Charles Sheehan-Miles's Blog, page 32

Insurgent Chapter 4.3

Interlude 3 − Spring 1998

Joe Blankenship looked in the mirror and adjusted his tie and collar where it chafed against his neck. Too tight: he'd gained near enough to 30 pounds of solid muscle in the last six months, but the money wasn't there for new clothes. Why Mandy had insisted on formal dress for this date he didn't understand; but he did understand that when she wanted something important to her, he went along unless there was a damn good reason to do otherwise.

He sighed. After dinner the four of them, Joe and Mandy, Bobby and Zoe, were headed to a performance of some play by some godawful amateur playwright at the Charleston Players.  A double date in the city was awesome. But he'd have been happier with a football game and some beer.

Ah, well. Make the best of it, Joe.  He straightened up and loosened his top button just enough he could breathe, leaving the slightly loosened tie to hold his collar more or less closed.  She'd live through the embarrassment he hoped.

Joe washed his hands and stepped out of the bathroom, back into the dimly lit restaurant. He was sure the food would be good, but not as sure it would be worth the outrageous prices listed on the menu. He walked back to the table where Mandy sat with her brother Bobby and his girl. Zoe and Mandy were giggling about something.

Joe caught his breath looking at Mandy. She wore a blue and white checked dress, with thick shoulder straps, and a tiny silver necklace and matching earrings. The dress had a form fitting bodice and a flared skirt. Times like this, she was amazing.

He sat down next to her, leaned over and whispered, "Have I told you tonight, you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life?"

Mandy's face flushed red, and her smile grew as her eyelids fluttered.  "No," she whispered, "but don't let that stop you." Joe whispered something else, and her lips parted, moist. Her eyes darted to the table and she curled against him.

Naturally Bobby chose that moment to interrupt his sister's slide into danger.

"Mandy, did I tell you I saw Dad the other day?"

She immediately tensed, put her palms flat on the table. "No," she said in a cool tone of voice.  "Where? DId you talk with him?"

Despite Joe's silent barrage of complaints against his best friend, Bobby continued.  "Downtown, he was coming out of the pharmacy.  He 'bout blew a gasket when he found out about your early acceptance."

Mandy, prim now, back straight, replied, "Why? He's off the hook for tuition, why should he care when and where I go to college?"

Joe nearly growled, but kept his irritation to himself. Instead, he gently took Mandy's left hand in his own right.

Bobby shrugged.  "Dad, you know? I don't think he approves of either one of us going to college."

"Fuck him. I don't need his approval."

Zoe gasped at the curt response as well as the uncharacteristic language. "Mandy!"

Joe's eyes widened. Mandy didn't use language like that, ever. Except obviously she did sometimes. Silently praying they could find a way to change the subject before it ruined the evening, Joe said, "Forget about him. I'm proud of you, Mandy. Amazed."

Bobby responded, "Well, she's a mental giant, especially next to you, bud."

Joe shrugged. "True enough, though I was smart enough to fall in love with her."

Mandy smiled at him and squeezed his hand. Bobby responded by sticking a finger down his throat and pretending to gag. Zoe slapped him on the shoulder.

"Seriously though," Bobby said, "Dad's … a mess."

"Oh for God's sake, Bobby," Mandy blurted out. "He's been a mess for years. What's new about this conversation? Does he have to ruin our night out, just like he ruined everything else in our lives?"

Bobby's lips tightened. "He didn't ruin everything, and he is our dad. I don't understand why you aren't the least bit concerned about him."

"That's because you didn't have to spend three years fending him off raping you, Bobby."

Half the restaurant went silent at Mandy's response.  She looked around them, horrified that she'd spoken so loudly, then whispered in a tense voice, "Now can we please change the subject?"

Bobby's face was red, and he responded in a loud voice. "How can you say that Mandy? He never once put his hands on you. He's our father."

Zoe leaned close to Bobby and whispered something urgently. Joe felt Mandy's hand tighten on his in anger.

"No!" Bobby replied to Zoe.  "It's time I said it. It's her fault we've been stuck in a foster home the last two years."

Mandy gasped. "How can you say that?"

The hostess, a pencil-thin twenty-something woman in black pants and a tight jacket appeared the table.  "Excuse me, would you all mind keeping it down? Your disturbing our other guests."

Bobby gave a nasty look to the hostess, then muttered under his breath, "You know its true. Dad was crazy, but it was manageable. Then you had to ruin everything. Look at him now, he's like a hobo, drunk all the time, living off his disability.  You should have some feeling for your family."

Joe leaned forward and said in a low, cutting tone. "Bud, you may be my best friend, but it's time to shut your mouth. No one has a right to talk to Mandy that way."

Bobby said, "You stay out of it, Joe. This is between me and my sister."

The impulse passed from Joe's brain to his fist before he had a chance to think of the consequences. He hit with a straight short thrust, clipping Bobby on the chin and knocking him out of his chair.

Someone in the restaurant let out a scream, and Joe found himself standing with no transition, looking down at Bobby on the floor.

A moment later, the restaurant's manager, a large, big-boned man with red hair stood there. "That's it. Get out now, or I call the cops."

"'S'all right," Joe responded. "I lost my appetite anyways. Let's go, Mandy."

Zoe kneeled down beside Bobby, who simply looked stunned. "Come on, Bobby, let's go."

Moments later they left the restaurant. Outside, Joe faced Bobby. His pulse still raced with anger. "Are you finished, damn it?"

Mandy took Joe's arm, whispered, "Calm down, Joe."

Bobby cupped his chin where it was bleeding and said, "Yeah." He sighed, then looked at his sister. "I'm sorry, sis. I shouldn't have said that stuff."

Mandy burst into tears. "You're sorry! Do you have any idea what a nightmare it was for me since Mom left? Every time Dad got drunk, I had to keep my door locked! I never knew when he was going to come around trying to paw at me. He wasn't just drunk, he was wrong! Every night since then I've thanked God we don't live with him anymore. You want me to have sympathy for him? No, thank you. Maybe one day I can learn to forgive him, but don't you ever tell me it's my fault. I was twelve years old when he started! Twelve!"

She turned and hugged Joe, burying her face against his chest and began sobbing; big shuddering sobs that shook her whole body. He put his arms around her waist and held her tight.

"Oh, shit," Bobby said. He sat down on the curb, still cradling his chin. "I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry." He looked up at Mandy, pain writ on his face.  "Mandy, forgive me. It's not you, never was. Sometimes I'm just… so angry."

Mandy broke away from Joe and sat down on the curb next to her brother, then put a hand on his shoulder. "I don't blame you, Bobby. So am I. It's not you, and it's not me, and it's not even Dad, I think. I'm sure he wasn't always that way.  It's the town we live in, and the mine, and the accident, and everything. It made him crazy and … mad as hell. You protected me from him, and don't think I don't know that."

Joe kept his mouth shut, but joined the party, sitting down next to Mandy.  Zoe sat down on the other side of Bobby, took his hand. After all, he was the asshole of the night, so the girls gave him all the sympathy and attention. Joe didn't want to call attention to himself at this point: when Mandy was on an anti-Whitesville rant, she would often remember that Joe hadn't applied to a single college. Not that it would have made a difference, with his grades. But the odds of him finding work outside the mine were slim to none, no matter how lovely the economy looked.

Mandy suddenly smiled.  "Do you remember before Mom left, when he used to come home from the mine with roses every Tuesday? There Dad would be, covered head to toe in black dust, but holding that red bouquet?"

"Yeah," Bobby said. He took a breath, then added, "Sometimes I could kill her for leaving."

Mandy's smile turned bitter.  "Me too. Not for leaving, I understand that completely. But for leaving us with him. I never understood why she didn't take us."

Silence settled over the foursome, then Bobby looked over at Joe. "No hard feelings, Joe? I'm not sore, I deserved it."

Joe nodded. "Yep, you did. No hard feelings, bud, your still my best friend, even if you are a blockhead sometimes."

Bobby chuckled, then replied, "Someday we'll look back on tonight and laugh."

"Well," Zoe responded, "I won't be laughing if I don't get something to eat before the play."

Mandy nodded. "Me too."

"Well, since the fancy french restaurant we couldn't really afford is out… how about pizza?" Joe stood, then took Mandy's arm and helped her up.  He grimaced, then looked at his hand, just beginning to really hurt from where he'd hit Bobby.

Mandy giggled, then gave Joe a kiss on the cheek.  She whispered in his ear, "I haven't forgotten to thank you for trying to protect me, Joe."

Joe whispered, "I'll always be there to protect you, Mandy. No matter what."

Insurgent Chapter 4.2

"Damn!" Corporal Jim Turville said, as the humvee hit a deep pothole with a loud thump, splashing mud across the entire front of the vehicle.

"Sorry," said Santiago, pulling the wheel hard to the left. The streaks of mud on the windshield quickly washed away under the heavy rain and the powerful rhythm of the wipers.

Turville leaned carefully to his side so he could look up at the blue and black clouds that marched across the sky. His neck didn't hurt as bad anymore—very much a relative state, unfortunately. Above him, the contrasts in the sky were dramatic as a strong northerly wind pushed thunderheads over them.

"Crummy weather," Santiago said.

"At least it's not snow."

"Yo, man, you are right about that."

Quiet reigned in the humvee for the next several minutes.  Behind them, standing on a small platform, PFC Tilman manned a machine gun.  Nowell had his face buried in the latest Seth Harwood paperback.  He was an absolute junkie for crime novels.

"Turville, can I ask you a question?"

Turville looked over at Santiago.  "Yeah, what's up?"

"What crawled up Corporal Meigs's ass?" As he asked the question, Santiago's face twisted in anger. He was usually pretty a pretty level headed guy. The obvious anger was more than a little unusual.

"I don't know. What did he do?"

Santiago waved his hand, as if trying to scare away a bug.  "Eggh …. Yesterday when we were headed back from chow—Tilman and me, anyway—out of the blue he comes up and starts messing with us.  Uniform out of order, we're slouches.  Man, I ain't no slouch. I bust my ass.  Besides, he's not my corporal, you are. What the hell?"

Turville grinned. "Santiago, if I had a clue what was up with Meigs, I'd let you know. I don't.  He's always on top of somebody—used to be me.  I'll talk to Sergeant Nguyen about it if you want."

"Yeah, I want.  If you don't mind."

"Sure."

They rode in silence for a few minutes, then Nowell chimed in.  It only took a second before Turville wished he hadn't.

"He's pissed at you, Turville.  It's about that Bronze Star—he doesn't think you should have gotten it."

Turville turned his head—too far—back toward Nowell. A cry burst from him and he twisted his body around to accommodate the pain.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Nowell shrugged. "I'm just saying, Turville.  I heard him bitching about it right after the formation."

Santiago muttered, "Motherfucker."

Turville shrugged. "If it wasn't that, it'd be something else. Meigs is just a very angry dude.  I don't think it has much to do with any of us.  Anyway, let me know if you he gives you any trouble."

"Cool," Santiago said, nodding his head in rhythm with his entire upper body.

Turville carefully turned back to the front. Ahead of them, the road continued to twist in hairpin turns up and over the mountains.

They weren't that far from where the platoon was ambushed last week.  However, they were arguably better prepared. The patrol—the entire platoon this time—was spread out in 12 humvees, each driving more than 50 yards behind the one in front of it.  Four squads of nine riflemen each, plus the heavy weapons squad with its twin M-240 machine guns. All in all, more than 40 well armed and pissed off men.  It would be a foolhardy militia-member that attacked this column.

Of course, that was just while they were on the move.  Once they settled into Whitesville and its environs, things might change fast. The company was moving into Boone County to stay.

"Where you from, Santiago?" Turville asked.

"Me?  Hondurus."

"Yeah?" said Nowell, chuckling.  "How come you're not in the Honduran Army?"

Santiago jerked a thumb back toward Nowell.  "PFC Nowell thinks he's funny, yeah. It's no laughing matter.  I make good money since I've been in the Army, and I get my U.S. citizenship quickly.  Once I have that, I can bring my wife and son to live with me."

Turville stared in silence, but Nowell chimed in—again. "Well, I'll be damned. You got a wife back home? But you're always checking out the girls!"

Santiago looked in the rearview mirror. "My friend, I said I was married, not castrated."

Turville laughed.

A shout from Tilman, above them, cut that short.

"Heads up. Car!"

"Easy guys," Turville said.  Make sure you have your weapons, but don't do anything with them. Clear?"

The others murmured assent.

The vehicle, coming around a switchback toward them, was a brown and white pickup.  Maybe twenty years old, maybe more.  Turville felt himself tense as it approached.

"All elements, this is Blue Six," they heard over the radio. "Maintain calm, report any problems. Blue six, out."

"Yeah," Turville said. "Keep it chilled."

"And if it's some fucking hillbilly terrorist?" Santiago replied.  His voice was screwed up tight.

"Then we're fucked."

Santiago spat out the unzipped window.  Scarcely a second later the pickup passed them headed in the opposite direction. The driver, a woman in her forties with deep lines her face, waved and smiled as the drove by.

"See?" Turville said, trying to keep his sign of relief quiet enough the others couldn't hear.  "Nothing to it."

He nearly jumped out of skin when Nowell leaned forward and shouted "Boo!" in his ear.

"God damn it, Nowell!"

Santiago chortled.  "Corporal Turville, you're all right."

"Sorry, Turville," Nowell said. "I just couldn't help it."

Turville shook his head and laughed.

Insurgent Chapter 4.1

"So what is your assessment?" asked Al Clark.

At the moment, Clark sat at the small conference table in the Governor's office, next to a window overlooking downtown Charleston. Valerie sat at his right hand. Only a few days had passed since their release from the federal lockup, and she was still unusually quiet. Her lack of responsiveness made Clark nervous: somehow he felt that if said or did the wrong thing, she'd fall apart.

Asa Vance Hatfield sat across from Clark. Formidable in frame, the former soldier and cop had risen through the ranks of the State Police, and had been acting Secretary of the Department of Military and Law Enforcement since the end of the war. Which led to this meeting: Clark was convinced Hatfield was the wrong man in the wrong job. While there was no evidence to indicate Hatfield was doing anything to inflame conflict, there was an equal lack of evidence to indicate he was doing anything to bring it to a stop.

Hatfield shrugged in response to Clark's question.  "Governor, it's not so much a question of what is wrong, as it is, what is right?  We're out of money.  Right now I'm at less than one-third of our pre-war strength in the state patrol, and those that stayed are at half-pay.  The Department has about three weeks reserve, and then we'll have to let most of those troopers go: I've already laid off virtually all of the administrative staff. On top of that, the Feds have taken the entire state National Guard prisoner, so we have no capacity to respond to disasters, and frankly I don't think we'll get any help if we ask."

Clark frowned.  "Why is that?"

"I wouldn't care to speculate on that, Governor.  What I know is, it's been three months and we don't even have power through half the state.  Charleston is a war zone, Governor. In 2016 we had 37 murders in this city. It's April now, and so far this year there have been more than 250.  We've got gangs moving in because there's no cops on the street.  Businesses closed, lights are out half the time, and there's no jobs.  Street crime, theft, burglary, it's all through the roof. Bottom line, Governor, is we need help, and we need cash, and so far I've seen nothing from the feds."

"I see," Clark said.  He leaned against the table, tenting his hands in front of his face. Hatfield was angry, but he had good reason to be. The question, of course, was could he be effective in his job?

"Have you talked to General Murphy about it?"

Hatfield scoffed.  "No offense, General.  I realize Ms. Murphy here is his niece, but Tommy Murphy could care less. He ain't half the man his brother was.  Yeah, I talked to him, way back in January, and at every damn cabinet meeting since. I need help, not more talk. And I don't trust a man who took his own brother prisoner and saw him executed."

Valerie flinched at the blunt words. Clearly the man had no diplomatic instincts.  That did it.  Tom was right about replacing Hatfield: he needed someone who could go to Washington and persuade Congress to part with some cash.  A lot of it.  And the person best qualified to do that was sitting right next to him.

"I understand, Mr. Hatfield.  Well, we're going to be making some changes which I hope will get you some help. I'm shortly going to be making my appointment for the permanent Secretary's position.  The candidate I've got in mind right now has a lot of experience in Congress, and ought to be able to get Washington to send some money our way."

Valerie tensed up next to him. Hopefully she'd wait until Hatfield left before she blew her lid.

Hatfield's face turned bright red. The man was clearly not very good at hiding his feelings.

"With all due respect, Governor, I can't think of anyone more qualified to run this department right now than me."

"On the operational level that's true, and I expect you'll continue to run the day to day affairs.  But we need someone with some political savvy, and Washington experience. You've just outlined the problem yourself, Mr. Hatfield. West Virginia is bankrupt, and without some emergency funding we can't get cops back out on the street.  You stay focused on that. Thank you for stopping by."

Clark stood. He didn't have time to get drawn into a debate with Hatfield.

Hatfield stood stiffly, his hands bunched into fists, held stiffly at his side. His face was still red, and one eyebrow twitched slightly. Despite his obvious difficulty controlling his rage, when he spoke it was relatively calm.

"Well, Governor, I hope you are right about all this. Lord knows we need some help."

They shook hands all around, and Hatfield left.

Valerie immediately turned toward him.

"Al, you aren't suggesting what I think you are."

Clark leaned against his desk.  "Of course I am. I've never met a better organized or more motivated person than you.  I intend to announce this afternoon than I'm nominating you for the job."

Valerie shook her head.  "Al, I'm not ready for this. I have zero executive experience.  I've been your chief of staff, and that's it.  Don't you understand?  Besides—I'm still—look, I'm still pretty messed up over the last few months.  I don't want this job."

Clark tried to soften his tone.  "Valerie, I understand. It's been a traumatic time. You'll be better off with something to sink your teeth into. I can't think of anyone who would better for this than you. I need you."

He knew she would respond that to that, if nothing else.

He shoulders slumped, and she whispered, "All right. I'll do it. I don't want it, I don't think I can do it; but if you insist, I'll take the damn job."

"Thank you, Valerie."