The Trinity (8 page)

As the plane lands at Heathrow, Chris is thrilled with the realization that he has crossed the Atlantic and is now in a country he has always wanted to see, home of so many musicians and esoteric television shows that he watched on late night public television at home.

The walk from customs to the terminal is long. The many tunnel-like hallways are dark, quiet and empty save the recently disembarked passengers of international flights.

The walk through the tunnels ends abruptly at a blind turn that is the entrance to the terminal. Chris is greeted by a throng of faces waiting for loved ones to arrive. He is scrutinized by many, studying him from head to toe, noting his uniform and the country it represents. He was advised not to wear his uniform while traveling overseas, as servicemen had been targets of terrorists in the past, but he never thought to change, nor did he want to. He wanted the world to know he was in the Navy; he wanted the world to know he belonged to something, hang the consequences.

Again, he has time to kill inside the airport, about three hours before his plane to Aberdeen departs.

He converts some money into British pounds and feels cheated when he is given back less than he turned in. He finds a newsstand and buys some newspapers and is surprised at their tabloid appearance. He expects the country to be more intellectual, based on his observations of those whimsical comedies he saw at home.

The contents of the newspapers are meaningless to him. They are laden with stories about politics and places and personalities he has no grasp or knowledge of and the sports pages are also equally dizzying, displaying features on football and snooker and scores and statistics that are difficult to understand.

He returns to the newsstand to find more reading material but instead buys candy with wrappers that he has never seen and cigarettes in odd-shaped boxes with brand names he has never heard of.

So he sits, eating new candy and smoking strong cigarettes, and watches people as they stroll past him. He scrutinizes the young English girls, especially the ones working in the airport, the girls in uniforms behind ticket and gift shop counters. He studies them with longing and wonders if any of them would ever be interested in him.

He thinks about his life, and decides at this moment to never return to Michigan, to never seek out his mother or father or brother.

He is done trying to love anyone who doesn’t love him back, and he is resolved to make a life and a family of his own.

He stares at the girls and sighs.

Christmas, 1985

Dear Wife,

I’m sitting here in London and I can’t see anything as I am stuck inside an airport and if I had any courage I would wander outside and take a cab and try to see something but I don’t so I am just going to sit here and wait for my flight to Scotland, where I am going to be stationed for the next two years.

I am already looking for you, but I think I’ll know when I find you, when it’s for real.

My mother is basically a slut and I’ve finally realized it, she is running off somewhere with some bozo and my father is only interested in existing, I don’t think he has any feelings and I haven’t had a real conversation with him in years. I don’t want my screwed up family to have an effect on me throughout my life, I want to be strong, and I want to be loyal to you and the family I want to have.

I want my children to have something to stand upon, not a family that might disappear in a blink and leave them with nothing. That’s what has happened to me, but I’ll explain more later and you may already know, I may have told you everything before you even read this. Mainly, I want to be a good person, I don’t want to be selfish.

                                                                         Love,

                                                                         Chris

Father Crowley invites Hinckley and Rodgers to his house for Christmas dinner. There is little Christian about it, but he does prepare a turkey and other traditional food for his young guests.

He makes sure there is plenty of wine and beer on hand, items that he purchases off base, as making alcoholic purchases on base would raise the eyebrows of anyone who witnessed him, the Catholic chaplain, doing such.

He makes sure Hinckley and Rodgers are drinking constantly while he slowly sips a glass of South African cabernet, wine forbidden to be sold in the United States due to the racist practices of the South African government.

Crowley plays Wagner as softly as possible in the background. He feels warm inside as the coal burns in his fireplace and as the young men become more intoxicated. This is his new family. These are his soldiers.

Hinckley and Rodgers are laughing amongst themselves, feeling powerful, befriended by an officer, and enlisted to fight a cause they find easy to believe in.

This violence they have been entrusted with has gone straight to their heads, and they love to boast. Which nigger they’re gonna get next. Maybe a spic.

They both have urges to talk to others on base, other young sailors they occasionally drink with in the club.

Crowley, not stupid, well versed in human nature, senses this and instantly hatches a plan to ensure their silence.

Smiling, he offers them more beer and asks if anyone would also like some scotch or rum. Both young men prefer the latter mixed with Coke. Crowley is pleased to oblige. It will be several more drinks before he puts his plan into action.

After dinner, the three sit in Crowley’s living room. Hinckley and Rodgers are too intoxicated to notice that the priest is loading a gun. It is an inexpensive Argentine copy of a Glock readily available on the streets of Houston and other cities. It was presented to him by a repentant parishioner, a young man who killed somebody with it. Crowley promised him absolution if only he would give him the gun. This occurred in his last weeks in Houston, and he knew what the weapon could and would be used for ultimately. He longed for the opportunity to use it. He took great care to sneak it into the country with him, as handguns are strictly controlled in the United Kingdom. He traveled to this country wearing his priestly collar, and he was waved right through customs.

Crowley sits quietly as the young men continue to drink and smoke.

He himself has only had two glasses of wine, enough to make him feel serene.

“Gentlemen,” Crowley announces, interrupting a one-sided conversation between Hinckley and Rodgers about college football, “let us go for a ride.” And donning their coats, the three step out into the quiet evening. It is about 9 p.m. and clouds lighten the dark sky. The motor of the Allegro at first knocks and then grows quiet as Crowley pumps the gas and puts the car into gear. They find themselves on the empty A92 heading south to Dundee, the headlights illuminating the curves and rises in the road.

Crowley tells Hinckley, who is sitting in the front seat, to retrieve a pen and notepad from the glove compartment. The priest dictates a note to Hinckley:

“Scotland is for the Scottish, a noble nation, white and pure. Signed, The Eastern Scotland Trinity of the Great White Brotherhood.”

In his travels, Crowley came across a small Pakistani neighborhood just outside the city center of Dundee. It is only a few square blocks with a few restaurants and shops and Pakistanis residing in multiple-family units.

Perfect, he thought upon finding the neighborhood while passing through on a clear and pleasant September evening. In a pub, he asked people about the neighborhood, who the dark skinned people were in Middle-Eastern garb. Pakistanis, he was told with a little disdain by a bent-over old man sitting at the bar, chain-smoking Crowley’s cigarettes and drinking slowly from a half-pint glass. Crowley hoped for more displeasure from the man’s voice, more disgust from the man’s face when inquiring about the neighborhood. He was looking for hate and found only irritation.

He has now harvested hate, and it is traveling in the car with him, driving around Dundee, waiting for the streets to be empty and waiting for the right opportunity.

“Which of you two have gone hunting before?” Crowley asks. He parks the car right in front of a closed Pakistani restaurant. “Kebob House” is written on a handmade sign propped in the storefront window.

Rodgers pipes up and claims to be a marksman, killing rabbits and squirrels on his family property with one shot since he was eight. Not to mention deer and ducks and geese and wild turkeys.

Crowley smiles. “Good,” he says. “Then you will be the first participant in our first military exercise.” And he reaches towards the back seat and hands Rodgers the gun. “This has rubber bullets,” Crowley lies. “We’re going to do a bit of target practice and let the good people of Dundee know we’re here. I want you to crack the window and watch the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. I don’t want any part of the gun visible, and I will select your target.”

They sit in the car on the quiet street for nearly an hour. The windows start to fog and the cigarette smoke becomes suspended and odorous in the cold air.

Crowley spots a solitary man coming towards them from the opposite side of the street. He is a dark skinned, bearded and thin man, wearing a turban and what appears to be traditional Pakistani garb—baggy trousers, a long and loose long-sleeved shirt underneath a wool overcoat.

“Okay, Lee, aim for the head,” Crowley commands. “Let’s shake him up a bit.”

Laughing, the drunk but steady Rodgers aims and fires. He is shocked by the loudness of the gun echoing inside the car, ringing his ears.

He is more shocked by the fallen man, his head bleeding profusely from the shot that went right through his left temple. Hinckley and Rodgers become very sober as they see the blood cover the sidewalk, spilling into the gutter, reflecting the streetlamp light directly overhead.

Crowley drives away, forgetting to leave the note he so desperately wanted to leave, ruining an otherwise perfect situation.

“What the fuck?” says Rodgers. “I thought you said the bullets were rubber!”

“I must have made a mistake.” The priest glances in the rearview mirror, looks down side streets. He won’t relax until he is out of Dundee, back on the A92 heading north. “I didn’t mean to make you a murderer.”

Rodgers starts to panic; Hinckley is quiet because of his shock. Crowley makes his point clear. “Silence and devotion to each other is of the utmost importance. If any of us talk, Rodgers will go straight to jail, and I think they have the death penalty in this country.” He pauses after this comment for the desired effect, knowing that there is no death penalty in Britain.

“Look, there is no evidence. We will never be suspected. No one will ever think this was done by someone from the base. This is a defining moment in Scottish history. If I had just left that stupid note… The rest of Scotland would see what we are trying to do and they would rally behind us with popular support, never suspecting that we’re from across the ocean. We have absolutely no way of getting caught.” He pauses again as the car leaves Dundee and passes through the village of Broughty Ferry. Crowley looks in his rearview mirror and over his shoulder for signs of police pursuit, but the Ferry is stark this Christmas night, the buildings whizzing past in a blur as they speed along the highway, and the only sign of life are lamps lit inside the front windows of the elegant homes.

Crowley manages to reassure them some more, but Hinckley really doesn’t need reassuring. He is sort of smirking, seeing the humor in the situation, glad that he is part of this accomplishment, having never really done anything distinct in his life.

“Rodgers, you are a saint,” Crowley continues. “You have the eye of an eagle, and you did the world a great service: there is one less dirty non-white polluting the white world. I would have rather shot a Negro or a Jew, but we’ll take what we can get.” Crowley almost regrets shooting a Muslim. Hitler had wished the German people had chosen a more militant, loyal religion, not the soft Christianity that flourished throughout Western Europe. The Muslims would die for Islam; it had been centuries since a Christian had died for Christ.