The day grew ever darker and more threatening. I knew the storm wasn’t going to miss San Clemente, as it sometimes did. Living right on the shore wasn’t the best place on the planet to make weather predictions about I’d learned over time.

I had little time to get to the compound and enlist the Staff Sergeant, as well as the rest of his detail. I had to get back to the Bronco and install my portable 8-Track player somewhere I could reach it from the front seat. Steed and Herberich had to be available or make themselves available to do the work of removing, transporting, and later installing the aluminum doors on Butch’s trailer. I also had to time everything so that Butch would not be at his trailer when necessary and then would be when he had to be. There were way too many variables for me to be able to count on the whole thing working. Taking Gularte and beating Butch to a pulp would probably be effective at enlisting his cooperation but I didn’t want to do that if it was at all possible to avoid it. I was home. I was not in Vietnam or down in that cursed valley. I not only was opposed to using physical violence after what I’d been through, I was opposed to having such stuff done not only in my country but right near where I lived with my wife, daughter and now Bozo.

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