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Ed Hernandez |
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Chapter 5 - I Know a Guy |
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November 02, 2009 |
Chapter 5
I Know a
Guy
Hoff sat in Dr. Frank’s office in the same
uncomfortable chair, facing the same intimidating desk, and very apprehensive,
as he’s done for the past eight months. As he sat, Hoff irritably fiddled and
chomped on his unlit cigar since the doctor scolded him on numerous occasions
not to light up in the office. He must’ve glanced at the college Ph.D and
honorary doctrines framed and pinned to the wall behind the doctor a million
times. Somewhere on the congested wall, he remembered seeing a framed
congratulatory certificate for working with the CIA for so many years. Hoff has
visited the office almost every day and should have the sequence of family
photos strewn that’s on the doctor’s desk committed to memory. Hoff has been
Ice’s only visitor and Dr. Frank has always commended him on it.
“How’s he doin’ today,” Hoff asked.
“Well, after months of critical therapy
and counseling, I can say that there’s good news and bad news.”
Hoff readied himself. “Okay. Give me the
good news first.”
“The good news is that Mr. Connor’s memory
is slowly returning.”
“Excellent! What’s the bad?”
“His recovery is complicated.”
“How so?”
The doctor reveals a digital notepad. On
it, he’s been compiling notes and opinions relating to Ice.
“Mr. Connor is suffering from a severe
form of remorse, regret and guilt. I’m finding it hard to reach him as he tends
to become distant, detached, when I try to help him with these issues. However,
I can say with much certainty that the amnesia wasn’t caused by the emotional
trauma but it didn’t help it either.”
“What happened?”
With his fingers, he flicks through the
digital pages until he gets to a certain bookmark. It’s simply labeled:
Liberia. The doctor gave the pad to Hoff so that he could study it.
“Take a look.” The doctor sat back in the
chair.
As Hofff read, the doctor scrutinized his
facial reactions just as much as Hoff scrutinized the text. The doctor
interpreted every moment of surprise, sorrow, worry and pain that flashed
through Hoff’s mind in a matter of minutes. Hoff’s insides were tattered as he
handed the pad back.
“I didn’t know,” Hoff said.
“No one knew. He kept this to himself for
all these years.”
In that moment, Hoff felt pity and the
deepest sympathy for his old friend. He was speechless. Seconds pass.
“Does he remember me?”
“Yes, but… ”
The doctor hesitated. Hoff sensed that
there was more bad news so he readied himself again.
“But what?”
“He doesn’t want to see you or talk to
you?”
That hit Hoff in the stomach. Now, along
with the other emotions, there’s dismay, then disappointment, then finally,
rejection. As his heart sank, a flood of memories ripple through his mind. There
were so many good times, there shouldn’t be any reason for this.
“But, why?”
“He doesn’t say,” the doctor continued,
“however, it’s not just you, he’s not interested in seeing or talking to
everyone he knew before the amnesia. In my professional opinion, I think Mr.
Connor wants to forget everything about his prior life because it’s a way to
ease the pain maybe pay for what’s he’s done to those kids. He does have a trial
coming up and he hinted that he won’t be fighting the charges.”
Hoff repeated the words, ‘Doesn’t want to
see me’ over and over in his mind.
“He and I, we go way back’” Hoff said, “We
were best of buds. I’d give my right arm if I could to help.”
The doctor feels sympathetic and it went
against his professional views. Who could help it?
“You have to know,” the doctor continued,
“Mr. Connor still considers you his good friend— his only good friend.”
Hoff sighed as he took the cigar from his
mouth and held it between his fingers to stare at it.
“I know that you and he go way back,” the
doctor said, “as far back as the war of 2031?”
“Hm,” Hoff mutters, not really listening.
“Why don’t you tell me about how you met
Mr. Connor.”
Hoff, still rapt in what was said, only
caught the last part of the sentence.
“What?”
“I can see that you really care for your
friend and I thought maybe I can help reconcile your relationship with him.
First: Tell me about your history. How’d you first meet? Where?” The doctor
readies the pad.
It didn’t take long for Hoff to decide.
“All right,” Hoff said.
Hoff reclined in the chair as he attempted
to recall his first encounter. The images began to flow like an unruly river.
Hoff tried to arrange them, struggling to get them organized. Many elements of
that particular day were pleasant— others were disturbing. An involuntary itch
flared up over his old war wound, hidden underneath the left pant leg, front
side of the thigh. Hoff scratched it several times to relieve it.
Yes! He remembered. The War of the
Americas; more specifically, The Battle for Panama Canal.
Hoff began:
“It was 2031 and I was a young twenty-five
year old Marine. Back then, I was a Lance Corporal and in my third year in the
Fourth Division, Anti-Terrorism Battalion.” Hoff took in a breath. “I was
stationed at the Panama Canal near the Gatún locks area, Atlantic side. We were
posted there to insure that this particular gate didn’t end up like the
Miraflores locks did on the Pacific side. Earlier in the war, the WLA sabotaged
several cargo ships as they waited for passage through those southern locks.
This act of sabotage successfully destroyed the them, blocking all traffic;
including, the advancement of some of the Navy’s Pacific Fleet, who desperately
needed to be on the Atlantic side. This meant that the fleet had to go all the
way around South America— taking them about two weeks to get to the Atlantic
side. Instead, the fleet assembled in a bottleneck in the Gulf of Panama.”
Hoff chomps on his now wet cigar as he
reminisces.
“At that time, morale was low due too many
factors. First, help from our other branches of the military would prove
difficult. The Mexican Army effectively repelled the US Ground Forces, on the
US/Mexican border; securing all roads and highways going in and out. Second, the
Air Force fighters were proving more and more useless since the heart of the
enemy forces were using the rain forests as a cover. Third, our government at
the time, couldn’t properly finance the war due to our record breaking deficit.
And fourth, public opinion about the war was eroding. The majority of Americans
believed that we should’ve never entered it, exclaiming that the US was at fault
since they provoked the WLA when they attacked the Panama Canal in 2020. They
insisted that the war end.”
Hoff sighs as the doctor jots a few notes.
“My first assignment came from command
around mid-March. It was guard duty; assigned to protect a group of soldiers who
were appointed the arduous task of searching the Gatún locks to assure that no
explosives were found anywhere in or around the area. I started my rounds at
around zero-two hundred hours. I was posted on the west sidewall of the first
lock chamber, patrolling up and down the length of the gate— about a thousand
feet or so, each time. I particularly remember that the first lock facing the
north was open, so that the height of the water inside the chamber was at sea
level. There was no moon that night and no unnecessary lighting in the area due
to US Marshall Law. So, the channel that led into Limón Bay two miles north, was
very dark. I could see about twenty of our boys in full scuba gear swimming up
and down the water-filled chamber, the glare of their flashlights was the only
hint they were in the water. They were scouring the walls and floors.”
Hoff pauses to scratch the wound again.
“Then, I heard it. At first, it was like a
distant waterfall. Then the sound increased exponentially— louder and louder,
until it became a deafening roar. I looked north, towards the bay, where the
sound was originating and saw beheld the biggest oil tanker that I’ve ever seen,
coming at us at top speed. The first thing I did was say, ‘Holy shit!’ Then, I
started to shout at the top of my lungs to the men who where still busy in the
water. ‘Everybody get out! Get out! Get out!’ And then, I did what anyone else
would do that type of situation. I ran like hell, away from there. I headed
west, I think, and I didn’t stop for shit. I thought that I ran for miles, I
mean, it seemed like miles, so I thought I was pretty safe. So, I turned around
to witness the inevitable and noticed that I only ran a few feet. It wasn’t far
enough. As I looked up, I saw the tanker, which seemed several stories tall,
effortlessly plow through the fist chamber like a hot knife through butter then
the second chamber then the third. The ship buckled as it reached the third gate
and there was the loudest crunching noise I’ve ever heard. The waters from the
Gatún Lake was pouring into the locks. I was just awestricken by the sight. For
a few seconds there was silence, then, as if the fires of hell were released at
once, an explosion, the loudest I’ve ever heard, emanated from inside the ship,
lit up the night sky. It turned night to day. It shook the earth, the sky, and
my soul. I flew back on my ass as the concussion passed by. After that, I
remember being slightly conscious. I could hear some of our soldiers screaming
in agony in the background. It may have been a few seconds later, I don’t really
know, when I tried to get up. But, as I did, a great pain, like I’ve never felt,
radiated from my leg and move throughout my whole being. I looked at my leg and
saw a piece of metal shrapnel protruding from my left thigh, bleeding like there
was no tomorrow. I tried pulling it out but it hurt like hell. I learned later
that the shrapnel was embedded in my thighbone. So, I just I left it in there
deciding at that point to make a makeshift tourniquet. Unfortunately, I didn’t
have the strength. I felt a bit dizzy and that’s when I knew I was losing a lot
of blood. So, I crawled. Didn’t know which way to go, I just crawled away— away
from the burning ship.”
Hoff sighs. Beads of sweat poured down his
face. The doctor gazed intently; hanging his every word.
“And?” The doctor was impatient.
“I didn’t see his face or knew who he was
or… even cared. I knew that he was wearing scuba gear— like the soldiers in the
water chamber— and uh… he had a SEAL 6 team patch on his upper-sleeve. I was
going in and out of consciousness but I can still make out what he was saying:
‘Hang on, buddy! Hang in there! I got you!’ I went numb as he lifted me over his
shoulder and ran. Then… everything went dark. I learned later who that man was:
Ice.”
Hoff’s eyes glazes over as his eyes focus
on the past.
“What’s more, I ended up in the infirmary
of the USS Ronald Reagan. I was in what was described as a mini-coma for about a
week. The doctors told me that during that time, Ice visited me every single day
to make sure I’d pull through.”
Hoff looks deep into the doctor’s eyes.
“Do you know what the first thing he said
to me as I came out of that coma?”
The doctor shakes his head.
“I’ll never forget it. He said, ‘I know a
guy who can get you top grade stogies’. I asked, ‘What the hell are you talking
about?’ He said, ‘You smell of cheap cigar.” Then he smiled. We’ve been friends
ever since.”
Hoff puffs on the wet cigar as if it were
lit.
“He saved my life, doc. If it wasn’t for
him carrying me to safety, I would be dead right now. I owe him… everything.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” The doctor
turned off the pad after one last input.
TO BE CONTINUED…
©
Copyright 1980-2009 Ed Hernandez •All Rights
Reserved
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Chapter 4 - War of the Americas |
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November 02, 2009 |
First draft so there may be boo boos.
Chapter 4
~ War of the Americas ~
In the first part of the 21st
Century, the entire world order had changed significantly:
The European Union [EU] and Russia fought
over disputed territories. This EU were triumphant in gaining absolute authority
in the territories which they didn’t posses previously. Russia vowed revenge.
The African Union [AU] formed in the early
part of the century— a movement determined to unify the African Continent and
make them a powerful nation.
And, last but not least, the biggest war
of the century was waged in the Western Hemisphere: The War of the Americas— a
war that was comparable to that of the Vietnam War in regards to US military
blunders.
Ice and Hoff were once soldiers together
in this war. More specifically, the Battle for Panama Canal.
Around 2015, the Organization of American
States [OAS] was disbanded attributable to the disagreement made by the Latin
States [Mexico, Central and South America] who claimed that the charter that
held the organization together for many years was unfair and opposed true
freedom that was due the people of the Latin States. Between 2026 and 2030, the Latin
States, joined forces, calling themselves the World Latin Alliance [WLA],
claiming, among other things, their legal right to unify as a nation in order to
protect themselves from foreign governments meddling in their political affairs.
The WLA formed immediately after an
international incident wherein the United States in 2020, blatantly violated the
Torrijos-Carter Treaty of 1977 by invading Panama in order to assume
responsibility of all everyday operations and military defense of the Panama
Canal and all areas within a five mile radius— the area in which they later
renamed the Panama Canal Zone. The US successfully defended this action at a
United Nations hearing citing that Panama was, in essence, “unable to
effectively protect the Panama Canal Zone, militarily or otherwise,” therefore,
they claimed, they have taken the proper measures within their international
rights to ensure US national and regional security. The US was referring to
several terrorists’ attacks on the canal in the prior years, which almost halted
operations. Panama officials claim that the US was secretly behind the terrorist
attacks in order to regain the control of the canal lost through the treaty and
to punish them for resigning from the OAS. However, those accusations could
never be proven.
In addition to the treaty violation, the
WLA claimed they had proof that the United States, alongside the European Union,
were infiltrating various Latin American governments creating puppet regimes in
order to initiate day-to-day political and military policies. According to the
WLA, these policies were intended to create an atmosphere of chaos and disorder,
resulting in these countries from forming a perfect union— eliminating them as a
superpower. An intricate case of divide and conquer. These allegations went
unverified as well.
In the year 2031, these two allegations,
amongst several others listed in a document of grievances delivered to the
United Nations, were enough to persuade the WLA to declare war on the United
States and the European Union. And, within minutes of the official declaration,
the WLA immediately attacked the American/Mexican border; securing all roads in
and out of Mexico, followed by an all-out-assault on the “Panama Canal Zone”.
Surprisingly, within two years, the WLA’s military was able to expunge every
American and European citizen and military personnel from off their territory.
It was one of the worst times for the US
to be involved in any kind of confrontation. During this period, the weak
national and global economy affected the everyday operations of the its
military, resulting in a less than a sixty percent effectiveness rate of their
war-machine during the war. With troops spread thin all around the globe, the US
defended as best they could, but the vast military resources of the WLA,
sustained by the newfound wealth derived by green fuels, overwhelmed the once
powerful US military might. At the other side of the Atlantic, the EU never even
considered sending troops, calling the accusations “preposterous”. But in
reality, their military power was exhausted from their recent war with Russia.
The US at this point, was on its own.
The War of the Americas lasted only two
and a half years, giving the United States a black eye in which it will never
recover. In 2036, a new nation was formed: Los Estados Unidos de Americanos
Latino or The United States of Latin America [USLA]; the United Nations
officially recognized and accepted membership of the fledgling nation in 2038.
The USLA, together with Cuba, Haiti, and
the Dominican Republic— who joined the USLA shortly thereafter its
establishment— is a nation that stretches from Mexico to the southern most tip
of South America, including a large region in Antarctica just south of Chile; a
piece of territory legally held by Chile.
TO BE CONTINUED…
©
Copyright 1980-2009 Ed Hernandez •All Rights
Reserved
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Escaped |
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Chapter 3 - Innocent Pretense |
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October 12, 2009 |
First draft so there may be boo boos.
Chapter 3
~ Innocent Pretense ~
From The Journal
of Lieutenant André Stanislav
* * *
Journal Entry:
Wednesday January 25, 2051
The world stage is set for another
theatrical production. The title: War. The script is written and approved. The
backstage crew is ready, willing and able. The props and background sceneries
are set in place and the actors are all warming up, wherein reluctantly, I have
a supporting role. The curtain will soon rise and the world will participate in
the performance of destruction with unbelieving eyes.
End of Entry
* * *
Journal Entry:
Tuesday Feb 28, 2051
I find it difficult to address the general
by his new self-proclaimed title of Prime Minister, after having witnessed his
rise to power. There was no election or congressional approval. There is nothing
legal about any of this. However, how can I protest when I let this evil occur?
I was one of many who let this horror take shape. I had many chances to stop the
inevitable. Many chances! However, I have succumbed to it like the coward that I
am. I have made a pact with the devil and there is nothing I can do about.
Nonetheless, my apprehension is
explicable: I will not dare voice my opinion for fear of losing the people that
I love the most. I have heard reports of the atrocities carried out by our Gound
Forces authorized by the newly self-appointed Prime Minister on innocent people
across this great land of ours. The worst of these are children as young as ten
years old, sons and daughters of municipality ministers, hung by their necks
with ropes; their young bodies displayed for all to see— a psychological tactic
to be sure. It serves to muffle the question of power held by the new regime in
Moscow.
My wife, Helena, bless her soul, hears
news of these atrocities from her friends. She considers them malicious rumors
and does not hesitate to tell them so. She, of course, is supportive of
everything that I do. I know the truth of these reports; and even though I dare
not reveal its true nature, I feel that she is aware of the reality of the
situation as much as I.
I gaze upon her and contemplate on how I,
a brutish and unrefined person, can be so blessed with the company of such a
beautiful and wonderful woman. She can always perceive my gaze as only an angel
can, look into my eyes and smile. Speaking from within her soul, she conveys to
me, Everything will be all right. However, I know that behind her beautiful
green eyes and her innocent pretense, there is an unfathomable apprehension for
the girls and for myself. My anguish is also deep-seated. I would do anything to
protect them. Anything!
End of Entry
* * *
[Several Pages
Missing]
* * *
Journal Entry:
Thursday Mar 9, 2051
I feel the need at this point to hide my
journal.
End of Entry
* * *
Journal Entry:
Tuesday Mar 14, 2051
Today, the Prime Minster requested my
presence at his office, in the grand Белый дом [Byely dom or Russian White
House]. It was my first visit ever to the office of the Prime Minister. It
should have been one of the highlights of my career; to be present in such an
historic room. However, regrettably, it was bittersweet at best and one of the
most terrifying events of my life.
As I made my way toward the Prime
Minister’s office I passed several security checkpoints and card access only
doors, my heart began to beat faster and faster with every passing step.
Seemingly, it took forever to get to the office and as I finally arrived, I
hesitated to knock for a second or two. I primed myself by closing my eyes and
counting to ten . Then, I knocked politely. There was a short delay before I can
hear his muffled voice.
“Come in.”
I opened the door and the first thing I
took notice of was the lack of proper lighting; it was unusually dark. The only
illumination was coming from a small amount of sunlight piercing through the
small slits of the shades covering the large main window. The condition gave the
room sort of a film-noir atmosphere that I have seen in many old American movies
of old.
The second thing I noticed was an all too
familiar rancid odor. I knew immediately what the stench was: the smell of
death. My heart raced for a moment and I gave out a concern cry.
“Prime Minister! Are you…”
Before I can finish, he had an answer for
me.
“I’m fine.” His voice was impassive.
I darted my eyes left and right searching
for the source of the voice. Right then, an office chair situated behind the
main desk spun around. Sitting in it was the Prime Minster.
At first glance, his face appeared
ghost-like in manner. His eyes were sunk, the result of either a long restless
night or prolonged weeping. His blond hair appeared dull and untidy rebellious
strands dripped over his forehead toward his eyes. He seemed to sense my inward
distress regarding his untidy facade and right away, he began to mend his
appearance. He straightened up in his chair, adjusted his tie and pushed his
hair back into place. He inhaled deeply and then looked me in the eye.
“Welcome, Lieutenant. So nice of you to
drop by.”
“Thank you, sir,” I responded.
He sat back in his chair, eased. He
pointed at one of the seats in front of the desk.
“Please, sit.”
I offered no response except to take a
seat without delay. I took my place and waited for the Prime Minister to
initiate a conversation. There was a long beat and it was an uncomfortable one.
I observed his eyes as it went from focusing on me to somewhere else-- somewhere
far. I cleared my throat to facilitate a better outcome.
“Sir, should I turn on the lights,” I
asked politely. “It is rather dark in here.”
He pondered that question for a moment.
His concentration was back on track and he took a long look around the office
then smiled.
“Of course,” he exclaimed. He quickly
bounced up from his chair and straightaway manipulated the window shade to their
open position. The morning sunlight jetted in, chasing away the ‘morgue’
ambiance. Subsequently, he sat back down.
I felt slightly at ease. That is, until I
saw the dead body, laid back in an office chair at one corner of the room, near
the bookshelves. It was the source of the rancidity. Originally, I did not
recognize who he was. The only clue was the epaulets; it informed me that he was
a Staff Officer— a Brigadier. I take pride in knowing all the senior officers in
the military, especially those that outrank me in the Ground Forces. Like, all
the pieces of the puzzle came together. The dead body was that of the Prime
Minister’s older brother, Leonid Avrutin.
His eyelids were open and his eyes stared
lifelessly at the ceiling. There was what appeared to be a bullet hole in the
forehead, right above the left eye. The permanent expression on its face was
that of complete and utter shock— like a photograph of his last moments. My
estimate is that he has been dead for over twenty-four hours.
I slowly turned my head and made eye
contact with the Prime Minister as he stoically stared back. On the desk, I
caught a glimpse of the GSh-18, Model 2a; its barrel facing away from me. I knew
that it belonged to the Brigadier since it was a military standard issue— one
issued only to a Senior Officer.
“There is an old saying, ‘Keep your
friends close but your enemies closer,” he said calmly. “But I ask: What of
relatives?”
The Prime Minister sighed and sunk into
his chair, his eyes focusing in on the distance again. After seconds, he snaps
back into the present.
“Anyway. I have troubling news,” he says.
He pulled out a maroon-color paper folder
from his drawer, stuffed with paperwork and slammed it on the desk causing the
contents to spill. I have a unique talent of reading text upside down. It
originated from my need to read the thoughts of my grammar school principal. He
would always quote remarks written by other teachers from my school record that
he would always keep open in front of him. I needed to know everything that was
written about me.
This time, the maroon folder on the desk
read: From the Office of the KBG - Classified.
“Recently, the KGB conducted a secret
investigation on my brother’s activities. They discovered, to my surprise, that
my brother had in the last six months, initiated secret meetings with Svoboda
Rebels, whom, as you may well know, are enemies of the state.” He paused. “There
is evidence that my brother had several face-to-face meetings with the rebel
leader, the wanted criminal, mass murderer, Petya Demidov. Not wanting to be
believe these findings, I summoned my brother here yesterday, to confront him
with these accusations. I needed answers.”
“Of course,” he continued, “he denied the
allegations, citing a long-held prejudice of him by several KGB high
commanders.”
I remained quiet and listened intently.
“I presented… the evidence,” he said.
He turned his gaze to his brother’s dead
body and after a short moment, he closed his eyes tightly, squeezing the bridge
of his nose with his right thumb and forefinger. As he sighed, he looked down on
the desk and began to scrape something off with his right thumbnail— an
imaginary spot on the folder.
“My older brother was always jealous of
me,” he said while scraping harder at the spot. “I was always smarter than he. I
surpassed him in everything— even in military school.”
He discontinued the scratching and eased
back into his chair again.
“He was a coward,” he continued, “a
remnant of the old regime. He and others like him hold us back from our ultimate
goals.”
He again made eye contact with me.
“Stalin once said, ‘Never trust anyone’.
He was right.” He paused, apparently thinking. “My friend, there will come a
time where we, as a people, as individuals, as professionals, and humanitarians,
will have to choose between contradicting goals.”
He stands up and peers out the window;
into the morning cast of central Moscow.
“There will come a time when we must make
profound sacrifices— choose one and not the other. And, the choices we make will
influence our destiny. We follow destiny, which soon becomes history, history
becomes an example, which soon assures us immortality. Future generations will
have a roadmap to follow.” He pauses. “I have made my ultimate sacrifice this
day.”
The tone of his voice lowers slightly as
the speed of the sentences slows.
“I loved my brother very much, although,
my mother’s favorite. If my mother were alive today,” his voice cracks, “she
would never, ever forgive me for what I have done. But I… would not blame her
hatred.”
After concluding, he sits back down,
motionless, hands clasped. I could see that he had no more tears to give. I say
the only thing that I feel I have to say.
“Sir, will you be all right?”
He says nothing.
I inhaled, hoping that what I say next
will not offend him.
”With all due respect, sir, this is not
appropriate behavior for the Prime Minster. If I might suggest: you take a few
days off— a sabbatical, if you will, just to clear your head. This is too much
to take, even for you.”
He presses his lips together and nods
slightly.
“You are absolutely right,” he says, “I
will do as you suggest. This is one of the reasons why I like you, Lieutenant.
I… will call in the KGB and have them ‘clean up’, he says with air-quotes, “this
situation. Then, I will take my leave for a few days. Perhaps to my mountain
retreat? How does that sound too you?”
He smiles at me. Although, as unpleasant
as it is, I return the smile.
“But first, I must reveal the reason I
called you here today.”
“Yes, sir?” I was intrigued.
“After hours of careful consideration and
in light of this… recent event, we are now short one Staff Officer. As of today,
by special proclamation, I, Nicholai Avrutin, acting Prime Minster, promote you,
Lieutenant André Stanislav, to Brigadier. Congratulations!”
He stands and extends his hand.
I, to say the least, am speechless.
End of Entry
TO BE CONTINUED…
©
Copyright 1980-2009 Ed Hernandez •All Rights
Reserved
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Chapter 2 - Euphoria Talking |
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September 22, 2009 |
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Chapter 2
~ Euphoria Talking ~
It’s been awhile since Ice had nightmares like these— about ten years. And they are worse than ever. They seem to have a
life all their own and Ice is trying to put them back into the vault like he’s
done hundreds of times before. However, this time, they refuse to retreat. It
has to be the fancy drugs the nurses administered hours earlier. He could easily
snap their necks, if it wasn’t for the fact that he’s strapped to the bed. He’s
been a bad boy. Just ask the orderly with the missing front teeth.
A wave of uncertainty overpowers his whole
being, which is quickly replaced by fear, then uncertainty yet again. Seconds
later, there’s a sense of ecstasy. He laughs. It’s like a roller coaster ride.
They’re messin’ with my mind, he
thinks.
It has to be a psychoactive drug of some
kind invading his system. Although, having never in the past taken the drug
himself— as far as he knows— Ice recognizes its effects. He’s not far from the
truth.
The particular drug is known as “Substance
SP-122a” or “The Russian Truth Serum”. There maybe several derivatives of the
drug around the world since it’s often modified by scientists time and again.
Each spin-off was an improvement of the last.
During the Euro/Russian War 2021-2025 AD,
there were reports of Russian captors torturing POWs with SP-122a, causing
permanent brain damage or worse, death. Subsequently, after the war, its
application, under any circumstance, was deemed cruel and unusual punishment was
forbidden to be used in torture; hence, the Euro-Russian Treaty of 2026 banned
the production and usage of the drug.
As a side note: Several years back, after
the ratification of the treaty, there was an accusation from a known U.S.
dissident accusing the Justice Department of using SP-122a on him while
imprisoned. Not surprisingly, the Justice Department denies everything.
Who the hell were they kidding?
At any rate, SP-122a became the drug to be
hated. As a result, some entrepreneur somewhere decided to create a less potent
version of SP-122a to sell on the street. They called it “Spew”. Spew proved so
successful, it replaced cocaine as the everyday leisure drug for the rich and
famous. Over the years, a gram of Spew grew to be as costly as a kilo of
cocaine. After years of bad press and public opinions— presidential fodder— the
possession of Spew was made illegal in the United States as 2045.
Powerful stuff, SP-122a. Doubt, cynicism,
sarcasm, love, hate, fear and just about any emotion that helps us defend our
way of life, is swept away by pure joy and euphoria and it yields a more
malleable mind. Ice knows the end-result. He’s utilized the drug on numerous
covert operations for the C.I.A. A couple of scumbags here and there needed
softening up psychologically speaking. It worked like a charm in small doses.
However, if one administered too much on an individual, well, let’s just say,
they won’t be wiping their own asses anymore— if they lived.
They’re trying to brainwash me, he
thinks. For the better. They need me. They’re trying to fix me.
Or, is that the euphoria talking?
The drug made the nightmares lifelike. The
world around him has become the dream.
A man steps into the hospice room. In
Ice’s “tripped out” mind, the echoes of the foot trails are augmented. It feels
like he’s in a deep dark cavern with only the one spotlight over his bed. It’s
getting more and more difficult to discern if this man, who is now standing
before him, is a real or a figment.
In actuality, there is someone standing in
the room next to Ice. It’s Doctor Arthur Franks, Ph.D. in Psychology. His face
appears tight. It’s all those years of successfully not reacting to strange
behavior or motives. He colors his hair to a youthful state but leaves his small
mustache gray. It’s a warning to others. He’s experienced.
“Mr. Isaac Connor,” the voice trails.
“Who are you?” Ice asks the figment.
“I’m here to help,” the voice booms in the
cave. “I am Doctor Arthur
F…”
For some reason, Ice couldn’t perceive his
entire name.
“Who?” He asks again.
“Doctor
Arthur F…”
Again, Ice didn’t catch it and it tickled
him. He laughs.
“You have a problem,” the man says.
“I sure do!” Ice’s laugh is hardier.
“I’m here to help.”
“You’re a doctor, you say?”
“That’s right”
“Doctor of what?”
“A doctor of the mind.”
“Bullshit! Doctor Bullshit,” Ice says.
“That’s what I’ll call you. Dr. Bullshit.” He’s amused with himself.
“There something you’re hiding from us,
Isaac Conner.”
Ice’s laughter is unregulated. His sides
are beginning to hurt.
“I have a few questions for you, Mr.
Connor?” The doctor pauses for effect. “Have you ever been to Liberia?”
Ice immediately stops laughing as his mind
launches an uncontrollable image trip. Memory packets stream back and forth like
a complicated Rolodex, until it abruptly stops on one in particular. What is
this? Ice thinks— a memory of him disembarking a plane at an airport in Liberia,
Africa. He remembers that this was a covert operation for the C.I.A.
“Liberia?” Ice whispers.
“Yes,” the doctor assures, “Bong County?”
“I… was there… once.”
“I know.”
Ice tries to lock eyes with the doctor but
he can’t. It’s the drugs. They’re causing his eyes to spin, seemingly, in their
sockets.
“How… how could you know?”
“I know a lot of things about you,” his
echoes persist.
In fact, the doctor had done his homework.
Ice was one of C.I.A.’s top operative for about twenty years— a former Navy
S.E.A.L. commander who specialized in counter-terrorism and was proficient in
conventional and unconventional weaponry. Not a lot is known about Ice’s teen
years except that he wanted to go to college and graduate on either a degree in
Mathematics or Computer Science. He wasn’t quite sure. However, all that
was lost once he visited a prominent Naval Academy on the west coast during a
school field trip. That experience changed his life forever.
In high school, Ice had the ability to
become a great varsity player but he never tried out. He hated sports viewing
them as inconsequential and self-glorification— a vanity of vanities. He had
many girlfriends; nevertheless, he’d rather spend more time alone toiling away
on his computer than with any of his beautiful companions. It’s not that he was
a bad lover, on the contrary. In fact, most of his girlfriends found him
irresistible— maybe to an extreme. No. It’s because he found it more pleasurable
and fulfilling writing computer programs or deciphering complex mathematical
formulas than making out— a fact that he kept to himself.
The doctor read anything he could about
Ice’s history with the C.I.A.— anything not considered classified— and was
impressed with Ice’s uncanny ability to survive harsh conditions. The doctor
summarized that Ice must have witnessed death and destruction on so many levels;
and yet, his personality profile reveals no psychological trauma, or distress,
or psychological disorders, relating to any of those events in the past, except,
the mission to Liberia ten years ago.
What can shock such a man into a state
of total amnesia? The doctor was here to determine that.
“You disappeared after that mission? Why?
“That mission was classified,” Ice
responds.
“I know all the details, Mr. Connor: The
who, the what, the when, the where and the why. What I want is your version of
the incident. You never reported in. In fact, you disappeared shortly after
completing your mission goals. Why?”
“Who…?” Ice is stuck with the question.
The doctor anticipates it.
“I am an intellect digger, Mr. Connor— a
mind miner, in a way. I am here to relieve you of your problem. I have all the
tools needed to accomplish my task. However, in order for me to help you, you
must allow me permission into your hidden memories. I need your complete
cooperation.”
Ice squirms in his bed. “No,” he moans.
From a personal point of view, the doctor
can identify with Ice. Psychological scars caused by a traumatic event,
especially in war, can be very tough to diagnose. In addition, if the problem
is discovered, it can take weeks, months or years to recover from them. The
road is very long and very painful.
“Something traumatic happened to you.
What was it?”
Ice writhes. He’s resisting. The doctor
reads the body language.
“Please, Mr. Connor. Let go,” he says in
his most persuasive voice.
“No,” Ice persists.
“What caused you to runaway?”
Ice is at this moment forced to relive
the events. It causes him to shutter.
“No,” he Screams. With his wrists tied
down, Ice grabs what he can of the blanket and squeezes. His feet begin
kicking. He’s running, seemingly, like a sprinter.
“Get out of the way,” Ice screams at
someone.
The doctor places his reassuring hand on
Ice’s agitated body.
“Tel me, Mr. Connor,” he says in a soft
voice. “What is it? What do you see?”
Ice can’t resist anymore. He can sense
that there’s a slim chance his pain can be alleviated. His body denounces the
running and sinks into the mattress— a feeling of sadness and remorse creeps
inside. He tries to resist but eventually he can’t. He sobs. Ice hates crying.
He thinks it produces one of the ugliest faces known to man and it’s quite
embarrassing. If he were ever to cry, he would do it in private— away from nosey
onlookers. But today, the drug says otherwise. The tears flow, winding down his
face, following a path of least resistance.
“It’s okay,” the doctor assures.
“No. It’s not,” Ice relays through his sorrow. “I killed them. I murdered those kids.”
The doctor doesn’t react but now
understands.
Ice's sorrow now flows uninhibited. It’s
been awhile since he’s wept like that— like ten years.
TO BE CONTINUED…
©
Copyright 1980-2009 Ed Hernandez •All Rights
Reserved
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