DECKER: Episode One (An Adaptation)
What follows is my fictional adaptation of Tim Heidecker’s brilliant series, DECKER. Permission has been granted by Tim Heidecker for the writing of this story. If you enjoy DECKER as much as I do, I hope this short story satisfies your imagination. Thank you.
DECKER: Episode One (An Adaptation)
It’s hotter than a mug of chili in August and this Afghanistan sun is a torch. Decker dismounts a black motorcycle, tips off his helmet, scans the lone desert road. He tucks his American shades tight over sweat-strewn eyes to shield the heat. He swats dust off his signature black slacks and blazer, checks his pistol—clicks off the safety.
That sun swells, looms closer. Decker’s alone, deep again in the dangling fireballs of this foreign battleground. It’s like he never left, knows this dead man’s land better than Jackson Hole. But some devils won’t stay down for the count. Hence, our hero, Decker. Our only hope.
Time to roll. A shrill ring in his pocket. He palms a jet black cell phone, flips it open. It’s the president. Business only, boss. No time to chit chat politics when the fate of the world flagpoles like a stripe around the neck of our stars.
All of a sudden, a truck roars past, full of armed men. Decker stands still, blends into the air like a mirage. Tires crunch gravel. Blurred faces. A bullet to the head and Decker would be down. But you can’t stop freedom. Decker’s finger twitches, each of those scum, he thinks, a kill shot to the temple and that’s that. He watches the truck grow smaller, vanish.
Cross the road. Decker’s zoned in on a small hill bristling with trees and rocks spread out like battered skulls. There’s no path. Doesn’t need to be. “Afghanistan,” he says. “After all these years still fighting the Taliban, mono e mono. When will they learn that you can’t bring a knife to a gun fight? Our DRX Patriot cruise missiles could take out one of their villages where the rats hide in ten seconds. But our pussy-ass politicians are too scared to pull the trigger.” Decker picks up a thin branch, breaks it. “So, I have to go in and kick ass one man at a time, mono e mono. When will they learn? First, I have to get intel from my source, a traitor to his own people, but an asset to the United States of America. I’m running to meet him now.”
And we’re off. Decker’s scaled the hill to the top and he’s a cougar huffing, clearing rocks and clawing past trees to a spot only he can pinpoint. Hear him breathe dirt. Boots clomp sand, spit wind. Faster. Faster.
Decker skids to a halt in the middle of a clearing. He checks the time, reads zero four hundred. He takes a deep breath, face scowls. The smell of the enemy reeks. No man knows what lurks in this heat. But Decker’s no man you’ve ever met. “Believe it or not,” he says, catching his breath, “Afghanistan can be very beautiful this time of year.” For a moment, he imagines his family, shrouded in fog, a sepia-stained memory boiled black.
A twig snaps like an AK-47. And like that, armed with superhuman speed, Decker spins, right hand already pulling at his piece. From a dense clump of brush, arms in the air, one hand gripping a brown briefcase, the other unarmed. The man yells in Arabic, “Don’t shoot! Stop!”
Decker nearly drills a round into the man’s turban, but hangs limp, wavers at the last second. The source. It’s him. Decker sighs, tries to break the shock. “Abdul,” he says, “can’t sneak up on a CIA agent like that.” But Decker was poised to kill. He’d heard his contact coming, just wanted to give him a thrill, show him what this old Langley boy could do if pushed to the upper deck.
And Abdul, a thirty-something Afghani in flowing white, eases forward, that briefcase trembling in his tight grip. “I found this briefcase in my master’s office,” he says. “I believe it may contain plans to destroy America with a nuclear bomb, but I cannot know this.”
There are hundreds of languages in the world, tongues of all sorts, but Decker is a linguistic ninja with the gift of suave lips. He’s mastered the dialect, fires fluently back in Arabic, “Let’s open it up and find out.”
“Impossible,” Abdul says. “It is locked and I do not know the code.” From the look on Abdul’s face, Decker reads fear. It’s easy to spot a man with nothing left to lose, easier to spot a man who loves his country enough to give up the goat. And there’s always a way to give up the goat.
“I have a solution,” Decker says, pointing his pistol at the case. He aims.
Abdul shrieks, pulls the briefcase to his side. “No! Decker, if you pry it open it will send my master an alarm and the briefcase will explode killing us both.”
Certain death? Decker thinks. Let’s go for a spin on that pole, from sea to seashore, but instead says, “I hate bombs.” And one look at the shrapnel scars and bullet wounds that litter Decker’s rigid body, one know this to be true. Decker. Hates. Bombs.
Abdul looks left, right. He’s nervous. Decker’s seen it before, the lusty eyes of a hot rat.
“You must break the code,” Abdul says.
But before Decker can examine the goods, his phone rings again. He lets it sound once, twice, but no, what if the president thinks he’s been slaughtered, mown down in the mud and sends in the cavalry to take out the slop? They’d blow this entire operation to balls. Now or never. “Hold on a minute,” he says to Abdul, answers the phone. “What is it?”
In the Washington D.C. flash of an eagle’s talon, we’re a frumpy suit, sweaty tie too tight, and nerve-clenched fingers in the Oval office. “Decker,” the president says, his graveled voice more a command than a question, “where in the hell are you?”
Decker’s eyes hit the horizon. He snarls his lip. “I’m in the shit doing your dirty business.” Some things never change.
The president clears his throat, wipes his dirty brow. “Any news from the source?”
“Mr. President,” Decker says, noting the way Abdul fidgets, “I’ve got something here that would make you shit your pants.”
“Intelligence?” the president says.
“The motherload.”
The president squeezes the receiver harder. “Really? Bring it back here to Washington D.C. at once.” He licks his lips, yellow teeth gleaming. “I’ll be awaiting your arrival.”
“I’m on my way.” Click. Decker pockets the cell, arches eyebrows. “Abdul, thank you very much for your help in securing me this very important secret document.” He reaches out, Abdul passes Decker the briefcase. “I’m going to take this back to Washington and make sure we get this code open without exploding the package.” Abdul takes a step back, but Decker stares him dead on. “I know you’ve risked your life and your family’s life to make this exchange happen and therefore I’m grateful and the country salutes you—but let me just tell you, this is going to make our country safer and, in turn, we’re going to help you provide freedom, safety, and security for your own country, because that’s what America has promised you. That’s what America is going to deliver no matter who the president is.”
There’s something about Decker’s cold honesty, how he stares a man dead in the eyes, about the way his voice torches the sun with a cool breeze like a monument of liberty. Even Abdul feels it salute his desert heart. He raises his head and, in perfect American English, says, “My pleasure.” With that, he’s gone, turban fluttering down a trail of dust.
Hot wind chops the air, kicks up sand around Decker, sending branches to sing in the wind. It’s a Blackhawk and it’s swooping down on Decker. Like clockwork. The boys have arrived. He raises his arm to catch the thick military-grade rope that drops from the chopper. “Alright,” he says, looking up at the troops, “lower the rope. Bring her down.” He grabs the rope. “Alright, I’m ready. ” And the Blackhawk spikes up, hoists him and the briefcase to freedom. “Thank you, Abdul,” he says, tracing the young man’s tiny shape as he runs, shrinking smaller and smaller. And Decker leans back in his leather seat, surveys the oceans of sand that stretch for miles and miles on all sides. Another day done. Time to deliver the shit to the big man himself and let freedom ring us home.
To Be Continued…
