THE COWARDLY LION, Volume Six, Chapter X

I held back for a few seconds before committing.  I was in Albuquerque, USA, and not in some combat zone, no matter what had happened earlier.  If the car twenty meters away held hostiles, then people were going to die, with possibly the three of us among the dead.  The Christmas carol played loudly with a deep timbre instead of the raging storm outside.  The Rover was not only well insulated but had a Bose sound system installed of great quality.  “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas
Just like the ones I used to know …where the treetops glisten and children listen
To hear the sleigh bells in the snow…” reminded me of where and what I was.

As I began to instruct Kingsley and Nguyen about exiting the vehicle, even in such conditions without proper winter protection, I observed through the thermal overlay a large bright object remove itself from the vehicle in front of us.  The vertical blob slowly moved toward the Rover, angling to very slowly come to the driver’s side.  My door.  I didn’t move, simply lying in wait.  A single knock on the window barely reverberated over the music.  It was decision time.

The snow and ice made looking through the glass impossible, so I reached up with my left hand and pulled the night vision goggles from my head and placed them in my lap.  I felt for the window push button, found it, and pushed it down with my index finger.  The song played, but was joined by a chorus of snow and ice as the wind ripped through the opening, and I slightly turned to face what I had to face. The music reminded me so much of what I’d left behind when I’d designed and named actual combat missions after hearing lyrics from great rock and roll songs on the Armed Forces Radio Network.

“Jesus Christ,” Kris Anderson said, pushing his snow and ice-covered face into the opening, “what the hell are you doing out here in this?”

“Stand down,” gushed out of me as I bent slightly forward and plunged the derringer down between my legs.

“Kris,” I said in relieved shock.

“I saw you out here headed for home and followed to help,” Kris said.  “My smaller Nissan Montero may not be as fancy as your Range Rover, but it sure works great in this awful stuff.”

My sense of relief overcame me.  I could not talk.  I simply stared.  It was like God had pointed one finger down and then said. “Here’s your Christmas gift.”

I pushed the window buttons for the remainder of the doors, and suddenly the storm was fully inside the vehicle, which was exactly where I wanted it, although I realized I could see in the storm again, and without thermal assistance.

“It’s easing up a bit, “Kris said, pulling his head out of my window and looking around, “and who are these guys with you?”

Kris didn’t need to be brought into what I was all about.

“Heading on home, Kris, and thanks for checking on us.  Never seen a storm like this in such high country.”

“You?  Me either, and I’ve been here all my life.  My dad was killed in a storm like this one.”

Kris’s poignant words stopped me cold, but the conditions weren’t right for either extending sympathies or giving what sounded like much-needed therapy.

“I’ll call you in the morning,” I said, meaning to do just that.

Ballooning was ever on my mind, although I had a good idea that the aftermath of such a storm as we were experiencing would not likely lend itself to flying in an uncontrolled hot air balloon.

“See you soon,” I finished and closed the window. I waited for the Monteros’ lights to disappear from the parking lot before turning on the interior lights.

“Is there more?” Kingsley asked, working to brush the snow from himself and the .44 Magnum he held.

“More what?” I asked back, surprised by the question.

“More of an arsenal in this truck?”

“Order arms,” I breathed out, the Marine barracks command to stand weapons down.

Nguyen clambered back over the seat and worked to replace the SPAS 12 from where he’d taken it out.  I exchanged hand weapons with Kingsley and fit the .44 back into the drawer I’d built for it under my seat.

“Jesus Christ,” Kingsley said as I put the Rover’s shifter into drive and began to pull out of the lot, as the light had improved and the blizzard receded to the point that I could see most everything around us without amplification or enhancement.

The night vision goggles could stay on the cushion between the front seats until I got the Rover into the garage.

“What’s in the trunk of the Mercedes?” he asked, although the tone of his voice made it sound like he was joking.

“Belt-fed M60 with tripod loaded with a hundred rounds of links and attached bipod,” I replied, absently telling him the truth.  Mary doesn’t like driving around with it in the trunk, but it’s my family car and I want a full perimeter defense if there’s ever to be trouble.”

“Lieutenant believes in overpowering applied force, when necessary,” Nguyen said very softly from the back seat he’d settled himself back into.  “If only he had his artillery batteries to call fire from.”

I drove up Montgomery, the storm dissipating much faster as we climbed ever higher.

“We damn near killed a guy back there, apparently a friend, and part of the reason is that we have all the tools ready, waiting, and almost aching to kill him.  My time with the Gurkha was not as intense as my time with you, even though that was in a war.”

“Thanks, Ben,” I replied, not knowing how to take what he’d just said, while working to make sure that the Rover had sufficient inertia from speed to keep climbing up the unplowed and untreated road.

“Have you got any more music disks?” Ben asked, as if wanting to change the subject.

“In the glove box,” I said, pointing briefly in that direction with my right hand.

The interior lights had gone out when I’d started the climb up Montgomery, so I knew Kingsley was having a hard time reading the printing on the disks he was handling.

“The disk cartridge is in the back fender well, but there’s a slot under the radio for one primary disk if you want to load it, although we’ll be home pretty shortly.”

Kingsley slipped a disk into the slot.

After a few seconds, the music returned to fill the cabin.  Reached to turn the volume down, but Ben batted my hand away.

“Hello darkness, my old friend…I’ve come to talk with you again…
Because a vision softly creeping, left its seeds while I was sleeping, and the vision that was planted in my brain still remains. within the sound of silence.”  The lyrics filled the air around us as the clouds broke and the Rover rose the mountainside into broken but clearer air.

“Darkness…my old friend,” Nguyen whispered to himself more than to us in front.

There was a signal at Tramway and Montgomery, but it was either too buried in snow to be able to make out or was not functioning.  There was no traffic, so I eased the Rover forward slowly, the snow level at our elevation so high that the heavy Four Wheel Drive truck was actually pushing a pile of snow in front of us that formed a wave up and over the hood before being broken and falling away off ot each side as we continued.  I knew that only in such a high altitude would it have been possible to continue to proceed, because the snow, seeming thick and sticky, wasn’t that at all.  It was light and dry, so it could be pushed aside as long as the Rover kept moving.

I turned onto Magnolia, the snow so deep that there was no indication of streets or driveways at all, only the measured distance between homes on the street facing one another allowed for directional approximation.  Our Spanish-style one-story home was there, although not prominent among the others.  Its distinctive black iron gate up near the front door was half buried, but a distinctive indicator.  I plowed the Rover off the road and onto the driveway.  We’d made it home.

I opened the garage door and eased the Range Rover inside before finally turning off the key.  I hadn’t turned the ignition off for the entire time since we’d left the office, as I was afraid it might not start again, even though it always started.  The Rover’s small but powerful V8 engine was actually made in America by the Oldsmobile division of General Motors.

We all got out of the car at the same time and walked to the open door.  The vista outside was of almost another planet.  A great dark cloud spread out below us as we looked north, more like a strange rug than a cloud at all.  Down below, only the Marriott Hotel poked up through that cloud, as if standing still to look around. The wind had died down to a breeze, the sun wasn’t there, but its effects dully penetrated the even higher cloud cover many thousands of feet above the mountain range itself.  That the storm, still raging below, could produce such stunningly magnificent effects made the Land of Enchantment slogan on New Mexico license plates totally descriptive instead of hopeful.

The door to the kitchen opened, the garage lights came on, and the door began to close.  We all turned to see Mary at the same time, standing in the doorway, bright yellow light overpowering the weaker garage bulbs to shine around her.  The packed snow pressed into every surface of the Rover began to respond to the heated atmosphere in a relaxing way as we got ourselves together and unloaded what we’d brought with us, the snowpack beginning to thud onto the concrete floor.

We went into the kitchen and plopped our stuff down on the Spanish tile floor.  I gestured to the refrigerator when Mary walked in from the dining room.

“Gentlemen,” she said, smiling only at Nguyen, who nodded gently back to acknowledge the compliment.  “I need to see you,” she said to me before turning and walking back through the arched doorway.

I followed, knowing whatever the conversation was going to be, it wasn’t likely to be something I’d be pleased with.

Once in the bedroom, she turned.  “We have three bedrooms and a living room with a Taos bed.  We have a bedroom; Julie has a bedroom, and Michael does too.  There’s no room at the inn.”

Her play on words, it being Christmas and all, didn’t just blow by me, but there was no smile or laugh to go with it.

“I understand,” I replied.  “We have the afternoon to get by, and the storm is fast passing down below.  The Marriott has rooms,” I lied, not knowing that at all, “and these guys are all three pretty tough players.”

“I don’t mean to be selfish, but we have the kids to think about,” she said.

I thought for a moment.  I knew down deep that if I told her the truth about the assassination attempt earlier and that the three of my associates were about the best protection she and the kids could have until the Phil Marlowe situation was somehow settled, I would win the day.  But, and it was a big but, I also felt that we’d have to leave Albuquerque and move somewhere else, or she’d never rest or sleep, which meant I’d never rest or sleep.   I could not share that information.  The men could not stay, which meant that the storm had to clear.

“You are correct,” I agreed, rubbing my chin, as if thinking over a problem that really didn’t need any thinking at all.  “They’ll be leaving a bit later.  Can we make dinner for them after they get cleaned up?” I asked.

“Of course, and why is that Quincy person here.  He’s way too good-looking to be with you, Ben and Nguyen.”

I had nothing to say to that.  Mary could simply floor me sometimes with astounding comments she blurted out. Marcinko was one of the men she used as a sort of test dummy for such things, and now Quincy was in her crosshairs.

I went back to the kitchen, preparing to come up with a plan.  I wasn’t wounded by her comparative comment about looks.  Quincy was Hollywood material in that area, although my love relationship with Mary went way beyond mere physical appearances.

“We won’t be staying,” I began as I walked through the arch.

“You’re staying, but we are not, is what you meant to say, I think,” Kingsley said.

“Don’t get the wrong idea,” I replied, ready to defend my wife’s decision.

“It’s physics,” Quincy said.  “There’s not enough room for all of us, and the house is getting brighter by the minute.”

I looked toward the front hallway windows and realized that Quincy was right.  The storm had to be passing by at incredible speed.

“It’s God,” I replied with a delighted smile.  “Thank you, God,” I whispered into the air, holding up both arms in supplication.

“What do you want us to do?” Kingsley asked.

I walked back into the dining room and hit the button to turn on the stereo receiver, and then tapped in the numbers to get WLS in Chicago.  It didn’t always come in, even with my radio antenna tower strapped to the back corner of the house, but maybe it would.  I was already tired of Christmas music, and I needed a song for my new plan, wondering if there was something mentally wrong with me for bending song lyrics to my use for behavioral response, but doing it nevertheless.

There were some scratchy sounds until the frequency-modulated carrier wave came through, likely aided by the strange features of the passing storm.

The first words stopped me cold in my tracks, as I stood frozen under the arch.

“This is Brother John, coming to you from Na Trang…”

It just could not be.  I stared into Nguyen’s eyes, the only other one of us who had heard those words come out of small transistor radios down in the valley, back at that time, in the living and dying hell.

“This is for all you Vietnam guys out there on Christmas,” the disc jockey said, his voice enthusiastic and full of flourish.  The song began to play.

“Some folks are born made to wave the flag…Ooh, they’re red, white, and blue, and when the band plays ‘Hail to the Chief,’ oh, they point the cannon at you, Lord…” came through the two Sansui speakers and penetrated deep into my brain.

Fortunate Son wasn’t a song I liked, but it didn’t really matter.  The past had reached forward in time again to capture and hold me in its grasp, however unbelievably it had done so.  The lyrics were about how only the lowest characters in a culture truly fight in a war, go down into that valley, while the rich and powerful and their kids simply skim across the surface above, nearly unaware that there’s a war right beneath their gifted feet.

I smiled at Nguyen as the song finished, with both Ben and Quincy looking strangely at both of us.  Nguyen gave me back one of his very rare, enigmatic smiles.  He somehow knew.  I was going the other way on this Christmas.  I was going into celebrating being exactly one of the low characters who did the fighting, and how being that and doing the things I had to do to be that, made me rise to and then above the ones who had no idea at all about what was really going on right under their noses.

“Here’s the plan,” I said, breaking the tension of the song’s few moments of total attention, at least for Nguyen and me.

“We’ll stay here. I have plenty of winter gear. We’ll play with the train, the cats, the kids, and all of that.  We’ll have an early dinner of leftover prime rib.  Then we’ll pack up and head ot the Marriott.  If they’re full up, which I doubt, we’ll head to the office you can bunk there. I’ve got sleeping bags just in case. I’ll return home after calling Tony.  Then tomorrow morning, as the snow begins to melt and evaporate away, weather permitting, we head back to the desert location to see if all of this is real or some strange and weird made-up mess of a thing.  Finally, we’ll go fully equipped for contact if Phil makes a second attempt before Tony gets him out of the country.”

Fortunate Son finished playing only to follow up with “You Can’t Always Get What You Want”
by the Rolling Stones, and that set me back again.  The version was their first and slightly rougher, and different from the final one that hit the charts.  I knew that back then, the government paid the groups for their music when nobody else would, but it also meant that their songs would forever be open source and not restricted by licenses or fees.

“Throw your stuff back in the Rover, and then we’ll take a much-needed break right here.  Later, we’ll have some Bacardi and go through my armory to see what kind of heavy stuff we might want to take along on this tour, or mission of our own making.”

“What about your wife?” Quincy asked.

I smiled across to him.

“Mary’s a player and although she does not create or operate inside mission situations, she loves to be along for the adventure.”

“You mean she’s coming with us?” Quincy asked, causing Ben, Nguyen, and me to laugh together.

“No, definitely not,” I replied.  “Not that kind of adventure.  I, and you guys, are her adventure. She’s along for the ride and believe me when the chips are down, so is she…all the way up the hill.”]

“What about her six?” Kingsley asked, which stopped me in my tracks.

“What about, even though it’s very unlikely, the target was to make your family the target while we were out there in the Frozen Chosin?”

Ben’s using the famous Korean War Marine retreat as an example shook me a little.   The battle from the Chosin Reservoir to the sea had become one of the Marine Corps’ greatest heroic operations.  Chesty Puller had become famous there.  His son, Lewis Puller, had lain next to me at Yokosuka Naval Hospital in Japan, both of us critically injured.

I thought for a moment, knowing Kingsley was right and now knowing that I could not leave Mary, Julie, and Michael…and the cats to wait on their own without any sort of security.  Mary was a player, but she was by no means equipped, trained or inclined to use firearms.

“John Nash,” I whispered to myself.

“Who’s he?” Quincy asked.

“Navy Phantom back seater in the Nam.  He lives five doors down the street.

He’s an odd duck, but big, in shape, looking for work, a connection, or anything. His kids are my kids’ friends too, and his wife’s a trooper.”

“Can you bring him in?” Quincy asked.   “Can he be vetted and approved, and cleared almost instantly?”

I knew that Quincy, the analyst among us, understood that such a thing could never be possible with such narrow time limits.

“No, of course not,” I answered.  “However, I can ask him to do me a favor and come stay while I’m away for a bit without really telling him anything.”

“True,” Kingsley said, contemplatively, scratching his forehead.  “But what about defensive fire capability?”

I felt like there was a knot inside my skull.  “There’s that.  If I alert him to th fact that he should be armed, then that opens a whole set of uncloseable doors he will come walking through.  He has no idea that I am anything more than a damaged vet returned from the war and now working in the insurance industry.”

“Risk,” I said, still thinking. “Do I have the authority to take that risk?”

“What’s the risk, really?” Quincy asked.

“That I’ll be revealed to be what I really am,” I quickly answered.

“It’s still Christmas, so invite him over here with his family,” Kingsley said.  “When he gets here, you take him aside, like in the garage, and let him know that you’ve got a situation and will have to leave for a few hours, but you’re a little worried because somebody threatened you.  Leave it at that and see what he says.”

The day wore on with the kids having a wonderful time playing with all three of the men I was with, and me too.  Great men and great kids.  Mary administered and served up snacks, but no booze. If I were going to be driving during the holiday period, then she’d have none of that.

I called Nash and had him come up to meet my friends.  He agreed.  It took him ten minutes of what was normally a two-minute walk.   I opened the garage when my exterior radar-driven detector indicated something was close.  He came into the garage and started brushing himself off as I noted the sun coming out to create a winter vista that was truly beyond words. Layers of bright sunlit clouds rolling under the brilliant light and sending shadows down in ray-like ways.

“What’s up?” John asked.

“Before you come in, I wanted to ask a favor,” I began.

“Your wish is my command,” John said, laughing as he took off his coat.

“I had some trouble at work, and I’ve got to go out with the guys you’re about to meet for a while, and I wanted to make sure the family wasn’t left alone.”

I said, having constructed the sentence very carefully to avoid overdoing it.

“Sure, I’ll cover your six, and just what are we talking about by way of some threat. You run into a difficult client in the life insurance business?” Nash laughed as he finished the sentence.

I reached over to the space behind the extra refrigerator we had in the garage and pulled out a short-barreled Remington pump-action twelve-gauge and held it out to him.

“Just in case,” I said, letting it fall into his hands.

Nash looked down at the deadly-looking weapon and then back up into my eyes.  “That’s it,” he said, starting to get comfortable holding the shotgun.  “I don’t know what you really do after all, but I want to be part of it, and it’s sure as hell not insurance.”