Historical Fiction
Date Published: March 12th
Publisher: Acorn Publishing
William Sukara, a gregarious dreamer, emerges from the 1950s an estranged son. In divorce debt and with limited visitation rights as a father, he searches for order in failure. Pursuing self-discipline as an answer, he enlists in the Navy, volunteers for underwater demolition team training, and survives the elite course.
With five other team members, he raises his hand for a clandestine mission, knowing only that it's a “hundred day operation in a warm climate." They are led by a mysterious civilian who alludes that their authorization comes from the Oval Office, and they are to operate with extreme malice. They revolt, escaping under bizarre circumstances.
They listened to what they knew was coming—they were here to kill
people. The starkness still came as an abominable commission, a heart in
ice. They stared at a cartographer’s depiction of where two peasant nations met
along a broad maze. The vague wilderness, a nameless swamp, could be covered
with one hand. But in their overwhelmed minds it was a distant planet, a place
where they were to do unimaginable things. In varying degrees, they tried to
get past the moral shock, the yuk factor, or set it aside.
Yet there was something
else realized, barely discernible, only subliminally noted. Or maybe, even
forbidden to recognize, a sensation of heady sway, they didn’t analyze the
feeling couched in the Kemo’s rote. His sweeping authorization, romanced with
user-friendly history, vouchsafed by a homeland frolicking in certainty, with
an omniscient overseer taking notes, won their high ground. For the only
creature that existence is a question, they were handed a prepared answer,
suitable for eternal framing.
Erickson rolled on, “In a
remote possibility, what are you to do if you are sure people have come ashore?
If you decide to leave your tree position, I want you to take two items with
you. Unlatch the infrared unit and store it in your empty pack. Pull the bolt
out of the rifle and secure it in a separate pouch. You may be in a hurry but
check that the flaps are buckled up. Leave everything else.”
For a covert operation,
somewhere between notional and nascent, his detailing was like a veteran Scout
Master’s tenth summer camp. “With your pack on, descend, pulling the line down,
take it with you for a way. Find the string you tied when you arrived, to the
opposite side of the island.”
With meticulous
visualizing, he finished how an escape would play out. “Once at the water’s
edge, swim across to the next island. If you think it’s necessary, find your
way across and swim to the next piece of land. I don’t foresee someone trying
to follow you; remember, you still have your sidearm on your belt and three
clips of ammo.”
Reassuringly, he tacked
on, “You’ll have more problems with mosquitoes than with some barefoot fool
trying to find you in the dark. After that, stay put, we’ll find you in the
morning. You’ll hear the boat’s engines or horn. Use your whistle to help locate
you.”
There it was, after five
weeks of exclusion from a scheme, they were now privy to a grand mal of
excitement. They never imagined this sobering now, as the night never suspects
what day brings. Suddenly all the pieces of the puzzle came together; they were
elevated to the inner sanctum, they were lofty.
A zephyr blurred the
mirroring river, gently squeezing Apollyon against her rubber fenders
with a moaning lament. Air flowed through the doorways and ports, unnoticed by
a circle of conspirators.
Searching faces, Erickson
said, “Any questions so far?”
One after another, he
fended off what-if inquiries. His responses confirmed whoever claimed
genesis for their plan had considered every possible hiccup.
“Keep your repellent in
your pocket. If you have to swim, you can reapply later.”
“You’ll have a plastic
bottle to pee in, so you don’t smell up the area under your position.”
“You’ll take a pill that
will keep you alert all night.”
As the Q&A slowed,
Valdes queried their leader’s sudden openness, “Why all this super secrecy?
We’re all cleared to hug an atomic bomb.”
Up to then, his answers to
their questions had been returned with ping-pong responses, but now he delayed.
Gazing out the doorway into their sylvan seclusion, he momentarily drifted
away.
Then he turned to
Sukara, saying, “You once asked if the president knew about this operation.”
Glancing at the others, he offered a hypothesis. “Well, let’s just say . . . if
. . . he and a tight inner circle of advisers know. And . . . if . . . he
authorized this and other covert assistance, and . . . if . . . he ordered he
was to be kept abreast of all operations. Allowing all these ifs, then his
exposure to introducing U.S. military personnel into an offensive role with a
sovereign country without any clear and present danger could put him in an
awkward position. It would be politically suicidal, both domestically and
geopolitically. Congress could view the president’s actions as an impeachable
offense. As I’ve said, if . . . this is the commander in chief’s show.”
The six riveted souls
would never know to their dying day if what they just heard possessed any
validity. But it didn’t matter; it had its desired effect. All through brunch
they had been fed elitist words, energizing them to storm imagined threats to
the sacred, state nation. Now with the addition of a wink-wink-nudge-nudge
innuendo connecting them to the Oval Office, there was initiated a launch
sequence, heading for antiquity.
It was all very well to be
under the endorsement of the apparent creator of the universe. But He/She/It
was invisible, not known for pinning on medals, handshakes, and photo ops. But
for the president of the United States to be watching, who could even know them
by name, was something else again. Or so it seemed.
About the Author
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