Wong was getting pushy now, “General, what did you think of the corrections tapes, officer debriefings, and the tape of Yule’s fights with the Chechen prisoners and canines?”
The General was gruff, “The man’s a killing machine no doubt. But, I cannot imagine him being part of a functioning military unit. I’d sooner send a rabid chimp on an op.”
“Exactly, General! Gentlemen it is our belief that Yule, and his associate, the mass murderer T.T. Redbone, born Maurice Anderson, are among a number of Cold War Soviet plants, inserted into American society circa Nineteen-eighty in advance of what both sides then perceived as a final battle. Gentlemen, if you were to set out to design a post-apocalyptic war-fighter you could do no better than Yule. The nexus of inert synapses joining his cerebral hemispheres I believe, await activation, an order—an order that will never come—from a Soviet program that has long since disappeared.”
There were sounds of disbelief. But Wong forged on—what a crackpot!—“We can only guess at how many like Yule are out there—perhaps it is only the two. In any case, in Yule, we have a wonderful opportunity to enhance our own R en D along these lines. Doctor Irvine and I believe that, given Yule’s extreme social isolation and what has indeed been his manipulation by criminal organizations, that we could cultivate him as an agency asset, a prototype at least.
“Director, General, Yule has pledged his cooperation and is currently under the influence of our most potent chemical interrogation agent. We invite any of those present to question Yule concerning his state. Please keep in mind that that he has implanted memories that are to him factual, and these must be respected.
This dude is selling you like his own project.
Hell, if it was an infomercial I’d watch the rerun.
I wonder if he makes a juicer. I like me some juice.
Well it’s a better deal than solitary and they said you could see Joan, and maybe I can swing a date with this Major-chick—a horny old broad she is.
You are hopeless boy.
The lady spoke up, “Yule, your bullet wounds, where were they sustained?”
“Juarez and Detroit.”
“Yule, who trained you in combat shooting?”
“Sergeant Joseph White Feather, U.S. Army Special Forces, retired.”
“Thank you, Yule.”
While this lady was whispering to an aid the General spoke up, “Son, I’m General Thompson.”
“Yes Sir.”
Wow, a real general talking to me!
The General was a tall aggressive man and he came close enough to stand and look down into Jay’s immobile face. The General’s voice was hard-edged, “Son, how did you know Sergeant White Feather?”
“He was my commanding officer on the first mission, Sir.”
“Describe him?”
The general is pissed at you dummy.
250 words withheld from online post
That really stings!
“Arrggh!”
He had to stop for his head to cool down again before continuing, “…fer betraying us. So Sir, I done mutinied by now en took up with Three-Rivers.”
“When did this all happen son?”
“September of Fifteen-thirty-eight, Sir.”
The General turned to Wong, “I’d like to continue?”
“Of course, General!”
“Son, who are your handlers?”
“The”—oh that burns—Mother stop it hurts!
He could hear his cries of agony echoing through the chamber as he came to in a cold sweat with the General’s hand on his chest. “I’m sorry son—no more questions…”
Wong spoke up, “General, proceed please. We are imaging his brain. I would like the Director to view the image as you proceed along this line of questioning.”
The General seemed uncertain. Then Jay looked up at Ervine, “Can I see her Ervine, tonight?”
“Ervine squeezed his hand reassuringly. “Yes Jay, we’ll bring her in.”
He looked back up at the General. “Go on Sir.”
“What can you tell me about Mother Corp son?”
“She”—no, oh Mother, no, stop!
He woke again when the searing pain in his mind abated, to Ervine and the General holding his hands. The General was pissed. “Son, I’ll bring her in myself. I just have to speak with her first. I’d like to ask you one last question.”
“A course, Sir.”
As he spoke he could feel the salty water pooling off of his body.
“It’s two questions actually: how did Sarge feel about amphibious ops; and what did he like about his step father?”
He felt his face crease in a wide grin—this dude knew Sarge!
“Well, Sir he had a low opinion of amphibious operations—spooked by dem actually. He chewed me out fierce one time fer fightin’ like a Marine—made me sleep in a ditch ‘cause I launched a frontal counterattack on a beach. En he oways said he like da way I talked even dough he busted my balls ‘bout it, ‘cause he said his step-dad had talked dat ‘uneducated shit’ too—”
The General stood. “This briefing is over. Wong get him cleaned up, he’ll have a visitor soon. Director, you don’t mind me assuming control here, do you? It is obviously a military matter. Not even Doctor Wong has accused his subject of being an intelligence operative. He is just a mayhem machine, right Wong?”
A very polished older male voice spoke up, “Doctor Wong, I am transferring this project to the General’s command. Major Foote, I trust you will take care of the paperwork.”
Jay gasped, “Thanks Irv. Can I see her face?”
Ervine patted him thankfully on the arm, just as his stomach began turning. Ervine then drugged him up again—he knew by now what that pressure in his left forearm was.
For once, as he drifted off into his drug-induced slumber he began to dream…
He was sleeping in a great poplar tree about thirty feet up while the little handicapped Iroquois boy with the pet Robin and squirrel friends, danced around a hovering dream-catcher and sang his name; a name that was dreadful to some but made his heart warm, made him feel like he belonged: DeathSong.
Yo, Squirrelboy, here I am! Up here!
The little boy whistled into the sky for him, as if he did not know that the man he was calling was sitting behind and above him on this wide branch, hollering like the last hillbilly in a condemned trailer park. The boy then raised his voice in a smooth singing timbre, so different from the squeaky voice he had once spoken with:
“Tears-in-the-darkness, fall to me,
Fall free—bring your bloody hands to me…”
