tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14588322839235969282024-03-08T18:59:50.099-05:00A Martial Arts LifeThe journey of a Taoist seeker from martial practitioner, to accredited security specialist. And beyond. Taken in no particular sequence.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15573233903308693414noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1458832283923596928.post-53493271139923444182013-11-15T19:22:00.002-05:002013-11-15T19:22:27.770-05:00Tech Freak<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "Microsoft PhagsPa","sans-serif"; font-size: 20.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Microsoft PhagsPa","sans-serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Technology
can be a powerful tool, but it can be just as powerful a weakness</span></i>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The phone call came in just before midnight. 2<sup>nd</sup>
Lt. David Paul Franken had, while sitting in his comfortable home in
Bainbridge, been keeping an eye on the news since the riots had started and was
expecting they’d call the Guard out. He wasn’t happy about the callout but his
family could use the extra money. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> His duffle had been waiting for the inevitable next to
the garage door on the other side of the kitchen. Mona, his wife, had the
coffeemaker going despite the thermos being filled; this wasn’t good.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> What did he forget?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Glancing at the calendar he saw that tomorrow, no, strike
that, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">today</b> was circled. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>oh damn …. anniversary ….</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Walking over to where
she sat, at the same Formica surfaced table that he had once knelt on to
propose to her, he wrapped his arms around her, kissing her head and telling
her how sorry he was. She didn’t say anything, just holding on to his arm like
it was the only way for her to keep from drowning. They remained like that for
a time, silent. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Moments passed before
she spoke, her voice low so that it wouldn’t wake their children, “Is this
going to be like Iraq?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How can you be so certain? The radio stations are saying
the riots aren’t like anything they’ve ever seen before.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He shifts around so he
can look her in the eyes, he’s shocked to see she’s been crying for a while,
she must have been listening to the radio while he was getting ready. Wiping
her tears away he says, “News reporters are nearly always saying that something
is new, terrible or never before seen; they just don’t understand. Americans
don’t usually riot for long, when they riot. A few canisters of CS, maybe some
rubber bullets and they’ll decide there are better things to do.” He kisses her
forehead as she holds tightly to him, “I don’t want you to go … something’s
wrong. Something about this isn’t right …” Pushing her away slightly Lt.
Franken looks at her, “Don’t worry baby, besides, I’ll be commanding that new
riot control cannon, the LRAD and they won’t be able to get anywhere near me.
Especially since the major had them mounted on a few of our Abrams tanks
instead of the pickup trucks they’d been using.” The young lieutenant gives his
wife one last, long kiss before grabbing his duffle and heading out to the car.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> As he’s loading his gear into the trunk he hears his
wife, inside the kitchen of their three bedroom house, crying as if her heart
were breaking. A chill runs down his spine but he can’t find any logical reason
to pay heed to it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> So he ignores it ….</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> He gets that same chill
as he backs out of the garage and points his car towards the MP unit he belongs
to, on East Washington Road, over in Chagrin Falls. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">During
the drive out Lt. Franken thinks about what he’d seen in the footage they’d
released of the riots. His wife had been far more correct than she knew; there
was a lot about these riots which didn’t make any sense. To begin with there
weren’t any demands; no statement of what they were rioting for, or against.
Then there was the reaction of the crowds to the measures that local
enforcement had used, they’d had no reaction. It didn’t matter what was thrown
at them, CS, pepper spray, water cannons, flash/bangs and even rubber bullets;
the crowds kept surging forward against the police line. The other disturbing
fact he saw, but something that the media seemed to be trying to keep under
wraps, was that there were times when the rioters appeared to be attacking the
police and sheriffs as soon as they could reach them. Whenever they came close
to showing an attack happening, the cameras seemed to do a quick cut to some
other action further down the line or even go to an interview with a police
official or politician.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It
wasn’t making much sense</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But
that wasn’t even the worst thing he’d noticed</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
eyes of some of the rioters</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He’d
stopped the footage several times while he watched events unfolding on his
computer, attempting to verify or deny what he thought he was seeing. Even
after several hours of trying to get it nailed down with the forensic software
he had on the computer he wasn’t certain enough to swear to what he thought
he’d seen. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> The eyes of some of the
rioters seemed to be covered by severe cataracts.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> On the off chance it
could be footage that had been monkeyed with by some computer SFX wiz’ he’d
checked the histogram of the video; it was clean. The video only had one layer,
no special effects were indicated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">If
this was true, then how the hell were they able to see?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">His
mother, god rest her soul, had wound up with cataracts during the last years of
her life. She’d been upbeat and jovial for the three years prior to that
happening, despite the pain and the problems brought on by the cancer
treatments. She’d never complained once or let anyone catch her in a depressed
state, or even a bad mood, for nearly the complete first two years of her fight
against her ‘dread enemy.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Until
the third year when she began to lose her sight</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">She’d
been a painter, an artist, for her whole life. Sight and the interpretation of
the things she’d seen were the touchstone of her existence. A master of the
realism school of painting and a photographer, she was nearly the equal of
Ansel Adams, or Thomas Kinkade. His mother had lived for the sights her eyes
could bring to her; for her to record her interpretations of what her eyes
brought to her and it was all for the simple passion of doing it. A creditable
artist in both mediums she had made a respectable living by the doing of it,
but the money was secondary.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
cataracts had made a bitter, sullen, recluse of her.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He’d
learned a lot about cataracts as the result of his attempts to fight the
disease for her. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There
was no way that anyone could see well enough to riot with what appeared to be
advanced stage cataracts on their eyes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So
how were they able to riot?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Many
thoughts ran through his mind as he made the forty five minute drive to the
armory. None of what he’d seen, none of what he knew, seemed to apply this
night and it worried him. At the assembly area troops had already begun loading
the armored vehicles onto the flatbeds for transport to the riot scene. They
were a good bunch of men and you could see it wasn’t their first time for this
sort of action. M-113’s with their M240/B SAW’s had already been loaded and
were in the process of being chained down. The machine guns were strictly for
effect; as long as the troops followed protocol there shouldn’t be any need for
them. Supply vehicles and troop transports led the convoy; they’d be proceeding
directly to the assembly area. Walking to the back of the line he found that
his driver had lined up the Abrams to load and needed only one of the ground
guides to finish the job. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">SSgt. Williamson could
probably have loaded and chained the vehicle in his sleep, he’d mustered out so
many times. The man was well experienced with many tours in the Regular Army to
his credit.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The Lieutenant tossed
his duffle onto the side of the tank; climbing up easily. SSgt. Williamson
waved to him lazily, continuing to smoke his cigarette as the younger man
loaded and stowed his gear. Standing beside the turret the Lieutenant began his
inspection of the LRAD. It nearly looked as though the unit had been meant to
be there, the main gun had been removed and the LRAD mounted in its place,
along with a remote surveillance camera. Not only could the operator see what
was going on with the tank buttoned up, the commanders directing the action
back in the Tactical Operations Center could share the same view.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Does
the Screamer pass inspection, sir?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So the Sergeant already
had a nickname for the boxy looking device, guess that made his acceptance of
it official. The Lieutenant grins as he climbs into the Tank Commander’s hatch
and begins running the diagnostic routines on the panel inside the hatch,
“Well, it looks good so far …” he throws a few more switches and notes the
computer’s response before powering everything back down again, “… but we won’t
really know anything until we fire this baby up and let fly on those rioters.”
The Sergeant chuckles, “Ain’t that the truth of it, L-T, ain’t that the truth
of it …” The two men sit there, quietly enjoying each others’ company until the
call comes down the line for the officers to report for their briefing. The
Sergeant grins as the Lieutenant clambers down and says, “I wouldn’t be in so
much of a hurry sir, they might think you’re a junior officer or something if
you come running into the briefing …” and he begins laughing raucously. Lt.
Franken thinks about it for a moment, then straightens his cap saying, “You
know Sarge, I think you may have a point there …” and walks off. As soon as he
clears the line he can hear the Abrams firing up its diesel and revving before
it drops back down to idle, hmmmm, the ground guide and transport crew must
have shown up.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> The briefing went pretty much the same as any other
briefing for civil unrest except that the Colonel made particular mention that
they weren’t to hesitate if it appeared the SAW’s were needed. After the
briefing, all fifteen minutes of it, Lt. Franken approached the Colonel and
attempted to let him know what he had thought he’d seen on the news reports.
Before he’d even really begun to voice his concerns on the subject, the Colonel
cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand and a comment about the
lieutenant letting the sight of “miscreants with special effects contacts” in a
volatile situation get to him. Lt. Franken, rather than become argumentative
about it, simply saluted the senior officer and proceeded out to the troop
transport with the rest of the men.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> The L-T is so absorbed in his own thoughts and the tacit
refusal of his commander to discuss the matter, that he doesn’t see the fear in
his colonel’s eyes as he leaves the room.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Contrary to depictions in the movies, the ride out to a
trouble spot doesn’t necessarily consist of a lot of macho talk with the
veterans telling the greenhorns all manner of nonsense. Among a few who are
accustomed to working together you might get that; if they know one of the
greenhorns he might get the business but it nearly always gets quieter as you
get closer. Unnecessary chatter goes out the window nearly completely as you
close on the assembly area. Every one is listening, every one strains to hear what
he can above the roar of the diesel. Everyone, absolutely everyone, wants all
the information they can get before they step off the truck and onto the firing
line. What the movies show you is a lie, the machismo chatter, the rough jokes,
are all things done in the comfort of a secured area. Predominant during an
insertion is silence, because chatter can block out the cues you get from the
surrounding area, chatter blocks out the cues you get from nature, herself. </span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Chatter
… cuts you off from information you might need …</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Information
is life</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A
lack of information is death</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">No
soldier, anywhere, wants to die</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A
soldier’s mission, according to General Patton, is to make the other dumb son
of a bitch die for <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">his </b>cause …</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So
the men ride in silence</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> A good part of the ride takes them down I-480 westbound; by
the time they get off the interstate and start gearing down for the ride
through town a large knot sits in the stomach of each and every one of the men.
For the old hands this is a welcome feeling, they know as soon as they step off
the truck they’ll be ready. The first timers, the ‘cruits, only know they
aren’t real happy and some of them are wishing they hadn’t eaten before
boarding the transports.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> The rally point is a construction supply place on
Brookpark road. It’s the only area close to the scene of the action that’s
large enough to handle the vehicles coming in. When they get there they can see
their vehicles still on board the transports, waiting to be offloaded. What
none of the men have anticipated is what they hear on arrival.</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Near
silence greets them</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There is none of the
usual noise you’d hear at a riot. Instead, off in the distance, they can hear
occasional shouts, shots being fired and sometimes even screams. Other than
that there is a strange, low pitched moaning and a weird sort of rubbing sound.
Nearly what you might expect from thousands of children sliding their feet
across pavement in an effort to produce noise. As they prepared their weapons,
their riot gear and unloaded their vehicles the men looked at each other
uneasily. The officers and non-comm’s circulated among them. Answering
questions, making jokes; doing anything they can think of to keep their men’s
nerves under control. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The problem is that all
the little cues saying that this isn’t a normal crowd control operation have
come to dominate the minds of all involved and none of them yet believe what
they were told about this situation.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Not the officers, not the sergeants; not even the lowest
private among them were so unwise as to still believe what they’d been told at
their briefing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Privately, many of them wonder if they’ve finally,
actually, inserted their most personal male parts into the meat grinder, as has
been so often joked, and pushed the ‘on’ switch.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">After the last vehicle
has been unloaded and all the vehicles are staged, their captain sounds twice
on his whistle, summoning the men to gather around him. The non-comm’s float
through the area sweeping the stragglers in to where he waits; even the Captain,
despite his well known mania for timeliness, was unwilling to hurry on to this
assignment. As soon as the men are gathered around him, the captain begins …</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Listen up … as you all
know, we’ve got a bunch of rioters who think they’re a bunch of badasses, using
special effects makeup, high tech protective gear and a lot of other bullshit
to bluff the local cops into thinking they’re fighting some sort of Saturday
night movie monsters …” he pauses for a moment, “… but what they aren’t
expecting, what they can’t possibly know, is that <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">we’re</b> an even <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">bigger,
badder, more effective </b>bunch of monsters, AM I RIGHT?” the men around him
give up a rousing cheer, “… The scene of the action, ladies, is about a mile ….
about one and a half klicks for you veterans … up the road from here … we will
roll in, we will take control of the situation and we will <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">dominate </b>the rioters until they’re all cuffed, stuffed and loaded,
IS THAT CLEAR?” The men cheer once more, the Captain’s words are infectious,
reassuring, the kind of talk they’re accustomed to hearing before moving in to
take over from local law enforcement. He has a record of wins that would be the
envy of any police chief and his bravado gives them the feeling that he’s
right, that this is just another bunch of punks trying to run a con on them. He
holds his hands up and they fall silent once again, “OK, the line of skirmish
here is a bit long but it’s not undoable as long as we use the locals to
support our line, try to get one or two in between each of you as we move in to
reinforce them. M113’s will act as anchors on either end of the line and the
Abrams, with their bright and shiny new toys will be on station every one
thousand feet, or so. Our line will be a mile long, give or take but we’re
going to force them back and into a bottleneck as soon as we’re positioned …”
he looks at Lt. Franken, “… Lieutenant, your LRAD’s will sweep down the line
before the main group, you’re going to soften them up for us because as you
move to take your positions, your LRAD’s will sweep the line with their cannons
…” he looks the lieutenant straight in the eye, “… I want the highest safe
setting you’ve got … get your beams on them ASAP and keep them cooking while we
give the boys in blue a break from the shit they’ve had to put up with ….” The
Captain surveys the men gathered around him before looking back at the
Lieutenant, “Let’s mount up and move out, LRAD’s on point and let’s see those
rioters <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">cooked</b>!” Moving at a fast
trot the young officer and his men mounted up on their spanking new riot
control vehicles, preparing to give relief to the beleaguered police officers
trying to restrain the crowds surging against their lines.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> The modified Abrams tanks, now with the nomenclature Riot
Control Vehicle or RCV, which were being deployed were prototype vehicles. They
were first of their kind; being a radical departure from the M113 APC’s or
MWRAPS formerly used by the MP’s for crowd control. Abrams tanks were chosen
solely for the purpose of utilizing their bulk to counter-balance the barriers
mounted to the front of the vehicles and to provide a stable platform for the
massive three hundred fifty pound sound units mounted on the turrets. Slightly
beneath the twin speaker arrays of the LRAD’s was a camera unit. The cameras
were acoustically isolated from the LRAD by means of what the movie industry
once called a ‘blimp’. The men crewing the riot control vehicles took one look
at the camera unit mounted below the speakers and came up with a far more
prosaic name for the assemblage.</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">One
which we need not dwell on ….</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The cameras, as
previously mentioned, allowed both the tank commander and the officers at the
Tactical Operations Center (TOC) to see the effects of the cannon on the
rioters in addition to providing a second set of ‘eyes’ to whatever takes place
at an incident. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Riot barriers mounted
to the front of the tanks were meant to work with the standard K-rails being
used for many purposes by cities and corporations everywhere. To look at one
from the front you wouldn’t see much difference between the barrier and the
average K-rail except that the K-rail is constructed from concrete and the
barrier itself is crafted from a titanium/steel alloy. There are the usual
methods for connecting the barrier to two K-rails, but they’re left with a two
inch gap on either side of the barrier to allow for the barrier to be
disconnected by simply raising it with the bulldozer style hydraulics.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Last but far from being
the least of the modifications, was what the engineers did to the turret to
assist with crowd control. The turret’s drive was equipped with a motion
control box very similar to what they used on CNC metal working machines. The
tank commander had the capability to automatically sweep a crowd with the LRAD
if he should decide it was needed. Once the program was set in motion it would
continue until either the commander interrupted the cycle or the Abrams’ power
system quit.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The only other riot
control equipment on board was the usual CS dispersal unit. The engineers had
considered it an archaic response, so great was their faith in the vehicle
they’d created but they’d included the device due to the insistence of the
advisers from the military police companies whom they’d hoped would purchase
the units. The engineers had conceded only after they were threatened with
having the contracts withdrawn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> These technological behemoths were the hope of the
governor who’d dispatched them to the riot to get order restored before the
morning rush hour began. Things had not been going well for the police at the
scene. Between the reports of what the officers saw, the raw video footage
which was not ever going to be seen by any civilian and the reports beginning
to drift in from the hospitals; the governor was rightfully concerned that even
these marvels of riot control technology might not be enough.</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">They
were, however, the best hope anyone had at the moment.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> So, unknown to the men who were on their way to the riot
which was causing upset all the way up to POTUS, everything seen by their
cameras was being routed from their TOC, to the NSA and from there to every
ranking politician at the federal level.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Prayer was suddenly
thought to be very fashionable at the federal level once again.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Lt. Franken, SSgt. Williamson and their men, however,
were blissfully unaware of any of this; their only concern was to bring relief
to the officers who currently stood the line.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Cannon to the right of them, cannon to the
left of them</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Cannon
in front of them, volley’d and thunder’d</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Storm’d
at with shot and shell, </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Boldly they rode and well, </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Into the jaws of Death</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Into the mouth of Hell</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Rode the six hundred</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Some
military traditions don’t change</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It’s
a damned shame that they don’t</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> As the tank commanders mounted up the drivers began
running through their check lists, guaranteeing their machines would function
as ordered. Revving the engines while listening to the heartbeat of the mammoth
beasts which served and protected them; running the hydraulics through their
range of motion, extending and retracting the riot barrier; tilting it until it
was fully against the tank’s hull as additional protection against theoretical
anti-armor munitions which, incidentally, was also the storage position for the
alloy plate. Until finally all five of the drivers waited for instructions from
the tank commanders in their turrets.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> While the drivers were engaged in their pre-mission
checks the tank commanders were no less busy, powering up the LRAD units;
verifying that the intricate systems they were about to unleash in a live
situation for the first time all read in the green. Running checks on the IVRS
and chatting with the Commo Section in the TOC about how well the video feed
was going through; making last minute adjustments to their comm-links and
asking Tactical if their beacons were reading correctly. Questions were asked;
then answered and last minute adjustments were made on both sides. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> By the time the radios at last became silent, the Captain
was in the TOC watching the multiple feeds from the Riot Control Vehicles’
cameras; watching their positions on the situation map displayed on the main plasma
screen mounted directly above their separate screens and listening to their
chatter on the link between the IVRS and the TOC. Despite his feeling of
uneasiness he tapped the button on his headset, linking him to his men and gave
the order, “Move’em out …”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> The gigantic armored vehicle containing SSgt. Williamson
and Lt. Franken smoothly moved forward, turning right onto Brookpark road and
proceeding west at a steady pace. The LRAD was warmed up and showing green on
all boards. Half murmuring to himself Lt. Franken absently toggled the switch
on his headset, “All RCV’s report …” A soft murmur as the tank commanders gave
the status of their vehicles and weaponry, he replies, “Roger that Green Team …
light up the LRAD’s, give me two niner zero zero hertz at one four eight delta
bravo, copy?” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once again the headset
channels the soft murmurs of assent. Bringing up the local map on his console
he studied it intently for a few moments then keys the mike again, “On my mark we’re
going to button up all RCV’s until we have the area secured, copy?” Another
wave of assent, “Keep me updated people, transmit anything you see that you think
I might need to know about and ask questions about anything you aren’t sure
about, copy?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> The men conn’ing the RCV’s give their consent; as they do
so the tanks roll on up to West 130<sup>th</sup> street, the lieutenant is
engrossed in checking the view from each of the cameras under his command so SSgt.
Williamson quietly keys the IVRS saying, “Mark …” clangs can be heard down the
line as each of the vehicles secures their hatches. Keying the internal channel
the lieutenant says, “Thank you Sergeant …” Smiling the older man responds,
“It’s my job to watch out for you sir, that and help you take care of the men
….” The two men continue their ride in silence, no words are necessary because
the pair have been working together for over three years. Lt. Franken has learned
in that time that despite his having graduated from The Point, he really didn’t
know that much; he’d come close to losing the gold colored bar on his lapel
completely, a couple of times and if it hadn’t been for the intercession of
SSgt. Williamson he might have found himself demoted the full way down the
line.</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">All
the way down to buck private.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Coming up on the commercial bus company at the edge of
the riot, SSgt. Williamson quietly gave the order for the tanks to hold on
station; then he keyed the internal system and said, “Sir, I think you need to
take a look at this …” Without a word the L-T brought the camera system on his
main screen; then zooming in on the riot in front of them. A quiet “What the …”
escaped his lips before he became absorbed in studying the scene before him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The full length of the
police line visible from his vantage point was chillingly quiet. Officers
looked at each other and then back to the mob massed before them uncertainly.
There was a certain amount of pushing against the riot shields which the
officers held in<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>position but it was
largely as a result of the crowd being pushed forward from the back; not from
any active resistance by the rioters.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> The officers were confused, this wasn’t what they’d come
to expect and their confusion about what to do next was clearly written on
their faces.</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
rioters, almost appeared to be asleep</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> This was a massive change from the intel’ they’d received
and required gathering new intelligence.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Stand down on the LRAD’s … be ready to use them on my
order but do not, I say again, do not engage without a direct order from me …”
quiet assent again traveled through the headset. Then another instruction on
the same channel, “SSgt. Williamson, take me to their operations center, all
other units take your positions and hold until you receive further instructions
…”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Sir?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Yes?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Shouldn’t we be giving the order to disperse?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not until we find out just exactly what’s going on …”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes sir …”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Proceed with my orders, now …..”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Moving
at a dead slow pace the armored giants take their places along the riot line.
At each location they carefully move into position; emplacing themselves
precisely thanks to the GPS beacons on each vehicle and the coordination by
their TOC control team. The officers cautiously opened spaces between
themselves as the behemoths move in to give them what protection they can. The
rioters try, uncertainly, to insert themselves into the space left vacant by
the officers only to find themselves being gently forced back by the riot
shields attached to each of the vehicles. No resistance is offered which
further adds to the confusion on the part of all the law enforcement personnel
gathered there, not one of the officers can take their eyes off the rioters on
the other side of the skirmish line. Their behavior has been so atypical and
bizarre that no one is sure what to expect next.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Lt. Franken is as uncertain as
anyone standing the line as he dismounts then makes his way into the operations
center searching for the officer in charge. It doesn’t take long, the PD
command center is laid out pretty much the same as his own command’s TOC. The
Officer in Charge is easy enough to pick out, he’s clearly a veteran of many
years and is dressed in SWAT tactical gear. The important distinction is that
unlike some officers who go straight from college, to the academy and
immediately fasten rank to their lapels, his equipment is worn; well used. The
deference given him by the other officers would have been sufficient clue by
itself but his appearance cinched it.</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">His
weariness at the present situation is also evident</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
man is slouched back in the ‘command chair’ studying the video feed of the
situation outside while the cameras pan back and forth but the situation
remains the same across the entire line. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">You
could take a slice of the scene from any point of the line and it would be
indistinguishable from the rest.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Quick
glances at his uniform reveal that he’s a captain and his name is Sanderson,
Lt. Franken approaches him, “Captain?” Cpt. Sanderson looks up then studies his
uniform, the man’s voice is a low growl, “You seen action before, Lieutenant?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Two deployments, sir …”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “How come you’re only a butter bar?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Wincing,
Lt. Franken replies, “Conflicts between duty and good judgment sir ….” Cpt.
Sanderson studies him a bit longer, “Good judgment won, I take it?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Some folks might say that sir …”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Cpt.
Sanderson returns to his study of the video screen before him, motioning at it
and he asks, “So what do you think of what we’ve got here?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Turning
to view the screen for himself, Lt. Franken watches as it completes two slow
traverses before answering.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I’ve
never seen anything like it before sir, I’ve no idea what they might have in
mind …” turning back to the senior officer, “… did they make any demands? Is
there any clear cut reason for the riot to have started to begin with?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Cpt.
Sanderson gazed at him steadily as he said, “No sir, there is not … as a matter
of fact, this whole thing seems to have started as some sort of brawl at a
local restaurant. The odd thing is that most of the injured weren’t hit,
kicked, stabbed or shot; they were bitten.” The lieutenant stared at him incredulous,
not quite understanding, “Bitten?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Bitten”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Lt.
Franken gave the matter some more thought before asking, “… and it went from
just a few people to …” he gestures at the screen, “… this, in how long?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Reaching
for the coffee sitting on the map table the captain tells him, “It didn’t take
long, really, the whole fight started when three or four drunks were refused
service at the restaurant because they were, well …” he sips the coffee, “…
drunk …” settling back into his chair he resumes eye contact with the younger
man, “… the waitress called us as soon as they were clear of the door. That’s
their protocol … when she saw what was going on outside though, she called us
back and told us that we’d better get there fast and bring ambulances too …” he
took another sip of the coffee as he watched for the younger man’s reaction, “…
when the officers arrived, it looked like something from one of Romero’s
movies, one of the creeps was trying to gnaw on the throat of a drunk. Another
drunk already had part of his throat ripped up but he was lucky, his buddy was
a paramedic and had one of those blood clot things, he’d slapped it on the guys
throat and was trying to call his unit for the pickup …” Sipping more of the
coffee the captain continued, “… so we’ve got the drunks with their throats
ripped out, or with people trying to rip their throats out. The would be
killers trying to either rip some throat or mob the drunks to rip their throats
out and some very scared witnesses inside an all night restaurant. Then the
boys in blue roll up, sirens blaring and jump out of their cruisers, yelling
orders … so what do you think happens next?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “What?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “What do you think happens next?
Guns are drawn and the officers are shouting orders …”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
lieutenant shrugs, “Normally I’d expect for the attackers to stand down and lie
down on the ground … but I’m getting the feeling they got something else.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Nodding
the captain said, “… and you’d be absolutely right, what they got was for the
assailants to forget all about the drunks, and try to attack them … the
officers, of course, taz’ed them in an effort to get compliance but the freaks
didn’t so much as flinch.” He stared at the camera feed, “… then one of the
officers opened fire on them; emptying his mag’, reloading and again firing
until his weapon was empty …” he continued to stare at the screen. After a few
moments Lt. Franken asked him, “Did he get the perp?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Absently
the captain responds, “Oooooh yeah, he got ‘em alright …”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “How badly were the perp’s injured?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“There were two of them …”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “How bad?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“He
nailed them both in the chest, seventeen rounds in each one, center of mass,
real easy to count all the holes, real easy …” the captain’s eyes never left
the monitor as he fell silent once more.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Sir,
how’s your officer handling the shooting? I understand a lot of times it can be
very stressful …” The captain’s reply was not quite audible …. Lt. Franken
cleared his throat, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Sir? I’m sorry but I didn’t quite catch your answer …”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “I guess you could say he’s handling
it OK …”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “I’m glad to hear that sir, what
about the families of the perp’s?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Oh, they’re OK, just a little
confused …”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What’s to be confused about?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “About how two grown, normal,
healthy men can go from being good family men who go to church every week; to
being throat chewing psychopaths bent on killing anyone in their path …. and
all in less than twenty four hours …”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Damn”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Then
there’s the other thing that’s confusing everybody …”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “…
what else could there be?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Come with me …” the
captain rose from his chair and the lieutenant followed him; as they passed
through the tent’s entrance the cold air hit Lt. Franken with a refreshing
sharpness. He was glad for it, the weirdness of the present situation was
beginning to get to him. He’d arrived on the scene with the impression he knew
exactly what was going on, now Lt. Franken wasn’t that certain he knew anything
at all. The cold reminded him of reality, that some things just don’t change,
you shoot a man in the chest, he goes down. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Simple</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">You
shoot him a bunch of times he goes down quicker, always.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Seventeen times was a
bit much, but given what the rookie saw he could sure understand expending that
much ammo. It had to be pretty tough for a virgin to go out on a call like that
and find himself staring into the face of madness.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> The captain hadn’t said, but it had to be a rookie,
right?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Right?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The two men walked
around to the back of the command center and stood beside a large paddy wagon.
The captain grasped the handle and looked at the lieutenant for a moment then
said, “This is what the families, and the rest of us find so baffling …” then
pulled the door open. </span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There
were four men in the wagon</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Well,
they looked like men, anyway …</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Their
clothing was disheveled but none of them appeared to notice. The moment the
outer door of the wagon opened the four lunged at the door, eyes blank;
drooling while reaching for the two men on the other side of the bars as if
their lives depended on it. Lt. Franken stepped back involuntarily, his hand
covering the Beretta at his side without any thought on his part. They made an
odd rasping shriek as they tried to force their way through the bars. Lt.
Franken felt a hand cover his as soon as it hit the Beretta; his head whipped
around to see who it was, the captain stood there with a grim expression on his
face as he pinned the soldier’s gun hand down, “You won’t need that, son …
they’ve tried to get through those bars every time the door’s been opened. They
don’t want and won’t accept any food or drink we put in there with them. It’s
like they don’t see it at all.” He looks back at the paddy wagon, with the
prisoners pushing against the bars, “… the only thing they seem to respond to
is human noise and as soon as we caught on to that and ordered silence on the
line, they quit trying to fight us …” looking back at the lieutenant again, “…
they tell me these super high tech cannons you boys have will do the job, force
them back to someplace we can contain them and let us gain control of them …”
he slams the door shut on the foursome and steps forward, as much in the face
of the lieutenant as any drill instructor has ever been, “They say these things
will even drive animals back into their pens, so … tell me this son … will
those things do the job? Will they keep my men alive and help us protect our
citizens?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Without hesitation Lt. Franken snaps out, “Yes sir,
without a doubt …”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Captain Sanderson stood there a moment longer then
turned away, as he walked back into his command center he called back over his
shoulder, “Then let’s get this show moving lieutenant, I want my people to be
able to eat breakfast knowing they did a good night’s work …” and then he
vanished into the command center.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Lt.
Franken stood there for a moment, trying to get his bearings; then walked off
to his RCV, making calculations and estimates as he walked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> His
walk back to the RCV is uneventful, but thought filled, the RCV is now parked
in position at the center of the line; SSgt. Williamson is sitting on the edge
of the driver’s hatch as the lieutenant walks up. Both men remain silent while
the L-T mounts the great beast; by the time the tank commander has regained his
post the driver has put his headset back on. There’s a moments silence before
the internal comm system kicks on; as usual, the SSgt is waiting for his
officer when the mike is keyed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “What’s
it look like out there?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> “It’s
the damn quietest riot I’ve ever seen …”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How
are the local’s handling it?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The silence is notable before the SSgt speaks again,
“They’re as scared a bunch as I’ve ever seen sir, and it’s not like most of
them don’t have a fair amount of experience at this sort of thing …” another
pause, “… they’re seeing something they’ve never seen before, and frankly sir,
neither have I …” The lieutenant bites his lip pensively then keys the IVRS, “
Green Team this is Green Team Actual, we’re going to handle this one a bit
differently than normal …” with that advisory he begins to explain the part of
what he’d learned from Captain Sanderson that they need to know; then
concluding with, “… and since that’s the case, we’re going to open the LRAD’s
on them with no warning. We’ll also ramp up the decibels to two zero zero,
copy?” Murmured assent comes down the line, “On my mark, bring the LRAD’s on
line, three, two, one, mark …” The massive sound cannons begin their muted
whine as the circuits driving them warm up, in a few moments the green ‘ready’
light comes on. The lieutenant secures his hatch then waits a few more moments
to allow for all units to have reached the same stage before giving the next
order, “Set LRAD controls to ‘synched’ …” this meant that the action of the
turrets would be controlled from his turret. The MP’s and police holding the
line outside the RCV’s were then instructed, “All support personnel, set riot
shields and take position on my mark, three, two, one, mark” with that instruction
the entire riot line dropped back one step, bracing their shields on the ground
with their weapons ready behind the shield. They also drop their heads below
the edge of the assembled shields. This will give them additional protection
from the effects of the sound cannons preparing to launch their assault against
the force assembled on the opposite side of those same shields. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> If
the assembled mob had any idea of what their actions meant, they gave no
reaction, other than to slowly drift forward into the now vacant space. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> With
the sound cannons now on line, Lt. Franken gave the order, “Fire!” and with
that order sound poured from the massive speakers and the turrets began a
synchronized dance with the outer four vehicles performing synchronized sweeps
across the immense crowd arrayed before them. The command car was performing
slightly differently being out of synch with both the right and left flank and
concentrating most of its attack on the center of the mob. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
attention given to this seminal event was record breaking, ranging from the
grizzled, road weary sergeant in the police command post, to the captain <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>apprehensively taking in the view <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>from each RCV’s cameras and all the way up the
chain of command to POTUS herself. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Right
then, at that moment, every man jack of them was engrossed in prayer; hoping
that these new riot control systems would live up to what their creators had
claimed they would. Every test, every round of eliminations had shown these new
weapons to be effective on nearly every living thing they’d ever been tried
against. It didn’t matter what species it was, the LRAD had driven it back to
whatever area the controllers had designated for holding.</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This was to be the greatest victory
of this riot control system </span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But there was one, small problem</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">An unprecedented difficulty</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Their new, high tech weapons system
had only been tried against living organisms … </span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">This, was an unprecedented opponent</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The living dead</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> As the invisible beams swept across
the crowd slow changes began to take place. Initially they became restless,
looking around and seemingly trying to detect the source of their irritation.
The point of origin of the sound they were hearing. The people observing the
reaction were dumbfounded, it had not been their experience that anything alive
would merely look around when hit by the sonic beam. Compliance had been easily
gained with settings only half of what they were presently using; orders came
down from the very top, increase the power to the beams and remove any safeties
that would prevent all available power from being used.</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Lieutenant
Franken was far ahead of them though, inside the modified Abrams tank he was
seeing what Captain Sanderson had hinted that he might; he was already
disabling the safeties, “All units, all units, disable safety interlocks and
take your outputs to maximum. I say again, disable safety interlocks and take
all outputs to maximum.” Soft voices confirming his instruction came back
through his headset just moments before his own captain’s voice came in on the
channel directing him to proceed with that very instruction. Inside each of the
specialized vehicles his instructions were being followed, and in seconds all
five of the RCV’s were howling their fury at the crowd in front of them. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Huddled
behind their riot shields the military and civilian police officers gave thanks
for the protection offered by the counter wave earmuffs they’d each been
supplied with. Hunkered down inside their 113 personnel carriers the
infantrymen were equally thankful. None of them, not even one, could have
anticipated what was about to happen. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Experience, training and political
expedience were the keys to the judgments being made about how to handle the
apparent riot in front of them. The fact of atypical behavior was not a factor
in their decision, the powers that be, who were directing the operations were
under the impression that this was all theatre; being played out on a grand
scale with the assistance of high tech toys. The ability to conceive of a
change of such significance was beyond their ability.</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Nothing
… had changed since the charge of the light brigade.</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Nothing</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> At no point did the reaction of the
crowd come even a little bit close to what the LRAD’s designers had
anticipated. At no point did any of their models, tests, or even experiences
parallel what was about to happen, to any degree. When the sonic beams first
raked across the crowd they appeared confused, not discomfited or in any degree
of pain, merely confused. Then their heads began to swivel around seeking out
the source of the sound. Eventually they found the source of the sounds. They
discovered the existence of the LRAD’s and the Abrams tanks the devices had
been mounted on. Slowly the assembled thousands became focused on the five
tanks, the two armored personnel carriers and the mere hundreds of police and
military personnel arrayed against them. One by one the rioters began to howl
their own protest, screaming their rage at the forces they’d only just become
aware of …. and that was when all hell broke loose.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> To those watching things seemed to
change suddenly; one moment the crowd seemed docile, nothing more than an
inconvenience to be driven back to their homes before breakfast and then in the
merest tick of a clock they became a ravening horde intent on the destruction
of everything before them. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">In
less than a second the massed wall of humanity inundated the men and women
sworn to defend their city. Some were trampled before being stripped of their
armor and bitten to death, others managed to get off a few rounds from their
weapons before having their throats ripped out by teeth yearning for the blood
and flesh under the armor.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">For the first few
moments of the assault the crews of the armored fortresses were stunned into
inaction by the sudden change and ferocity shown by the attackers. Lt. Franken
was one of the first to regain his equilibrium, slamming his hand against the
button controlling the CS gas as he shouted into his headset, “Gas them! Gas
them! Gas them! Full dispersal of riot agents immediately!” He knew that the
troops outside the armored vehicles wouldn’t have a chance to mask up but he
was counting on their training to buy them the time they needed. Civilians
wouldn’t have that training and the gas should shut them down immediately.
Clouds of smoke billowed out from each of the tanks and obscured any chance of
seeing what could be happening to the troops on the line. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">At
video display terminals across the country, governmental leaders sat at the
edge of their seats, holding their breath; hoping against all evidence they’d
seen to this point that the riot control gas would work as the men using hoped
it would.</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
problem is, that riot control agents were meant to be used against people with
functional nervous systems.</span></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">They
weren’t engineered to be used against the dead</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> As the smoke drifted from the scene
it was very clear that things had gotten even worse. The Abrams tanks were
completely covered with people working feverishly to wrest the LRAD units from
the turrets. Whole sections of the line had been torn apart and what could be
seen of the police command center was being dismantled by waves of humans
trying to get inside. Small groups of people could be seen attempting to
maintain cohesion as they came under assault by the mass of attackers. The
crews of the 113’s had unbuttoned and attempted to bring down the numbers of
the undead now engaged in their killing frenzy with their SAWs. Not even
sweeping the crowds with 7.62 death was enough to stop them, as a matter of
fact it didn’t slow them even the slightest bit and the crews had been torn
from the personnel carriers and ripped to shreds. </span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Inside the turret of the command car Lt. Franken was
frozen by the scene, nothing they’d thrown at these people had made any
difference and the channel linking him to his own commanders was silent,
whether from the antenna being ripped from the vehicle or … something else … he
didn’t even want to guess. He was in a quandary, they had the best equipment,
state of the art, the best troops possible and police officers with tactical
gear that knew no equal in the free world.</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But
they were being decimated by a force armed with nothing more than bare hands
and teeth …</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So he sat there frozen
by the horror and ferocity of the scene before him, right up until the camera
was disconnected; rendering his only contact with the outside world the IVRS
and the turret’s periscope. As he sat there, protected by the steel cocoon around
him a voice came over the IVRS. A voice with screaming and weapons fire as it’s
background, a voice of relative calm within the sea of insanity.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Lieutenant …”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He stared unbelieving
at his microphone ….. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Lieutenant, are you still there?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Dully, he replies, “Yes
….”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Have you got any resources left, son?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No sir ….”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Then run them over with the armor, run the bastards the
fuck …” then the headset went dead. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A moment passed and
then he keyed the microphone again, “ All units, all units, if you can hear me
… if you’ve nothing else … begin rolling on the bastards, I say again, if you
have nothing else left, roll the bastards into the ground, move, move move!” He
switched to the internals but the Abrams was already moving, he could almost
see the Staff Sergeant grinning, “ ‘bout damned time you woke up, sir …” the
immense vehicle swung in a neutral pivot, “… let’s get some …”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Slowly, ponderously, the massive vehicle put its treads
into motion. Rolling forward after the riot barrier was raised and retracted
into place. There were slight hesitations that caused the hydraulics to whine
slightly as ‘obstructions’ were encountered; then summarily crushed under the
alloyed steel plate. Soon, however, the Abrams was freed of obstacles and
moving.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> As it swung past the former riot line Lt. Franken became
concerned with how little he could see of what was going on outside. They were
in a close combat situation but there was no way to discern who the ‘bad guys’
were or how to find their own troops. Clicking over to the internal intercom
system again he asked his driver, “Williamson, how the hell do we keep from
running over our own men?” Brief laughter answered him before the sergeant
responded, and the tracks swung in another neutral pivot … swerving noticeably
past the point where the sergeant had stopped the tracks, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Sir, when I was with
the 2/64<sup>th</sup> we didn’t worry too much about the support troops …” the
transmission made its protest evident as the sergeant suddenly stopped; the
vehicle slid forward about two feet and then just as suddenly reversed
direction, “… they were taught to keep eyes on us and follow our lead, no
matter how crazy it looked …” The sergeant then put the tank through a series
of sharp starts and stops followed by a few turns. Every time he did so, the
response of the vehicle seemed to get a bit sloppier, a bit more ‘mushy’. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “The only people with anything to worry about are the
people trying to do us good people harm …” he then threw the vehicle into a
sudden reverse spin. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Despite being fairly
certain he knew the answer Lt. Franken looked out the periscope mounted in
front of him, it was completely obstructed by, something. Pounding could be
heard on the hatch, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Sergeant, why exactly does the tank’s response appear to
be getting sloppier?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Grim laughter followed
by, “Trust me sir, you just don’t want to know …”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A moment of thought …
and Lt. Franken was sure that he knew the reason … the realization was causing
his stomach some issues.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Shortly after the
line of men attempting to quell the perceived riot was over run, all video feed
from the vehicles assigned to the ‘problem’ was completely cut off. Video feed
from remote cameras and personal helmet cams was spotty at best, coming in, in
fits and starts while occasionally cutting out entirely. Most of the view was
obscured by the rush of bodies through the area but when the video signal was
clear, one thing was shockingly clear.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The human race was in serious
trouble</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> The cameras showed each man, or
woman, who’d taken on the duty of defending the city being mobbed by more
attackers than anyone could have imagined. They were literally being buried by
the sheer numbers of attackers and not one of the firearms they had brought
into play were making even the smallest dent in the numbers. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Even those occasions when there was
a clearly visible hit no blood was evident and the bullet didn’t do much more
than push the attacker back momentarily; who then resumed attacking what, or
who, ever was immediately in front of them. Several of the rioters could be
seen to have been shot down by the powerful M240/B machine guns mounted on the
113 personnel carriers; the seven point six two rounds having literally ripped
their bodies in two …. but it didn’t do much more than slow them down, even cut
in half they continued towards their intended targets.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
worst of it though, the most horrifying aspect of the entire scene set before
the governmental observers wasn’t necessarily the ferocity or the determination
shown by the rioters. There was an aspect to it all which chilled them to the
bone …</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
rioters were not only attacking the people before them with everything they
had; they didn’t just rip limbs off and bite their throats open. One aspect of
the attack left every politician watching wanting desperately to be told the
entire thing was a sham, a con job. A cheap and tawdry way to elicit more funds
for the police and military; if they’d thought for a minute that everything
would come to an immediate halt on the delivery of additional funding for those
stalwarts they would have signed the bill and delivered the checks themselves.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">You
see, the rioters weren’t just killing the soldiers and police … they were, they
were … well … eating … them. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There
were occasions where something happened and a rioter would go down; then stay
down but those were few and far between. Camera resolution was not sufficient
to show what the difference might have been so they were left with a hope that
something was possible but no information as to what that was which made the
difference. That information would have to wait for the after action
investigation.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Which didn’t appear to have a chance
of happening any time soon.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> On the battlefield, Lt. Franken and SSgt. Williamson had
an even worse view. Despite the sergeant’s best efforts their periscopes were
completely obstructed by the people who were mobbing them; attempting to batter
their way through the Chobham armor and, well, do something to the people inside
the tank. Even more worrisome were the sounds coming from the turbine driving
them and the readings from his gauges. The driver was doing his best but even
with the advanced skills he could muster there didn’t seem to be any way to
avoid their attackers, let alone defeat them. Eventually, the air inside grew
close and the protesting turbine had to be shut down or risk the destruction of
their engine. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Even through the six hundred millimeters of armor the
angry crowd could be heard howling for their blood …. and flesh. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Inside the now
overheated vehicle the two men looked at each other resignedly, both are
exhausted at all levels. Neither one is certain what to do or even if anything
can be done. SSgt. Williamson removes his helmet, laying back against the cold
steel of the tank’s hull; closing his eyes and undoing the top of his shirt and
body armor. Lt. Franken takes his headset off; tossing it to the floor as he
leans against the tank commander’s post. Both men are silent for a few moments.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Without opening his eyes the older man sticks his hand
out and says, “My name’s Frank, I worked in Commo before I got a taste for
these big bitches … went from being a boy to being a man on C’s and then heavy
metal …” The younger man took his hand, shaking it and says, “I’m David … I’ve
got two of the best little girls a man can have and another baby on the way. We
never thought this would be anything other than a way to have some extra money
in the house …”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Two<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and a half
kids, huh?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yep”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Guess that means your wife is pretty damned good lookin’
too …”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “You know it Frank, you damn sure know it ….”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">More time passes while
the two men sit there, silent …</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “I had a wife once …”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Minutes pass before the
lieutenant asks, “Mind if I ask what happened?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “She just wanted the bennies and the green card …”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Damn …”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Yeah …”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The crowd outside the
stalled vehicle continue their clangor as the two men sit quietly. The air
grows increasingly stale inside the tank. After the humidity can be felt
increasing the two men lock eyes, staring at each other as naked as two men can
be when faced with the fury of nature.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Almost two quietly, too
calmly SSgt. Williamson asks, “So David, got any ideas on how we can get you
back to your wife and kids?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “None at all, you got anything?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Not a damned thing”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Frank removes a cigar
case from his fatigue pocket, pulls one out and inhales the aroma of it deeply
before looking at David, “You mind?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Got another?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “You smoke?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Nah, but I was
planning on trying one before I die, anyway …”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Frank pulls another
cigar from the case, he shows the younger man how to clip the cigar and light
it; then they sit there watching the roof of the tank. Listening to the
screaming and pounding on the outside of the hull; wondering how many of their
company are left. Time drags on as the air becomes increasingly stuffy and
smoke filled.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Finally, Frank stands, as best as he can in the cramped
quarters of the tank; then walks over to one of the storage compartments lining
the walls. As he puts his hand on the catch he says, “You know, I would have
preferred to die in bed with some woman half my age, twice as smart as Dr.
Suzuki and good looking enough to make my ex jealous as hell …” he undoes the
catch, looking at the duffel bag stuffed inside, “… but, I guess we don’t
always get much say in the shit, do we?” He pulls the duffel out, setting it on
the floor between the two of them before crouching down and unclipping the lock
ring, “I was saving this stuff for my retirement, a way to have some fun every
now and then, remembering some of the guys I knew when we still used these …”
Reaching inside the bag he pulls out a pair of M3A1 submachine guns, “They
phased these out back in ’92 but I had an armorer friend of mine slip me the
parts for these two. A part here, a part there, no one ever noticed …” Two
magazine pouches followed as the sergeant walked his lieutenant through the
process of loading and charging the automatic weapons. “These babys’ll spit
lead at about four hundred or so rounds a minute …” Williamson smiled at
Franken, “… it should make quite an impression on our new friends …” he hands
the second magazine carrier to the lieutenant who gravely fixes it to his web
gear. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Frank
eases the duffel over to get the last few items out of it, four pineapple style
hand grenades, David looks from the grenades to Frank, “Will those things even
still fire?” Frank shows David the top of the grenade, “Took the old fuses out,
rethreaded the top and then installed modern fuses …” carefully he hands two of
them to David, “I also removed the original explosive and filled them with PETN
…” he smiles as the lieutenant comprehends what this means, “Yeah, they’re
probably somewhere around one and a half times more powerful than they used to
be …” he tosses one of them in his hand, catching it, “… just make sure you’re
not where they’re going to land when you throw them …”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">After
gearing up, the two crouch at the base of the commander’s stand looking at each
other. David breaks the silence, “Frank, I just want to tell you …” The larger
man grins and claps him on the shoulder, “Yeah, I know …. same here …. “ he
looks up at the hatch, “So what do you say we go get some fresh air?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Back at the White House the command
center is buzzing with activity. Murmuring conversations as information is
exchanged, sorted, collated, digested and instructions are given. Cleveland,
Ohio isn’t the first but for some unknown reason it is the worst. All the
activity centers on the group of people seated at a ‘U’ shaped marble table in
the center of the room. A monitor and keyboard mark each seat; while food and
drink dominate the center edges of the table.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Even the coffee in the insulated
carafes has gone cold and no one has noticed enough to order more out.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The center position is held by
POTUS and she is at a loss about what to do, this is something that no one
could have prepared her for; even her grandfather was at a loss as to what
would be her best option. He’d been a Navy officer himself and was loathe to
order troops in without them having every tactical advantage he could produce
for them. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It was maddening …</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The equivalent of two reinforced
companies cut down without the opposing force losing any discernible number of
their own people. As a matter of fact their numbers seem to have increased.
Resting her hands on the table in front of her she bows her head and prays as
she searches within her mind for a possible solution to this ugly, ugly
problem. The men around her remain silent, they learned during her first term
how harsh her tongue could be when she was disturbed unnecessarily. While Madam
President had never taken to the field as her grandfather had done, she too was
a graduate of Annapolis.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Without moving she asks, “Have the
comm’ links been re-established?”</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Punching
the keys on his terminal an admiral checks; then looks up at her, “No ma’am …
everything is still down …”</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> "General Trasker, does Space Command
have any recon satellites in the area?”</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">"Yes ma’am, we began positioning
some of the SMDC series as soon as the situation began to get ugly, the visual
isn’t the highest resolution we’ve got, but it is the quickest eyes we can get
on the problem ….”</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Problem? Hmmmm …. I suppose that’s
one way to refer to it … put it up on the situation board as soon as they’re
available …”</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Yes ma’am”</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Inside the tank the two men position themselves on either
side of the hatch. Grinning, Frank puts his hand on the release handle; then
looks at David, “Are you ready for this?” David takes a deep breath then
re-positions the two grenades in his hand. Making certain the levers are firmly
against his palm he pulls the pins and nods.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Inside the Command
Center General Trasker checks his terminal once again and finds that the
satellites are available. His hands fly over the keyboard as he first sends the
image he’s seeing to the main screen that dominates the center of the room.
Silence grows throughout the room as he increases magnification without waiting
for the order from his Commander.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> He understands what she needs to see
…</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He needs to see the same thing
himself, what happened?</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Why was there no response from their
men?</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As
the image closes in on ground level gasps are heard throughout the room, the
image grows closer and several people are heard choking then leaving the room.
Others begin crying and one brave soul even empties the contents of his stomach
into a nearby wastebasket. Those who remain in control of themselves are
transfixed by what they see and cannot remove their eyes from the scene
developing before them.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When
at last the view is as close in as it will get General Trasker whispers,
“That’s it, that’s all the more magnification we can get from these …”The
Commander in Chief is stunned by what she can see and tells him, “That’s fine
General, I think we can see quite enough …”</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> The scene spread before them could
have been from some drugged imagining by Dante himself. All across the area
death, carnage, both words paled into insignificance against what they saw.
Bodies ripped apart and partially eaten, other bodies bitten until they bled
out and having done so while they tried to crawl away from their attackers.
Many of the attackers had been turned into a fine liquid pulp that even from
Low Earth Orbit appeared to be inches deep. The graveyard and surrounding area
had been turned into a blood soaked wasteland. Armored vehicles which had once
been the hope of the assembled politicians and staff officers were scattered; their
high tech weaponry ripped from them by method or means unknown. Their cooling
vents appeared to be obstructed, although the magnification wasn’t enough to
insure a clear view, by bodies and body parts having been forcefully rammed
into them. Two of the tanks had even caught fire, possibly from their drivers
attempting to clear the vents. Their turbines burned fiercely until at last the
magazine of one exploded from the heat; the flare from it lighting the entire
screen briefly.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> The rioters were wandering the area,
seemingly unconcerned by anything that had happened. No one could be certain
but their numbers appeared to have increased.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Who do we have in the area?”</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ma’am?”</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I want regular Army and Marines
sent in … don’t give me any talk about Posse Comitatus, this is far beyond
anything they might have imagined when they wrote that …”</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Ma’am, are you sure that’s the best
…”</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">That’s
when they became aware of action on the screen; lacking any true detail they
couldn’t tell who it was, they couldn’t see the faces or much more than just
the uniforms and the apparent race of the two men. But they could see the
action.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Without
warning the tank commander’s hatch on one of the Abrams flew open knocking back
one of the rioters still attempting to get into it. Then a couple of small
objects flew out; although they might have been hand grenades they detonated
with unexpected force, knocking several of the attackers back from the stalled
vehicle. Then the two men inside clambered out, automatic weapons firing at the
rioters around them. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> It was all for nothing though …</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> The rioters converged on the two
men, first ripping them from the tank and then ….. the screen went black.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Everyone
turned to look, Madame President had taken over the console and shut down the
public screen. The color was draining from her face as she watched the fate of
the two men. Without looking up she quietly said, “I want every available
soldier to assemble on that area, I want every available law enforcement
officer on that line, I want those rioters, those ….. things ….. driven back to
whatever hell they crawled out of …”as she looked up from the terminal a tear
could be seen to fall from her eye, “… and I want the names of every soldier
and every officer who was down there, on my desk, in five minutes …”</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> No one said a word as she turned and
left the room.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Cannon to the right of
them, cannon to the left of them</span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Cannon
in front of them, volley’d and thunder’d</span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Storm’d
at with shot and shell, </span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Boldly
they rode and well, </span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Into
the jaws of Death</span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Into
the mouth of Hell</span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: .5in;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Rode
the six hundred</span></i></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15573233903308693414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1458832283923596928.post-81238279927950447672013-03-19T23:24:00.001-04:002013-11-15T19:29:03.130-05:00Pork Chop Jones<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<td style="padding: 0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; width: 100.0%;" valign="top" width="100%"><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="mso-element-anchor-horizontal: margin; mso-element-frame-hspace: 9.35pt; mso-element-left: center; mso-element-top: bottom; mso-element-wrap: around; mso-element: frame; mso-height-rule: exactly;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Probably the best advice I’d ever had
about singing the blues, a hobby of mine, was contained in the following
observation from the noted blues master B. B. King, “It’s not enough to hit
every note perfectly and in the exact order they’re written, that’s not the
blues. You have to know and understand why they need sung in that order.
School won’t teach you that, another blues man won’t teach you that … you
have to get out there and live, or you’ll never know what the blues are
about …”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></i></b></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
bar was nearly empty that night, as it had been since the first zombies made
their appearance in international airports across the world. No one knew where
they’d come from and as the days had continued it became less important than
putting them down and destroying the bodies. All attempts at locating the exact
point of origin, or Patient Zero, had failed miserably. Not because no one knew
what to do but simply because the communication networks which had once made
that possible no longer existed. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">They were one of the first
casualties of the conflict </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">One of the many
governments under attack on that day when the war had begun pushed the button.
The button wasn’t the one to end all life on the planet as we knew it, it was
the button to shut down all electronics. The higher the degree of technology in
the device, the more certain it was that the EMP which girdled the planet was
going to strike it down. All high tech devices ended within fifteen minutes of
that button being pushed. That told us the weapons used had to be in high Earth
orbit. That place where all nuclear powers had sworn they’d never let our wars
touch.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Someone
had lied, obviously</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>None
of us saw or heard anything</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
first we knew of it was when the planes began to fall from the skies and crash
into the mountains.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
planes which still had cables running to their control surfaces managed to
land, so we had something of a transport system. The others, though, the high
tech marvels with two and three levels to them, the aircraft designed to be
resort havens, in the sky, for the rich and famous.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">All of those died</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Which
brings us back to our narrative, concerning what happened at the Whitewater Bar
in Howland, Ohio.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">You see, the first that we knew of the coming
apocalypse was when the lights went out. That, in and of itself, didn’t cause
much comment as it had happened before and would likely happen again because
the Whitewater had originally been located in a spot fairly remote from the
rest of the towns around it. But then that upstart town, Howland, had dared to
spring to existence around it. Which meant that the section of the grid the
rest of the town was on was fairly new while the area occupied by the
Whitewater was decidedly old. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
patrons had no concerns about that because most of them had been coming to the
bar before they were even old enough to drink; which is probably the reason
that they’d first tried using fake ID’s, drivers licenses and such.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
same as any other bunch of kids, anywhere in the world</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
never worked</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So the
usual crowd was there when the lights went out</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pork
Chop Jones had been playing, and playing it loud. The song wasn’t one of the
blues songs he was known for it was some rock anthem from the 60’s so he belted
it out with gusto. About half the bar was singing with him but only about four
or five of them were actually old enough to have heard the song when it was
first released. The large screen televisions normally reserved for sporting
events had begun running stories about riots. Once they saw that the riots were
in such distant places as New York, Cleveland and Los Angeles everyone pretty
much ignored them. None of the riots were close enough to affect them one way
or the other. Then the lights went out and the music stopped … there was a
moment of silence before the jokes started …</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Does
this mean the computer just lost my tab?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“FREE
DRINKS FOR EVERYONE …”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hey,
genius, if the powers off, the bar won’t work ….”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“oh
…”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“DRINK
FASTER, SAVE THE BEER!!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Meanwhile, Pork Chop sat there disconnecting his
wired up acoustic guitar from the amplifier and doing a sort of sound check, to
see how it would sound if he started playing again. Piotr, the Russian giant
who worked as the bartender/barback and occasionally bouncer, waited for the
emergency lights to come on before beginning his round of the bar, discussing
what each patron had ordered and coming to an agreement with them as he wrote
it all out on an order pad they kept for just such situations. Cheryl, the
other bartender, went back to the manager’s office and retrieved the manual
credit card machine. They made a striking team, Piotr over eight feet tall,
bald and fairly muscular while Cheryl was a diminutive five feet tall, dark
haired woman who could easily be mistaken for a youngish teenager.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One
look into her eyes though, left no doubt you were talking to a woman. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You
didn’t want to cross her either, believe me, you really didn’t ….</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As they took charge of the scene, some of the
regulars came together to discuss what should happen next. Sarge spoke quietly
to his wife, Raechel; then stepped outside. Gunny went over to check on Pork
Chop and after a hushed conference between the two men he went into the back to
look in on the cooking staff. The young First Sergeant who was dating Cheryl
went around to the patrons checking how well they were handling it, defusing
potential problems by getting them laughing but there was still an undercurrent
of tension. Everyone was accustomed to power outages happening during the
winter; this was April; it didn’t generally happen at this time of year. Some
of the customers had begun trying to use their cell phones only to find out
that nothing at all was working. This increased the problems for the First
Sergeant so Raechel stepped in, calming them by pointing out that the cell
phones also depended on electricity to function. As she looked at phone after phone
though, she felt a growing unease; despite the towers failing due to a power
failure, the batteries in the phones should not have failed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Every
phone she saw, including her own, had gone black.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">After a few moments, Pork Chop began to play again.
The familiarity of him singing helped to get things into a calmer perspective
again. The singing was soft but distinct; the bartenders conferred between
themselves and then went around offering the assembled customers one free drink
or beer of their choice. Raechel stepped back from it all and waited by the
door for Sarge’s return. She tried not to stare as she saw the grimmer than
usual look on his face. He slid his arm around her waist as the pair of them
leaned against the wall by the door talking quietly. A moment or two later
Piotr joined them handing each one a beer.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
thought you might like this, it’s one of the darker German beers …”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Even though he’d been in the country for a decade,
his Russian accent was unmistakable.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Was
there anything to find out?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Sarge took a sip of the dark brew, it was delicious
but it failed to lighten his mood, “Just that the valley is dark as far as I
can see …” he took another sip of beer, “… that, and the fact that there isn’t
a car moving out there except for some pre-70’s car rodding around and probably
having the time of his life.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Piotr’s eyes grew dark,
“You think this is EMP?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Sarge stared at the large man thoughtfully as he
took another sip of the beer, “You and I, my large friend, are going to have a
very frank discussion, very soon ….” Piotr grinned, slapping his shoulder the
way old comrades do, “I think you already know Sarge, but I will tell you,
later …”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Move
forward a few more months </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Things
hadn’t changed much until this point, the zed numbers were growing steadily but
in the more remote places, the former rural areas, except for the EMP that some
genius without an ounce of sense had fired off in an effort to keep the zeds
from spreading, everything returned to near normalcy in short order. Some of
the planes that had gone down were already carrying a full load of the infected
and when they went down any zeds that weren’t destroyed on impact quickly
spread into the area around the crash site.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Creating
more of their number</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The only thing that they’d succeeded at, whoever the
hell “they” were, was making it harder for us to mount a coordinated operation
against the zeds. Without the ability to coordinate, we couldn’t share
information or strategy. So we brought back the concept of couriers and made
clear that any interference with them would result in ‘harsh responses.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Some of the gangs in Warren and Youngstown had
thought it would be good fun to mess with the couriers. They’d even captured, raped,
and tortured them to find out what they knew; why they existed. The gangs labored
under the impression that any official action which caused such a stir had to
center on them. If they’d just left well enough alone, we might even have
brought them into the fold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Those gangs don’t have
any members now</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Well, none that’ll
admit they knew or belonged to them</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Piss off experienced
soldiers, people with decades of experience in dealing with insurgents in the
harshest terms possible and you find out something</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">They didn’t earn all
that experience or stay alive by being good little Boy Scouts</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There was a trial,
don’t get me wrong, but it was after all of their known members had been
located and brought out to the public square. It took place next to the bodies
of the couriers they’d intercepted; no attempt was made to conceal or cover
them. Everyone could see exactly what the gangs had done.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite the best efforts of some guy who
claimed he was a lawyer, the trial was very short.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We still had a lot of
work to do to safeguard our people</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The sentence was fast
in coming and quick in execution</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Sarge handled that end
of it; he wouldn’t permit anyone else to touch it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When we began the
trial, the mayor was tagged to act as judge and twelve people were taken at
random from the people in the square. Everything was pretty plain, on the face
of it and the jury’s verdict was quick in coming, guilty. The mayor looked a
little shaky at the idea of having to do what the law said he had to do, but
Sarge relieved him of that responsibility quickly. He made a short speech explaining
everything to the crowd so that there wouldn’t be any doubt about the how and
why of everything before getting to the grisly work of executing all twenty
five of the gang members.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A single shot to each
one of them … it was more humane than what they’d done to the couriers; better
than any one of them deserved. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So we continued on ….</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">First Sergeant
recruited and brought more people into the militia that was being organized.
The initial task was to secure the immediate area of the town and restore as many
of the services as possible. There was a low head dam on the outskirts of town
that, with a little tinkering, gave us enough power to run the water filtration
plant and pumping stations; which meant that we had potable water after the
first month. The natural gas systems had to be pulled offline but there were
still enough wood burning stoves in the area and willing hands to cut wood to
keep everyone supplied. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">One of the people
recruited by First Sergeant was a retired officer who lived over near the base.
The mayor kept his civil authority but we were on new footing now and the
police chief, although he didn’t like it, had to acknowledge the need for a
civil defense force. A lot of people were surprised by the chief’s knowledge of
the Dick Act of 1902. They were even more surprised when he handed off defense
of the Trumbull county area to the Colonel. The Colonel had apparently already
discussed things with the Chief and informed everyone at the meeting that his
troops would have no authority within any townships limits, other than for the
common defense.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Deals were made,
authority traded off and life continued on, for the most part.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Much to the distress of
many children, school was one of the first things we re-instated</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The difference being,
that history dealt more with the military … and military skills</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So life continued on,
for a time …</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There were a lot of
things that we had to do without; if a favorite food wasn’t seasonal or grown
locally we could pretty much forget about it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Money was useless,
which meant that bankers and financial experts who wanted to live had to find
other job skills. Some of them did OK, they’d had hobbies like baking or some
other nearly lost skill. One bank secretary even knew how to spin wool. After
the first winter her skills gained a new appreciation. Others, found out just
how truly useless their lives had been. Some of them apprenticed themselves to
people who had real skills and others … well … let’s just say they didn’t
handle the stress real well.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Barter became the new
trade standard</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We had a few problems
with zeds and raiders, but the raiders hadn’t come under control of any of the
former national military then and the zeds were pretty much confined to minor
outbreaks as they found their way out of the cities.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">After the second
winter, with no real problems beyond what we’d anticipated, we thought we were
doing pretty well. Most of our population was still alive, we had one of the
best schools in the area and everything was pretty calm.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It was only the lull
before the storm</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We grew soft, in our
ignorance</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So there we were; pretty
much the same crowd, in the same place … the Whitewater.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Piotr had some skill at
brewing beer and some of the old timers had a surprising degree of knowledge in
the skills of distillation. So the Whitewater was no longer in the business of
distributing liquor and beer, it was also in the business of producing it. The
walk in refrigerator had experienced some minor conversion work and now
functioned as an old fashioned ice box. Slabs of ice from the Mosquito Creek
reservoir had been cut, trimmed and now kept the food and beverages cold. Since
the drink dispensers no longer functioned they’d been removed and the parts
used for other purposes. All the beer now came in brown glass bottles and wine
was tapped from five gallon glass bottles. The liquor was kept in mason jars.
Payment was either through barter or membership in one of the vital services.
Water, safety, medical, maintenance and militia drank for free as long as they
didn’t abuse the privilege.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We were in the middle
of our weekly meeting when it was shown to us just how little we actually knew
of our enemy. We had outposts set up at all the access points with roads and
paths. Scout parties ranged out to the limits of the county before turning back
for home. They didn’t go further because as far as we knew, there was no need
to go further. Contact had been made with Geauga, Portage and Ashtabula
counties right after everything went dead but they’d assured us that the same
steps we had taken were being taken in the other counties. In the normal course
of business there was little or no contact with them so we labored under the
assumption that everything was still fine.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">You do know about that
old saying radio operators have about the word ‘assume’?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Ass-u-me</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">When you assume, you
make an ass out of u and me …..</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Yeah ….. but it was
worse, far worse.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Scouts had reported an
increase in contacts with the zeds along the north and northwestern borders of
the county. There also seemed to be a significant decrease in contacts with
raiders all along the northern border, we didn’t have any idea why so couriers
had been dispatched to the counties involved asking if they’d been taking any
special actions to bring their problems under control. If they had, then we’d
like the details so we could institute similar action plans. The couriers had
only been gone for a couple of days but they’d been known to take as long as a
week just to get to each of the county seats, so we weren’t worried at that
point. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Pork Chop was tuning up
his guitar, he’d converted it back to fully acoustic but it was still pure
artistry when he played. A lot of what he was playing these days were the blues
but no one could find any reason to criticize him for it, it was a pretty good
reflection of how we all felt. He also insisted on carrying around this old
Fender guitar he’d picked up; he took it everywhere he went and told everyone
it was his good luck charm. The thing looked absolutely stock except for this
weird looking metal piece at the base of the neck. It looked like some sort of
custom decoration, engraved with all manner of Celtic symbols and wrapped with
a Celtic knot that meant ‘forever’ so we just put it off as a quirk he
developed after Z-Day. We’d all developed one or two of those after that
happened. Hell … I still won’t leave my house without my Spec-Plus Bowie.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So Pork Chop tuned up
his guitar and got to strumming a few tunes on it …. he was playing pretty
softly …. mostly to himself …. everyone knew he’d pick it up as soon as he was
comfortable with what he was playing so no one said anything. We just kept to
our meeting and waited for him to feel like playing for the crowd.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Now ….. I know I
haven’t said a lot about Pork Chop so far but there’s a few things you need to
know about him, the first is that for a white man he’s got the blackest voice
of anyone we’d ever seen. The man was truly remarkable because he could hit
lows that make the table rumble in sympathy and highs that threaten to break
glass.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He’s that good</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He also played the
twelve string with as much ease as other people played a banjo. My wife used to
play that beast and I saw with my own eyes how much of a bitch it could be; not
in his hands though. What really threw people who were meeting him for the
first time was his size; as Gabriel Iglesias might have said, he wasn’t just a
“damn,” he was a “DAAMMMN!!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Six foot dead even and
five hundred pounds</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Size 7-XL shirts</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Yeah</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Damn!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Last but not least,
Pork Chop dedicated his life to his family. His wife and children were the
center of his world and he never went so far in his travels as a musician that
he couldn’t spend each night at home. He might have had more of a career,
before Z-Day, if he had …. but he refused to be that far away from them.
Whenever he was at the Whitewater he didn’t talk a whole lot about them while
he was working. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After Z-Day, the lot of us were so wrapped up
in the day to day work of surviving and trying to keep our own troubles from
overwhelming us that we never noticed that he went from only speaking briefly
about them, to not talking about them at all.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We should have noticed,
if we had … things might have ended differently.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So …. Pork Chop was
sitting in the same place he’d sat in for years, a table and two chairs set up
about fifteen feet from the door. The table had once held a tip jar and his
amplifier but now it held the miscellaneous gifts he was given in lieu of those
tips. They ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous but he never turned them
down. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He’d even gotten a
couple of marriage proposals that way.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Smiling gently, he
turned them down; explaining that he was as married as a man could get. No one
would have said anything because plural marriages had become more accepted and
less of an issue, but that was just the kind of man he was.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">You needed to know that
about Pork Chop, you needed to know that to understand what happened next.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Our meeting place was
right in line with the door; like all bars the door had once been glass. Since
Z-Day though, the door had been armored with titanium sheeting from the local
foundry and a guard assigned to a semi-protected alcove next to it. If things got
bad and he was able to react quickly enough there was a hydraulic ram system
that could be dropped in front of the door and used to force it closed no
matter what was trying to break through. Some raiders had experienced the joys
of ‘radical amputation’ because they thought they could force their way past
it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So there we were, the
usual crowd in our usual place …. when we heard screaming outside. Everyone
immediately grabbed and prepped their weapons while still others moved to
lookout perches; scanning the area around the bar. It was a clear sky but there
was no moon so we took a chance and fired an illumination round into the night
sky. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">It was worse than we
could’ve imagined</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Everywhere we looked,
everywhere we could see</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Zombies</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There didn’t appear to be a square foot of ground
outside the bar that didn’t have a zombie on it and worse yet, it went on for
as far as our eyes could see. One of the guys grabbed Cheryl and told her what
we were seeing around the bar. She immediately turned around and called for the
busboy, “Frank!” He came running up and Cheryl told him, “Get on the CB, talk
to everyone you can, tell them that we have the biggest bunch of zombies
anyone’s ever seen parked around us but we’re fine for now. What we need for
them to do is to get home to their families and lock down tight. Have each one
report back in as they get locked down.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes
ma’am”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He half turned to dash off to the radio room where
the CB and shortwave were kept ….</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“…
and Frank?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ma’am?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Keep
trying until you’ve reached everyone …”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes
ma’am”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Frank touched his hat in salute as he dashed off to
the radio room. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Keeping
as quiet as possible so we didn’t set off the zombies we all returned to the
meeting table. The conversation was hushed and the only beverage being consumed
was water. Pork Chop had stowed his twelve string and was watching the meeting
with a great deal of interest. The case for his Fender was close by and, for
some reason, I noticed that the latches on the case were open. Our conversation
circled endlessly; we’d never seen the zeds do anything like this before and we
needed an anchor, something to hinge a rational decision on; a piece of
information about or reason why the zeds were acting the way they were …</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>…
and we needed it before the households without a CB woke up.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
game changer was about to come and none of us even knew it ….</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We’d finally given up on the discussion; realizing
that we were at an impasse because this sort of behavior just didn’t exist in
any of the information we’d shared with other counties. Sipping our water in
quiet frustration, we stared at the walls, at each other; at anything we
thought might trigger another thought which could explain what was happening. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That’s
when the tower lookout came down from his perch. Entering the tavern we all saw
that he held a small piece of paper in his hand; that he was nervous as hell
was evident in the way the paper trembled as he handed it to me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
saw a signal light Tony …”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Signal lights were something we’d come up with early
on, it was just a penlight with a red LED on the business end but if you didn’t
know where to look, it was real easy to overlook. The things had replaced
walkies as the long distance communicator of choice. Besides, the zeds couldn’t
see them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I hadn’t even considered the implications of his
nervousness as I turned the paper idly and said, “OK, so what’s the big deal?”
I dropped the paper as the words written on it came into view, “Sarge and
Raechel”; rising from my chair I asked …</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Where
did you see the signal?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“There’s
an old car, at the end of the parking lot ….” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Moving quickly I went out into the reinforced
stockade that used to be the patio and climbed up to the lookout. It wasn’t
much more than just a bo’sun’s seat on an old radio tower but a person could
stay up there for hours and not have to worry about falling. Studying the far
end of the parking lot I could barely make out the car; it was virtually
obscured by the zombies. My signal light came out of my jacket and I signaled
to the car.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>S-A-R-G-E</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My answer wasn’t long in coming …</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Z-U-E
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Damn, that meant that Raechel was out there too, we
needed to know how well they were situated, I knew that Sarge didn’t normally
leave his house without a BOB but I also didn’t know how hot things were when
they got into the car.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>S-I-T-R-E-P</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I held my breath waiting for the answer; if he had
his BOB it was ugly but doable …</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>…
if he didn’t, though …. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>B-O-B__1-5__
M-E-T-E-R-S__N-N-E</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Damn,
I looked up at the night sky; it was clear. That meant it was going to be
colder than hell tonight and hotter than hell come full light tomorrow. Worse
yet, they’d been intercepted on their way in to us which also meant that the
trouble had come in from the north.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>R-A-E__I-N-J-U-R-E-D__N-O-T
__B-I-T</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>S-N-A-F-U</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Damn
it all anyway, no matter what happened this was going to be ugly.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
had to get back inside and tell the others. I transmitted, Z-U-J; then climbed
down from the bo’sun’s chair, we needed to plan this as carefully as possible.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Inside
the bar everyone was gathered around the conference table, except for Pork
Chop; who was nowhere to be seen. It was a little odd but not totally out of
character. He usually sat at the periphery of our conferences and only
occasionally added his own observations about what was happening or what needed
done. He didn’t have much to say, but when he did, it was generally worth taking
into account in decisions.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This
time though, the lives of two of his friends were on the line and he wasn’t
sitting in, it was definitely strange.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
there we sat, looking at each other without saying a word. The silence was a
palpable presence among us, the situation was terrifyingly different from all
the other changes we’d had to adjust to since our old world had collapsed in on
itself. Another paradigm shift had occurred and we needed to work out the best
possible method to deal with it or we risked losing everything we’d gained over
the course of the last two years.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Cheryl
sat at the head of the table, her head resting on her hands as she stared
moodily at the assembled group. Most of them weren’t even on any committees but
any decision made tonight would affect them as much as it did the rest of us;
that gave them the right to a voice in it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Yeah,
it only took us five hundred plus years and the deaths of millions for us to
become a truly democratic nation. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Frank
came walking out from the communications room; his face was nearly as white as
the sheet of paper he held in his trembling hand. It was so quiet in the bar
that the paper could be heard shaking. Nesting her face in her hands Cheryl
quietly said, “Tell us how bad it is Frank, and don’t even try to soft pedal it
…”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“The families north of North Bloomfield road and
pretty much everyone west of Route 45 down to Route 305 aren’t answering. A lot
of the others on the other side of that line are reporting situations kind of
like what we have going on …” he swallowed nervously, “… everyone’s trying to
maintain and keep things quiet but they aren’t sure how much longer they can
hold out … a lot of them are pretty scared and getting desperate …”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We all sat there quietly; looking at each other,
Cheryl sat at the head of the table where either Sarge or First Sergeant
usually sat. Her hands were steepled almost as if she were praying and her face
was rested in the cradle formed by her thumbs and index fingers. Then she
sighed, wiping her face with both hands before looking at Frank, “I need for
you to get back on the horn and tell everyone you can reach that they’re to
keep as quiet as they can and stay inside, no matter what. We don’t know what
caused this and we don’t know what might set them off …. So let’s try to avoid
doing it ….” she looked around the table, “… anyone else want to add anything?”
We all looked at each other, thinking, until finally we all replied, “No” to
her question. Frank said that he’d get right on it and hurried back to the
radio room.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Which
left ‘What to do about the Sarge and Rae’ as the only currently pressing
question. Without Sarge’s BOB their chances of making it through the next
twenty four hours problematic, and the two of them had contributed enough to
our recovery efforts that none of us were willing to just let them sit out there.
Don’t get me wrong, we’d all worked our tails off to make it all happen and no
one of us were able to lay claim to putting everything back to rights. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
somehow, someway, whenever a steady hand was needed, or a calm word needed to
be spoken … one of the two of them; sometimes both … would be there. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
needed to do something but no one quite knew what.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
… we sat there looking at each other … thinking.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Until
we heard one of the interior doors open and close softly and a voice spoke
softly,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Don’t
you just hate it?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Without looking around Cheryl asked, “Hate what,
Pork Chop?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That
uncomfortable silence when no one knows just exactly what to do ….”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">One by one, we turned to look at Pork Chop. I don’t
believe there was one of us there who felt like calling him anything other than
‘Juggernaut.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Not a one of us knew where he’d gotten the material
for it; nor did anyone care to guess how long it took him to do it but we all
were fairly certain we had just seen the first ‘Zombie Resistant Armor’ that
had ever been made in this world.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
upper piece had started with the pads from a football player’s uniform and the
leather had been fastened to it by various methods; the leather was all full
thickness steer hide dyed black and buffed up with a good coat of mink oil.
Spikes covered virtually every inch with patterns created by varying the height
and color of the spikes; the one uniform thing about them was that each one was
sharpened to a lethal point. Beneath the open areas of the armor sections you
could see chain mail. Which sure went a long way to explaining why he’d been
seen hanging around with Donavon.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Donavon
was our local SCA craftsman; he was also the head of his guild.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>…
and yes, he hand crafted various accouterments for ‘knights’ and their ‘squires.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The helmet had once been a football helmet. Pork
Chop had been busy with that also, he’d added a face visor that fit tightly
over top of the face guard and had either replaced the neck pad or wrapped in
leather, either way there was no way any zed was going to chew on his neck.
Spikes covered most of the surface of the helmet, also. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There were also gloves but I don’t think describing
the reworked hockey gloves as merely gloves was ever going to do. It would be a
lot like describing a protection trained wolfhound/Rottweiler mix as just
another watch dog. These gloves had definitely been designed with evil
intentions in mind. They even had a set of blades, welded onto a plate and
bolted to the gloves, that couldn’t help but remind you of a comic book superhero
except that the sharp edge of these blades faced outward.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
real surprise though was his ‘good luck charm.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That
Fender he’d been toting around had undergone some work also and his classic
‘axe’ had become … well … an axe.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
odd neckpiece with the Celtic artwork on it was the place where the blade of
the axe fastened to the handle. The axe blade itself was fashioned to fit into
the body of the Fender. It would seem that the body of the guitar had become
reduced to mere casing for the guitar’s new purpose. Although it gave it
something of an odd appearance there were two working edges to the blade which
appeared to be razor sharp.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Formidable?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
word seemed woefully inadequate … </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Although he was a soft spoken man, Pork Chop had
always been formidable. Now … he was more … mythic.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
stuff of which legends are made</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Everyone
stared … until Cheryl quietly asked, “Pork Chop, what the hell do you have in
mind?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
can get to the pack and get it to the car, I can’t get them out and I can’t do much
else but I can manage that much,” he looked down at Cheryl, “… at least that
way they’ll have a chance.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
about Helen and Patrick; what about the twins?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“They’d
have wanted me to do this ….”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Shitfuckpissdamnmotherfucker</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We’d
had no idea … none.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Cheryl stared at him; then slowly got up and walked
up to him. Very deliberately, she pulled a chair over to him and stood on it.
Releasing the catch on his face plate she lifted it clear; then kissed his
forehead. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
stood there wordless, as she closed everything back up again.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Without leaving the chair she turned to us and spoke
quietly, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“I want anyone who can shoulder a gun accurately on
the roof to give this man what cover we can ….”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As
she stepped down from the chair Piotr came out of the kitchen with two AK-47’s
and a carryall of miscellaneous hardware. He looked over the crowd of us and
then easily tossed one of the battle rifles to me, “Tony, you were a sniper,
can you use this?” I ran my hands over it making a quick check, “It’s been a few
decades you Russki bastard …” dropping out the magazine I could see it was
full, standard issue thirty round noisemaker, someone had fitted an optical
sight to it but it remained to be seen if it was sighted in well enough “… but
let’s see if the old guy can still light up a few caps ….” He smiled and we
headed off to the roof hatch.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Most
of the people who’d made it, myself included, were military retirees. We hadn’t
had some sort of arcane knowledge that we needed to settle around the airbase.
We’d just moved there for access to the PX and the medical facilities.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Strange
how that works out, isn’t it?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>By
the time we gained the roof, Frank had managed to get up to the lookout post
with some sort of bolt action rifle. He was a good kid, had been an Explorer
Scout and all that happy stuff; seriously interested in electronics, but he’d
never imagined in his wildest dreams that he might have to pull a trigger.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He’d
do it though, especially to save a friend.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
he’d be heaving his guts up for hours afterwards.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That’s
why a lot of us joined … so that guys like him wouldn’t have to do the dirty
work.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s
also why we were working like maniacs to rebuild everything.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For
the truly gentle souls among us ….</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Piotr
and I cat walked around so we stood above the eastern door where Pork Chop was
going to come out; first we heard the hydraulic cylinders releasing and then
the door swung inward. Slowly, Pork Chop eased his massive body out the door
and then stood there blocking it until he heard a soft knock from the inside
telling him it was secured once more.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then
he began his slow, graceful dance out to where Sarge and Raechel waited.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
sight was incredible; I don’t believe anyone ever thought a man so large could
move so smoothly or quietly. Every time an opening appeared he just seemed to
drift into it and if it didn’t look like it was going to be large enough,
somehow it always was … a ballet dancer couldn’t have done better. There was
the sound of the roof hatch opening and closing behind us but Piotr and I
stayed focused on the scene below us. Cheryl stepped up between us, Winchester
in hand; whispering, “How’s he doing?” I nodded down at the man below us, “See
for yourself.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
knew that any human noise would set them into a frenzy of activity; no one was
willing to risk Pork Chop by even talking so even on the roof, we whispered. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
delicate dance between zombie and Pork Chop continued for what seemed like
hours but eventually he reached the end of the parking lot, axe still in hand.
He vanished from our sight for a few moments and the reappeared, BOB in hand. I
glanced over at Piotr and he gave me a thumbs up; a grim smile on his face, I
silently nodded agreement. The pair in the old car had a chance now, but just a
chance.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Slowly
the large man made his way back to the car, everyone held their breath as the
door slid open; the BOB was slid inside and then the door closed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>With
a click …</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
couldn’t have been avoided, we all knew that Sarge would never have let it
happen if he could have found any way to avoid it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
all hell broke loose …..</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Zombies
were lashing out at anything that was close enough for them to rip into; but
Pork Chops’ armor seemed to be working well. There was a lot of blood but none
of it appeared to be his and the zombies closest to him appeared to be getting
the worst of the deal. Pork Chops’ axe reached out with a deceptively smooth
motion and removed body parts from the walkers with no appreciable loss of
speed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>From
our vantage point we were all engaged in following Wyatt Earps’ advice about
shooting, “Take your time, but be quick about it!” There were so many zombies
that every shot had to count, it seemed as if there were no end to them and the
magazines were going faster than we’d have ever believed. The optical sight was
almost dead on so I had to figure that Piotr had installed it, the man was
amazingly talented.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">One of the boys made a brief appearance while we
were taking part in the seemingly endless fight and threw a second bag of
magazines and ammo can of shells up on the roof with us. By this time it was
almost getting to first light. Below us Pork Chop had his back to the wall of
the tavern and was only making minimal jabs into the crowd. After a while
though, as the sun’s initial rays began shining on him, something seemed to
change in him. He began taking longer strides into the mass of zombies; kind of
like someone testing the water before getting into a hot bath.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
was making me nervous, he was up to something and I couldn’t even imagine what
it might be; Sarge and Raechel had a good chance now that they had his BOB.
Pork Chops’ position was pretty good and we had a chance of clearing the area
around the door enough to get him inside.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
Pork Chops seemed to have gotten another idea</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
he began stepping out further from his semi-protected position and then
stepping back. He continued the game long enough for Piotr to notice; Piotr saw
his jab and return then looked at me, questions written all over his face; I
shrugged and continued to pound the zombies with 7.62 rounds. Blowing head
after head off their owners’ shoulders and piling the bodies deep around the
building.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Finally,
Pork Chops came to a decision and surged forward into the swirling mass of
zombies. Cheryl saw him take off and shouted, “Get back here you suicidal
moron!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>If
he heard her, he didn’t give any indication of it</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He’d
hit his pace by this time and the axe swung around him with a slow ease that
could only have come from long hours of practice. The blades on his gauntlets
were covered with gore and almost couldn’t even be seen. The rising sun glinted
on the spikes protruding from his armor emphasizing the mythic aspects of the
whole scene. It had the feel of a big budget science fiction movie; the part
where the hero makes his last great effort.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
heart grew chill with fear for the big man</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Steadily he made his way back across the parking lot
to the car where our friends were imprisoned. I saw him slam his axe a couple
of times against the driver’s side door as he walked past it and then he
pointed at the tavern while shouting something. A shiver ran down my spine as it
occurred to me what he was trying for …. it was a rescue.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
was going to bring them back to us </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As fast as the realization came to me I shouted for
everyone to change their targeting, take out the zombies at the sides and try
not to leave any bodies in front of the vehicle where they’d bring an end to
his plans. Below us, Pork Chops had put his hands on the sedan and began to
push it forward; the going was slow but the zombies eventually had to move when
the car crept up on them, whether they wished to or not.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Eventually
the car was pushed up to the entryway that, hours ago, Pork Chops had come out
of; as the car’s brake was set and the trapped pair bolted into the tavern Pork
Chops stood there smiling, almost idly swinging his great axe; decapitating
zombie after zombie. Sarge stopped in the doorway and turned to wave Pork Chops
on in but the big man just smiled even more broadly; shaking his head in a very
clear ‘no.’ Singing a song that could almost be heard above the noise of the
gunfire and the screaming of the zombies he walked off to the west. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Slicing bodies and
relieving them of their heads as he walked.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The end of the horde
was anti-climactic, a unit mobilized at the airbase and used their AA guns to
slice the proto-horde into small piles of protoplasm. When they reached the
Whitewater a smallish man poked his head out of the APC’s top hatch and asked,
“Did someone call a taxi?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A lot was lost in those
hours when the horde engulfed our town but we also learned that we couldn’t
expect to live in a new world without discovering it’s rules. We now know that
hordes will eventually accumulate where we have large centralized populations
and that when the horde reaches critical density they’ll attack. So now we have
scout companies to watch for them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The Warren/Youngstown
area was a complete loss, crops had been trampled and where they weren’t
trampled they’d been contaminated by the amount of zombie blood that had been
spilled near them. Homes were destroyed and worst of all, entire families were
lost.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Cleanup, and the
burning of all the bodies took years and because of that we had to find
somewhere new to establish our town. We’d grown used to working together; we
wanted to keep as much familiarity around us as we could. Eventually we found
the area around Moraine State Park and managed to fortify it well enough to
resist most zombie incursions.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The strange thing was
though, during all the years we cleaned and did what we could to sanitize the
area around the Youngstown/Warren area, we never found a trace of Pork Chop.
Not his armor, his chain mail or that immense body of his.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We did find his axe,
it’s in the Hall of Heroes now; in a diorama that shows how it was when it was
found … the blade end was lodged in the skulls of two zombies who’d been
standing far too close together. Both were taken out in one shot.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We also found the
remnants of zombies that had run afoul of the big man and his juggernaut’s
armor. Hamburger is probably the best description of what he left behind.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">You wouldn’t want to
eat it though ….</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So … if you happen to
come across a large man, who plays the guitar incredibly well and has the voice
of a classic blues man, how about contacting the Moraine Enclave or the NUS/DF
and passing on word about him. We don’t want to bother him, or even try to
convince him to come back to the Enclave.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But it sure would be
great to know that he’s alive, and where we could go to hear him sing, again. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">For those who may be interested, the hard copy book containing this
story is available through Amazon and the ebook is available,
through Kindle. Both links have now been moved to the "Places of Interest" listing on the right side of this page and closer to the top. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Thank you for your interest, and I apologize for any inconvenience. </span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15573233903308693414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1458832283923596928.post-29566997671592493852012-12-25T08:19:00.002-05:002012-12-25T08:19:20.211-05:00Survival Boot Camp<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> This article was originally written for this blog and intended, obviously, to be posted at the beginning of the hunting season. Well, life intervened, as it often does and the article was shuffled to the back burner, until now.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> Even though it was originally intended to open the hunting season, after reviewing it again, I see no reason why it isn't as timely now as it was then. Preparedness calls for a certain level of awareness of your surroundings and a reliable survival kit is appropriate any time of the year.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;">********************************************************************************** </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> Survival
boot camp sounds impressive but the plain fact is it’s just another way to say
“intensive survival basics.” You see, the time of year to be aware of the
basics of survival is coming around again. That’s right; if you’re a thinking
individual it’s about time to get out your shot gun, smoke pole or bow and
start tuning it up. Clean and treat those boots before lacing them up and going
out on a pre-season scouting expedition, oops, I’m sorry, taking the dog for a
walk. Yes dear, I do need the binocular, how else am I going to find the dog if
he wanders off?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’ve
always taught my children that survival begins in the mind, mental preparation.
It doesn’t have to be anything more complicated than reviewing what you know
about what you’ll be hunting, and what you know about any hazards that might be
in the area. If you’ve hunted the area in previous years it shouldn’t take
longer than a daydream over a cup of coffee. A really concerted effort might
involve a look at the DNR website for the state you hunt to see what the latest
word is about hunting conditions. You might even dig out the almanac and see
what the forecast is expected to be for opening day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>O.K.,
that’s the easy part, you shouldn’t have even spent enough time on it to upset
your wife. If you did, Giant Eagle usually has a real good price on rose
bouquets. Now comes the tough part, assembling a survival kit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Don’t
roll your eyes, groan, or even sigh a little bit. It truly isn’t that
difficult; if you spend any amount of time outdoors you probably already have
everything you need, just not in one spot.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>First
we’re going to have a quick review of the basics. A gentleman whom I greatly
respect summed it up in this manner, your best chance to stay alive depends on
following the “Sacred Order.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now,
a quick explanation of the term, the “Sacred Order” isn’t sacred because
someone got it while on a mountain top, carrying it down graven on two stone
tablets. It isn’t even sacred because someone had some sort of vision.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
is sacred, quite simply, because it offers the best chance to stay alive and we
(Native Americans) view pretty much all life as sacred.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That
having been said, the Sacred Order is: Shelter, Fire, Water, and Food. There is
one more thing that isn’t mentioned. If, like me, the years haven’t been
especially kind to you and you require medications within a twenty four hour
period, make certain that you have at least two days worth of it, with you. An
inside pocket of your jacket is usually a good place to keep it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Shelter,
one of the most common questions I field is “Why is shelter first?” Well, it’s
first because most Americans can survive for at least thirty days without food.
No water? You can probably last about three days, I once made it for four, but
I wouldn’t want to repeat the experience any time soon. Fire is a subject all
in its own right and will be addressed separately. Shelter? It’s first because
with the right combination of wind, precipitation and temperature you could die
within a matter of hours. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
guess what, one of the times you have the greatest chance of seeing that
combination is hunting season.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
what do we put into our survival kit to help with that, a good knife, my
personal choices are the Buck model 110, folding hunter or the Mora 4” fixed
blade, high carbon model with the synthetic grip. The determining factor for me
is which one is close to hand when I’m heading out. Both are reliable, sturdy
knives that haven’t failed me yet. I also pack some sturdy twine or rope;
either the heavy grade hemp cordage that craft stores carry, or 550 paracord. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Over
the years I’ve found that being overly finicky about your equipment can lead to
its own problems. These days I just try to make certain that I’ve used the item
previously, under semi-controlled conditions and that it has served its purpose
well. Any equipment that fails is summarily pitched with nary a look back. By
the way, giving defective equipment away is a big no-no. Not even to in-laws.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
last item for shelter is an extra large, contractor grade garbage bag, like all
my equipment it has multiple uses. Just don’t make any jokes about using it as
a body bag if you mess up, doesn’t go over real well with spouses. Forget about
it and use that joke? See my previous observation about the roses, might want
to throw some chocolates in too; particularly if your wife doesn’t even crack a
smile about it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Fire
is no problem if you smoke, just don’t take any sort of butane lighter with you
as a primary means of making fire. I’ve seen a lot of those fail at crucial
moments. Didn’t make much difference to my children and I but most people never
seem to realize that even a dead lighter has a viable flint and steel located
in it. Zippos are pretty good. Mine has worked down to about minus twenty but
it was in an interior pocket. More reliable are matches that have been
waterproofed or the British style life boat matches. I back those up with a
Swedish fire steel.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On
a personal note, you may have noticed that I mention backups, my truly crucial
equipment always has some sort of backup and none of the backups are carried in
the same location as my primary gear. Most of the backup gear fits into a small
belt bag that cost me all of six dollars at the local big mart. Primary gear
pretty much all fits into a field jacket pocket. The Mora goes around my neck
and the Buck, if selected, goes on my belt.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Water,
the magical elixir that can give or take life. It makes up fifty five to
seventy eight percent of our body weight and we lose about a quart of it, per
day, as insensible sweat, and that is the magical number, one quart per day. We
learned in the jungles that carrying two quarts with you, however you may
decide to carry it, is probably a good idea. Water purification tablets and
knowledge of how to obtain more is also good, but if you need rescued, most
searches in Ohio
will have you back home, complaining, in about twenty four hours.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Food
is a matter of personal taste, literally, I know minimalist campers who only
carry a couple of energy bars in their survival gear. Others I’ve seen carry
MRE’s (never thought I’d see something I like less than C-rat’s) or some other
dehydrated, over processed “food.” My preference is for food that I can
recognize as such. So I tend to carry some home made jerky, a bit of corn meal
or bread mix and supplement it by foraging. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now,
as you’ve been reading this article I can almost hear you asking how to use
this, what do I do with that and so on and so on. I know this because the twins
are reading over my shoulder as I type this and asking those same questions
(pre-teen children help keep you honest). What this article is about is the
most basic part of survival, equipment selection. For the particulars on what
you do with all the gear I listed, well, you aren’t stupid or you wouldn’t be
reading this. Go out to your backyard and see what you can come up with.</div>
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Either
that or wait for the next article I happen to feel like publishing. <br />
<br />
<br />
"There isn't one of us that doesn't want to be someplace else. But this is what we do, who we are. Live for nothing, or die for something, your call."<b> </b><br />
<b> John Rambo</b></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15573233903308693414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1458832283923596928.post-44160722659637288702012-02-18T20:23:00.000-05:002012-02-18T20:23:10.853-05:00Current Events<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"> First of all, I'd like to apologize to those of you who were waiting for my next post. Life being what it is, nothing is simple, lack of work, then work and finally, too much work. Both of the volunteer and compensated variety. But there is also another work going on .... somehow, someway, a lot of the information living in my head clicked and I got the inspiration for a story.<br />
Well, that story has taken on a life of it's own and seems intent on becoming a book. This is a teaser of what seems to be coming down the pike. I don't know how long it's going to be or even if its going to be a single shot or a series. We're just going to have to see what my characters want to find that out.<br />
The working title is <u>The Ani'waya</u>, the Wolf Society or People of the Wolf. That may change and if it does, I'll be noting that here later. In the meantime, if the demands on me as a writer and editor (for someone very special) should change enough to allow the time, I'll be returning with an article about shelter, and a couple of really dumb things I managed to do before working THAT mess out.<br />
<br />
The spacing is a little off, for some reason Blogspot and Word 2007 don't seem to work or play well together. My apologies in advance ..... <br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s around midnight; I stare out at the road in front of me and wonder just exactly what’s happened to me; where did what I was cross the line and become what I am? On the run again for the first time in decades; with no real idea where I should run to and with the only real thing known is what I’m running from. But I know sooner or later I’ll have to stop running and face it, all of it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The white lines fade off into the distance; I look at the woman sleeping on the bench seat beside me to keep from giving in to their hypnotic dance. She’s not incredibly beautiful but she radiates a strength and vitality that shines even while she sleeps. Lissa is more sensual than beautiful … yeah, I know, it sounds strange but what makes her attractive is a lot more than just appearance. The moonlight playing across her features softens the hardness you’d see if she woke and accentuates the blackness of her long hair. Lissa will never admit how attractive she really is; she’s always downplaying it, but it’s evident more so now than ever. Scarcely two months pregnant but looking as if she just finished her second trimester. The mid-wives who were taking care of her weren’t even the slightest bit surprised as they’d been handling cases similar to this one for some centuries. Hell, a couple of them had even been there at the start of the society and remembered how things used to be before they had joined the Nations. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Yeah, that’s right, they’d been members of the society for hundreds of years. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>All of this took a lot of getting used to … the longevity they enjoy which is now also mine; the health, the relatively youthful appearance, the body that is nearly indestructible and the phenomenal level of strength. God! Some people would say I’d become a freaking super hero. Others would say that I’m cursed of God.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Good thing I’m not Christian or there’d probably be some pretty severe issues with what I’ve become.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m a werewolf.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Well, kind of, but not in the way that Hollyweird likes to portray them.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I don’t slobber all over the place, nor am I overcome by massive urges to hunt and devour people. There does exist a certain amount of happiness in nipping “special” people in the ass, but it’s all in good fun.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Relax, OK? I was just kidding. If anyone was nipped, without killing them, then about thirty days later they’d also turn and this isn’t exactly recommended as a lifestyle for most people. Occasionally one does get turned who shouldn’t be; it’s usually by accident but it does happen. We’ll talk about that later though.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Like I was saying, Hollyweird likes to call what I am a “werewolf.” What my people call me is an <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">asga’ya-ge, a ‘</span>shape shifter,’ shifting doesn’t make me lose my humanity but because what I shift to is a wolf,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>it does mean that when I’m a wolf that I sometimes have a little shorter fuse than I, as a human, would normally have. At no point though does it relieve me of the responsibility for keeping myself under control. If I can’t control myself and my gift is used as an excuse then that also has a consequence. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The change doesn’t happen unless wanted and I can also hold form at any point of the metamorphosis I might care to … the moon doesn’t have a thing to do with it and it’s all very controllable. I usually only hold at demi-wolf because that phase has certain advantages. That form has the senses of a wolf but keeps humanoid hands and feet, clawed but humanoid; in addition to being able to talk, well, kind of, anyway.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Full wolf is good for some types of combat, scouting and survival but since most people don’t handle large dogs being around (in full change I’m bigger than a dire wolf) very well, there are definite liabilities. Imagine a two hundred fifty pound, six foot four lap dog. Yeah, that big.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So what are we doing here? How the hell did we get to this point? Driving across the highways for hours on end trying to stay ahead of an enemy that can be smelled but not seen except for glimpses and flashes through the underbrush. Well, not exactly true, I guess, there were the ones we’ve killed so far … ugly brutes, every one of them and their mistress Alpha, was probably the ugliest of them all. Still, I’m driving through the night when I should be holed up somewhere with this woman who’s eventually going to give birth to my children. My children, the twins … god that still sounds weird … then again, there’s only been a couple of months to get used to the idea. More time, and it might even sound like we both participated in the decision that led to their impending birth. Yep, another advantage, Lissa already knows it’s going to be a boy and girl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Enough bitching … let me tell you how all this mess got started.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was a really sweet run down the center of the Boundary, the home lands of the Eastern Band Cherokee, my bike was howling enjoyment and I was venting a little noise myself. I wasn’t drunk, not on alcohol anyway. The sound and speed were enough to attract the attention of the local police and they were trying, again, to catch the mystery rider on the black 900cc Kawi’ police interceptor. The cops kind of, mostly knew who the speed demon was but since I hadn’t managed to kill myself or do more than annoy the citizens they just chased me around for a while then gave up on it as a bad job. “We’ll get him when he dumps that thing and spreads his brains across the highway” is what they told the Council once.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This particular day there was the problem of getting the joker behind me to give up. Despite all the dirty tricks I’d pulled, despite his radio being jammed (NO, I am NOT going to tell you how it’s done!) the little prick continued trying to chase me down. So I did the only thing I could do and geared down; then dropped back for a little glimpse at the ‘wanna be’ nemesis. 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</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Kind of like now ….. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>I like that in a person … mostly</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"> Throttling down further I dropped behind him and drifted over toward the shoulder before shifting and opening up the throttle completely. The engine screamed in full fury as the bike jumped out from behind the patrol car; my front wheel heeling up a few inches before settling in. </div><div class="MsoNormal">He tried to swerve into my path but it was too little, too late and my bike eased on past him without effort. Passing the front doors I flipped him off just long enough to make sure he saw it before hitting the nitrous and taking off like the proverbial bat. I wondered if he got the subliminal message he was being sent,</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“I can ride circles around you and you can’t do anything about it …”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The patrol car slowly gained more speed, yep, he got the message.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was hitting my stride but he was beginning to get some front end shimmy, he was pushing the patrol car way past where he could safely manage it. The situation now needed a way to bring things to a close before he hurt himself. Other officers would have long since quit; flipping me off themselves before going back to Gramma Annie’s for a coffee and a slice of her pumpkin pie. Andy just wasn’t the kind of guy to do something like that, as previously mentioned, he isn’t a quitter. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ahead of me was a curve with a switchback and a service station lay on the straightaway just past it. If I could gain enough time on the curves, I could really give his chain one last yank before I vanished again.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Powering through the curves wasn’t a problem, my body and bike were well used to drifting these turns so that I didn’t have to throttle down much. Tires screeched a protest but they followed through the curves without hesitation. Just as the service station came into view I got the distance I needed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Close the throttle, stand on the brakes and drift again, this time deliberately losing speed and turning. The sensation of power and control was better than any drug you could imagine. Who needs drugs when you have the hottest bike in the Smokie Mountains? Power sliding through a full 180 I sat there looking up the road I had just burned through. In the corner of my eye I noticed a young woman leaving the station’s office. She was blonde …. damn she looked good! She had what they call a “dancer’s body,” compact, muscular and shaped like a dream. Not a wasted ounce on her! A quick look back up the road, he wasn’t in sight yet but I could hear the patrol car bitching about what Andy was trying to do even through the helmet. The woman, walking like she did she couldn’t possibly be a girl, looked up the road also, then took a couple steps towards the garage and opened the overhead door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She stood there, leaning against the side of the garage; waiting to see what I was going to do. It didn’t take long to formulate a plan.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As soon as the patrol car came into view I began a burn, locking down the front brake while I opened up the throttle just enough to throw gravel and dirt everywhere, creating a small tornado of debris and dust. Just before he got to the station I let him catch a glimpse of me taking off down the highway again before the dust storm enveloped me. As soon as the patrol car in my rear view mirror was obscured, I hit the brakes; ran the bike through another 180 and killed the engine to roll quietly back up into the open bay. I could hear the patrol car behind me as it sped down the highway, siren screaming. The bay door closed as I brought the bike to a full stop. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She came in through the side door while I pulled my helmet off, standing in the doorway a moment, almost like she knew I’d want a good look at her silhouette … damn she was a joy to see! Both for what she did and what I wanted her to do!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She sauntered up to the bike, grinning, “How long will it take Deputy Dawg to figure out he’s been had?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brushing my hair loose from the mess the helmet had made of it I looked her up and down, my eyes stopping everywhere I found interesting, “Well, the last time he made it all the way to Asheville before they got him to turn around,” I took my jacket off and laid it across the tank so I could cool off, “he’s nothing if not persistent.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s over thirty some miles, isn’t it?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I guess, I never paid much attention to it until I got down there, they’re more serious about the speed laws.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I looked around the garage, there were two bays and everything was in pretty good shape, clean; the shop was well kept, “Who’s the wrench here?” She tossed her head and smiled a wicked little grin, “Who do you think?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’m not sure, but it sure would be nice to know how they are with bikes, most people around here wouldn’t know the difference between tuning the suspension and tuning the engine.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“I’m pretty good with the engines, so so with the nitrous and don’t even have a clue about motorcycle suspensions,” she canted her head appraisingly, “but I’m told I’m a quick study.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“What else are you a quick study at?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">She shifted her gaze to the ceiling, smiling, then gave me another long, sideways look, “Ooooo, doesn’t sound like you waste much time, any particular reason you’re in such a hurry?” She took a couple more steps towards me, “Are there more badges hurrying down the road to find you?” She smiled, how the hell does a woman manage to look evil and desirable all at the same time? I don’t know, but I know that I like it! “Not as far as I know, most of the rest of them won’t chase me this far.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“I know, I usually listen to them on the scanner, funny thing is though, I can never hear them after they start chasing you, only just before, and after they stop,” another step closer, god did I ever want to grab her and pull her the rest of the way to me … note to self, rape is illegal. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Why is it that I can’t hear them after they start after you?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I stretched, working some of the kinks out of my back, now it was her turn to look. 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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“How close?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“Very”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">She moved closer another half step, “Aand, how close would someone have to be in order to find out this amazing secret?” </div><div class="MsoNormal">I looked down at her, she wore a pink sleeveless tee under her denim jacket, very, very low cut and the view was astounding! She smiled, cupped my chin with her hand and raised my point of aim, “Hey, conversation is up here, remember?” I smiled, “So how close would they have to be?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Closer than you are right now.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">She edged closer; I could feel and smell nothing but her and her breathing, “This close maybe?” I was having trouble concentrating, “Ummm, closer,” I knew I was asking for trouble but I didn’t want her to stop, I wanted to know how far she was going to take it. She sidled closer, now I could feel all five feet of her against my five nine, her voice came out a lot softer, “This close?” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Almost there”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Her hands drifted up from where they’d been resting, on my arms and circled around my neck, gently, never losing contact with my body, it felt like fire everywhere she was touching me as she leaned into me and kissed me, hard, soft and nothing but woman all the way through. She took her time, making sure I knew I’d just been kissed and guaranteeing that I’d never forget it was her who’d kissed me. After a long, delicious moment she drew back slightly and asked, almost whispered, “This close?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Yeah”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“What’s your name?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Aaron”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 369.75pt; text-indent: .5in;">“I like that name …”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 369.75pt; text-indent: .5in;">“Cops radios won’t work …” She shut me up with a kiss, “Tell me after …”<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Things got even more interesting after that. I was just glad that I didn’t have anywhere else to be, I never would have got there in time.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">CoriAnne had spent most of her life in those mountains, she’d even gone to the same school as I had, but she’d been about three years behind me. She’d literally been the snotty little kid who followed along at the edge of the crowd. I’d never noticed because I’d been obsessed with Linda Bellamy. But Linda had decided she could do better than some mountain trash and moved to Fayetteville, just outside Ft. Bragg. The last time I’d heard from her she’d hooked up with some captain, or something and was about to marry him. Then there was a major, then a lieutenant colonel and then a whatever … you get the idea. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Cori’s father hadn’t wanted her to get any bright ideas so he sent her off to a boarding school, girls only thank you, just as soon as she started to get interesting. From there she’d gone on to prep school where she majored in physics, but everything fell apart as soon as her father got sick, bad sick with cancer. A little souvenir of the time he’d spent in SE Asia. He had wanted her to keep going and at least get her bachelor’s degree, so that she would have the chance to do something more than he had but she wasn’t having anything to do with that. As soon as she found out he was sick she came back to help and wouldn’t leave until he either got better or died. The VA doctors he’d been to had managed to buy him some time but they weren’t holding out any great amounts of hope. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Burt, that’s her dad’s name, he let a few people know he needed help and why. Those few contacted a couple of others, who spoke to some friends, who knew people familiar with these matters and late one night he got a visit from someone who’d spent most of their life out of contact with the outside world, the world of the Anyi’ unega. He was starting to look better and they weren’t making any promises either, but their efforts seemed to lead to the beginning of a full remission. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">It had been a few months of progress now; Burt was looking almost as good as new and he was looking to hold Cori to her promise to get back to school as soon as he was clear of the danger. She wasn’t so sure that she wanted to go back but she didn’t want to disappoint him either, each of them was the only family that the other had.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The wrinkle that entered the picture was me, professional bad boy and the asshole who’d been the target of her budding sexual urges. She hadn’t been interested in “boys” since she’d seen me and had spent the time away from home pretty much celibate. All those years, all that time; all those fantasies and sexual frustration came completely unglued that day in the garage. Neither of us had been disappointed that day, or the rest of the time we’d had together. It was only just starting to get interesting when everything went completely to hell.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">We’d had almost a full year together, Burt was looking better and Cori was making some overtures to colleges in the area so that she could at least be home on weekends. Burt had come to the realization that I wasn’t going away and that we both wanted only the best for Cori. Although she still did most of the mechanical work I pretty much ran the garage. Their steady customers still looked at me like they suspected that this might be up to some new form of mischief but some of the elders were warming to the idea that I might actually be settling down. They’d even, presumably without my having found out, made inquiries of Burt as to whether it was going to be a traditional or Christian wedding ceremony. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Personally, I didn’t care as long as it was Cori I was marrying.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I couldn’t even begin to imagine a life without her.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">My bad</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">We’d planned a hunting trip up onto the mountain; my gear was packed and set next to the door. This trip the plan was to use my muzzleloader, a .50 caliber monster that had brought a lot of meat into my house. Cori and Burt were just going to enjoy their last weekend before she started back to school. I had originally planned on staying too, but we needed the meat to make it through the winter. The shop did OK but we sure the hell weren’t going to get rich from it. So it was up to me to make certain we had enough meat, that way, we could divert money to other, equally necessary things. Cori had been teasing me about being the “mighty hunter” or “Kanati” all week. Burt just shook his head and went on about his business.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:RelyOnVML/> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:DontVertAlignCellWithSp/> <w:DontBreakConstrainedForcedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> <w:Word11KerningPairs/> <w:CachedColBalance/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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</style> <![endif]--> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">One of the things I’d packed was my CB radio, I didn’t figure on having any problems but Cori wanted me to have a way to call for help if something happened, or if I found someone with a difficulty. I thought it was kind of silly, we’re all a pretty self sufficient bunch up here but the radio was packed anyway; it made her feel better. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I told her I’d have it on each night, just in case she wanted to give me a call and talk a little before she went to bed. We both knew that a deer wasn’t just going to wander off the path and stand in my camp for me to shoot. Between scouting and stalking a deer it was going to take a few days.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The day I left for the lowlands she gave me a long hug and a kiss that almost made me call the whole thing off. I asked her if that’s what she wanted; she smiled, told me not to be silly because we needed the food and hugged me again. I held her close, not wanting for it to end. Burt was sitting on the porch swing looking up the mountain. He didn’t say anything at first, but after a couple of minutes he quietly asked, “You two waitin’ for that deer to drop over dead from old age?” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">We all laughed</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The first night went pretty much the way we thought it would, I’d spent the day searching out a good spot for a base camp and found one that was only about a mile in from the road. I was able to save myself a lot of sweat because there was a Forestry Service road that ran down the border between the state and federal land; that meant that I could ease our jeep down the track and park it at my camp. This gave me a few more options, like being able to run my CB off it and save the batteries for when I was hunting. It also meant that I wouldn’t have to pack the meat as far to get it to the jeep. Things were looking pretty good, maybe Kanati was watching his grandson, and smiling.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I talked to Cori that night, just after darkfall, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>telling her of our good luck and that I’d even found a few heavily traveled deer trails about a quarter mile farther into the bush. I might even be coming back before the weekend was over. She sounded happy to hear that, I wish I could remember more of what we talked about, I wish I could remember better how her voice sounded. I wish a lot of things, mostly that she was still here with me.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">It still won’t change what happened next though.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">It was just after daybreak, I’d just finished my coffee and I was glassing the forest looking for any sort of movement that might give me a clue where to start my hunt. I had just decided to move up the mountain then move down the trail that crossed onto the Federal lands; if I was quick enough I could get my first deer without alerting the park rangers. Before I could pick up my hunting kit Burt’s voice came over the radio, “E’ya’ni, you out there?” I picked up the radio, “Right here, what do you need E’do’da?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Is Cori down there with you?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“No”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“You sure she’s not there?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Are my bike and the Mustang both there?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Yeah, both still in the garage”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Then how the hell could she get up here? What’s going on Burt?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“I don’t know, but she wasn’t home when I got up this morning, I was hoping that she might be down there with you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">This wasn’t at all like her, she’d never even gone down to the store without letting Burt know where she was, “I’m on my way back, start calling her friends and see what they know.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">My hunting kit got tossed onto the front seat of the jeep and the rest of my gear in the back, I could always repack it later, right now I just needed to make time.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I don’t know how, but I made it down that fire road and back up the mountain in record time and without killing myself. Although there was that trucker who nearly got sideswiped in my hurry to get on the main road. That air horn was still giving voice to his indignation as I rounded that first bend on my way back home. The sun was just glancing out from the horizon but for the first time in about a year I didn’t find any joy in it, just worry.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">When I got there Burt was standing out front talking with the sheriff and a couple of the local cops. Awww shit, Andy was one of them … I sure the hell didn’t need any grief from him today. I was walking up to them when Burt saw me, excused himself and came over, worry, fear and worse were on his face as he fought to maintain his composure, “Do you know anywhere she might have gone?” he asked, “Is there anyone she might have gone to help or something?” He grasped my arm, a drowning man searching for a ray of hope, his voice barely a whisper, “Where’s my little girl?” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“I don’t know E’do’da, what do the cops think?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“They’re looking around, trying to find a hint, a clue ….”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I was just as lost as him, both of us trying to comprehend what was happening, we had a common cause but were equally at a loss for an answer. We were looking at each other; looking around and trying to fathom what to do next, how could we help Cori.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Most of all … the question loomed … where do we begin?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Andy kind of solved that question for us, seeing me he came over and I readied myself for some accusations or finger pointing. Instead, he grasped my elbow and said, quietly, “Aaron, could you come with me for a minute?” I glanced over to Burt, he waved us on and we walked around to the back of the house. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“I’m sorry to have to see you like this, under these circumstances …”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">This was definitely not how I thought it was going to go.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Thanks Andy, how can I help?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“First, I want you to know that the elders have been speaking well of you, since you got together with Cori, some of them had even said they thought the two of you would make a good couple”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“I’m glad to hear that” Where was this going?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“They also tell me you’re a good hunter”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“I do OK” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">We’d gotten around to the back of the house, under Cori’s room, I looked up at the window and noticed that the screen was pulled away from the frame. It hadn’t been like that before I left … I’d just finished weatherproofing the house and it had all been ready for the coming winter. The screen had only been left in her window because she liked the night air while she slept. I turned and began scanning the mountainside. Andy put his hand on my shoulder, “Aaron, look at this and tell me what you think of it …” he pointed down at the ground beside the house, directly under Cori’s window, “There, what do you think that’s from?”</div><div class="MsoNormal">I glanced at the ground wondering what the point to all this was and that’s when I saw the tracks. Dropping down to one knee I studied them, running my fingers over their surface, letting the knowledge inherent in the tracks make its way to my mind directly. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Four toes, front and rear, claws showing but the heel pad was elongated, odd looking, where the tracks were directly under the window. They were also a hell of a lot deeper in the toes than the other tracks, something had jumped up here. Looking up at the window again I could see that where the screen was hanging from one side; the other three sides looked as though they’d been cut. Looking around I saw more tracks, both leading to and from the same area that Andy had first shown me. The tracks coming in weren’t as deep … a chill ran down my spine … this shouldn’t be, it wasn’t making sense but I knew that the tracks couldn’t lie. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I looked at Andy.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Something’s wrong here, these tracks aren’t making any sense”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What do you see?”</div><div class="MsoNormal">Pointing at the tracks I taught him to see what I saw, “Here, the track looks like someone pasted together the track of a human and some sort of dog, or something like a dog, the pads don’t look right for dog but I don’t know what else they could be … it sure the hell isn’t wolf or anything else I’ve ever seen. The real problem is that the track has to be phony as a three dollar bill, but there isn’t a seam in it anywhere and they feel alive, like whatever made them is real and breathing.” I glanced over the other tracks and followed them back to the tree line, “Look at this, as the trail goes back further the heel gets shorter until the track looks the way I’d expect them to look” I looked at Andy again, “There’s just no way you’re going to convince me that some animal had it’s heel pad lengthen, no animal I’ve ever seen can grow or change itself like that.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Andy was looking at the tracks, not saying anything.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:OfficeDocumentSettings> <o:RelyOnVML/> <o:AllowPNG/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:DontVertAlignCellWithSp/> <w:DontBreakConstrainedForcedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> <w:Word11KerningPairs/> <w:CachedColBalance/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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</style> <![endif]--> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hey!” Andy looked up, “What’s the fucking joke? What the hell does this have to do with Cori?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don’t know” Great, a cop who doesn’t know what’s happening, what a surprise.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Aaron, the real problem is that these same sort of tracks have been seen at two or three other disappearances over the past month and we don’t know what they mean” Andy took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket; he offered me one but I waved him off, not a vice I’d ever been interested in. He took one from the pack and lit it before continuing, “We’ve had some biologists take a look at photos and castings of these tracks and they agree with you that the out of character tracks have to be fake, but they can’t prove they’re fake either” he pointed at one of the tracks near the tree line, “but they all agree that the ‘normal’ tracks are hyena tracks.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hyena tracks? Aren’t hyenas supposed to be in Africa or something? What the hell is a hyena doing in North Carolina? These and a thousand other questions ran through my mind as I tried to make some sense out of what he was telling me. There were a lot of guys around here who’d have no end of laughs at the thought of having one upped me, but none of them, especially Andy, would stoop to trying something like that when it involved a life. I started casting around, trying to find more proof of what had happened, more evidence of who had stood beneath Cori’s window and what they had done. Focusing on the tracks gave my mind an out, something to do other than to dwell on the fact that Cori was missing.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The tracks inbound to Cori’s window followed a deer path from about twenty or thirty feet inside the tree line; back there I found that there had been two other hyenas but they had broken off from the one who’d approached the window about and stayed just inside the tree line, waiting.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just at the edge of the clear cut, where we’d trimmed the grass down to what most folks would consider to be a normal length for a lawn, I could smell something a little odd. I let my nose lead me to the source of the smell, there was a scent tag on the tall grass. I dropped to a crouch and looked for the source. Just about at the level of my eyes the grass had a whitish, paste on it. That meant the animal had to be about three and a half feet at the shoulder … wait a minute, three and a half feet? I took the tape measure I generally carry; went back to the tracks and measured the stride … a body length of six feet? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How big do those things usually run?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The hyenas, how big do they usually run?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don’t know … what’s that got to do with anything?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You need to find out because whatever else you know about it, this thing is as big as most panthers and about big enough to challenge a blackie.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">Andy got on his radio and started talking to his dispatcher while I went back to the window and started tracking forward from there to see what happened. I found the impact point where whatever it was had landed after jumping down from the window. I couldn’t help but notice that the tracks were heavier going out than they’d been coming in, I had to force myself to concentrate on the tracks; not think about why they were so much heavier coming out.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>God ….. Cori, where the hell are you?</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was still looking at the tracks, making certain that even the smallest details were registered, narrow shoulders, broader hips … probably a female. With most mammals the male was larger than the female so if that were true, the male would be a fucking monster! I’d have to check with those biologists and see what they could tell me. Looking up I saw Andy directing a couple of his scientists to the scent markings I’d found, they carefully collected some samples, hell, I hadn’t even thought of that, I just wiped the crap off on my denims. Mental note to self, try not to do anything that might screw things up for the science guys again. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Burt glanced around the corner, he wanted to come over but one of the cops had stopped him. I walked over to see if he’d found out anything from the phone calls he’d been making while I was out back.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Got anything?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No, no one’s seen her since yesterday at the Quick Stop.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">We’d gone to the Stop to get a box of donuts, but that’d been almost seven o’ clock yesterday morning. I looked back at the tracks, they were still wet from last night’s dew and the extra dew that transferred from the hyena’s foot … that meant that they were made after <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>it was <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>cold enough for the dew so that was what? About three hours after nightfall … and Cori was one to go to bed early, especially since she knew I’d be moving out around sunrise. I know she wanted to talk with me before I hit the trail. I had planned on telling her where I was headed. So that meant … whatever happened, had happened sometime between eleven o’ clock last night and first light. Factor in that they were dealing with about a hundred and two pounds of dead weight.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No, not ‘dead’ weight, it can’t be ‘dead’ weight … she’s still alive, I know she’s alive.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One hundred and two pounds of unconscious victim</div><div class="MsoNormal">One hundred and two pounds of unconscious victim is going to slow them down some, it has to …<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Andy”</div><div class="MsoNormal">He looked up from his conversation with his scientists, “You got something?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I think I have your time frame for you”</div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">I explained what I found and how it told me when things had to have happened. 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</style> <![endif]--> <div class="MsoNormal">interpreting the crime scene. The guard stood aside; letting us go up the stairs without any further comment, but the look on his face spoke volumes. The idiot was fully convinced I’d had something to do with her disappearance. I ignored the scowl and just ‘raised the blanket’ further; keeping myself stone faced as we left him behind. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At the door to Cori’s room, the room I’d shared with her until that morning, Andy asked the technicians to leave the room for a couple of minutes, at least long enough for me to look around and tell him what I could read from what was there. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was weird … the whole room felt familiar but at the same time … well … different, like it belonged to someone else and I’d only been there a couple of times. Not much of anything looked disturbed; her clothes were draped across the chair next to her dresser … crossing over to the window I began running my hands over the sill lightly, careful not to do anything that could leave a fingerprint. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Just under the sill there were claw marks, eight of them, where they’d dug in hard; the wood of the window frame was pulled out slightly as if something heavy had been hung from there. Without a word I pointed them out to Andy and turned my attention to the room. Her diary lay on her desk, she’d invited me to look at it several times and I’d always refused. Even with the other people who’d been in there the tracks of her attacker were glaringly obvious. The floor was varnished and recently washed … the tracks shown as though someone was shining a spotlight on them and not just because the claws had left marks … there were oil marks too, the kind when you walk barefoot across that type of flooring. So, whatever else I could say about the thing it was definitely something alive. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The path led from the window to the bed … there were signs of a struggle but it had been brief, Jesus … there was blood on the bed and a light trail of it from the bed to the window. My breath caught in my throat, I felt dizzy and desperately wanted to be ill but I didn’t have time for that, there was still a chance for her. I needed to pull myself together and see if there was a way to help her. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You OK?”</div><div class="MsoNormal">Andy, yeah, Andy was right there holding my elbow, steadying me, wanting to help but trying not to cross any lines.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m fine” pushing him back gently “Thanks, but I’m fine, I just need a minute.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s all good, take your time”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Concentrate, think, what’s next, where’s the next track?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Nothing teaches you more than the first track that you can’t find</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">‘What’s this mean?’ Grandpa Hartsock, my maternal grandfather, his eternal question rang in my head, past the pounding in my temples and the heightened awareness of the blood singing in my ears ‘What’s this mean?’ My eyes searched the room, don’t think about it, just take it in and let the cues assemble themselves.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">What’s this mean?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Think</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">What’s this mean?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Think, what does this pattern mean? What does it … oh god … NO!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I bolted from the room, Andy following close behind, “Aaron, what is it?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“No time, I have to get on the trail NOW!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Why?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“She was alive when she was taken, unconscious but alive …”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Aaron, what the hell are you saying? Make sense to me!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I half turned toward him, “Most predators only take prey alive for one reason … that’s how they prefer to eat them!” I dashed out the door, jumping down the steps, “It hasn’t been that long and we’ve kept the pressure on them, they’ll need distance before they feel comfortable …”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Andy stopped, turning white as he thought about it before saying, “What do you need? What can we do?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Stay the fuck out of my way!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Running to the jeep I grabbed the hunting gear that’d been dropped on the front seat; now it seemed that Kanati was truly smiling on me, he’d given me a chance to get back the woman I loved. Strapping on my hunting belt with my antique Bowie and throwing my shooting bag over my shoulder, rifle in hand and I was starting down the trail after them, who or what, ever they are I planned a deadly greeting for them when I found them. Whatever it took I wanted to make certain they knew that the Cherokee were nothing to trifle with, especially this Cherokee. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Pushing past the officers who were going about their assigned tasks I went running back to the rear of the house; Andy was out front shouting orders, I heard something about a helicopter but I was too busy with getting on the trail of my prey, yeah, they took my woman, my mate …. now they were my PREY! </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Casting around from where the prints came back down from the room, it didn’t take me long; they left a disturbance trail that a blind Native could follow. They didn’t think there was anything around that was big enough to challenge them.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">We’ll see about that …..</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I started down the path the bitch had taken, it started out as just a deer trail and angled down the hill. Where the trail intersected a main game trail they turned right, to parallel the ridgeline, I stayed on them; moving as fast as possible. Behind me, I heard two blasts from a whistle, that must be Andy trying to catch up … I stopped long enough to blow the hunting horn I carry with me, the sound carries for miles. 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</style> <![endif]--> </div><div class="MsoNormal">I resumed my chase following the trail as it kept just below the ridgeline. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Reaching a rocky outcrop I stopped, glassing the area; trying to steal a jump on the motherless pieces of shit who’d stolen my love.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Just before coming to a decision about which way to go, a helicopter swept in; keeping low to the ground. They paused long enough to make certain I saw them and I waved them down the trail I’d seen hoping that maybe they’d be able to direct me better. The helo wheeled off in the direction I’d pointed; swooping down along the valley floor. I began my run along the same trail. Andy would probably have wanted them to land and pick me up but the nearest clearing where they could do that was back at the garage, I was entirely on my own out here.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Same situation, different day</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The helo followed the direction I’d pointed until it reached the creek that followed the floor of the ravine, once down there the pilot began to circle outwards. He kept low enough for him to be able to see what was on the ground but high enough that he still had a pretty wide field of view. I kept to the track I was following, unless he came up with something better I didn’t have much choice. No matter what else we had to keep the pressure on; not let the hyenas think that they could rest for even a minute.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Humans would kill their hostage with that much heat on them but hyenas were just animals; they’d either run themselves to death trying to retain their prey or drop it or run. They didn’t have any motivation to keep something that was going to cost them calories or get them unwanted attention, that was a human motivation, keeping something solely because you wanted possession of it. That took ego; generally speaking most predators don’t have that little wrinkle.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The helo had tracked over to my left about a hundred yards or so, where the ground had a small rise, possibly a lower level outcrop of rock, when it started circling. Then the deputy flying the helo hit his siren. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Bingo! They’d made visual contact with the group!</div><div class="MsoNormal">The pilot began circling, blasting his siren and flashing the ground with his spotlight. Every now and then he’d come in and let them have it with the prop wash … sending dirt and debris flying up onto the rock. I still couldn’t see the top of the rock because a part of the hill lay between me and my goal. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As I topped the last rise before the outcrop the ground was high enough for me to see down into the ravine where the action was taking place. There were two hyenas trying to skulk away from the outcrop but they seemed pretty afraid of the helo. A larger one, it had to be that bitch, stood on top of the outcrop with something in front of it …. Cori?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Across the ravine I could see Andy and two of the deputies coming down a clearing that abutted a fire road. </div><div class="MsoNormal">They were trail breaking with quad runners, moving slow but still faster than they could have been otherwise. Andy spotted the action and stopped to glass the scene. I saw him raise his rifle, then a flash from the muzzle. There was the characteristic noise of a ricochet as the round hit the bottom edge of the outcrop. That’s when the bitch lay down on the other side of Cori. What the hell? Why is it that nothing about this was making any sense? How could the bitch understand that Cori could act as a shield for even a little bit? I could see Andy and the other two officers trying to get an angle on her but laying flat like she was they didn’t have much of a chance to get her without hurting, or killing, Cori. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I was making time down the slope as fast as I could but it still didn’t feel fast enough. A trail lay about fifty feet below me and it’d allow me to make better time to the outcrop than I could otherwise have made. I half jumped, half ran until I hit the trail and began my run to the outcrop. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Rounding the last bend I came on the two males. They were at a full run trying to get away from the trouble, Andy and the others had no reason to shoot them, they were leaving the scene. I had an issue with them though because they had helped that bitch take my Cori. The first one never even saw me. I didn’t slow down or stop as I took the barrel of the Colonel in both hands and swung for all I was worth. The impact snapped his head to the side and sent him rolling down the hillside. The second one slowed for a moment, then started some weird kind of high pitched laughing noise before charging toward me. I crouched, holding my ground; as he lunged toward me I slipped to the side, bringing my Bowie up and burying it between his ribs, all the way to the hilt. The wretched thing fell over almost instantly as the blade penetrated the heart and the lungs; then rolled lifelessly down into the ravine.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The bitch seemed to realize it was in trouble now. It skulked around to the other side of Cori, I could see her moving weakly, I don’t know if she was trying to wave at me or if she even knew I was there. I stood at the top of the rise, pulled my tomahawk from my belt and screamed at the thing, “Currahee!”</div><div class="MsoNormal">An old battle cry, Grandpa told me once that it meant ‘I stand alone’, I am the shield of my people, I am here and I will be your death. It meant all that and more and on this day it also meant, ‘You or me bitch, one of us is dying NOW!’ </div><div class="MsoNormal">The Colonel in my right hand, my tomahawk in my left I raised both hands and screamed again, “Currahee!” The bitch moved and put Cori between me and her; at the same time keeping a wary eye towards the police on the other side of the ravine. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Watch me, you bitch! Watch me because I will kill you!”</div><div class="MsoNormal">I could hear Andy talking to his officers but I couldn’t make out what they were saying, it didn’t matter to me anyway, not right then. I was close to getting Cori back and couldn’t handle any distraction. </div><div class="MsoNormal">There was too much distance between us for me to charge her and the angle, uphill with that rocky outcrop was a bad situation to try a shot, even with a scoped rifle. Even if I could make the shot work, it was close enough for over penetration and ricochet to be a problem. I had to try drawing her out somehow.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Off to my left I could hear movement, the male that I clubbed was starting to regain consciousness and was moving around; acting on a hunch I pointed down at it with my tomahawk, “Look there! Look!” I placed the tomahawk in my belt again, bringing the Colonel up in a cross body hold I’d used many times before, “You hurt her and I kill yours!” </div><div class="MsoNormal">What the hell was I thinking? I don’t know but at the time it felt like the right thing to do, it seemed to work because she stopped, crouching low among the rocks. The male stirred some more, looking around; not knowing what else to do I pointed the Colonel at him more directly and, with a quiet menace, told him to, “Stay.” For whatever reason … I seemed to see comprehension in the hyena’s eyes as it sat down where it was and watched the proceedings. 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</style> <![endif]--> </div><div class="MsoNormal">“Get away from her right now and we all live”</div><div class="MsoNormal">I motioned at the male with the Colonel, “anything else, I start with big boy here and finish …” I swung the rifle slightly in her direction, “… with you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>About then I saw Cori roll over onto her side; she looked up, trying to locate me. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I motioned for her to stay down … she closed her eyes while her hands went to her throat, briefly and then she lay back with both of them extended in front of her. I took a step forward being careful to keep the barrel on the male to my left. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“C’mon, it’s over … let her go and we all go home …” </div><div class="MsoNormal">The bitch placed her right foreleg on Cori’s side, if it had been a human I would have said that she was trying to be possessive about it but that was impossible, hyenas don’t have the same motivations as a human. It’s only an animal for crying out loud!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The helo continued to orbit, I was too close in now and the pilot couldn’t do anything more, but he was staying close, just in case he saw an opening I guess.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Cori opened her eyes again and the bitch growled softly, Cori kept her eyes focused on me while she thought … I could see her debating something and I could only hope she wasn’t going to decide something crazy. When she came to a decision I could see the fires start to burn in her eyes, she smiled evilly, Oh god, Cori, please don’t do this thing … looking at me she said, “<span class="st">Gv-ge-yu-hi”</span>, softly; then she looked back down at the bitch and said, “<span class="st">Gv-ge-yu-hi!”</span> louder. The bitch looked down at her, not comprehending anything at this point. Cori looked at me one last time, all blood and fury, before shouting, “Ka- li-wo-hi Tsalagi!” The bitch drew its head back slightly, growling, and Cori screamed, “Ka-li-wo-hi Tsalagi!”</div><div class="MsoNormal">All hell broke loose at that point as Cori slashed at the bitch with a neckknife I’d made for her, carbon steel plated with silver and a paracord wrapped handle. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Her slash raked across the bitch’s chest and throat with the six inches of razor sharp blade cutting through the fur and hide as if it wasn’t even there, blood spraying from an artery. At the same time Cori rolled over onto her stomach, trying to jump up and away to freedom. There were shouts from the other side of the ravine just before the bullets started to fly. The shots were measured and careful but they still weren’t able to target the bitch real well … they tried to buy Cori room though, tried to make the bitch give it up as a bad idea.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Even so, she didn’t make it</div><div class="MsoNormal">The bitch caught her just as she started to make her jump; she was on Cori before she’d even gotten a full body length away from her. Caught her by the neck and just bit down, severing my love’s neck in a single bite. </div><div class="MsoNormal">At the same time I pulled the Colonel’s trigger, I’d warned her and now I finished the job … placing a bullet squarely in the center of the male’s head. Spraying blood and brain out the back of it as the .50 caliber ball passed through like it wasn’t even there.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I threw the Colonel to the ground, pulling out my tomahawk as I ran toward the bitch, screaming fury every inch of the way. “God damn you, you whore!” I wasn’t fast enough … she jumped down the other side of the outcrop and made a run for the treeline at the end of the ravine. The helo followed, trying to keep her in sight and went with her over the ridge. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I walked up to Cori, laying there with blood pouring from her severed neck, I stroked her hair, I don’t know what I was thinking, hell, I don’t even know that I was thinking. I just wanted to groom her, make her pretty. I didn’t want Burt or anyone else to see her like that. She always wanted to look good and no amount of assurance on my part could ever convince her that she didn’t need to look like a Barbie doll all the time. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I took my hunting coat off and laid it across her, covering her as if she were cold; covering the horrific mess that had been her neck. I was running on automatic, memories of Cori running through my mind.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> As Andy and the other officers made their way to us, I just sat there beside her, crying, afraid to move her and wanting to hold her more than anything. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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There isn't one of us that doesn't want to be someplace else. But this is what we do, who we are. Live for nothing, or die for something. Your call. John Rambo</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15573233903308693414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1458832283923596928.post-31088083855980446822011-02-11T03:12:00.005-05:002011-02-12T22:16:50.415-05:00True Mastery<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Before I do anything else, I’d like to say that I purchased a <b>Pocket Bushman </b>folder from <b>Knifecenter.com </b>recently. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">To be perfectly honest, I had some doubts about the knife, due to some rather negative reviews of it on the web, but I have, thus far, found those concerns to be without cause.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">First of all, the knife exits the box razor sharp. I have a bare spot on my arm (for the first time in a long time) to prove that it is delivered that way. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">In normal usage, without any deliberate attempt to overstress the spring, the knife does its job just fine. As a matter of fact while using the knife in one of the most punishing (inland) environments I know of (the kitchen) it performs better than just about any other knife except for my carbon steel antiques (naaaah, no bias here).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">O.K, so here I sit at my computer; trying to figure out what I should talk about now. Should it be about technique? Should it be about style? Or should it be about some of the more esoteric subjects (a favorite of many students) that run rampant through all martial arts legends and mythology?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">None of the above.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">What I’d like to wax poetic on today is the subject of real, or true, mastery of a subject or discipline. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Discussing mastery is kind of like trying to find land mines by putting on a hakama, blindfolding yourself; then grabbing your favorite bokken or staff and looking for the land mines by commencing to whack the ground as you slide step forward. No matter what you do, the outcome isn’t necessarily what you expect it to be.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">But, if you care to try that, let me know how it works out for you.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My father, and Uncle Frank, had both told me that the real essence of a master isn’t found in the physical mastery of fighting or warfare. Real mastery begins, and only <u>BEGINS</u>, mind you, when you are able to teach a six year old how to fight in a disciplined manner. <u>Without resorting to negative reinforcement techniques.</u></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Well, as you can imagine that wasn’t a lesson that I believed or learned the easy way. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">By the by, I have a history of hard learned lessons but, as my parents used to point out, I also have a short learning curve. I tend not to repeat my mistakes, but I do find some interesting new ones to make.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">When my father opened his kwoon, my uncle was his chief instructor. I was the chief assistant instructor, a position that I probably took much too seriously but it did help to make certain that when I was in the kwoon, I was practicing as hard as I knew how.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">When my uncle told me to take over the adult classes and teach them the basics I was very proud. Eleven year old me, leading adults in learning the basics.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">There were a few, to be sure, who didn’t care for that. But each challenge led to them having to free spar with me and none of the matches went the way that the challengers had anticipated. The rules didn’t matter (street rules or tournament, the choice was theirs) I either won, honestly, or lost by such a close margin (one point) that the adult in question didn’t even care to discuss it afterward.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">For a kid, especially in those pre-“junior black belt” days I was on top of the world.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">And then the excrement hit the stationary push prop.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Dad decided to open the school to children.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">After all, he already had four sons, all of whom were very competent assistant instructors.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Initially, with the first few children, they worked out with the adults, but after there were enough students (ten or so), Dad moved them to their own time slot in the kwoon schedule. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Which meant that (unbeknownst to me) there was now a reason to have a second Chief Instructor.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Now, when Uncle Lanny made that announcement I was hoping that it would be me. I knew that he was the Head Instructor, which led me to believe that I would be put in charge of the adults. I reasoned that, since Everett (number two son) was already leading the children in most of their training that he would be put in charge of the children; which then left me with teaching the adults and Uncle Lanny overseeing it all.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Well, I thought it was a good idea.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">What did happen was that Uncle Lanny became the Chief Instructor for the adults, Everett became his new assistant and I became Chief Instructor for the children. Dad brought Uncle Bill in to be the Head Instructor and I fought back the urge to start sucking my thumb in the corner.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Hey, we <u>ALL</u> start out human.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">So there I am, accustomed to teaching the adults. Living with; talking to and associating with adults. Most of my friends were adults and I only had minimal contact with other children my own age, which suited me just fine, as most of them appeared to be severely brain damaged. I mean, who wants to hang out with people who think it’s funny to stick two pencils up their nose?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">First of all, there was a communications gap. The oldest was still only fourteen, with a mental age of maybe ten (remember the pencils? Yeah, that’s the one) and the youngest was a thumbsucker (literally) of about five. Physically, a nine year spread in ages, mentally? Not so much.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">They kept me busy, oh god, did they keep me busy!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The first thing I learned was that the attention span wasn’t much more than twenty minutes at best. So things had to be kept to fifteen minute increments. The next thing I learned was that they couldn’t be pushed as hard as the adults, or even as hard as I’d push myself or my brothers. Compared to them, we were little powerhouses. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Daniel (number four son) once kicked the fourteen year old hard enough to knock the wind out of him and land him flat on his back. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The fourteen year old attempted to reciprocate, with permission, and only succeeded in seeing his opponent slip the kick, grab his leg and, you guessed it, land flat on his back.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Again</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Daniel, age six, opponent, age fourteen; match goes to Daniel.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Houston, we have a problem.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Last, but not least, was that I knew all the movements so well that I could do them in my sleep. Ask me to demonstrate a technique and I could do it with no problem, whether the uke was willing, or not. Ask me to demonstrate a skill set and I could run through the entire series without missing a beat.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">But I was accustomed to working with adults, whom you could show a technique to and expect them to see the nuances you needed them to learn. For them, the fact that my movements were as natural as walking was a good thing. When they got stuck all I had to do was to show them, and they’d pick it up. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Doesn’t generally work that way for children. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Think it’s not much of a problem?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Then try explaining to someone who’s been in a wheelchair, for his whole life, how to walk.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The odds are pretty good that you’ll miss about ninety percent of the more crucial information no matter how well you plan it out.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">And you’ll miss it, precisely because you no longer have to think about it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">So there was the problem, I had to find a way to explain something which I knew so well that I no longer had the words to explain.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><i><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Words exist because of meaning. Once you've gotten the meaning, you can forget the words. Where can I find a man who has forgotten words so I can talk with him? ~Chuang Tzu</span></i></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I had gone to a great deal of trouble to become the “man who has forgotten the words” but now I found myself in the unenviable position of having to remember them again. So I went to Uncle Lanny for help.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Should have known better.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Uncle Lanny looked at me for a long time, “You know all the moves, right?” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Well, yes, I do.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“And you know them so well that they’re second nature, right?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Yeah</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“So what’s the problem?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Explaining them to my students.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“You know the moves, they want to know them, where’s the problem? Don’t you both speak the same language?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Well, I used to think so.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“Then listen to them, learn <b>their</b> language.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">What? Standard English isn’t good enough? What the heck do they speak, Swahili?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Uncle Lanny just smiled and said, “Just listen.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Well, I did listen, at least I thought I did, and things continued along pretty much the same. The fourteen year old continued to act like a five year old, the five year old was acting about two and everyone in between were just acting like fools.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The turning point came when I “met” Miss Sally.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Miss Sally hosted a children’s television show titled “Romper Room;” my youngest brother, Daniel, seemed to enjoy watching it. The rest of us considered it to be too “young” a show for us.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">But, it did hold my brother’s attention.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">And he, although he was more disciplined, was still only about five.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Hmmmmmmm, let’s see what the fuss is about.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">So I watched the show, took mental notes and observed how my brother responded to Miss Sally.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Shortly afterward, I made some changes in how I taught the class.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">First, I began by making the exercises more like games. Jack LaLanne was my role model for doing that, he had a way about him that made the exercises more enjoyable. Considering that he was attempting to “lure America” off their sofas it was definitely a job requirement for him. Stretching became more dancelike and the breakfalls became an exercise in seeing who could fall and make the least noise. Weight distribution is vital in breakfalls, the quieter you can land, when thrown, the softer you just hit the ground. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Teaching the strikes and blocks became a combination history lesson/mythology class and story hour. While I moved my students into the correct positions (standing still became an exercise in static balance) I would regale them with stories about the move’s presumed historical precedence, factual when I could, mythological if necessary and flat out fictional (but logical) if I couldn’t locate information about the basis for the movement/strike/kick/block.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Uncle Lanny directed Everett in leading his students, watched and smiled.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">When my routine had become pretty much set and I knew I could count on <b>my </b>assistant instructor (David) I began to take breaks and watch from the desk with the <b>Sifu, </b>(Dad) and my two Uncles.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">After a few months of everything going smoothly, Uncle Bill came to me and asked, “So have you thanked your students yet?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I didn’t even ask why, I didn’t have to.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I lined them up and had them stand there as I thanked them for what they had taught me and bowed to them. Looking puzzled, they returned the bow.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As I left the mat, Uncle Lanny leaned over and said, “Do you know what the <u>second</u> stage of True Mastery is?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Yeeeeeesh</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">At least I had a month or two of enjoying the THOUGHT that perhaps I had achieved True Mastery.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">That, </span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">though, is a story for another time.</span></div><br />
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There isn't one of us that doesn't want to be someplace else. But this is what we do, who we are. Live for nothing, or die for something. Your call.<br />
<br />
<b>John Rambo</b></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15573233903308693414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1458832283923596928.post-85401736635490986482010-12-16T23:57:00.003-05:002010-12-17T00:07:19.891-05:00A Fight Story<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves/> <w:trackformatting/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:donotpromoteqf/> <w:lidthemeother>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther> <w:lidthemeasian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:lidthemecomplexscript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> <w:splitpgbreakandparamark/> <w:dontvertaligncellwithsp/> <w:dontbreakconstrainedforcedtables/> <w:dontvertalignintxbx/> 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mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">The following is an excerpt from a story I’m working on, but it’s essentially a sitrep about an actual incident.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">No, I didn’t wind up in lockup, there were too many police witnesses to how the whole thing went down and I was working for a few of them. The only real difference was that my father was the cook, not my brother, and my dinner guest was a detective sergeant; but he was definitely my boss. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">The story picks up in a restaurant, just before we got our orders.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="">So we chatted about the manning, every time we get to the required level, corporate wants us to do more. The roll call and how it could be improved, Ed promised to lobby HR about the unnecessary fluff; and training issues.<span style=""> </span>We had just started to touch on personnel issues, when the food came out, steaming. But Peggy brought the order out.</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">“What happened to the kid?” Peggy put down the two chicken fried steaks, with an offhand shrug she said, “She left out the back door, her brother came to pick her up, their little sister is sick” Peggy started back to the waitress’ station, “She said she probably wouldn’t be back in today” I put my napkin on the table and started towards the door at a jog trot, I could hear Ed behind me, “Do you know the family? Is it serious?” I half turned, replying, “She’s an only child” I finished my explanation as I turned to leave, “and her boyfriend used to beat her, badly” I stepped out the door.</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style=""> </span>Just as I thought; they were just leaving the side street and the imbecile hadn’t even waited to get completely out of sight of the restaurant as he half dragged her down the street, accompanied by three other goons. “Hey you” I shouted; they turned to look, she was half on her knees, trying to wave me off, “is that the best that you ball-less cunts can do? Brutalize a five foot, one hundred pound waitress?” They stopped, staring and began making the usual comments. God, was originality so totally dead as that? </i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="">Let’s see, Bruno was the biggest, but all of them were bigger than me, good, no one could say it wasn’t a fair fight. “Why don’t you come on over and see what you can do against someone who can fight back” my feet shifted position slightly, bracing myself and “gripping” the ground. </i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="">Hands slightly away from the body, palms in, hands open. No one who saw me, unless they were well trained, could tell I was ready for an attack. </i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="">They were still standing there, talking, laughing, and trying to work up the nerve to attack. I needed to get this going, or David was going to give me grief for letting the food get cold, “The uniform bothers you? Don’t worry about it, no one here but a man and four worthless pieces of shit” I unbuttoned the shirt and it slid to the ground; the equipment belt soon followed, good, they were focused on me. I waved them on over, assuming a “peek a boo” defense posture, if Pretty Boy Floyd can make it work, so can I. Besides, it’ll keep them guessing. Bruno tossed Angela to the ground and told her, “Stay put, bitch, this won’t take long” O.K., one more thing to make him pay for. </i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style=""> </span>All four moved in, then I heard a hiss/click as the door behind me opened and closed, nothing to worry me back there, his cronies were all with him,. I ignored the noise, focusing on the targets in front of me. </i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style=""> </span>They moved into a loose wedge with Bruno in the lead, stupid, why didn’t they just send me a written notice that Bruno was going to lead the attack. Their loose easy strut/attempted glide/swagger/walk was a clear signal that they had done this previously; probably successfully. </i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="">Too bad they moved like constipated orangutans.</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style=""><span style=""></span>Bruno dropped his head to his chest as he attempted a long, looping roundhouse punch. Much to his chagrin I stepped inside the swing, guiding his right outward with my left, catching hold of his arm just before the bicep. Pulling forward with my left, I continued his swing past me and pulling him into my right cross, a hesitation, a slight move back and my right arm came forward with an elbow smash into his left cheek, smashing the zygomatic arch. That caused his eye to pop out slightly, a macabre sight. </i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="">All this action took place in slightly less than two seconds but it covered his face in blood. The next few seconds involved Bruno’s head becoming one with the concrete of the sidewalk as my right arm suddenly reversed direction, making contact with his neck and throwing him over my right hip, the action pitching him forward onto his face. This left me in a left lead, preparatory position facing the nogoodnik who had been on his right.</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style=""> </span>He looked at Bruno, his face slowly contorting with rage, “Look what you did to my brother, you motherfucker!” While speaking he pulled a balisong knife from his right pocket, waving it in an exaggerated figure eight. That can be an effective move, but generally speaking it isn’t. Lord, save us from people who watch too much T.V., just don’t make it too soon. </i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="">He started with a couple of feints, pretty lame ones at that, I maneuvered backwards, keeping him between myself and the other two. </i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="">My posture shifted, slightly crouching, hands out to the sides without moving past the shoulders, palms toward each other, time to setup for defanging the serpent. I taunted him, voice low, splitting his attention between what I was muttering and what my hands were doing. Sooner or later he was going to take the bait. </i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="">Tag the back of his hand, move back before he could reverse direction, another insult, keeping my weight low and centered to insure my mobility. </i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">Right hand, then left, keeping the patter coming, never letting up on the tagging action or the insults. Bruno started to moan, then tried to move, whoops, can’t have that. </i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="">A low level snap side kick and he was out again. The brother screamed something and made his move. </i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="">Bad for him, good for me as I pivoted outside the thrust; immobilized his right hand with my right and delivered a palm smash to his elbow with my left. Ever wonder how to break an arm in less than a second? He didn’t scream, much to his credit, but he did offer a few choice observations on my presumed parentage while he held his arm. Two down and … huh?? Looking down the street I saw the other two high tailing it away from the fight … and right into the arms of the security team that someone had dispatched. There were shouted orders, insults, then a small pop followed by an unearthly scream, ouch, someone just got tazed.</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="">I picked up my shirt before walking over to Angela, “You O.K. hon’?” I crouched down beside her, pushing her hair back, checking the damage, didn’t see anything serious, both pupils good, “Might have a shiner there, we need to get you back to the restaurant, have Uncle David take a look at it” I helped her up as she stood; started to sob. “Uncle David, hell” Ed’s voice came from behind as I wrapped my shirt around her, “that little lady is going to the damned hospital, a medical team is already enroute.” </i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="">I handed Angela off to Ed, picking up my equipment belt from the ground, where I had thrown it, “How much did you see?” Ed grinned, “Enough, you’re an evil bastard, you know that?” </i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="">“Yeah, I’ve heard it once or twice, in my life.” </i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="">We went back into the restaurant; Ed got some traffic on his radio and stopped to answer as David took Angela from him. He sat her in a chair near the entrance and put an ice pack on her eye. </i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="">Angela looked at me through her good eye, “Why?” </i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="">I plopped my over aged backside into a chair, taking the cup of coffee that Peggy pressed into my hand, sipping it as Peggy said, “It’s all in the genes hon’, the whole family’s crazy like that” she sauntered back into the kitchen, “Never back down from a fight, never leave a wounded bird unprotected.”</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> The last thing I need to add here, is that Peggy <u>is</u> real, she was one of those waitresses who could have been the inspiration for “Flo” in that television series about Mel’s Diner. Except that far from being a whipcord thin little cowgirl, Peggy looked like a Valkyrie incarnate and knew no fear of any man I ever saw her around. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Other than his wife, Peggy was the only person I ever saw Big John back down from (he was a beat cop in Cleveland) and it didn’t look as if he was joking. There were plenty of other times I’d seen that seven foot plus Polack (his own description, so don’t get touchy) joking around but that wasn’t one of them.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">The only real difference between Flo and Peggy is that Peggy had a bigger heart, and had little or no patience with bullies. One day, as I dealt with an irate customer (being twelve years old did <b style="">not </b>exempt me from having to do that when I was managing the restaurant) I suddenly became aware that he was no longer focused on me, but on someone behind me. It was Peggy, holding a tray full of dirty dishes with absolutely no effort, and tapping her foot very deliberately. I’m not so sure I wanted to know what she had in mind if he tried getting out of his chair, or tried grabbing me. I do know that it wasn’t because she thought I couldn’t defend myself as she had already seen me knock out a customer earlier that week (think about the mechanical advantage I had and the how becomes very clear).</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">So, the parts of the story where she is “seen” are a kind of homage to Peggy. I don’t have any idea where she is, or if she’s even still alive; (I’m constantly losing track of my friends, almost as bad as me and my glasses) I just think something should be said that memorializes one of the truly wondrous women I’ve met in my life. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">One last thing, there’s a scene that takes place between David (David being my actual brother) and Peggy, after the fight; which is played out just as it had happened in real life.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">You’ll have to find the book if/when it gets printed to read it but it is one hundred percent true to the two people involved and not changed one iota from the actual incident. <span style=""> </span></p><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /><br /><br />There isn't one of us that doesn't want to be someplace else. But this is what we do, who we are. Live for nothing, or die for something. Your call.<br /><br />John Rambo<br /></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15573233903308693414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1458832283923596928.post-50308130441677624832010-12-08T19:46:00.007-05:002010-12-08T20:21:44.434-05:00KnivesAlright, if you’re reading this and you’ve known me for over a week, then you know that this is going to be a rant, how long? I don’t know, I’ve only just begun typing, but I have an entire eight hour shift, uninterrupted, to type and somewhere around forty six years of experience to draw on for comments.<br /><br /> This is your last warning, ;)<br /><br /> I’ve heard this same tired, stale, pointless argument for decades now, and it doesn’t sound any better when you change the noun. “This _______ is far superior to that ________, because (fill in whatever vapid nonsense enters your head at this point).<br />It’s a pointless argument, which can never be won because it is an <span style="font-weight: bold;">opinion</span> based argument <span style="font-weight: bold;">which generally has no basis in probative fact</span>.<br /><br /> The case in point, and the current burr under my collar (wolves don’t wear saddles, and if you don’t understand the referent, then don’t bother asking for explanation) is the subject of knives.<br />I have heard every argument in the world as to why one knife is better than the other and why some people just “absolutely will not use any knife other than BRANDO Knives, model whaddafark.”<br /><br /> Wanna know something real? An attitude like that is going to get you killed.<br /><br /> An attitude like that is also a leading cause for people being a lot more cold, wet, hungry, thirsty and, generally speaking, miserable than they need to be.<br /><br /> Care to know why?<br /><br /> Because (and I’ve yet to see it work out any other way), there always seems to arise some circumstance; some situation where you become separated from the object of your affection, and generally at a time when you need it the most!<br /><br /> Can’t/Won’t/Will Never happen to me, you say?<br /><br /> Keep chanting that mantra, it’s about as effective as “om mane padme hum.”<br /><br /> In my case, my Randall and I became separated because I secured the sheath for a jump, in a hurry and consequently got to see that knife “hurry” on its way as soon as my chute opened. For whatever reason, I almost <span style="font-weight: bold;">worshiped</span> that knife.<br /> Had to rely on a cheesy looking GI issue pocket knife and my <span style="font-weight: bold;">Buck model 110</span> for the duration of that particular exercise. I didn’t complain though, just worked out some really inventive ways to help those knives accomplish what I’d gotten used to using the Randall for.<br /><br /> How useful a knife is in a given situation depends on several things:<br /><br />a. type of steel<br />b. type of tempering<br />c. blade shape<br />d. type of grind at the final edge<br />e. the construction of the handle attachment (full tang, spike tang, bolted on, etc.)<br />f. the overall construction of the knife<br /><br />Now, those items are a good start, but you also need to consider:<br /><br />a. the use you intend for the knife<br />b. the environmental conditions where you are likely to be using the knife<br />c. what requirements you may personally have for that knife, in order to utilize it to its maximum efficiency<br /><br />This is where you get the real kick in the pants,<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">NO ONE KNIFE IS GOOD FOR ALL TASKS UNDER ALL CONDITIONS</span><br /><br /> Knives built for use in the jungle, are less than perfect for use in the Arctic, knives made for use at extreme marine depths will give you problems in the desert, so on and ad nauseum. The knife that you thought was a real kitten while skinning a moose is probably going to be a pain in the arse if you try to carve a bow drill with it.<br /><br /> More problematic yet is the fact that there are people out there who believe that ANY Paleolithic knife will be perfect for all tasks; hooooooo boy, let me tell you, are THEY in for an education!<br /><br /> Personally, I generally carry about three knives and they seem to be up to what I require of them when I need them. Which three knives they are, of the thirty some which I still own is the question.<br /><br />What I usually try to do, is to insure that the <span style="font-weight: bold;">mix</span> of knives I carry with me is correct.<br /><br /> Usually it will be one large general utility knife, one small to medium sized utility knife (even a paring knife, well built, will suffice, as long as you have a sheath for it), and some type of folding knife. On a recent hike (for my children, it was a hike) I carried my <span style="font-weight: bold;">Tah-chee bowie</span>, a vintage neck knife around eighty years old, or so (I can attest to it being on its third handle) and a <span style="font-weight: bold;">Leatherman “Kick.”</span><br />The Tah-Chee bowie didn’t get much use, but the other two got a workout. Other times the large knife’ll get the work while the other two just kind of hang around. Such as the time we had some feral dogs try a bluff charge. They weren’t quite ready for someone who wasn’t bluffing.<br /><br /> I try to keep the mix interesting so among the large knives (the brand name knives, not the flea market specials I sometimes indulge in) I have an <span style="font-weight: bold;">Ontario Knives SP5-95 Bowie</span>, a <span style="font-weight: bold;">Cold Steel Bushman</span>, a <span style="font-weight: bold;">TOPS Tracker knife</span> and the <span style="font-weight: bold;">Crazy Crow Tah-Chee</span> reproduction. I generally have at least one of these somewhere close to hand no matter where I am.<br /><br /> The midsized knives are a <span style="font-weight: bold;">Mora</span> (from the Tracker School), an <span style="font-weight: bold;">Uluu</span>, an <span style="font-weight: bold;">Old Hickory</span> butcher knife and a <span style="font-weight: bold;">Buck Nighthawk</span>.<br /><br /> The neck knives are an antique, of indeterminate origin, a <span style="font-weight: bold;">Blackie Collins “Necklance”</span> and a <span style="font-weight: bold;">Gerber</span> jump knife.<br /><br /> My folding knives run the full gamut from some Pakistani made items (which were picked up at a flea market and STILL haven’t died) to a high end, handmade, miracle work from <span style="font-weight: bold;">Al Mar</span>. The knife is an incredible piece of work, well balanced, lightweight and holds an edge as sharp as all get out. It was a gift from an admirer who had more money than sense and wouldn’t listen to my, to his mind, unsophisticated preferences.<br /><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;">However</span>, even though I can’t think of another knife I’d rather have in my pocket while traipsing about the city, you’ll never see that particular knife on my person whilst I travel the wilds. Because although it is a splendid knife, it isn’t suitable for that sort of work.<br /><br /> One knife which I’ve seen come under fire, repeatedly of late, is the <span style="font-weight: bold;">Tracker knife</span>.<br /><br /> Some folks have issue with it because they have issue with TBJ, guess what, I don’t care who designed it; that has nothing to do with its functionality.<br />So far, I’ve abused that poor knife to the point where other knives I’ve had, from Schrade, Gerber, Buck and others, have failed.<br /><br /> The manner in which they failed was that they came apart.<br /><br /> I can be a real demanding bastard when I decide to take a knife to its limits.<br />I have dug with it, chopped with it (including some things that had my wife scratching her head and going, “Wha??”) pried with it and found a few other things to do that knives were NEVER intended to do.<br /><br /> So far, the Tracker knife has held up just fine, just scuffed up the epoxy coating they use, but then, I manage to do that with every knife like that. I generally strip the epoxy off and blue the blade anyway.<br /> I have tried the wire cutter and found that with a wire under tension it works just fine, otherwise, you’d be better off with a Chinese AKM bayonet. Can it break? Of course it can, the idea is to try to keep from being too stupid with it. That includes realizing that, with the fulcrum being that far forward, any load put on the other end is liable to snap off anything near the tip that is less than ideally attached.<br /> I’ve also carved a Thanksgiving turkey with it, boned a chicken (wouldn’t care to repeat the experiment, but it is doable) and cut vegetables. Works just fine so far.<br />I could probably use it to skin a deer also, but all I’ve had access to for almost the last decade, are road killed deer, and attempts to skin them (around here) earn strange looks and a quick call to the sheriff’s department (nice young men, just asked that I stop what I was doing because it was freaking out the PETA nuts, their word choice, not mine).<br /><br /> The only change I’ve made so far is to recut the blade angle, I found a crock stick (pocket sized) from <span style="font-weight: bold;">Lansky</span> that has multiple surfaces and does a bang up job on the knife, including the quarter round on the draw knife portion of the blade. Keeps a decent edge and you can easily hone it up with a broken beer bottle.<br /> Sheath retention is pretty good, you just have to remember to push it far enough into the sheath that you feel a “click.” I haven’t tried fastening it to my day pack (a WWII vintage RTO’s ruck sack) but I have strapped it to my pack basket and that’s worked out pretty well so far. I’ve put the sheathed knife on both sides of my belt and across my back (as it was used in “the Hunted”) and the draw from all three locations is smooth. Quick and quiet enough that the local talent would rather steer clear of me than take their chances.<br /> But back to the original premise, that no one knife is good for all jobs, in all types of terrain. Are there times and places where I wouldn’t take the Tracker? Probably, but I haven’t found those yet, maybe a triple canopy jungle but I think it might do well there also.<br />What a lot of people seem to forget when dealing with the Tracker is that it isn’t a specialist knife. It isn’t a “super knife” and it isn’t a “do all” knife. It’s a general purpose utility knife that is designed to accomplish as many tasks as possible, with as few moving/movable parts as is possible.<br /><br />I do have to admit that, for that purpose, it has my vote.<br /><br /> I’ve tried other knives which have attempted the same type of concept, the <span style="font-weight: bold;">Buckmaster</span> (exotic steel, hell to work with if you ding the blade up too badly), the aforementioned Chinese <span style="font-weight: bold;">AKM bayonet</span>, a “<span style="font-weight: bold;">Woodsman’s Pal</span>” type of knife and probably about ten or so others.<br /><br /> I found the <span style="font-weight: bold;">Buckmaster</span> to be a nice enough blade, if you aren’t too far from civilization or some other support. The saw worked pretty well, the grapple actually had a good bite if you made certain that the hooks and eye were pretty well seated (used it in a storm, to secure the canoe off shore, a complicated mess) and I was able to chop down (standing dead wood) a six to seven inch diameter tree with it and still slice tomatoes cleanly afterward. The serrated blade, being located near the tip was a bit of a problem when you wanted to cut a rope (anything over ¾ inch took forever to cut) and the blade didn’t have enough mass for efficient chopping. Oh, and it didn’t exit the sheath cleanly enough (belt attachments need dropped about an inch from factory spec and you need to use the leg tie) for a quick draw in a fight.<br /><br /> The <span style="font-weight: bold;">AKM bayonet</span> was a lot more limited in its applications, although I’d had some friends who actually raved about how great it is, they’re entitled to their opinions, I just don’t happen to agree. I do have to admit though, that for a five dollar knife (<span style="font-weight: bold;">Smoky Mountain Knife Works</span>, quite some years ago) I’ve seen a lot worse. Overall performed pretty well, nothing particularly notable other than, if you need it quick, in a fight, you better have it already out and in your hand.<br /><br /> The “<span style="font-weight: bold;">Woodsman’s Pal</span>” which I’d had the experience of was, admittedly, a knock off, but it was a well done knock off by a friend who is a decent blade smith. The brush hook worked well and I had no arguments about how well the straight blade handled things, both sides of the knife could speak with authority if the situation demanded it. The sheath he made for it was great, if feral dogs were to try their luck with you, they’d be in a world of serious hurt. Problems though, were that you couldn’t do any sort of small carving with it, without a lot more trouble than it was worth. You were better off grabbing a broken beer bottle (state parks are wonderful) and knapping the edge to make a bow drill, or even a hand drill. One other thing, don’t EVEN think of using it to cook with.<br /><br /> So far, among these four, my preference is still the <span style="font-weight: bold;">Tracker</span> knife.<br /><br /> I’ve yet to try a comparison with a <span style="font-weight: bold;">Kukri</span>, but that’ll be coming as soon as I can afford the cash outlay to get one, and I also plan on obtaining one of the newer model bayonets and finding out how well those work. I’m not holding my breath on those, however, as I have very clear memories of finding out that my drill instructors were all too correct when they said that the only thing most bayonets were good for were for use as tent stakes.<br /><br /> I do plan on giving them a fair chance so, let’s wait and see what happens.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15573233903308693414noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1458832283923596928.post-56508241090754898382010-12-01T19:21:00.003-05:002010-12-01T19:33:47.842-05:00Beginning WoodsloreWell, let’s see here, what to write of next?<br /><br />Hmmmm, now I did say that this would also touch on my education as an outdoorsman from time to time, didn’t I? So I guess that’s where we’re going to wander off to next then.<br /><br />I don’t make any claims as to having anything special in my outdoors education other than Boy Scout leaders who were all veterans, Marines mostly, and the occasional “nut.” Who the nuts were, and who the Marines were, was a subject of intense debate, at times, and depended ENTIRELY on who you approached; as well as when.<br /><br />Mom never seemed to worry too much about me being outdoors and running around the woods, but then again, most other kids didn’t have a two hundred pound behemoth (named Saber) for a friend and ally. After a while, she didn’t even worry too much if I wandered off completely on my own. Although she wasn’t all that thrilled about me being gone for entire weekends, or weeks, if it was a school break, I always made it home, in one piece and without a police escort.<br /><br />The “without a police escort” was the especially important part. A lot of the kids I grew up with seemed to get to know the local cops, on a first name basis, early in their lives. I only knew one or two cops like that; only because they were neighbors. Other cops I met much later in my young life when I volunteered at “Safety Town.”<br /><br />It wasn’t that I was particularly angelic, I just had sense enough; then later, training enough to keep myself out of the limelight.<br /><br />So, to get back to the point, I was pretty much my own boss, as long as my dogs were taken care of properly and I made arrangements to get my other chores done.<br /><br />When I first took to the woods I was probably seven. I wandered into the edge of the forest across the street from the back of our property. It was only a woodlot really, right there, but to me it looked like something out of Edgar Rice Burroughs’ “Tarzan” novels.<br />Pausing briefly I looked back at my mother, she had wanted to see how I was going to react to having a “forest” that close. <br />“What are you waiting for?” she asked.<br />“I don’t know, how far can I go?”<br />“How far do you want to go?”<br />“When do I have to be back?”<br />“Before dark …”<br />Without waiting for the rest of her answer I went crashing off into the underbrush, trying to “merge silently as a ghost” with the undergrowth only to discover a blackberry patch. <br />Cursing as only the son of a gunnery sergeant can (and I could hear my mother laughing as she walked back to the house) I managed to untangle myself from the briars without disemboweling myself. I also picked a few of the berries, eating them carefully at first <br />(at the time, I had no idea if they were even edible, I was just lucky that they weren’t belladonna); making a mental note to myself that I would need to learn how to store them if I ever got around to making a semi-permanent camp.<br /><br /> Now, there are a couple of points I’d like to make first. <br /> <br /> In those days, there weren’t a lot of “nature” or “survival” books available to the general public. It wasn’t that they didn’t exist (I later came to regard Kephart as some sort of camping saint, finding out his life story put a stop to that, but not the respect I had for the man) but simply that a lot of it was considered common sense, if you lived in the country. I had spent the first six years of my life in the city of Cleveland; the most greenery I had seen prior to moving out to Aurora was down at the corner of our street, an empty, abandoned lot that was severely overgrown.<br /> <br />My only information about animals had come from our own dogs, two Pekingese, a Chow Chow and a German shepherd, in addition to what I learned from my books, the Cleveland Zoo and the Cleveland Aquarium.<br /><br />The Natural History museum was alright but I have always preferred my animals to have a pulse, even if it means that I might get a harsh lesson in animal communications.<br /><br />So there I was, a city boy about to start an education which would consume very nearly the whole of the rest of my life.<br /><br />Looking back I believe that there were two reasons that Mom didn’t worry about me a whole lot, although I don’t believe she ever had to give it much thought.<br /><br />The first is, although I might be consumed by the desire to learn something, I have never been so consumed as to put myself at unnecessary risk. Some teachers; some of my former friends and associates might find that statement amusing but even with the most hare brained stunts I might pull, there was a certain amount of calculation to them. Not as much as the people around me would have asked for, but I’m still here and (kind of, mostly) in one piece.<br /><br />The second reason; not one that you’ll see in most children today, is that I’ve always been willing to listen (well, as much as I listen to anyone) to stories that my elders might want to tell me. I have learned a LOT by the simple act of stopping and listening to people.<br />A habit which has been known to grate on the nerves of my (most beloved) wife.<br /><br />So, as I ramble, let’s get back to the story of my first lesson as an outdoorsman.<br /><br />This one was a quick lesson about two things, knowing what you’re putting into your mouth and patience.<br /><br />So I went into the woods and spent the better part of three hours in there. I followed a deer trail, some rabbit trails and learned what their bedding areas looked like with the help of a couple of hunting books I had.<br />I also learned that it’s pointless to run around, trying to follow a squirrel. I then learned that feral kittens have no distinguishing markings (OUCH!!!!!!) which magically tell you not to pick them up, that’s what their claws are for.<br /><br />Glancing up at the sun while playing gave me plenty of indication that I needed to start heading home, and real soon. I only had about forty minutes of daylight left (the sun was three fingers off the tops of the trees.<br /><br />Even though I didn’t want for the fun to end, neither did I want to be banned from a place I had only just gained access to. I started home.<br /><br />After crossing the street back to my home (under the watchful eye of Officer George, who kept a close eye on the four, and then later five, of us brothers) I noticed that there was a tree with green and red apples.<br /><br />Now, let me be the first to tell, many of you, what I learned in the course of the next ten minutes. Officer George stood watching me, in disbelief, from his living room while I did this. He later told my mother that he would have stopped me, if he hadn’t been under the impression that I knew what I was doing.<br /><br />Well, I thought I knew.<br /><br />Since I had twenty minutes of light left and only a five minute walk ahead of me; since I was feeling a might bit hungry and wanted to experience the “full rapture and joy in supplying food for oneself” …. I decided to eat a few of the apples.<br /><br />More precisely, CRAB apples <br /><br />Now, one didn’t generally give me a problem; even two or three, I usually got away with. But I didn’t stop there.<br /><br />I probably ate all the apples off one branch.<br /><br />Alright, that’s enough with the laughing, already.<br /><br />I didn’t have far to go, not more than about a quarter acre from the tree to the edge of the barn (this was years before it burnt down) for about half the distance I was O.K., but as I came around the barn I knew I was having problems. My stomach had gone from a mild rumble, to something that sounded like a rabid bear was growling in my stomach while moving around restlessly. Sitting down outside the barn’s side door I was praying for death, or at least that if I was going to have “issues” that it would be while I was outside, so that I could preserve at least the APPEARANCE of dignity.<br /><br />Without warning an arm slipped under mine, assisting me in getting up, “Too many of those apples’ll ruin your day for sure, son,” a familiar voice said. I looked up, it was Officer George, he helped me into the house and straight to the bathroom. <br />He and Mom were talking but I wasn’t listening …. I closed the door behind me, then it opened a bit and a shot glass full of some foul smelling oil came through, “Just drink all this, and stay in there for a bit.”<br /> “How long should I stay in here?”<br /> “Just drink that, you’ll know when you can come out.”<br /> Well, his advice was sound, I drank the castor oil and after a few minutes, well, it wasn’t pretty but the pain in my stomach subsided and I felt a lot better. <br /><br /> Note to self, LAY OFF THE WEIRD LITTLE APPLES.<br /><br /> Second note to self, OBTAIN BOOK ON WILD EDIBLES<br /><br /> Third note to self, MAKE CERTAIN YOU KNOW WHAT YOU’RE EATING<br /><br /> To quote the Bard, “ ‘nuff said.”<br /> <br /><br /><br />It's not about anger - it's about peace<br />It's not about power - it's about grace<br />It's not about knowing your enemy - it's about knowing yourself.<br /><br />the MonkAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15573233903308693414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1458832283923596928.post-11418823652962596282010-02-22T20:07:00.001-05:002010-02-22T20:08:40.291-05:00Enemies, Part IIWhat happened next was a few years more down the road, but it reinforced the concept of enemy. It also made clear to me how much more I’d grown since then.<br /> One thing I’d like to make clear to everyone reading this, however, is that it never happened. Our government has committed no illegal actions, nor has it encouraged anyone else to commit those actions on their behalf.<br /> So there was this group of young men, of questionable morals, who one day decided to take their outing to the next level. The decision was made to give their handler something to consider before he double crossed them again.<br /> Yes, I did say “double cross.”<br />They upped the ante by taking their mission from “black” to “red.” In today’s vernacular I believe it would be said that they “went hot.” Plain English would read that they had gone from being a covert action, with as low a profile as possible, to an active and armed threat to the local government and military. There wasn’t much thought involved, just anger.<br /> So for approximately one month we raised havoc among the locals, everything from intercepting their radio transmissions and retransmitting them with orders that we found amusing (e.g. hunt down and assassinate a local warlord who was a problem for the locals; who also had a force and firepower superior to the local militia) or taking matters into our own hands about the party officials who were harassing and/or intimidating the local natives. There were even occasions when we would start a cross border incident by firing on a border patrol of a much larger nation.<br /> Day raids, night raids, impersonation of party officials with forged documents; the list went on. If we could think of it and it was going to cause problems, or even just give us a good laugh (it seems they had never seen the “burning bag of manure” gag before) we would do it without a second thought.<br /> We had a very high opinion of our skills, at that point in time, because it appeared that no one could touch us, or even get close.<br /> Consequently we got sloppy.<br /> In our sloppiness, we stayed in one location for something over a week, instead of moving nightly as we had been. An action which almost cost us our lives.<br /> Save for what my enemy did.<br /> Sounds weird, eh?<br /> Perhaps, but you need to understand the psychology of a classically trained Asian warrior.<br /> Much of the training is based on “The Art of War” by Sun-tzu; many facets of it are based on Taoist thought. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, one of Newton’s laws of motion. At the time, it was considered quite an advanced principal. To a Taoist, had one been inclined to be rude, the response would have been “DUH!”<br /> To make what happened next a bit clearer, for every force or creature in Nature, there is a precise opposite, a balancing force. Even among humankind.<br /> And it is taught that if you would truly know yourself, know your enemy.<br /> So there we were, snug in our firebase and encampment, monitoring both our own radio network (which was generally silent, as none of our people were supposed to be in country) and that of our avowed enemies.<br /> When the radio came to life, it was a bit of an awakening to all of us.<br /> A transmission from someone asking to speak to the “Ghost Walker,” but they were speaking Vietnamese, I believe the phrase they used sounded something like “sân khấu.” <br />What caught our attention though was the fact that the identifier they used wasn’t one we had heard before and a quick check of the captured paperwork we had (the Vietnamese equivalent of a CEOI) didn’t show anything that even came close to what had been heard. Our translator wasn’t around, but I sent one of the men after him. We needed to know what was going on, especially since it was in our AO.<br /> At first we thought it was some sort of test or mistake, but then the request came across a second time, in slightly accented English, and note, I do mean English, not American.<br /> “Is the American known as ‘Ghost Walker’ receiving this transmission?”<br /> At this point our translator, a bit winded after his run up the hillside, looked at me and pointed, “He means you Dai Wei.”<br /> I picked up the mike and answered, “Affirmative.”<br /> He then requested a meeting between the two of us, with the appropriate security measures, of course. I asked what assurance I would have that it wasn’t a trap, there was a brief pause before he informed me of the location we were at and how long we had been there. My team didn’t need any directions, we had been compromised. They immediately started securing equipment and preparing to move. After a moment’s thought, I agreed to the meeting. I did tell him that I wanted to know who it was I was to be meeting with, there was only a slight pause before he told me that he was Colonel Nguyễn Tranh. My translator started chuckling, I motioned for him to be quiet as the Colonel then asked whom he would be meeting with, I identified myself as “Jan DeVries.” A slight pause before the Colonel answered, “I see we will be starting on an even footing …” During the next few moments we discussed when and where we should meet. There was a small ‘ville about twenty kilometers to the south of us, we were to meet there at sunset, the following day.<br />I looked at the translator and asked what the joke was, it seems that our erstwhile Colonel had identified himself as a Vietnamese “John Smith” while I had used the Dutch version.<br />That night we made our move, maintaining radio silence and even refraining from monitoring the local military. We didn’t encounter any patrols and made the trip in good time. <br />Early the next morning we were busy. Establishing an observation post, setting up to intercept any radio traffic we could and putting snipers into secure locations. I left nothing to chance, even establishing the route of withdrawal if I should be captured in addition to making enormously clear to all that I was to be left behind if anything should happen. I’d either find my own way out or I wouldn’t. <br />About fifteen minutes prior to the meet we heard a helicopter coming in, it was an old Huey that had been either abandoned in place, or captured. We had no way to tell. The old bird circled the meeting place, a small restaurant kind of place on the outskirts of town, before setting down in a cleared area to the west of the building. Two soldiers exited, dashing to the road and establishing a checkpoint before the Colonel stepped down. As he looked around, I stepped from the bush. When he saw me, I raised my shotgun, cleared it and set it to the ground. He nodded, we both retained our sidearm’s as we had agreed.<br />I don’t know what he had thought he would see when he arranged the meeting, but I don’t believe that either of us met the other’s preconceptions. He was a dapper, neat, well spoken man conversant in at least two languages. I was a five foot tall, one hundred forty seven pound kid who looked like he should be an accountant. <br />As we first sat, he ordered a local wine for us, he looked at me a long time before the conversation started. <br />“Should I mention that you are nothing of what I expected, young man?”<br />“Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?”<br />“Actually, it is a splendid thing, I hadn’t realized that your country still produced people of courtesy and education”<br />“Thank you, and I would like to add that you are nothing of what I was told that I should expect, were I to come in contact with someone of your rank and authority”<br />H e smiled, thanked me, and asked if I played chess. I asked if he meant the Chinese, Vietnamese or English version of the game. He asked which I preferred, I told him that the only version I was familiar with was the English version. He sent his aide to the Huey to retrieve the set. <br />While we were setting up, he dismissed his aide. The aide objected and the Colonel told him in no uncertain terms that he was to leave or be shot.<br />Early evening became late evening and the darkness became deeper. We lit the obligatory gas lantern; played chess and spoke into the night. Toward the end of the evening the Colonel had his aide secure the chess set and leaned toward me conspiratorially.<br />“You are nothing of what I would have expected, and I must toast you for not falling prey to the excesses of which your country is famous”<br />Taking a sip of wine, I asked him, “What precisely led you to ask for this meeting?”<br />“I had a need, a great need, to meet the man whom had become such a terror to the military and civil authorities in my district.”<br />I know my face reflected my confusion as I asked, “Meet me? Not capture me? Why?”<br />Laughing quietly, and sitting back in his chair he said, “Your escapades have been very good for my career. First a promotion, then more money for essential items such as arms and ammunition, “ he pointed at me, “and finally, the joy of seeing that such a young man, a young warrior, could wreak such havoc that three different countries have put a considerable bounty on his head.”<br />I thought for a moment, “Three countries? I can pretty well guess who the first two are, but who’s the third?”<br />The Colonel leaned on the table and took another hit from his cigarette, “When you first went outside your ‘hunting license’ your people weren’t too worried, but you have been so very successful that not only have they put a bounty on you, they are releasing the information on how to find you.”<br />“Destroy all your radio equipment my young friend, all of it, and capture some new”<br />With that we bid each other good night and went back out to the LZ where the Huey’s pilot was beginning his pre-flight checks. As the engine began to spin the blades, he turned to me and asked if I had taken “the usual precautions.” I swept my hair back and my men immediately stepped forward from cover, before fading back into the darkness, silent. I asked if he was insulted, “Not at all, I would have been disappointed if you hadn’t.” He then raised his hat in salute, and his men stepped out, equally silent. “Both of us are men of war, but we both, are men of honor.”<br />We bowed to each other then returned to our men.<br />As I gained the cover of the tree line, I heard his voice one last time.<br /><br />“A pity, Mr. Chin, that we could not be friends, but good fortune to you nonetheless.”<br /><br />A true warrior can dine with his enemy without fear, for both know that they might learn from looking within the mirror. Something that my uncles had tried to teach me, but I think I finally understand. <br /><br /><br /><br />It's not about anger - it's about peace<br />It's not about power - it's about grace<br />It's not about knowing your enemy - it's about knowing yourself.<br /><br />the MonkAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15573233903308693414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1458832283923596928.post-89896557766875296622009-07-27T22:16:00.005-04:002009-07-27T22:35:07.193-04:00Enemies, Part IThis one is very closely tied to “The Mercy of a Warrior.”<br />Uncle Bill used to laugh whenever I went on about my “enemies.” I’d ask him what was so funny but he’d never answer me. At least, not until things had been settled between the young man in “Mercy” and myself.<br />Right after class that day, he asked me if I’d thanked my enemy; I just stared, “Do what?”<br />I couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d just told me to go kiss my dog. He just smiled and asked again, “Did you thank him?”<br />“Thank him for what?”<br />“Teaching you”<br />O.K., whatever, he taught ME something?<br />Uncle Bill let me stew that one over until the next class when he asked me again if I’d thanked him. Alright, a joke is one thing, but this has got to stop now!<br />Uncle Bill told me that he was quite serious; that I needed to thank my enemy. I stood there, looking at him for a few moments and then told Uncle Bill that if he could give me a good enough reason I’d consider doing it. He sat me down and told me that I had to be careful about whom I honored with the title “enemy;” that anyone whom I would consider my enemy had to be at least as intelligent as me, or wise enough to teach me.<br />So what did that useless, racist, punk teach me?<br />Uncle Bill stared me dead in the eye and said, “Mercy and self control.”<br />Oooooooooohhhhhh no he didn’t, he taught me aggravation, he taught me insult, he taught me what racism looked like and he taught me to cheap shot people.<br />Uncle Bill smiled coolly and asked, “If he hadn’t taught you those things, would you have learned about mercy?”<br />In that moment, things got very complicated.<br />Ummmmmm, no.<br />“If he hadn’t provoked you, would you have learned self control?”<br />Wellll, maybe.<br />“But not to the level that you did, right?”<br />No<br />“Would you have learned what racism looks like, up close and personal?”<br />Probably not, not like that, anyway.<br />“So then, there were at least three things that he taught you, right?”<br />I’ve always hated it when Uncle Bill was correct.<br />In a move that totally baffled everyone, except Uncle Bill and Uncle Frank, I walked over to the punk and said, “Excuse me sensei.”<br />As expected, he just gave me a blank look and said, “Huh?”<br />Yep, he was as confused as I’d been<br />“I’d like to thank you for the lessons that you gave me”<br />Now he was really baffled, but when I bowed, he returned the bow.<br />Things were never quite the same for us after that and when he’d heard that I’d been offered my 1st dan (the first level of the master rankings, the coveted black belt) but had turned it down, he stopped me and asked why, when I told him that I hadn’t mastered my temper sufficiently to accept it. He just stared at me then told me, “I think you should have accepted it sir.” Then he bowed to me, holding the bow until I returned it.<br />I had become more careful of whom I referred to as my “enemy” by then, but after that, I decided that no one I was fighting in Aurora was deserving of the title.<br />Until I met Steve A.<br />We met in high school, as freshmen; one of the first things he did was look at me and comment, “Who let the gook loose?” His compadres seemed to find his comment endlessly amusing. I just favored him with a slight glance and said, “I’m a chink, not a gook, the least you could do is to make certain you’re using the correct racial epithet.” His friends laughed even harder and his face flared red.<br />At lunch, I was at the basketball court behind the school, with everyone else who smoked, unlike everyone else, however, I was smoking an A&C Grenadier.<br />Well, Dad always did say that if you’re going to do something, do it right and do it with style.<br />So there I was, enjoying the fine smells of autumn and the taste of that Grenadier, when this imbecile smashes the cigar from my hand with a basketball; breaking it in half.<br />My ..... last ..... cigar.<br />Steve walked up to me, smirking, and asked, “So, what you gonna do about it .... chink?”<br />Jab .... jab .... left cross .... right uppercut<br />Any questions?<br />His “friends” backed off, leaving him lying on the ground. I just salvaged what I could of my cigar and went behind the auto shop to finish it. When he didn’t show his face in shop, I vanished from the shop (not a terribly difficult thing to do, vanishing) and went back, he was still lying there. I applied a couple of kappo-jitsu pressure points and brought him around; then I checked his eyes, pupils unequal.<br />“C’mon bud, you’re going to the nurse.”<br />His eyes wandered a bit, but focused when he heard the word “nurse.”<br />“No man, I can’t go to the nurse.”<br />“Look, if you’ve been doing a little pot, she’s cool about that.”<br />He grabbed my arm and said, “I can’t go to the nurse”<br />“Alright then, but you’re concussed, I have to take you somewhere”<br />“Don’t you know anyone you could take me to?”<br />“What about your parents?”<br />“They won’t even notice I’m gone.”<br />I didn’t find out why he said that until years later, but I made a few phone calls; took him to a doctor friend of mine, who had his daughter, an R.N., keep an eye on Steve until morning.<br />The next day, at lunch, he came over and sat down across the table from me. As we ate, he quietly told me that a few of his buddies were planning to “meet” me in the upstairs boys’ room. I just as quietly thanked him for the information. After lunch I made a quick stop in the school shop before going to the boys’ room. They never did figure out why I had that section of rebar stuck in my waistband.<br />All through school the pattern would hold the same, Steve would try to beat me in a fight, he’d get hurt and then his “friends” would try to get the drop on me and he wouldn’t let them. He kept insisting that he’d either beat me himself, or he wouldn’t, but he wasn’t going to do it with their help. I found out later that this was an exception to his usual pattern of behavior.<br />One of my girlfriends, one of only two that I’d had who were from Aurora, asked me why I tolerated his behavior, and his insistence on eating lunch with me. Without missing a beat I told her that he was my enemy and that it was a normal situation.<br />It may have been my imagination, but I would swear that he walked taller, and was more direct in his eye contact with people after that.<br />At graduation he came up to me and told me, “One of these days, I’m going to beat you, you know.”<br />I had spoken with a friend about Steve and made some arrangements, so I handed him a business card and told him, “I’m sure you will Steve, and if you talk to this man, he might be able to help you do that.”<br />That was the last time I saw him and he was glowing with pride.<br />We never did have that return match.<br />Life intervened, I went into the service where I found a whole new type of trouble to get into. Steve gave up on his music (so I’m told) and became a trucker.<br />They also told me that he died in a trucking accident somewhere near Cincinnati; the truly sad thing about it was that, according to the sons of a friend of his, I was in town on a construction job at the same time. I just wish that I’d known he was in that hospital bed. At least he wouldn’t have had to die alone.<br />An honored enemy deserves that much respect, at the least.<br />Vaya con Dios Steve.<br /><br /><br />It's not about anger - it's about peace<br />It's not about power - it's about grace<br />It's not about knowing your enemy - it's about knowing yourself.<br /><br />the MonkAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15573233903308693414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1458832283923596928.post-88385335345740966802008-09-12T23:41:00.002-04:002008-09-12T23:48:06.143-04:00Mistakes of TacticFirst of all I’d like to give a nod to the Dorsai series of the Childe Cycle, written by Gordon Dickson, for not only the inspiration for what happened, but for the inspiration it has offered. My wife has told me that I should do a bibliography of all the books which I’ve found to be a positive influence in my life but I’m afraid that it would be another project all in its own right. I can, however, heartily recommend the perusal of whatever library is physically available to you. Not an e-library, a real paper and cloth, sometimes even a few limited edition books, type of library. It’s a highly addictive (positive addiction, folks!) and mind opening experience.<br /> But I digress<br /> This story isn’t all that long in the telling, but I believe it to be highly indicative of the type of martial education that I’ve had.<br /> I’ve already touched on the fact that my numerous uncles had done their best to insure that my brothers and I knew the truth of the philosophy of the martial arts and not just the “t.v.” version but, in truth, it went even deeper than that, they also required us to think; critically. Were we to dare give them an answer to anything without sufficient thought, well, how long can you tread water?<br /> On this particular day, Uncle Frank was teaching us aerial techniques. Flying side kick, aerial roundhouse (your legs had better be in PRIME shape), jumping front kick, all the pretty moves that appear so devastatingly effective in television and silver screen. At the end of the class, however, he made a puzzling statement, “Now remember, looks pretty isn’t always good on the street, next class we talk about this some more.”<br /> So why then, had we just spent two hours on learning and practicing those kicks? It sure felt good, not to mention that they were a whole lot of fun to do. There was something about watching boards disintegrate under your bare foot that just rocks!! I still enjoy it!<br /> After I stowed my gi and showered up I tried to talk to Uncle Frank about the kicks but he was too busy and Mom was on a tight schedule. So the answer apparently had to wait another week.<br /> Well, the next week came but Uncle Frank was busy working on a project with a film crew (I found out later that it was a commercial for Ford) and wouldn’t be conducting the class. Bob P. was leading the class and he didn’t have any sort of an answer about why Uncle Frank had cautioned us about using the kicks.<br /> So there I was, two weeks worth of practice at doing aerial kicks and no idea why I wasn’t supposed to use them.<br /> That is, until I tried to use them in a fight.<br /> By that time, fights had become a daily fact of life for me. When I awoke in the morning, I could count on three absolutes:<br /> (1) I was going to take care of my dogs<br /> (2) I was going to listen to my Mother<br /> (3) I was going to get into a fight<br />Pretty much anything else was optional or up for grabs.<br /> This time it was with Ken G., the son of a local police officer and pretty much a punk no matter how you figured such things. I had been practicing the kicks steadily for almost a month, at every chance I could get in my sanctum sanctorum (and no, I’m not telling where it was) where I had a heavy bag and weights set up. I was feeling pretty good about the kicks and had lost any idea of asking Uncle Frank why we shouldn’t use them in a fight. After all, even Uncle Frank had commended me for my technical mastery of the skills.<br /> Note, technical mastery should not be confused with actual mastery.<br /> A fact that I was about to learn.<br /> Well, Ken came across the street just to tell me that he wanted my hat (I’ve always had some sort of fatal attraction to various types of hats, this one was a martial arts themed baseball hat); once having made his desires known he promptly snatched the hat from my head and stood there waiting for my response. I stood there for a moment, with a look on my face that my mother swears she’s only seen on the visage of a hungry animal about to kill something.<br /> One other thing, Ken is a few years (probably close to a decade) my senior and stood head and shoulders over me.<br /> For whatever reason, I still can’t attest that I was even thinking at that point, I decided to try one of the aerial kicks right then and there; the crescent kick was my weapon of choice.<br /> Let’s just say that it probably worked better in one of my movies than it did that day in Aurora. Poetically enough it took place at about noon.<br /> Ken probably enjoyed it to a certain extent; he always had trouble getting one up on any of us.<br /> The end result was that I was bounced on my head a couple of times before he let me go, still in possession of my hat. He was pretty well convinced that he couldn’t lose at that time.<br /> Mom didn’t even blink when I got home. The only thing she asked was how the other guy looked. When I told her that I hadn’t even managed to touch him she said, “Well then you go out there right now, and make sure that he knows that he was in a fight.” With that having been said, she went back to washing dishes.<br /> Mom was always one of the all time great pragmatic philosophers.<br /> So I promptly walked back out the back door, across the back field and over to Ken’s house. I stood there looking at him for a couple of moments; he was seated on his front stoop with one of his buddies, sipping on a cola. He chuckled and said, “Back for a rematch?”<br /> I let my fists do the talking, three or four quick jabs followed by a right cross. He went down like a cheap date on payday.<br />“Yep”<br />As I was taking my hat from his head his father arrived, having just got off shift. He didn’t even blink, just asked if I came to get my hat back, I told him yes; he chuckled and told me to tell my mother that he said hello.<br />I delivered his message.<br />That week, when I had a chance to talk with Dad he asked why I tried such a damn fool stunt to begin with, and I explained my reasoning. By that time, hindsight made it sound REALLY stupid. He didn’t laugh, too hard, but explained that real gung-fu is about what works for the fighter, not just technical mastery of a technique that physics argues against. Then he smiled and told me to make certain that I asked Uncle Frank why he had taught us aerial techniques.<br />Well, I got pretty much the same Q&A from Uncle Frank about what happened. He reiterated what Dad had told me and added, “Those techniques are coordination and speed drills, without a good setup, they won’t ever work in a street fight. As a matter of fact, they were only intended to be an escape technique, to help you get out of a bad situation where nothing else is working.”<br />Well, I’m happy to say that I’ve had the opportunity to deliver that same lecture, on that same subject, to a number of die hard tae kwon do aficionados who have way too much time on their hands and way too little sense.<br />Like Uncle Frank, Dad and all my uncles taught me, critical thinking is CRUCIAL! <br /><br />It's not about anger - it's about peace<br />It's not about power - it's about grace<br />It's not about knowing your enemy - it's about knowing yourself.<br /><br />the MonkAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15573233903308693414noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1458832283923596928.post-26574228093237974292008-08-25T17:42:00.002-04:002008-08-25T19:43:56.591-04:00The Mercy of a WarriorThis lesson, I almost didn’t get, understand, or figure out. Despite the lesson being taught to me from about half a dozen different directions and very nearly as many teachers.<br />It would probably be a safe bet to say that the lesson started in the training hall. My Uncle Bill (it was over a decade before I knew that he wasn’t a blood relation, he’s still my uncle though) was teaching my brothers and I about the old Okinawan karate masters. He’d read to us from this ancient book, explaining to us about the parts that they didn’t go into detail on. A lot of it was basic Buddhism, but it was still great to hear about it from him. I thought I had been paying attention to it all; so when Uncle Frank (Kovacks-sensei) told us break was over and Uncle Bill asked if I understood the lesson I answered with a very non-committal, “Yeah.”<br />Hmmmm, I should probably have answered, “No.”<br />The reason he had selected the subject that he did, was because there was this EXTREMELY noxious teen ager who was constantly giving my brothers and I a hard time. Derisive comments, racial epithets when he thought no one could hear him and no opportunity to “accidentally” lose control, with one of us, passed up. All this because Kovacks-sensei wouldn’t permit him to advance, and the youngest of my brothers (number four son) outranked him by two belt levels. He refused to listen when Torack-sensei tried to explain to him that his own attitude was causing him to remain at that belt level (yes, there was a time in the American martial arts when your attitude was more important than your cash flow).<br />This particular day it was especially bad, Uncle Bill, Uncle Frank and Uncle Harvey (Torack-sensei) all could see that my temper was getting short. He had managed to cuff one of my brothers (number two son) while we were lined up for makiwara practice and it was an especially cheap shot. Even though he was caught and had to do push ups he was still grinning. I was doing a slow boil (yes, I am known to have a bit of a temper) and they all knew that if he pushed much more that something was going to happen.<br />Well, it happened. He cheap shotted me, with a front kick, while we practiced self defense techniques. I got up, straightened my gi and went to Kovacks-sensei, everyone watched as I asked for an “honor” match. This was his way of allowing two deshi (student/apprentices) to settle their differences, preferably with no blood shed. He waited for a moment before asking what rules. I had to choose from one of three levels, beginner, tournament (it was a LOT different in those days, you had to know how to REALLY fight and “take a bump”) or street; as the higher ranked deshi it was my choice. Kovacks-sensei could over ride my choice, if he thought it inappropriate, but he generally didn’t interfere as long as the lower belt agreed to it. I chose street rules, which basically didn’t eliminate a lot except bone breaks and strikes that could be fatal if followed through. He looked at the punk and asked if he agreed, the overgrown twerp smiled happily and said, “Sure, it’s his loss.” Kovacks-sensei looked at me for a moment, then said, “K____, don’t hurt him bad, he doesn’t know any better.” I didn’t say anything, but Uncle Bill later told me that he was scared for the kid when he saw the look in my eyes.<br />The fight went pretty much as anyone who had fought me before expected it to; he tried to muscle me and I went low, staying out of his reach and waiting for a chance. I hammered on his thighs and shins whenever he got close. Eventually he could hardly stand, but he kept trying, to this day I don’t think that he believed that there was any way he could lose the fight. Ax kicks, roundhouse kicks and side kicks all went in volley after volley, straight to his legs. When I saw him teetering, I went in for the finish, a reverse punch to the groin, from a low horse stance, which put him on the floor. While he writhed in pain I walked up to him; stood there watching him for a moment. Then everyone cold hear this low, growling kiai (spirit shout) building.<br />As it came up, so did my foot; at the same time that the kiai erupted from my throat my foot came down in a dragon stomp toward his head. His eyes grew larger with fear as he realized what was about to happen. Very nearly at the same time I heard Uncle Bill shouting, “Iyai! Yame!” Japanese terms which I knew all too well, “No, Stop,” and I did stop, barely an inch from his face. I stood there, shaking from the effort of stopping a full power strike before it impacted.<br />Kovacks-sensei directed me to sit at the other end of the mat before he knelt down beside the terrified boy. “Do you see why he’s ranked higher than you? Did you see the skill? Do you understand the control that it took for him to stop when Bill told him to?” He turned to Uncle Bill, “Get your herbs, fix his legs for him.” He then turned to me, “We need to talk, in my office.”<br />I stood there, in front of his desk (only the first of many desks, I can assure you) half afraid that I was going to hear the words I’d come to dread, “You can’t come back again.” He sat there looking at me for a long time before speaking, “What you did to his legs isn’t important, Uncle Bill can fix that easily,” he gazed intently at me, “it’s what you were going to do next,” his eyes narrowed, “do you understand why it was the wrong choice?”<br />“No”<br />“Why?”<br />“He wouldn’t listen to any of you Kovacks-sensei, not you, not Uncle Bill or even Uncle Harvey, he just kept on.” Kovacks-sensei leaned in closer as I continued, “he would have kept on until he managed to hurt one of us as badly as he could” I was shaking with barely restrained rage at the thought, I had always been taught that I was expected to do what I could to protect my family, “There was only one way to stop him.”<br />Kovacks-sensei sat back thinking, while his pencil tapped out a rhythm, before speaking again, “I understand your concerns, but there was another choice you could have made. I want you to think about it before the next class. If you can’t give me a better answer by then, I don’t know if I’ll be able to continue teaching you.” He had me go change back to street clothes while he talked to my mother.<br />A week, that was all I had to figure out what he was talking about. A week to make sense of a question that older heads than mine had never comprehended. I was screwed.<br />The next act of this little drama took place in Lyons’ general store. I was over there with my best friend, Dale. We were perusing the comic books commenting on what things most young boys will comment on, Mr. Lyons and Grandpa Wilson were standing by the counter talking when I managed to put my foot into it again, up to the thigh this time.<br />At issue, was the latest issue of a horror comic which had a scene, at the end, where the villain meets his poetic end. Dale laughed about it; I just got a sour look and told him that a similar situation might be ending my karate lessons. That comment caught Grandpa Wilsons’ attention, he walked over and asked, “What are you talking about, boy?” I then told him the whole sorry tale, hoping for at least a LITTLE sympathy from SOMEONE.<br />Oops, my bad.<br />His first comment reflected on my stupidity for freely tossing out the information that I was taking karate lessons (never mind about the stories in the local papers, the Cleveland Press and the Plain Dealer. He then proceeded to lambast me for what I did, “What were you thinking? You would have sent him to the Creator for what? For being STUPID? What gives you the right? What would he have learned?”<br />“But....”<br />“But nothing, boy, the only ‘but’ around here is the gigantic butt you made of yourself yesterday” he leaned in closer, “Do you know what mercy is, boy? Do you know that THAT is the way of our people?”<br />Our people? Whuzzee talkin’ about?<br />“We never, NEVER kill if it isn’t necessary, and never out of anger. Our people offer the fools who torment us the opportunity to learn the error of their ways by demonstrating that we could easily do away with them, and then we offer them a chance, but only one chance, to show that they’ve learned the error of their ways.” He leaned in closer, “And sometimes, you learn that you’ve taught someone respect, that listening with the heart is the solution to their problems. Sometimes, you even learn that you’ve made a friend.”<br />He turned to leave; saying as he did so,“Go home boy, think about what I told you.”<br />Why is it I was always listening to that old nut?<br />The next day Gunny (my father) had business in Cleveland, at the family house and with some of my uncles to arrange for supplies for a catering job. He asked if I wanted to go with him and I jumped at the chance. Didn’t, and still don’t, much like Cleveland but it’s where I was born and it still remains my third home (Toronto is number two on that list!).<br />While Gunny was busy I usually ran around little China, popping in at the restaurants and being “disreputable” with my cousins. Generally we’d swipe Cokes from the Shanghai (as if my uncle didn’t notice) and hang out near the corner where the family house was located. Big John was generally to be found somewhere nearby, walking his beat (a giant of a man, even among cops) and shooing us “off the street.” He knew that we were never far from him, he was always good for some penny candy or a great cops-n-robbers story.<br />That day I was bumming, all my cousins were either working or in school (alright, so I was playing hooky, it was educational !!!) and Big John was actually having to work. All normal options having been exhausted I went searching to see if any of my uncles or aunts were to busy to hang out with.<br />Strike out, after strike out ... I went down the street looking for ANYBODY to hang out with, not even Uncle Andy (at the Rockwell truck terminal) was available, he was on a run to Florida and wouldn’t be back until Saturday. Now what?<br />So I went prowling around the “hidden” parts of little China. Now, to make it perfectly clear, the hidden parts weren’t so much hidden, as they just were without signs. They were, and probably still are, a fact of life in a Chinese community. These are places where you might find anything from a healer, to a gung-fu instructor, and everything in between. It isn’t so much a xenophobic reaction to living in a new country as it is a practical recognition that some of our older ways aren’t able to be licensed, or even accepted, outside China.<br />Wandering around the alleys and through the upstairs apartments where business was frequently transacted I finally found someone who was willing to put up with me until Gunny concluded his business. Uncle Kenny<br />Uncle Kenny was a cook, as far as anyone else knew, but he was a great deal more than that, he was also recognized as a healer. He’d use herbs, acupuncture and moxibustion to help people as easily as most other people throw recipes together. Later, when I told him that I was reporting to boot camp, I found out that he was a great deal more.<br />This particular day he was “needling” a local gung-fu master (this guy was unknown outside the community, but he ROCKED) who had managed to strain his arm. I never did find out precisely how or why it was strained, but even Big John laughed when I asked him about it, before telling me that I didn’t need to know.<br />So Uncle Kenny asked the sifu if I could hang out and he said sure, why not? While we talked, I watched uncle use a hot herb pack, then a few strategically placed needles to alleviate the pain and speed the healing. Even though my knowledge was limited I could see the degree of change in the arm’s level of tension before and after the hot pack and needles.<br />We talked for a bit, mostly adult/kid stuff, how’s Mom, how’s Dad, and your grandparents and brothers, the usual. Since he also knew I was taking karate lessons he also asked about those, especially considering that he couldn’t usually shut me about anything I had just learned. I eventually even ‘fessed up to my honor challenge.<br />Mom tells me I’m a certifiable genius, that week I was just certifiably stupid.<br />Uncle Kenny was a beautiful man, educated, gentle and one hell of a fighter (according to my other uncles) but he did like to lecture. That day’s lecture was about the wu xia or “martial knights,” gung-fu fighters (both male and female) who were without peer and always mindful of their ancestors, in addition to being spiritually without equal. The Chinese equivalent of Sir Galahad, but with the strategic and combative abilities of a John Rambo.<br />This lecture could probably have gone on for at least an hour, but the sifu wasn’t as patient as I was (and in no danger of having his ears cuffed for being disrespectful to his elders) and he finally said, “Kenny, I think you’re about to put the boy to sleep.”<br />“Eh?”<br />“The boys about to go to sleep, he needs to hear it quicker”<br />The sifu opened his eyes but didn’t move from where uncle had put him, “Boy, you don’t understand what all the fuss is about, do you?”<br />“No sir”<br />“You were fighting to protect your brothers?”<br />“Yes sir”<br />“The problem is, by the way you were protecting your brothers, you were possibly starting a tong (for which read, clan) war. Creating more enemies for the family by removing one, do you see that?”<br />“Huh? Why would that happen?”<br />“No bad person is bad in their own eyes or even those of their own family. The boy probably thought he had to prove that you didn’t deserve promoted and that he did, are you learning about ‘wu de?”<br />“Ummmm, what’s that?”<br />“Hmmmmmmm, the closest translation would be ‘martial virtue,’ the ethics of the martial way”<br />“Yes sir, Uncle Frank makes us learn about Musashi, Sun-tzu and a lot of the Okinawan masters. He admires them because they flourished under repressive regimes”<br />He looked at me for a moment, “Quite a mouthful for one so young, but it appears this uncle of yours is teaching you correctly, now, see if you can grasp this, the boy is a threat to your brothers?”<br />“Yes sir”<br />“And if you kill him, how is the threat removed?”<br />“He’s gone, he can’t hurt anyone anymore”<br />“What if he has a brother and sister?”<br />“Mmmm, I don’t know”<br />“If he has a brother and sister, they could decide that they need to avenge him because they probably won’t believe that he deserved to die, understand?”<br />“Mmm, I guess”<br />“And if he has cousins who love him? Then what?”<br />O.K., I’m beginning to see what the fuss is about, guess I’m not necessarily THAT stupid.<br />“So I could have increased the troubles for my family?”<br />Sifu smiled,”See Kenny? The boy didn’t need lectured.” His eyes moved back to me, “What you need to do, boy, is to show your opponent that you are the stronger fighter, get him to a place where he has two choices, surrender or die, then you know what you do?”<br />I thought for a minute before tentatively answering, “Let him go?”<br />His smile grew, “Exactly, the first time.”<br />He looked at me more closely, “And if he does the same thing again? After you show him mercy?”<br />I thought about that one for a while, a long while, before answering.<br />“Wouldn’t he have decided his own fate then?”<br />“Exactly, young warrior, exactly correct, and by that time even his own clan will have probably written him off.”<br />Sifu looked at me a bit longer, then asked, “So, is the ‘mercy of a warrior’ so difficult to fathom? Or do you understand it better now?”<br />“I think I understand Sifu”<br />Sifu’s eyes closed and I stood there for a very long time, Sifu didn’t even look up and asked, “What are you waiting for young one? Do you think I’m going to bless you or something?”<br />“Something like that Sifu”<br />“Forget it young warrior, go prove yourself a full warrior, not a fool one. If Buddha approves, he’ll bless you himself.”<br />“Thank you Sifu”<br />I bowed and left.<br />At the next class, I dressed and joined the others as usual. I guess word had gotten around about what I had been told, because everyone was looking at the two of us whenever they thought we weren’t watching. The object of my ire was looking cockier than usual, certain that he would first get rid of me; then my brothers and then, in his mind anyway, he would get promoted.<br />Things weren’t going to work out that way.<br />He was up to his usual and when we paired off I arranged things, with Uncle Harvey’s complicity, so that we wound up together. As I expected, he tried another cheap shot but because I was watching for it, it didn’t work. I redirected his kick then dropped down to one knee, using a reverse hammer fist strike to the back of his leg to sweep him. He hit the mat, hard, and before he could move I had his left arm locked up, working a cross body choke with his own gi. While he stared I brought my hand back and screamed a kiai as I brought down a tiger claw strike for his eyes.<br />The hall was silent.<br />My strike stopped just short of his eyes, which were still open and staring.<br />He blinked once.<br />I asked quietly, “Friend or foe?”<br />“Huh?”<br />“Friend or foe?”<br />“What?”<br />“Which would you prefer to be? Friend or foe?”<br />“Friend, I guess”<br />I released him and stood, then helped him to his feet. There was no applause, no cheers, this was real life. Uncle Frank walked up to me and asked, “Should we let him stay?”<br />“Yes sensei”<br />We were never friends in the accepted sense of the word, but the harassment stopped. He eventually earned his belts and even eventually made the dan rankings. Where the real education starts.<br />I guess you could say it paid off for me also. It wasn’t too long after that, that I was offered the rank of 1st dan, your basic black belt. But I declined it, with thanks, because I felt I still had a long way to go in controlling my temper.<br />((gassho)) <gassho> Sifu, I’m still learning, but I’ll never forget.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />It's not about anger - it's about peace<br />It's not about power - it's about grace<br />It's not about knowing your enemy - it's about knowing yourself.<br /><br />the MonkAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15573233903308693414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1458832283923596928.post-62827245186309572922008-08-03T23:49:00.002-04:002008-08-03T23:56:12.691-04:00Rabbit Lesson, Part IIUmmmm, yeah, whatever, I went back to perusing the comic books.<br />The next day while I was getting ready for school I happened to glance out the window. We had about a full acre in front of the house and there was a cat (we didn’t have Saber at that time, another story there) prowling about. This cat was a local nuisance, routinely trashing gardens and wreaking havoc with henhouses. This time it was trying to get a nice fat bunny that was leisurely chewing some grass.<br />Fully expecting to have to tell my mother that there was a dead rabbit in the front yard, I watched the show, and I do mean show!<br />The cat stalked up on the rabbit, the rabbit just kind of wandered off a bit, not seeming to move much, then the cat stalked up a little further and, again, the rabbit reciprocated.<br />The third move in this dance took place and I realized that each move the rabbit made was taking it a bit closer to the wood’s edge but the cat never seemed to notice. My elbows were now perched on the window frame as I watched the game. The last move of the dance took place when the cat, losing all patience, essayed a leap for the rabbit when even I could tell that it was not going to work.<br />Without missing a beat, the rabbit leapt into the woods with not a glance behind, hitting the ground at a dead run.<br />There was about forty five seconds of the shrubs and grass thrashing about, then a loud yowl, audible even behind my window, as the cat flew from the blackberry bush, leaving behind a few tatters of fur on the stout spines.<br />That rabbit was one of about a dozen that liked to call my father’s newly planted orchard home. I took to watching them with my telescope, trying to understand what happened when they hit the tree line.<br />It took time, but I finally understood that when they went into the overgrowth, they weren’t just fleeing in blind panic, they were following a well scouted out path. They would go into their maze of trails, try to get about a turn ahead of the predator, double back and lay doggo. Watching as the predator would dash past, either losing the trail or blindly rushing into an “unpleasant situation.” Usually it was the blackberry brambles.<br />I have no idea how long it took me to reach this realization, I just know that it was a lot of time at my telescope (which I never complained about) watching from my room and sometimes moving it to the concealment offered by the driveway.<br />When I finally reached the realization, the idea immediately came to mind about how I could apply this to my own life.<br />The next time one of the teenaged thugs attempted to pursue me into the woodlot I followed the example of the rabbit, doubling back after gaining that one turn of distance; I then followed the advice of my father. I gained the high ground. There, I waited.<br />I was crouched on a tree branch which crossed over the path that we had entered on, which led back onto our street. In my possession was a piece of deadwood about the length of my arm and as thick as my thigh. As the would be miscreant came back through I swung the stick with everything I had striking his head and performing a flip that would have made Jackie Chan proud (I don’t believe he had even started his film career at that time, by the way).<br />He dropped like a puppet with its strings cut and didn’t move. I approached cautiously, poking him a few times to make certain he was out cold. Like my uncle (the Taoist healer) had taught me, I checked to make sure his heart was beating and that he was breathing with no difficulty. Satisfied that he would recover, I stood up. That’s when I heard his friends calling to him, wanting to know how much longer he was going to beat me, then they laughed.<br />Well, I don’t know why, but I got an idea and immediately put it into action, then I zipped up my pants and took refuge behind the bushes.<br />He never did own up, to his friends, about chasing after me, I understand that his father whupped on him pretty good for losing to “the gook,” never mind about the concussion or the flaming huge bruise between his eyes (Dad laughed himself sick, one of the only two times I ever saw him do that). What was even worse was that his darling boy had pissed himself in the process!<br />Life can be good sometimes, even for a little half breed kid.<br />There were other lessons, to be sure, but that was how the first ones taught by Grandpa Wilson and my father turned out.<br /><br /><br />It's not about anger - it's about peace<br />It's not about power - it's about grace<br />It's not about knowing your enemy - it's about knowing yourself.<br /><br />the MonkAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15573233903308693414noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1458832283923596928.post-55824699158738022862008-07-26T22:32:00.002-04:002008-07-26T22:37:59.074-04:00Rabbit Lessons, Part IJust to be absolutely certain, I have mentioned previously that this would also touch on my education and experience as an outdoorsman, right?<br />Excellent, I thought I might have forgotten to mention that.<br />One other thing, due to the length, this commentary is going to be in two installments.<br />It all probably started out pretty much the same as it would have for any other child, of my generation. Too much “Daniel Boone” and “Wagon Train Days“and, until we moved out to a farming community it was all just an abstract idea. Living in the city of Cleveland, the closest thing we had to a forested area was an abandoned lot, over grown with pioneer plants and shrubs. Being between two houses with a fence at the back there wasn’t too much mischief that we could get into there.<br />After we moved out to Aurora, however, everything changed. The very things we had moved to escape, encroaching racism and prejudice, were already firmly established there. At that time, Aurora wasn’t even big enough to qualify as a village and its main “claim to fame” was that it was where state routes 306 and 43 met. They were also pretty much the only paved roads in the area.<br />After we moved into the area, I wondered where the other children were, our neighbors didn’t seem to want to have much to do with us. I didn’t understand why, or care, at the time, because I had my younger brothers to play with.<br />It wasn’t until September, when I was to start school that we gained a pretty good idea of what was going on, you see, the local children (in my immediate area) were pretty much all older than myself, which wouldn’t have phased me as I was accustomed to associating with adults, as were my brothers. What we didn’t know was that we had been watched, spied upon, state it however you’d like the result was the same. The local “gooks” were kept a close watch on.<br />Until that first day of school, I hadn’t had any real contact with bullies. There had been a few pushing matches to be sure, but nothing that would have classed as a real fight. So what education in the martial arts I received was largely limited to the philosophy and some of the basics. My uncle and my father saw no need to hurry things; my mother would have been just as glad if I never needed to learn to fight.<br />That first day of school I crossed the lot behind our house (which we didn’t own at the time) with a kiss goodbye from my mother and an armload of supplies (backpacks weren’t the utilitarian/fashion requirement that they have come to be). As I exited the overgrown lot, there was silence at the bus stop. After a pause, one of the teenagers standing there with the elementary school children approached me, smiling, as he watched my struggle to balance the cumbersome load.<br />“Well, looky here, a gook,” he stood over me for a moment, then knocked me to the ground, books, papers, crayons; all the detritus required for the first grade, on the ground in front of me. As I struggled to get everything together again, he swaggered back to the congratulations of his friends and the elementary school children. I gathered my school supplies and stood behind the others, waiting for the school bus.<br />The first grade teacher was standing there, waiting for her new charges to arrive when the bus parked. As soon as she saw my disheveled state she rushed me to the office, helping me to straighten my appearance out; all the while pointing out to the principal the error of permitting the high school students to use the same bus stops as the elementary school students.<br />What followed next were several hurried phone conferences between my father and my uncles, and late night conversations between my parents which eventually led to my starting a more formal education in the combative sciences.<br />But these last three paragraphs aren’t the main focus of this article, they are actually the prelude to the main concerns of this article, my education as an outdoorsman.<br />I know that somewhere out there, are about nineteen other men who can state that they had the opportunity to learn the things that I learned, but those are all I can vouch for.<br />You see, my father took those things I saw on “Daniel Boone” and built on those. We would be watching the show and he’d make a comment or two about how he might do something, which usually involved some sort of combat or scout maneuver. Generally it would involve just a small change like, “...if he really wanted to stay out of sight while he was waiting to ambush that guy, he’d climb a tree ...” or perhaps when he saw the “Rifleman” peering at the landscape while “scouting” he’d comment, “... he wouldn’t be so easy to see if he’d just crouch down beside that boulder ...” Little things, small comments, but they were the comments of a member of the Marine “Combat Raiders” and a former intelligence operative; made to a son who took note of them.<br />Took note of them and applied them to his own situation.<br />There was a small woodlot on our street; it didn’t take too long before the other children, regardless their age, hesitated to follow me into that area with violence in mind. The first times they had done so, they managed to get hold of me and a fight ensued. In those days, the outcome was highly variable. But my uncle made certain to mention that, as big as the size difference was, there was no such thing as a fair fight and that I should have no qualms about using whatever means lay at hand to end the fight, preferably in my favor.<br />Another elder, Grandpa Wilson, whom I met at the local general store, had advice which always seemed to sound demented but, in retrospect, was some of the best advice I got in my life. I’m only sorry that I didn’t pay as much attention to him, as I did my first love, Science.<br />The first time we met was at the store and he stared at me intently, ignoring my brothers. Then he came up to me and introduced himself, after doing so he asked my name; then my nation. I stared at him blankly, until Mr. Lyons told me that he wanted to know my ancestry and I replied that I was Chinese. He looked at me intently and said, “One day you will know who your people are.” Quite frankly, on hearing that, I thought he was just plain nuts. It was sure obvious to everyone around me what my nation was.<br />Shifting gears without a second thought he then asked why I had a black eye, I told him about the recent fight, my dash into the woodlot and the subsequent fight. He smiled when I told him about nailing the departing thug, in the back of the head, with a thrown branch (I hadn’t even heard of rabbit sticks back then!), he smiled in approval then asked why I had decided to fight someone who was so much larger. I told him that I didn’t have much choice. He told me that the choice was always there. I looked at him blankly and he laughed, “If you want to know how to escape your enemies, then watch the rabbits.”<br /><br /><br /><br />It's not about anger - it's about peace<br />It's not about power - it's about grace<br />It's not about knowing your enemy - it's about knowing yourself.<br /><br />the MonkAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15573233903308693414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1458832283923596928.post-84483438286619125462008-07-09T20:26:00.004-04:002008-07-09T21:30:31.279-04:00ChangesFor the first few years, everything was very intense. I was expected to learn beside, and with, adults. I had to compete with them, and against them, but nothing was watered down, no exceptions were made. Kovacks-sensei made it very clear that if I wished to be promoted two things had to happen. The first was that my grades couldn't fall below a "C" or I would be placed on probation. If I got an "F," well, I'm sure you can imagine. The second thing was that anything I did was measured the same as the adults. If they broke boards, I was to break boards. If they kicked to the face, I had to find a way to kick them in the face also. Kovacks-sensei didn't teach us forms as he first wanted to make certain that we would live to see the age of eighteen.<br /><br />Kovacks-sensei made it very, very clear that just being a strong fighter wasn't enough. You had to be a canny warrior as well. He taught my brothers and I (they began training about a year after I did) from "The Art of War" and "The Book of Five Rings" in those days. He made it quite clear that, as did Sun-tzu, he considered the greatest victory to be that achieved without bloodshed or violence. I learned why later.<br /><br />We were doing well enough as fighters that at one point we even had some of the police officers in the training hall teaching us to be "tougher" mentally (on their own). To handle the verbal abuse that they felt we would run into. It was a few years too late but it did come in handy.<br /><br />As we had made progress and were doing better than anyone had anticipated, we were featured in the local newspapers, which led to a demand for childrens classes. Everyone seemed to think that just because we were doing well, that ANY child could do as well.<br /><br />This is what led to a ....... complication.<br /><br />I don't know what happened in the childrens classes, but I can guess. Kovacks-sensei had expected my brothers and I to "take a bump" just as any of the adults in the class. Its an old way of training and is a good practice. The only problem is, the degree of force that one had to put out for an adult to feel the same "bump" when a six, or even eight year old is the "aggressor."<br /><br />This is where it got interesting.<br /><br />Although we usually trained with the adults on Thursday night, one week Kovacks-sensei told us that he also wanted us to come to the Saturday afternoon children's class.<br /><br />Everything went pretty much as expected except that there was very little in the way of "contact drills." Hard blocks against each others arms, legs; block and strike drills. We didn't understand it but had sufficient discipline to not question it.<br /><br />Everything took a left turn when we lined up for "free sparring," kumite. Free sparring is when you have three minutes to score points against each other. Strikes and kicks had to be clear, strong techniques. There couldn't be floppy strikes, weak forms or anything else that wouldn't have worked on the street.<br /><br />I was lined up opposite a twelve or thirteen year old girl who stood head and shoulders over me. She had a fit of the giggles, I just stood there watching her, looking for weak points in her technique; the way she presented herself. There were no shortage of them. The girl's mother (sitting in the viewing gallery, newly installed) thought the fight was going to be terribly one sided; well, she was half right.<br /><br />The fight only lasted about fifteen seconds, but it changed a lot of things for me, she tried to come in with a back fist strike but it didn't work like she wanted it to. It didn't work because she ran into my skipping side kick. Which knocked her about six feet back, flat on her back, struggling to breathe.<br /><br />Kovacks-sensei yelled for the break, directing me to my corner, I sat there waiting for the girl to get her breath back. To me it was no big deal, you took a hit, you lose the point, you get up and carry on. What everyone else had forgotten was that I had spent all of my time training with adults.<br /><br />In (what was to me) a surprise turn of events, the girl got up, gathered her things and went home. While she was doing this, Kovacks-sensei knelt down beside me and said, "K____, I know you didn't mean for that to happen like that, but you must never, never hurt a girl like that again."<br /><br />For whatever reason, his instruction that day had an immense impact on me. My mother could always tell when I'd been in a fight and what gender it was with. If I got into a fight with a boy, she'd get a phone call from some irate parent who got told that the mere fact of my being a small teener, did not mean that I was the punching bag for their delinquent.<br /><br />On the other hand, if I got into a fight with a girl, I'd usually come home with a black eye.<br /><br />I was probably thirty something before, with the help of an aikidoka friend, I figured out how to defend myself against a woman without hurting her.<br /><br />This has been a sometimes problem for me, but it has also caused a certain amount of merriment among my friends, and consternation for my commanders.<br /><br />One last thing, to those who've commented on my first post, "gassho,"<gassho> I thank you deeply and I will definitely take what you have stated to heart. To the gentleman who wished for the colors to be other than what they are, my apologies, but it is a "style" thing. Most of the other color combinations didn't feel appropriate to the topic.<br /><br />It's not about anger - it's about peace<br />It's not about power - it's about grace<br />It's not about knowing your enemy - it's about knowing yourself.<br /><br />the MonkAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15573233903308693414noreply@blogger.com0