Black Ops

The intense heat. The surrounding sounds of the jungle. Bird calls, insect chittering and the dripping of the vegetation. This was hell and Jake was being punished.

His patrol had picked this route as they knew the Vietcong used it .His squad had to stop and kill them.

No warning, just a sharp burst of crossfire and the enemy would be dead. Another small victory in the general disaster that was this endless war.

“Ahead, Jake!” Hank shouted. “The place, where we can catch them unawares is just ahead……..” He didn’t finish for the wave of bullets cut him down and he vanished below the murky water, turning the water, blood red as he sank.

Charlie came out of the surrounding foliage like charging bulls, guns blazing. All around him Jake could see his colleagues being cut down like wheat. Blood flew freely in the humid air and the indigenous sounds were drowned out by the screaming of dying men.

A Vietcong soldier rose out of the water in front of Jake. He just seemed to grow and grow until he towered over American soldier. All Jake could see was the black hole of the enemy’s rifle pointing right at him. This was death! He was going to die! It was the end!

Suddenly, a hand grabbed Jake and began shaking him. The jungle vanished, the Vietcong disappeared and all Jake could see was the ceiling and walls of a room.

“Wake up! Wake up you crazy bastard! You’re dreaming. That’s all!” someone shouted and he was given another hard shake.

Jake found himself lying on the floor with four men looking down at him.

“I told you we shouldn’t use him. The reason he was kicked out of the Army was because he had P.T.S.D! This mission depends on everyone having a clear head and this s.o.b. is damaged goods!” a large man with curly black hair said, turning from the group.

“Listen here, MacFarlane!” said another man. He was shorter but stockier built. “Jake Harman is the best shot among us. You all know that!”

Jake got up off the floor and dusted himself down. He was dressed in camouflage kit and was wearing black hi top boots. Pushing aside his comrades, he pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one. As he drew the smoke deep into his lungs he contemplated the other men in the room.

Joss MacFarlane was a giant with a broad chest and burgeoning muscles. He had commanded the 54^th Clash Squad out in ‘Nam and was the leader of this impromptu gathering.

Next to him, stood Ferrie Spicer. A sergeant from the Clash, he was the ‘scrounger’ of the group. Nothing was too hard for Ferrie to obtain, whether by foul means or fair.

The weaponry for this mission had been ‘scrounged’ by Ferrie from his sources.

“Well I still don’t like it!” roared a black man who too was standing by the door to the room. Asha Beillie had been a tracker with the squad. It was said that he could smell Charlie and had warned of approaching V.C. long before their presence had betrayed them.

The final member of the group was Zak Granger. Zak was a wizard with explosives. Often during the Vietnam War he had set charges to totally destroy enemy camps leaving food and fuel reserves untouched. It was said that he carried odd bits of plastic explosive in his pockets.

Jake was no slouch himself. A black belt karate expert, he had fought the Vietcong single handed at times and won. He had been a ferocious warrior and had given the enemy no quarter, earning himself numerous medals and awards. That had been until he had led a raid into the Xenong-Chi peninsula. Then it had all gone wrong.

The enemy had been waiting for the American soldiers and had slaughtered everyone except Jake. A passing bullet had scraped across his scalp and knocked him unconscious. Falling into some thick vegetation he had avoided being killed or captured by Charlie.

Jake had come to later, but the sight of all his dead comrades had just pushed him over the edge. He was sent back to the States and discharged from the Service. It was considered an honourable discharge by everyone else but Jake, who thought of himself as a failure and had become something of a recluse. His sleep was haunted by scenes from that final mission and until he had sought medical help, he had often woken up screaming. Now he was on medication and his nights were far more peaceful - when he remembered to take his pills.

Six months ago the phone had rung and upon answering it Jake found himself speaking to his old commander of the Clash Squad, Joss MacFarlane.

“How’s it going old friend? I’m glad to hear you are still in the land of the living.”

“Joss, what…? I didn’t think you would want to have anything to do with me after Xenong…! Jake spluttered.

“What’s passed is passed,” growled Joss. We, I mean the squad are getting together for a ‘piss-up’ tonight. We wondered if you could make it.”

“Of course I can make it. Where are you meeting?”

Joss had given Jake directions to a bar down on the waterfront. Jake recognised the name and knew of its insalubrious reputation, but it would be perfect for the gathering of the motley crew.

Jake looked about the smoke filled bar, his eyes searching for anyone he recognised.

“Are you going to stand around like a nancy boy all night?” a voice roared from across the room.

Jake walked over to a table which sat clear of the others. Round the table sat all his old colleagues.

 Ferrie Spicer had been the one that had shouted and he continued his diatribe.

“Well guess who it isn’t? How’s it hanging Harman?”

“Fine, Spicer,” grunted Jake, taking in the rest of those there. “How is it with you guys?”

After sitting down, one drink followed the next and soon Jake’s senses were mellowing and he felt a twinge of the old camaraderie that had existed before …Xenong. They were all talking freely and although snippets of previous campaigns came up, none of the men touched on Jake’s nemesis.

The bar cleared early due to the weather. A storm was forecast for later that night and its forebears were beginning to make themselves known. Rain began to appear on the windows of the bar and whenever the outside door was opened the moan of the rising wind could be heard.

When the last person had left, Joss turned to Jake and point blank asked,

“Are you fit for a sortie? Cause if you aren’t then we all better start making tracks  to get home and beat this ‘big blow’.

Jake’s ears pricked up. “What type of sortie?”

“The one that make you some real money, Harman,” hissed Zak Granger. “If you’re in?”

Asha Beille spread a large map onto the table. “If you’re not in, I will have to kill you!” Asha said giving Jake a large broken toothed smile.

Jake looked down at the map expecting to see rivers, mountain contours and towns, but what he was looking at was a street map of downtown Manhattan!

“What’s this?” he said, with a start. “This is New York!”

Over the next hour Joss explained what it was all about.

He had received a phone call from a foreign embassy sited in a very expensive area of the city. Upon arriving, Joss had been searched thoroughly and then led to a small room deep in the bowels of the building. There he had been presented with a very lucrative assignment, which, should he make known to anyone else apart from a team he should organise, he would be killed.

“We have to take down a senior diplomat from Zaravia,” Joss said. “He’s been making it difficult for the embassy’s homeland, applying trade sanctions and advocating cutting aid to the country. They know that his replacement will remove all the problems after we complete the mission.”

Jake sat back in his chair. Any inebriation slipping away as the cold reality bit home.

“How are you planning on carrying this out?”

Asha pointed to various areas on the street map. “Granger will set explosives here and here to cause a diversion. I will lob a few smoke bombs and increase the hysteria. Zak and Joss will be down on the street to take out anyone who gets in the way…”

“And my role?” he asked already knowing the answer.

“You, my old buddy,” said Joss, putting his arm round Jake’s shoulders and indicated a spot on the map. “Will be sited on top of this building and will take the bastard out!”

The rest of the discussion was surreal for Jake. The senior diplomat was to be attending a premier opening of ‘Swan Lake’ at the Metropole Theatre in lower Manhattan. Weaponry had been supplied and Zak had already sited the explosive diversions.

“All it requires is a twitch of my finger on the remote,” Zak said showing the group a small black plastic control box.

“The pay off is substantial,” said Joss. “And has already been paid into an offshore bank account.”

The men agreed that they would meet at Joss MacFarlane’s house on the next night and fine tune any problems that they could foresee. They would all sleep there and travel together to be in position for the following evening.

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"That's as far as it went this time. Job failed to execute, no death, murdering or carnage this time Doc" sweated Jake.

Tick tock, tick tock.....the clock ticked and tocked as Jake lay on Doctor Stones couch. He found himself here again, trying to explain away another violent episode in his nightly routine.

"Ok Jake, this one is much the same, another similar story, another similar flashback" heaved the Docs voice. "Reaching deeper, it's throwing up all the same signs....extreme fear, horror, helplessness......"

"Session over for now my friend. Keep on the medication, keep level headed and remember the control techniques we've practised. Next session, Tuesday, same time."

Jake got himself together and left. The Docs door slamming behind him as if......he wasn't really welcome, just another buck to be made for the Doc.

Back on the streets Jake was a nobody. A nothing, a non-entity, a jobless ex- war hero. Without a future, getting by,.........barely existing.......

............... He was a somebody once, controlling life and death. Trusted by important people, able to get the job done....no matter what.....

 He had a flat and a girlfriend now and that was it. He didn't have the need for anything else but his sanity,......he wanted back his sanity!!

He stopped at the liquor store on the way for some medication, he was heading home. A lousy girl in a lousy apartment, in a lousy city, in his lousy world. But it was his world and he was content to a point.......

........He threw the door open, rested what was left of the Scotch and undid his belt buckle....."Cmon baby, daddies home.........." as he took her and threw her onto their love chariot.....

"Daddies hungry for something"......she breathed.

Stripped and sweaty, he pounded her, owning her, being in control, they only way he knew and wanted.....and she did too.

Being an ex- callgirl, she ached to being used and abused.

After heavily seeding, spending all he had, he grabbed her hair and playfully kissed her. As lousy as she was, he loved her, they were good for each other and she kept him together.

Together, worn out, they slept till morning......

It was a new day and no dreams last night, it was good, all good....so far. He was heading out, downtown, he had a few errands to run.  Trying to live a life of normality didn't come easy but it did come sometimes, even briefly.

On arriving home a few hours later, he came up the stairs to find cops at his door. Scarlett stood explaining he wasn't home. They went inside.

What had happened?, what had he done?, nothing, his life was scraping the barrel but he was clean, crime free.

The cops sat down, "whats this all about?" he pleaded.

They threw him an envelope, "Know anything about this?"

It contained a Zippo lighter, with the words engraved:-

                                                          We the unwilling,
                                                      Led by the unqualified,
                                                      To kill the unfortunate,
                                                       Die for the ungrateful.

"Doctor Stone is dead"

"Shot with an M14,......you know the rifle they used in Nam"............


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Jake stared at Zippo lighter, then at the cops. This wasn’t good cop bad cop; they were both glaring at him – both bad cops.

Jake just stared. It made no sense; he couldn’t get his head round it. He knew that he had to come up with something –and fast! An alibi would be a start…but this was insane, the story made no sense!

Maybe that was it – he had lost the plot completely! Was he having one of his episodes? But no, it couldn’t be that; Doc had said he was getting better. . .

Doc! Poor Doc! He didn’t deserve – who would do such a thing? Me, me! (?). Apparently it was me . . . but –

‘Doc was alive when I left him!’

The cops exchanged a glance.

‘Was he?’ The senior cop spoke. ‘What time was that?’

Jake couldn’t remember, exactly . . . sometime after his afternoon session, whenever that was – it could be checked. The cops asked for details. They wanted an account of his movements for the last twenty four hours. And they wanted to know about his cloths: what had he been wearing, had he changed clothes?

And off course they continued to ask about the Zippo lighter and the M14 rifle. The lighter certainly looked like his old Zippo, but he hadn’t seen it in months. He‘d lost it and replaced it with one of those horrible disposable lighters. He missed his Zippo.

As for the M14 rifle, he hadn’t seen one or used one in years . . . not since . . . Nam.

The cops listened but they were not buying it. And their demeanour changed once they got him to the station. If Jake had thought the cops were hard on him before, it was nothing compared to the treatment he received now. It was a real grilling. There was no restraint; despite Jake’s protests of innocence they were convinced of his guilt, and they pressed for a full confession.

Not only were they convinced of Jake’s guilt, they were also convinced that Jake was, as they saw it, a nut job! The psychologist tended to agree, though he moderated his opinion with more professional terms. He talked of schizophrenic psychosis and delusions. The cops stuck with ‘nut job’. Jake’s protests that he had been set up only confirmed their opinion.

Jake’s lawyer was his last hope, but even he seemed less than convinced; he’d heard the protest ‘I’ve been set up!’ too often by clients who invariably turned out to be guilty as hell.

The first thing the lawyer said was ‘ok, Jake we need to get your story straight’. It wasn’t a good start and it got worse. Apparently the prosecution had a cast iron case. Forensic evidence nailed Jake to the murder scene and they had expert testimony concerning Jake’s mental state. It was all damning.

Jake’s lawyer was trying to convince him to plead guilty. They had gone a few rounds into the argument, with Jake remaining obstinately unpersuaded, when they were interrupted by the guard. He announced that Jake had a visitor; it was his old combat pal Ferrie Spicer!

‘Hi Jake, I’ll bet you weren’t expecting me!’ Spicer smiled his crooked smile.

‘Spicer! Can’t say I was, - it’s brilliant to see you’

‘I have information for you’ Spicer looked thoughtful.

‘I know who is behind this sorry mess . . . you’ve been setup, but it’s going to be hard to prove –’

 ...........................................................................................................................................................

Ten minutes after Spicer had left his cell Jake’s whole demeanour changed.  Whatever Spicer had said affected Jake, turning someone on the edge into a fully fledged cuckoo.

Night shift at the police station consisted of one custody officer with oversight over half a dozen cells. Soon the night guard was irked by the sounds coming from Jake’s cell, singing words to the tune of a vaguely familiar military march:

‘Oh the monkey wrapped it’s tail around the flagpole, round the flagpole, round the flagpole!’

From the other cells came a chorus of voices, exasperated at this impromptu and mediocre concert. ‘Shut the Hell up!’

But the singing became louder and louder, after a few choice remarks about Democrats and 'commies'

‘Oh the monkey wrapped it’s tail around the flagpole, round the flagpole, round the flagpole!’

Then came Jake talking to himself in a loud voice:

‘Were you there on the grassy knoll?........the CIA had that one…. commies………….worse than that day at Xenong,...... commies………woo hoo here he comes…the monkey…wrapped in the flag.......the star spangled banner….come back Joss all is forgiven……CIA plant…cover-up.........commies’

Finally the custody officer could take no more, he banged the door of the cell with his truncheon

‘Shut up in there!’

His intervention only succeeded in starting Jake’s singing again, this time song about a monkey at the white house going to see the president.

The officer opened the hatch to insist Jake shut up.  Instead he found the barrel of a handgun pointing straight at him.

Jake said coolly and icily ‘Now fatso….open up this door……or your brains will see the light of day’.  The officer’s hands were shaking as he opened the cell door, Jake struck him on the head with the barrel of the gun, then dragged his unconscious bulk into the cell.

Jake told his unconscious police officer victim 'you have the right to remain silent!' 

Then he looked down at the officer and laughed saying 'squeal like a pig, boy!' as he began to strip the cop's clothes off. 

A few moments later Jake emerged from the police station, dressed as a police officer.  The clothes hung on him though, the officer had been a real porker. But he had fallen for the old replica gun trick, a toy gun Spicer had smuggled in. 

One thing was not a trick however, Jake had completely flipped.  He laughed and chuckled to himself saying ‘I always wanted to be a cop! I think I'll go on a Commie hunt!' 

He got into a police car and began to cruise the streets of the town. Jake tried out the siren for a bit.  He really liked it.  He saw a couple of people talking on a street corner and tried to run them down.  He laughed as he saw them in his rear view mirror, scampering away like little terrified lemmings.  He shouted 'run commie maggots' out the window at them.  

Hearing a call on the police radio, advising of an escape from the police station Jake answered it saying:

'This is Car 27.  That criminal dog puke will not escape'.  

The police dispatcher replied 'What's your call sign car 27?'

'Commie-maggot hunter' Jake replied.   Then he tore the radio from the dashboard and hurled it out the car window.  

Eventually Jake pulled up outside a small hick tavern, ‘Gerry’s Bar’ it was called.

A row of old barflies propping up the bar on their barstools turned to look as Jake strode in, looking quite dishevelled now in his badly fitting uniform. He introduced himself as Rambo and smiled.  John J Rambo to be precise.  Then suddenly his whole demeanour changed: 

‘ALRIGHT THIS IS A POLICE CRACKDOWN’ Jake bellowed ‘ALL YOU GUYS WHO VOTE DEMOCRAT ARE HEREBY UNDER ARREST’

The old barflies sat open mouthed as they watched Jake stride over to the bar, grab a bottle and throw it at the tall glass mirror above the till.  The barkeeper ducked below the counter to avoid the shards of glass and broken bottles falling everywhere.  The old barflies scattered, running for the hills!

The barkeep shouted ‘Someone call the cops, this guy’s crazy!’

Jakes voice barked out in a mocking reply ‘You moron, I am the cops! It’s you commie voting Democrats that are the crazy ones!’

He then stuck a little cocktail umbrella in his hair and began to sing 'Oh the moon shines tonight I'm pretty redwinged!' , laughing and dancing about like a mad man. 

Hearing movement from below the counter Jake chucked another bottle and managed to bring down the stuffed Moose's Head on the wall.  It landed with a crash on the floor.  

'I hear a little commie rat scurrying about!......come out commie rat.....Jake has a nice piece of cheese for you!'  

Jake leapt behind the bar and picked the poor barkeeper up by the scruff of the neck,  sitting the quivering wreck on the bar facing him.  

Then Jake began his rant 'The Alamo, those were REAL men.  Thanks to them we speak English today and have FREEDOM!  But little commie rats like you would give it all away.  You commie!  You filthy commie! Where were you when I was in 'Nam?  You little runt maggot puke! You lousy little worm!' 

The quivering barkeeper managed to splutter out a few words: 'You're insane...........insane!'

Jake replied 'I'm an American and you're an algae sucking commie toad!' 

..............

When the real cops arrived there was no sign of Jake. 

The barkeeper was tied to one of the barstools with the Moose antlers strapped to his head. When the cops removed the soggy beer mat that Jake had gagged him with  he ranted incoherently about a rogue cop, police brutality and suing the police force. 

Some say Jake lived for a couple of years in an old log cabin in the woods, emerging periodically to indulge in a bar fight.   A tourist claimed to have seen him in a strip bar in Thailand. 

Another year a guy in an Obama mask caused a security alert at the Democrat's Convention in Atlanta, ranting about commies and conspiracies.  Some say it was Jake. 

But of the man himself there was no sign. 

Wherever Jake was, he had made the FBI’s most wanted list!