris I said ‘hi’.”

“Alright, I will. Love you too. Bye babe.”

Smalls slid his cell phone back into his pocket and walked back into their room. “You guys ready for chow, or what?”

Chris stood up. “Yeah, I can finish unpacking later.”

Smalls turned to Corporal Faulk, who was now doing sit-ups. “What about you, crazy? Ready?”

“Hell yeah corporal. I was just waiting for your intimate little conversation with your new boyfriend to be over.”

“Ha ha, shut up Faulker. Let’s go.”