Friendly Fire

Friendly Fire

By

J. L. Kaye

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2009 J. L. Kaye

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Prologue

Low lying seasonal mist rolled in off the Pacific as cool air above the water, driven by offshore winds, collided with warmer air rising on inland thermals that hovered over verdant spring hills along California Highway 1 near the small coastal town of Halfway. The dense fog obscured two tricked out 1975-model black Harley Shovelheads with extended front wheels. The bikes, their owners and two women hid in an oak grove on a private road. The black leather-clad bikers sat silent, their engines off, for several minutes as they waited for the owner of the cabin half a mile away at the end of two-lane rutted dirt path to appear and leave his place. One of the men, Marty Silverton, let his hands dangle over the high top chrome handlebars that formed a straight line up from the forks and ended at eye level.

He squinted to see through the gray of mid-morning, and said nothing. He already briefed the other three on his reason for being there.

Clyde Drain broke the silence as he raised a gloved right hand from his side and pointed down the ruts that stretched away from them into the dense mist toward the cabin. Marty, you sure this is where that guy is? Doesn’t look the kinda place a war hero lives in.

Yeah. Marty stroked his scraggly beard, beaded with moisture, as he stared off into the mist toward the barely visible cabin. In town they said he teaches at the high school; so he should either be gone by now or leaving pretty soon.

And he’s the one who had you …

Busted for whacking off over a dead VC woman in Nam six years ago. That’s right.

The two women exchanged glances and Phoebe, sitting on the back of Marty’s bike, winced.

And when you see him …

I don’t intend to see him, just let him know that someone out here has it in for him, that’s all. I want him to wonder who’s stalkin’ him."

Marty, must we sit here in this damp air when we could be somewhere warm? The blonde on his bike had a sing-song nasal voice and tried to look around the broad shoulders to see his face, but he stared straight ahead, in a pretense that his eyes penetrated the dark gray mist as it poured in from the nearby ocean around them.

I told ya, Phebes, and I don’t want to repeat myself, we’re gonna trash his life a little like he trashed mine.

Whaddya hope to get by that?

Revenge, Phebes, revenge.

Doesn’t seem like a good reason to take a chance on getting caught by bustin’ up his house. She shrugged and slid backward off the Harley up and over the red tail-light and walked away and mist into the oaks several yards behind them, pulling a wad of tissues from her pocket. Moments later the three others stationed near the dirt road heard the sound of her water as it hit the soft ground.

Off in the distance, they heard the sound of an 18-wheeler working its way down through the gears as it rounded a bend on the main highway and then started the long climb up a nearby hill. Two cars approached the semi from the opposite direction; and when the headlights from the three vehicles met they brightened the air for a brief moment before all of them disappeared in their different directions along California 1. Phoebe rejoined the others, but stood away from Marty’s Harley and amused herself by stripping leaves from a low lying branch, after which she tossed them in disgust at her feet.

Clara whispered to the biker in front of her: Clyde, I think I better do what she just did. I’m getting my period, too.

He growled but the sound failed to form into words while he kept his eyes locked on the path ahead. As she walked off, she started to hum a tune. Marty turned and put a finger to his lips, but said nothing. She shrugged and stopped near Phoebe for a moment; they exchanged glances, and shook their heads before Clara continued off toward the back of the small grove, her fingers finding the wrapped cardboard tube in the pocket of her leather jacket.

Clyde, I heard something.

I think you’re right Marty. Sounded like a car door, didn’t it?

Clyde adjusted his heavy leather boots in the soft loamy soil as he strained to pick up more sounds from the direction of the cabin. Seconds elapsed and a car engine started, revved twice and then the sound dropped lower as the vehicle idled. Moments later, the pitch of the engine increased as a late model red pick-up, parking lights on, bounced slowly along the road toward them. As one, Marty and Clyde pulled their bikes further back into the grove to ensure they disappeared totally from view behind the low hanging branches of the oaks.

Their blind worked.

The truck rolled past them, a brightly tinted ghost with the driver looking straight ahead as the idling engine carried the red pick-up over the small rise that separated the coastal headlands from the highway. When the driver had passed them and out of view upon reaching the highway, he stopped, which brought a squeal from the damp brakes. Then he let the idle carry him through a right turn and out onto California 1 and he quickly worked his way through the gears as the pick-up truck increased speed and disappeared into the morning gloom.

O.K., he’s gone. Let’s go to work. Marty turned the key in the Harley’s ignition and started the motorcycle and positioned his fingers on the handlebars. The signature sound of the Harley reverberated off the foggy air and through the oak copse. Marty looked around for Phoebe, who ran over to him from her place in the oaks and dropped her hands as she jumped on the bike-seat behind him. Clara walked slowly up to Clyde and dragged her jean-clad rump onto the extended seat and tapped him on the shoulder to indicate her readiness.

Both women held their hands over their ears as the throaty roar of the Harleys drowned out the sounds of the surf and echoed among the stately trees. Marty and Clyde revved their engines several times before slowly engaging the clutches to let the low RPM take them abreast down the rough road to the cabin.

Let’s make this quick. I don’t want to be around if he decides to come back early. Though he’s been out for several years, he’s probably still tough as nails like when he was CO of my company.

Marty pulled ahead of Clyde and set the pace, bouncing along the ruts toward the cabin; Phoebe clutched at his waist.

Thirty minutes later they walked out into the gray air after the four of them trashed the interior of the two bedroom cabin, breaking picture frame glass, dishes left in the sink and personal items. Grins spread across the men’s faces from releasing pent-up energy on the owner’s personal goods. Phoebe carried a bottle of whiskey and a jug of cheap wine from the liquor cabinet and Clara held a pillow case in front of her that had a sheet, glasses and snacks taken from the pantry.

Before we leave, we’re gonna have a picnic courtesy of Captain Calvin Hampson at his private beach. Marty howled with laughter and patted Phoebe on the shoulder.

Is that a good idea? Shouldn’t we just get outta here and do that somewhere else? Clyde looked anxiously down the road toward where they waited earlier.

If he’s gone to work, he won’t be back for hours. Anyway, there’s two of us and only one of him. Marty stuck his thumbs in his belt loops as he swaggered around the front of the cabin, kicking over farming equipment, stumps and rough-hewn chairs. And we can handle anything he throws at us.

Clara and Phoebe each shrugged as they held their spoils and waited for Marty and Clyde to set up on their chrome-clad Harleys before sliding behind the two men. The Shovelheads started as one and headed off at a slow speed, the riders’ heads thrust back in triumph. Before reaching the oak trees that formerly hid them from view, Marty made a wide right turn and headed toward the ocean over a barely visible trail. Clyde followed. When they reached the edge of the bluff, the two cut their engines, lowered kick-stands and waited for the women to step off the seats before the men swung their legs around.

Phoebe handed the whiskey to Clyde and carried the wine for herself. Clara hefted the pillow case and sheet she took from Calvin’s linen closet and followed after the other three as they dropped down a small little path that wound toward the pounding surf below.

Back at the cabin and hidden in the mist from the bikers, a swarm of butterflies lifted up and out of the milkweed that surrounded the house. Several of the Monarchs darted through the open door and into the cabin and surveyed the destruction while others waited outside, perched on a wooden railing that ran the length of the porch, their wings opening and closing in a slow, rhythmic beat.

This will upset Calvin Hampson, the Monarch said to his doyenne. He will not be happy about this.

Is there anything we should do?

Perhaps not at the moment, he said as he lifted off and fluttered outside to join the others.

Chapter 1

Late afternoon on a clear spring day in 1970, Captain Calvin Hampson, U.S. Army Special Forces, called his mother from a payphone at the military hospital in the East Bay near San Francisco. He startled her with his request: Mom, I want to sneak into town, unnoticed, when I get home tomorrow.

Calvin, are you all right? I’ve been worried about you since you last called.

I’m fine, Mom. The Army formally releases me from active duty today, tomorrow at the latest, and I should be out of here and probably home well before midnight on whichever day they sign off on my paperwork. The medics as well as the chaplains took a whack at me, he thought, all that remains is an out-processing session with the shrink and I’m through here. His eyes roamed up and down the corridor, the floor a dull green and white flecked asphalt tile with walls painted the same lifeless shade of green. Banks of fluorescent lights made the walls appear pasty to him. After a year of rehab, the aseptic smell of cleaning fluids no longer bothered Calvin.

Your truck still running? Do you need money to get home? She stood in the kitchen of the two bedroom cabin two hundred miles south of him and watched the sun burn its way through the haze that drifted across the shallow expanse of land between the window and the edge of the Pacific. She wiped her hands across her apron to dry them and hold the phone with a tighter grip as she listened to her son.

He knew she could not afford to help even if he needed it. Mom, really, I’m fine. The truck works; I’ve got plenty of money, and the Army treated me well. They made sure my physical wounds are healed and, to make things right, promised to give me a good conduct discharge so I don’t have serve any time in the reserves; plus I’ll get all the free medical treatment I need through the VA if any residual problems ever flair up. You know, war-related conditions. Tomorrow, at the latest, if all goes well, I’ll be free and a veteran. Now don’t worry about me. I could even be there before twelve if they’re efficient.

If they’re efficient, he repeated to himself. He paused and waited for an enlisted man to walk by, thinking as he did: That’ll be the day when the Army is efficient. I just hope she doesn’t do her Hovering Mother Routine, otherwise I’ll go Section Eight.

What about Mattie? She’ll want to see you. When will you talk to her?

Haven’t said anything to her yet. She doesn’t know I’m coming home this soon. Let me surprise her when I get there, maybe in a few days after I rest up and get my bearings. That would be worse, the queen of sarcasm rattling my cage before …

All right, son. Anything you say. Do you want me to shop for anything? Are there foods you prefer or don’t want? She looked back at the refrigerator and then across to her pantry.

Thanks for asking, Mom. Nothing with rice for a while; otherwise, whatever you eat is always fine for me. And fer chrissakes, don’t lay off the spices. I need something to kick-start my civilian life.

Travel safe, Calvin. I love and miss you.

Missed you, too, Mom.

And Calvin?

Yes?

I’m relieved one of the men in my life came home safely from war.

I knew you’d say that. He paused to let the lump in his throat diminish so he could close off the conversation. Love you, Mom. Sleep tight. Be good seeing you tomorrow.

Yes, Calvin. I love you, and look forward to having you home again.

This could be a long convalescence, not necessarily in time, either. He gently placed the phone in the cradle and stared at the dialing pad until he felt his heart-rate slow and his breathing come with more rhythm amid fewer gulps of air.

During his third trip to a remote province n the highlands, Captain Calvin Hampson received several wounds on a search and destroy mission in Viet Nam. The first bullet crashed into his leg and took him down; another creased his skull and that was the last he remembered, though he took other hits. For valor in battle on more than one occasion, his commanding officer recommended Calvin for the Silver Star with distinction immediately after medics airlifted him out of the jungles for medical treatment and rehabilitation in the United States, by way of Saigon and the Philippines. His second and final hitch ended about the time doctors finished patching him up. The evening before he mustered out, the command dangled a promotion to major if he re-upped, but he declined it.

Between Calvin and civilian life the last hurdle waited along corridor 4A, the ward where psychiatrists and psychologists met with patients. Psychiatrists got the tough cases that probably needed medication. The therapists got those less likely to be a problem for themselves or society. For his one and only session with a therapist Calvin wore khakis and buffed his shoes to a high shine, hoping to end his tour of duty and military obligation on a formal and proper note before being out-processed from the Army hospital.

Because no one else sat in the waiting room, Calvin assumed his appointment to be the last for the therapist that day. The name on the opaque-glass section of the door said: Dr. R. Kingry.

The civilian clerk seated at one corner of the pale green waiting room ushered him into the private office of the therapist where he stood inside the door and waited. After 12 months of convalescence, he expected all wards to reek of medical odors. Doctor Kingry’s office had a large vase of aromatic flowers sitting alongside the couch, out of context with the size of the government-issue Formica and metal table beneath it. The floral arrangement had more panache than anything else in the room.

Nice. First place that doesn’t smell of formaldehyde.

When the therapist joined him, Dr. R. Kingry turned out to be Regina Kingry, an attractive blonde female he estimated to be about the same age. Hmmm, tall, almost willowy, nice wide-open blue eyes. I like that. Shows interest. Somewhere in there is a pretty neat figure. She wore a white lab coat with captain’s bars and sat in front of her desk for the final interview and motioned for Calvin to sit in the armchair across from her, close enough for him to detect a perfume that rode over the top of the scent cast by the flowers.

In between the moment Captain Regina Kingry entered the private office and when he took a seat, she, too, made a quick appraisal of the other party and liked what she saw. Despite his old-style first name and what appeared to be a rural hometown in his records, he seemed to her to be quite with it and very attractive. She recalled seeing in the folder that he had a distinguished military career and fit the role-model of the all-American boy during high school and college, good grades, athletic hero and the like. That he went into Special Forces didn’t surprise her because many with similar backgrounds did, too.

She started as she always did with a compliment to the patient: You’re a handsome man, captain. You should have no problem getting back into the social world when you get home. You are going home, aren’t you?

Yes, captain.

Doctor, please, captain.

Then doctor, you can call me Calvin since we are the same rank. He liked her manner, comfortable and assured, and the way she looked directly at him when she spoke. Doctors in the other wards always seemed to be looking for the next patient. And, after midnight tonight that will be the only name I respond to.

That when you’re officially RAD? It’s a shame I only have this one session with him, she thought. I’ll bet he’s got interesting