North Korean Blowup (31 page)

The van eased out of Andrews Air Base, then roared across the highways to the Farm in Virginia. When they got out of the van, Hunter asked the driver an important question.

“Do you know what the actual time is?”

“Yes sir, it’s oh ten forty six. Seems you had some delays on the trip.”

Hunter and the rest of the men headed for their barracks and were surprised to see Admiral Marshal Harding get out of his staff limousine that had been parked near the building.

“Ten hut!” Senior Chief Chapman bellowed and the SEALs dropped their drag bags and snapped to attention.

“As you were men,” the admiral said. “At ease and gather around.” He waited a moment while the SEALs moved up to within six feet of the admiral.

“The President wanted me to be on hand to meet you men and welcome you home and congratulate you on an extremely important task that was carried out with exceptional skill and bravery. Usually there would be medals to be awarded, but since this never happened we can’t give out medals. This mission is precisely why we developed the President’s Platoon, and this is exactly how we hoped that it would function. All of you except the officers will receive a Presidential advancement in rank of one grade. After you get settled here you all are granted two week leaves. Tomorrow Hunter and Bancroft will report to my office at thirteen hundred so we can have a meeting with the President. There will be no after action report since there was no action and you men were not even away from your normal duties here at the Farm.  Again, congratulations and thank you for your good work. We are saddened by the loss of Quartermaster Sanborn. Unfortunately things like that can happen in this line of work. He will be missed. Again, the President and I give you our thanks for a job well done.”

The Admiral stepped back and a sailor held open his limo door.

“Teen-hut,” Chapman bellowed and the SEALs snapped to attention until the Admiral entered the car and it pulled away.

“As you were,” Hunter said. “A presidential promotion. Congratulations men. That is one helpful thing the President can do for you. Of course it won’t go on your records that it came from the President, but we know. Anybody hungry?”

“Hoo-rah!”

“I’ll arrange for special chow in half an hour. You can shower after that. Let’s move.”

The next morning Corpsman Nelson Foster checked Rattigan, McNally, and Walden to treat and rebandage their wounds, then he took off in his car and headed for the clinic in Arlington where he spent most of his free time. He found Shirley Shannon on the front desk.

“Looking for some help?” he asked.

“Hey, you’re here.” She looked up and her face broke into a wonderful smile that he remembered so well. “Hey this isn’t even Saturday. How come?”

“I’m on a two week leave. I’ll be bothering you for the next fourteen days.”

“Wonderful.” Her beautiful smile faded and she frowned. “There may be one problem?”

“You mean the feds are after me?”
          “No, silly. You remember Long John Garrison.”

“The dude you shot at? I remember him.”

“He’s been hanging around. I think he’s looking for you. He usually has three or four home boys with him.”

“How did he get out of jail?”

“His lawyer did the magic. I think he gave up the guy who shot his small friend, Somestuff.”

“That would do it. Why is he hanging around here? Then Foster’s brows went up and he nodded. “Oh, boy. We shamed him in the eyes of his home boys, so he has to get even to get back his position as a down-standing gang member.”

“That’s what we think. Maybe he won’t come back anymore.”

“Oh, he’ll be here. But until then there’s work to do. Let me take over the desk and you can do your nursey things.”

She watched him, her face open, vulnerable, with just a touch of curiosity. “You still going to try for med school?”

He wanted to say if he lived long enough, but he didn’t. She wouldn’t understand. In the Teams you took your chances, and he’d had enough chances along the way. Two more years and then maybe, just maybe he could take a run at college.

“You bet, but I’ve got two years left on my enlistment. That gives me time to save my money for tuition.”

“Student loans can be a lifesaver. I had some, but don’t take one out until you desperately need it.” She waved. “Take care of the desk and the triage. We’re up to twenty three on the number list.”

He settled in behind the desk, checked any announcements that were on the board and watched the waiting room. There were only eight people there ready to see the doctor or the nurse. Each had a   colored slip of paper with a number on it. Blue for the doctor, and green for the nurse. A man with dirty, raggedy clothes came in holding his arm. He walked up to the desk with pain drilling onto his face.

“Doc, I think I broke it,” the man said.

Foster could see white bones sticking out of tanned and dirty skin. He stood.

“Come this way, you need to get that looked at right away.” He took the man through the doors into the hall and spotted Shirley.

“Looks like a compound fracture of the arm. He’s really in pain. We have an open room?”
          At noon he and Shirley walked to the deli up the block and split one of the big sandwiches. They talked and things fell into place like they had been before he went to Korea. She was wonderful, marvelous, beautiful and a real nurse. They laughed and talked and she told him more about her family.

The rest of the day slammed past so quickly he hardly believed it when the last patient had been tended to and the lights turned off.

Outside in the dark next to the front door they kissed softly and she clung to him.

“I’m so glad that you’re here again. I worried what you might be doing. I’m just glad none of it was dangerous. Hey, see you tomorrow.”

She turned and hurried over to her car. He watched her get in and drive away. Then he headed for his car. Half a block down the street two black men jumped out of the shadows in front of him. One of them was tall and skinny. He had to be Long John. Foster heard something behind him and saw two more black men there.

Long John ahead of him laughed. “So, mister hot shot with a sucker punch, you gonna keep bothering me? I say we take it on right here and right now. Just our bare fists and we’ll see who the best man is. Come and get it.” The four men closed in on him. He didn’t have a gun, not even a pocket knife.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

Long John Garrison pulled a baseball bat from behind his back as he advanced on Foster.

“Just you and me and my trusty bat, little man. Oh yeah!”

Foster knew he had no where to go, nobody to protect his back. He shuffled sideways until he backed against a car parked there and waited. Long John moved in quickly, swung the bat then pulled it back, swung it again not aiming at Foster, then he lunged forward and this time the bat targeted Foster’s legs.

Foster’s reaction was automatic. He kicked out with his right foot encased in a tough running shoe. The sole of the shoe hit the bat half way up the barrel and tore it out of Long John’s hands. Then Foster attacked. He threw two punches that missed as Long John bobbed and weaved. He’d had some boxing experience. Foster drove in hard before the others got to them. He connected with a hard right jab to Long John’s nose and then a right hand that caught the taller man flush on the jaw and drove him back two steps. He wobbled and Foster tried for the kill. But before he could follow up his advantage, four strong arms grabbed him from behind.

Long John shook his head and stood in front of Foster. “Yeah, just you and me, Foster, and a couple of my friends.” His fist smashed into Foster’s belly and the SEAL sagged. Then a series of three blows hit his head, one smashing his nose, the other high on his cheek that drove him back against the men holding him. Two more thundering fists hit him, another in the belly that almost made him vomit, and the second one a stinging uppercut that jolted Foster’s head back and made him black out for a few seconds.

When he got his sight back he was on his hands and knees on the sidewalk. All he could see were Long John’s feet and legs in front of him. Then one foot left the ground and slammed into his stomach, blasting him over on his back.

Long John stood over him and laughed as he urinated on his chest.

“Now, motherfucker, you belong to me. Your ass is mine whenever I want it. You do what I say and when I say so. You understand you pissed on shit head?”

Foster’s head lay hard on the sidewalk. Not a chance he could nod, it took all of his strength just to stay conscious. The four young men laughed as they walked away shouting obscenities at him for half a block.

A wave of blackness washed over him and he thought he was back in the ocean. Then the pain blasted through his nervous system and he groaned so he wouldn’t scream. Slowly he tried to sit up. It brought a cacophony of drum beats and clanging symbols in his head and he lay back down.

It was half an hour before he could sit up, and another hour until he could lean against the car and pull himself up by the door handle. His car. Where was his car? He had no idea if he could drive or not. He had to get off the sidewalk before somebody stole everything he owned.

He blinked, then wiped sweat and blood out of his eyes. His belly felt like a twenty millimeter had just hit him. He tried to swallow but felt warm blood and spit it out. He blinked a dozen times before he could see well enough in the dark street. Street light. He had parked next to a street light standard. Where?

He looked ahead. He had been going that direction. After rejecting the first six cars at the curb ahead, he saw the next one he thought might be his. A Honda. Yes. His was a Honda Civic, four years old and blue. He took a deep breath and leaned on the car as he staggered to the front fender. The next car was four feet away. He took a deep breath and lunged that way, staggering and stumbling once, but he made it across the open void.

Ten minutes later he came to the blue Honda. His. He found his car keys but it took another two minutes to get them out of his pocket.

A black older couple walked toward him. The man frowned.

“Hey, mister, you all right? You got blood on your face.”

Foster held up his keys. “Fell down. Can you unlock my car?”

The man took the keys, found the right one and unlocked the door, then opened it slowly so he wouldn’t knock Foster down. A moment later he helped Foster sit down in the driver’s seat. The SEAL slumped there behind the wheel.

The black man scowled. “Some local gang do this to you? Beat you up this way? You want me to call the police?”

Foster shook his head. He tried to say no, but the words wouldn’t come out of his battered mouth.

The man rolled down the window, then closed the car door. “You want me to start the car for you?” He shook his gray haired head. “No, not a good idea. Close up the window, I’ll do it and lock the doors. You sit right there all night if you need to. There’s a clinic just down the block here. You wait until morning and go in there. They good folks. They’ll patch you up. You hear?”

The elderly black man rolled up the window and locked the door. He went around and tried the passenger’s side door. It was locked.

He took one more look at Foster, then shook his head. He hated it when the gangs beat up a man just because they didn’t like the way he combed his hair or wore his clothes. He was sick and tired of it.

He shook his head once more, then walked on down the street with his wife, to their small apartment a block past the clinic.

Inside the car, Foster leaned back on the head rest and closed his eyes. He knew he hurt too much to sleep. But after shifting positions three times, he felt sleep overtaking him. It was best. Yes. In the morning he’d feel better. Then he could walk down to the clinic and Shirley would take care of him.

Foster awoke three times that night, but he had no idea what time it was. The last time dawn was creeping over the buildings and streaks of daylight stabbed through the darkness. He rubbed his eyes carefully. No more blood. Good. He lifted his hand to look at his watch.

Seven thirty. The clinic would open at nine. Could he drive down there and park in front? Usually there were cars parked there. No driveway. No, he’d stay there and try to walk down. He moved his legs. At least no broken bones. His arms felt like they weighed twenty pounds each. He lifted them and flexed his fingers. No broken fingers. Should he call that Arlington cop who gave him his card? He still had it in his wallet. Later. He watched it get light. Foster sat up straight, testing himself. He knew his nose must be broken. It had bled enough. He’d probably have one black eye, maybe two. Damn.

At least he was on leave. He could get a cheap hotel nearby. He looked at his watch again. Four minutes had screamed past.

The next time he checked his watch it showed him the time to be 0830. Time enough. He made sure his car keys were in his pocket, then he used his left hand and opened the door. Pain daggered through his head with the exertion. He beat it down and pushed the door open. Then he had to get his feet out of the car. After three tries he had both feet out of the car and on the sidewalk. He slid forward, ducked his head to miss the top of the door and then rested. No rush.

It took him another three minutes to get standing upright beside his car. He leaned out to reach the door to close it and almost fell down. But he caught himself and was rewarded with darts of pain in his head and belly. He prayed that Long John’s kick had not ruptured any vital organs in there.

This time when he moved from car to car heading for the clinic, he made it without too much staggering. Then he came to an opening. Somebody had driven his car to work. Sixteen, maybe twenty feet separated him from the next car he could lean on. He stood there and felt tears threatening to erupt.

He saw someone coming up the sidewalk toward him. He blinked and then stared at the man. An older black man with gray hair. The man walked up to him and stopped.

“So, you made it through the night. I’ve been wondering about you. I helped you get in your car last night. You heading for the clinic?