Solitaire's War

By Robert James Allison

A deep cover agent emerged from Vietnam at the end of the war, but for him the war never ended. Out of Vietnam he brought a fervent sense of duty and debt, but the reasons are suppressed in his subconscious, because he can no longer bear to recall them. In order to pay a debt to his lost comrades, a debt he can no longer even visualize, he continues to serve his country, a country that he allowed to take away his identity so thoroughly that even he does not remember who he was or how he got to where he is. He exists,lives, and works alone, under different names in different places, completely outside the rules and laws of the country and society he protects. His identity gone and his life an endless cycle of missions, he is forever walking on the edge of an unmarked grave, waiting for the day he won't be fast enough, smart enough, good enough, or lucky enough—waiting for the day his debt is finally paid.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert James Allison
• Release date: Feb 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301686001

Robert James Allison

I was born and raised in Decatur, Illinois, but moved to the Moweaqua area around 1991. I like small towns and rural settings, as does my wife of thirty-five years, Barbara. We have two grown children, John and Anna to whom I dedicated my first book, The First Suitor. I started writing about fifteen years ago as a diversion from my regular job as an attorney. At that time I had been practicing law in Central Illinois for about fifteen years and was looking for another avenue to exercise my writing and organizational skills. Now after thirty years of practicing law I would like to write full time, but yet I find myself full time in the law and part time in writing. I enjoy telling stories and some would say that all lawyers are born fiction writers, because fiction is all they write in the first place. I have to admit that there is some truth to that.I have had five books published with Wings ePress, Inc., and more manuscripts in the works. I recently started the process of removing all of my books from Wings and putting them on Amazon in Kindle format and other digital sites. In the future I plan to publish all of my books in ebook format on various sites such as Amazon and Barnes & Noble. Some new books will be going up soon, too.Recently I have retired from the private practice of law and have relocated to Louisville, Kentucky.I try to draw on my experiences in the practice of law and my life experiences in general to give realism to my stories and characters. In the 1970s I served in the U.S. Army as a Military Policeman and in the late '80s, I was a Captain in the U.S. Army Judge Advocate General Corps, Army National Guard. I have been to Germany, France, Belgium, Holland, and many of the United States. I like to work the settings of the places I've been and things I've done into my stories. I write romance into almost every book, but it isn't always the main theme and it is never explicit or vulgar.I am foremost and always an entertainer and that is why I write fiction, but I try to make it real and believable as well as entertaining.

Book preview

Solitaire’s War

An Action Adventure

Book One of the Solitaire Trilogy

by

Robert James Allison

Copyright © 1998 by Robert James Allison under the original title Solitaire – A Christian Novel

Published by First Suitor Enterprises at Smashwords

February 2013

Cover photo:

The author’s Bible and service revolver

All rights reserved

Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

First Suitor Enterprises

www.RobertJamesAllison.com

This e-Book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-Book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

To those who anonymously serve the United States of America amidst

danger and drudgery.

Chapter One

Nurse Captain Virginia Wilke held the cold, clammy hand and watched as the life very visibly slipped out of the young man. Nothing was left to do, the doctor and two other nurses were doing all that could be done, but she knew it was no use. The young man’s body was too badly damaged—destroyed really. She had seen it before, many times in many places, most notably in Vietnam. She had learned the hard way that sometimes the best and only thing to do was to stay by their side as they moved from this world to the next. She had stood that vigil often and it never got any easier.

Flat line, the nurse at the young man’s head stated calmly as a steady alarm sounded on the monitor and the line depicting the heart rate, or lack of it, went flat.

Defibrillate, doctor? she asked.

The doctor glanced up from the bloody mess that used to be the young man’s chest and said, no, not again. It won’t do any good, his heart is torn up. That explosion ripped his chest open and emaciated every vital organ.

Virginia thought, this makes ten. When is someone going to take notice? This can’t be right—something is horribly wrong. God help us.

~*~

Evan Lansing let his Jeep Cherokee roll to a stop outside the restaurant at 10:59 a.m. He switched off the ignition, opened the door, and stepped out onto the gravel parking lot fronting the small one-story wooden building. The large plate-glass window in the front of the restaurant clearly reflected his image and as he walked, he studied his appearance. His face appeared to be set in stone and it had a handsome, yet rugged appearance which revealed the story of a man who had seen his share of pain and death. His dark, closely cropped, and neatly combed hair was in complete contrast to eyes that were void of emotion, cold, and lifeless. At first glance he didn’t look like a large man, but his six foot height and 180-pound frame had the look of hardness, a hardness reflected in his very movements. As he walked, the muscles of his back rippled under a tight, black, knit shirt and each step accentuated the solidness of his legs now covered by faded blue jeans. He was only 30, but his appearance said that he was not to be trifled with or constrained, a man whose lifestyle had aged him before his time, but not weakened him.

The heat of the late August summer was stifling as he made his way slowly across the parking lot. There were only a few cars in the lot and that was fine with him. Less people made for fewer complications. The strong, hot, south wind swirled the dust as he reached the front door. He stepped inside, stopped, let his eyes adjust from the bright sunlight to the dimness of the room, and then scanned it.

The cafe was small with a short counter. In the center of the room there were tables and along the front outside wall there were booths. In the last booth, he saw the man he was looking for wearing a bright, red, short-sleeved shirt and a blue baseball cap. The man was facing away from the door, looking idly out a side window.

Evan walked slowly toward the booth, but stopped short of it and slid instead into the next booth. A waitress appeared and without looking up, with a voice as hard as his face, he ordered a cup of black coffee. While the waitress was away getting his coffee, he stared out the side window and watched the traffic speeding by. After the waitress had returned with the coffee and left, he spoke evenly, to the back of the man’s head, Looks like rain.

The man’s head started to turn, but Evan said quickly, Don’t turn around. You don’t need to know or want to know what I look like. His tone emitted an urgent and deadly warning.

The man’s movement stopped and he turned back facing directly away, as the blood drained visibly from his face and neck.

After a few seconds of hesitation, the man ventured a response, Thunderstorms maybe, but later.

I heard possible hail.

Not likely this time of year. Too cold, the man answered tentatively.

What’s up? Evan now asked.

His confidence rebuilt, the man responded crisply, "Fort Gordon, Georgia. Ten dead trainees in the last two weeks. Some in training areas and some not, but all on post. All supposedly accidental.

The Dispatcher thinks that’s a little too high of an accident rate and wants to know why. Nothing more to go on than that.

Less than a minute after having received the message, Evan was twisting the ignition on his jeep. Dropping the gear selector into drive, he drove out of the parking lot, turned right on the highway, and headed home.

He was back home by noon and wheeled his jeep handily up the gravel drive, passing the small one-story white house and turning sharply left into the garage. He quickly crossed the driveway to the house, unlocked the back door, crossed the kitchen, turned down a short hallway and into his bedroom. In the far corner, he eased a dresser out away from the wall. He slipped his finger into a knothole in the wood paneling and gently pulled outward. A portion of the paneling swung out and disclosed a metal door the size of a loaf of bread stood on end.

Reaching into his pocket he took out a ring of keys and unlocked the door. Inside the cabinet lay a Smith & Wesson nine-millimeter automatic pistol with a holster, and three clips loaded with nine rounds each of nine-millimeter, 125 grain, hollow point, semi-jacketed steel bullets. Toward the back were two 50-round boxes of the same ammunition. He took out the pistol, holster, and the three clips. He left the bedroom, turned down the hall, crossed the kitchen, and went out the back door.

Outside, he placed all of the clips in his front left pocket, clipped the holster inside his pants in the small of his back, and drew the pistol. He worked the slide of the automatic back, locking in a nine-round clip. The gun made a sharp metallic clank as the slide went forward, chambered a round, and locked into its forward position.

Almost unconsciously, he grabbed the hammer between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, while pulling the trigger, allowing the hammer to rest in its forward position against the firing pin and flipped the safety catch into position. He slipped the gun into the holster and continued to walk across his backyard.

Some 40 feet from his back door, he made a brief stop at a large two-story red barn and retrieved a paper target about the size of a medium pizza. He walked another 100 feet to a dirt berm and placed the target on a wooden stand. Turning, he briskly walked back toward the house, pacing off about 30 yards.

When he decided he was at the right spot, in a blinding flash, his right hand retrieved the pistol from the holster as he spun to his left. The gun came out of its holster smoothly and as it did, he brought it on line with the target, released the safety catch, brought his left hand up and under the butt of the gun to rest it in the palm of his hand. All the while, he was gently and steadily pulling the trigger for his first shot.

The first round went off just as the sights came on line with the center of the target and he pulled the trigger eight more times, evenly and in rapid succession, adjusting automatically and ever so slightly in between each shot for the recoil. After the ninth shot, the slide locked back and he depressed the magazine release button with his right thumb. He smoothly removed a second clip from his front left pocket with his left hand, slammed it into the butt of the gun, and released the slide with his right thumb within a split second.

Nine more shots later and just as fast as the first nine, he released the empty clip, locked the slide forward, eased the hammer down, flipped the safety catch on, stuck in a loaded clip, and slipped the gun back into its holster. The entire episode had taken less than 20 seconds from the time that he had started his spin.

When he checked the target he noted with satisfaction that the center of it was gone. Eighteen shots in 20 seconds and not one had missed the black center of the target, which was about the size of a silver dollar. Still got the touch, he thought and after removing the target from the stand, he turned back toward the house.

As he walked back to the house and tossed the target into a burn barrel, he was filled with the same sense of uneasiness and dread that he experienced every time he took his nine-millimeter out of its hiding place and tested his proficiency with it. What kind of man am I? he thought, destroying the center of a paper target is one thing, but doing the same to men? The same old doubts and recriminations reared their ugly heads and saturated his thoughts.

What brought me to this? he dismally asked himself. Boyce Tomlinson, he answered out-loud and then thought, Boyce Tomlinson’s death brought me here, to this place and to this end. It had been years since he had thought of him.

By the time Boyce Tomlinson’s name had reached his thoughts, he had reached the back of the house, but his thoughts were now on a face from the past, so instead of turning for the back door, he turned to the yard table opposite the driveway, the continuing sense of dread weighing heavily upon him.

He recalled that Boyce had been a good kid, too young to die, and one of the last soldiers to die in the Vietnam War. He was declared dead in the last days of the withdrawal of forces. The records indicated he was killed by a direct mortar hit, no trace left. There had been no wife, no kids, no friends, and no parents, since they were both killed when a drunk driver crossed the centerline, one New Year’s Eve, a few years before his death. Boyce never drank alcohol again after hearing of their deaths.

He chastised himself for not having thought of Boyce for so long, but he was a part of his past and memories dull with time, purposely so, in his case. He could see him now though, in his mind’s eye. A young, robust, twenty-year-old who was full of life, even in the depressing Vietnam war theater which had been so full of pain, destruction, and death.

Evan missed Boyce and decided that was probably the reason he thought about him so rarely these days. In my case you can sometimes remember the past, but you can never go back, he mused, and even the memories are full of ghosts.

Well, he grimly thought, as he pulled himself back to reality, I had better get moving. Yesterday is gone and tomorrow never comes. Time is every man’s enemy.

As he got up from the yard table and turned to head for the back door, he heard gravel crunching and he looked up to see a black Chevrolet Celebrity turn into his drive. Tensing slightly, he turned back to face the car as it rolled slowly up the driveway. He was trying to remember where he had seen it before. As the car came closer he could see that the man behind the wheel was a middle-aged man with slightly graying hair and he was dressed in what appeared to be a dark suit, sporting a very loud tie.

This arrival had put him fully on guard. Visitors came to his house rarely, if ever, and he didn’t encourage them, he was a loner and he wanted it that way—it had to be that way.

The car stopped and a man of medium build, about five-foot-nine with deep wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes, got out of the car. The man’s hair was tossed by the breeze as he approached and with a smile on his face said, Good afternoon, Mr. Lansing.

Evan responded easily, but warily, Afternoon.

The man continued, seemingly unaware of Evan’s tenseness, I’m John Wilson from Mt. Zion Lutheran Church, and I wondered if I could talk with you for a few minutes.

Evan relaxed slightly and responded, Oh, yes, I remember seeing you at church. You’re on the Board of Elders, aren’t you? In fact, your boy Johnny mows my grass and watches the place for me when I’m gone.

Yes, Mr. Lansing that’s right. Did you get a letter from the Board of Elders recently?

Yes, I did and please call me Evan.

Okay and I’m John.

Have a seat, Evan said and motioned him to the table.

When they were seated John squirmed slightly for a few seconds, creased his face in a frown and then dove right in with both feet. I suppose you know why I’m here.

Yes, I got the letter. You see I travel a lot in my work and sometimes I’m gone for long periods of time. I guess I just assumed everyone knew that.

"We thought it was something like that, but some of our other members who are in similar situations bring back the occasional bulletin.

Maybe something like that could work for you? It isn’t mandatory.

Evan thought for a full minute before he responded, he looked at John Wilson, who was clearly uncomfortable being here, listened to the birds singing their summer tunes in the orchard to the south and tried to formulate an answer. It sounds easy enough, but how do I explain to this man that I can’t do that, because to do so would tell someone where I’ve been? Patterns might be established in my movements and that could put me at risk in the future. How to tell this man that this simple request can’t be accommodated without life threatening consequences?

He finally said, yes, John...I can see your point, but you see in my line of work I sometimes don’t get to go to church when I am away.

Exactly what line of work are you in? John asked innocently.

Evan hesitated slightly and responded, I’m an agri-business consultant for the government. I have a degree in agri-business and I freelance with the government. So I never know when I’ll be on a job or for how long. In fact, I’m getting ready to leave on another job right now. That is mostly true, he told himself. After all, my records do show an agri-business degree, even though I’ve never been to college.

I see, John responded. That sounds kind of exciting. Traveling around and seeing different places and people all the time.

It can be, yes, Evan responded absently and thought, if it doesn’t kill you first.

Well, I’ll explain the situation to the Board of Elders, he said as he stood up.

John changed the subject and said, I like your place, it has a very pleasant atmosphere, broad expanses of yard on all sides of your house, that beautiful rustic red barn with a matching two-car garage and that small tree enshrouded lake back there. It’s really nice and peaceful.

Standing, too, Evan said, thanks, John, I really like it here. Thanks for dropping by. As he finished, he stuck out his hand and John took it in a parting handshake.

After the car had backed out and disappeared down the road, Evan glanced at his watch and thought, I’d better get hopping.

He reloaded the empty clips from the spare ammunition in the gun safe and started packing. It was nearly noon, he needed to be getting ready, he had plans to make. He threw his clothes into his suitcases, went into the kitchen, fixed lunch, and wolfed it down.

Finished with lunch, he grabbed his suitcases, carried them out, and put them in the back of the jeep. The contact had told him what the job was, but the details of his cover would come later by different means along the route to Georgia. He already had a pretty good idea of how this assignment would need to be played and he had planned accordingly.

He went back into the house and took his Bible down from its accustomed shelf. As always, he began reading by opening the Bible at random and reading the first full chapter his eyes fell upon. Each time he read his Bible, he tried to reconcile his beliefs in God, and what God expected of him as a Christian, to his profession, but the insight eluded him. The dread always seemed to prevail.

He didn’t perceive himself as a bad person, or a good one, rather he saw himself drifting somewhere in between. His profession conflicted with his moral beliefs and he often contemplated this conflict. Especially, just before entering upon the storm. The calm before the storm, he thought, perhaps that was it.

He held no illusions. His abilities were useful and necessary in a manner of speaking, but not something to instill pride in one’s self.

He had fought for his country in Vietnam and other places. He had been shot at for his country and wounded more than once. Once, long ago, he had even been called upon to die for his country. The United States of America meant everything to him, but he held high moral principles, too and reconciling them with his duty to his country was a serious undertaking, one of the most serious he had ever encountered, and he had encountered many.

He put his Bible in the last bag he was to take to the car in the morning. He didn’t always take his Bible on a mission, but this time he would.

~*~

Early the next morning, well before sunrise. Zero dark thirty hours, as we used to say in the army, he mumbled out-loud to himself, the time of departure had come. It was still and very hot as he left the house and crossed to the garage. Backing his jeep out, he drove out of the drive, turning south he traveled a few miles on the country road and then turned left to cut across another narrow country road to catch the highway.

Forty minutes later he pulled off the road into a gravel-covered rest area, which sported a pay phone that could be used from the car, a few trees, and nothing else. He eased the jeep up to the phone, killed the engine, and dug a quarter out of his pocket. He dialed the 800 number he had long since committed to memory. As he waited for the connection to be made, he slid his hand under the dash of the jeep and felt the butt of the nine-millimeter in its holder. His quarter rattled in the returned coin slot and he listened to the seemingly endless series of clicks as the call was connected and answered almost 1,000 miles to the east.

Dennison, a gruff, gravelly voice, said into the phone.

Evan responded calmly and evenly, Solitaire. The bird is on the wing.

Right, the voice identified as Dennison responded curtly and the phone went dead.

As Evan hung up the receiver Dennison had already picked up a different phone and dialed a number he had also long since committed to memory.

Solitaire is in the field. Signal the stations.

~*~

Evan dropped the jeep into drive and pulled back onto the highway. It was a long way to Georgia from Central Illinois.

Thinking back over his conversation with John Wilson he realized how his absences must look. He had always just assumed that everyone at church knew his job took him away for long periods of time, but then again, he thought, I can’t recall the subject ever coming up. Lacking good social skills, he had no friends who could have been privy to that information. Not only was he a lonely man, with a lonely life, but as a matter of self-preservation, he was intentionally anti-social.

Another reason that the church is so important to me, he decided, is that there has to be some place to go to belong, even in a limited sense. There has to be some refuge from the storm, but I can’t tell the elders about that. No one around his home knew of the storm and no one around there could ever know.

He was entering the storm now. He no longer feared the loss of his life in the storm, in a way the storm had claimed that long ago, but rather, now he prayed that the storm would not also steal from him his soul.

Chapter Two

At the first rest stop inside the Georgia state line, Evan sat in his car and waited for the lone public pay phone to be free. An early afternoon haze hung in the adjacent stand of pine trees and with his window open he could smell the dampness of the woods and the heavy pine scent drifting on the gentle breeze.

The caller finished and walked away, Evan slid out of his jeep and strolled slowly up to the phone. He lifted the receiver with his left hand and at the same time reached under the shelf with his right hand to remove a magnetized key box. He pretended to make a call, hung up the phone, strode back to his jeep, and slowly drove out of the rest area. In seconds he was back on the interstate and cruising at 70 mph.

About an hour later, he left the interstate again and turned west on a two-lane highway. Five miles farther west, he came to a small town with a sign boasting a population of just under 3,000. It was a sleepy Monday afternoon, very few cars were on the streets and even fewer people were venturing out into the sweltering heat and humidity. The bus depot he was looking for was easy to spot, it was one of only three buildings with a sign hanging out over the sidewalk. Parking was easy to come by and he took the first available spot, shutting off his engine and quickly climbing out of the jeep. He didn’t want to be in this town any longer than absolutely necessary, he had miles to travel before he could sleep, but not rest, he never rested anymore—anywhere.

Inside the tiny, unkempt brick depot the heat was stifling and there were no people in sight. Even the small lunch counter across the room was abandoned. He found the locker with the number corresponding to the number stamped on the key he had picked up at the rest stop.

He unlocked the locker and casually took out a medium-sized suitcase that he knew would contain all of the items he had ordered. Quietly, he closed the locker door, gripped the suitcase firmly in his left hand, and quickly left the depot. As hot as it had been inside the depot, it was hotter outside. A strong breeze was being funneled up the narrow street from the south creating a blast furnace effect. He was glad to get back in the jeep and the air conditioning. Sweat was making his shirt cling to his back and chest as he headed back to the interstate. Reminds me of Vietnam, he said to himself, this stinking humidity always smells like death.

~*~

Just 36 hours after having left his refuge, he was cruising east on Interstate 20 just short of his exit onto I-520 south and the main gate to Fort Gordon, Georgia. He had been here before, but not for a very long time.

As his jeep glided down the interstate he recalled some of the vague memories from his last visit. It had been in the late ’60s and the Vietnam War was in full swing. He had been just 17 at the time, fresh out of basic training, and still just a raw recruit. At that time Fort Gordon was the Military Police Training Center and every military policeman trained at Fort Gordon.

The memories of the fort’s layout were dull and faded though, especially since he had only been at Fort Gordon for two months before being shipped out to Vietnam, along with his entire MP company. That company never returned. Thirty percent never lived to see the end of the year. He was one of the lucky ones. No, I was the only lucky one, but he also knew it hadn’t been only luck.

The past caught up with the present as the Fourth Avenue gate came into view. He pulled to a stop at the small, wooden, gate shack. Fort Gordon was a closed post entirely ringed with chain link fence and its six entrances closely guarded by armed military police.

An MP, with highly polished black, leather gear and a nine-millimeter automatic pistol slung low on his right side, approached his jeep. Can’t be more than 20, Evan said to himself. The MP stopped, snapped to attention, smartly saluted, and said, good afternoon, sir. May I see your identification please, sir?

Evan reached into his army tunic, which had pinned upon its shoulder epaulets the twin bars of a captain. Evan slowly and without menace, drew out a small black leather case with a green military identification card inside, identifying him as Captain William Adams, Military Police Corps—term of enlistment, indefinite.

The MP looked closely at the identification card and scanned the inside of the jeep.

The MP said, sir, you will need to drive through the gate and pull over up ahead. Then come into the guard shack so that I can record your vehicle information and give you a temporary vehicle pass. I’ll need a copy of your orders also, sir.

Evan nodded and quickly returned the MP’s salute. He pulled off as directed, swung out of the jeep, and walked back toward the guard shack as the heat and humidity once again slapped him in the face. He carefully crossed the two inbound lanes and upon reaching the guard shack, he stepped inside and handed the MP a copy of his orders. It was refreshingly cool inside the shack as a small window-sized air conditioner hummed in the background. The MP gave him a temporary vehicle pass.

Evan then said, as he gestured toward a small table propped against the back wall, I haven’t been to Fort Gordon for a long time and I could sure use one of those maps.

Of course, sir! Glad to oblige and you have a good evening, sir, the MP responded and snapped another salute, as Evan took the proffered map and reluctantly stepped out of the coolness of the guard shack and crossed to his jeep.

When he was back inside his jeep, he turned the air conditioner on high and relished the cool waves of air as he studied the map and plotted out his course to the Bachelor Officer Quarter’s, BOQ for short, the military loved acronyms. A BOQ was where transient officers stayed unless and until they were assigned permanent quarters on post—which would not happen to him.

His orders indicated he was to report to post headquarters at 0730 hours tomorrow morning. That would give him the rest of the afternoon to get settled into his quarters, eat a bite of supper at the officer’s open mess, also known as the officer’s club and much later, do some preliminary scouting of some selected training areas. When on an assignment he wasn’t one to waste time.

The BOQ was located on the opposite side of the post and his route took him north on Fourth Avenue right through his old MP training company area. The memories came back in a rush, despite having been suppressed for years. They were accompanied immediately by the sadness of comrades lost to him forever, in a far away and almost forgotten land. Comrades he had trained with, run with, eaten with, joked with, and in the end, fought with to the death.

Since those days here at Fort Gordon and two years after in Vietnam, he couldn’t honestly say that he had ever again had a comrade or friend. Acquaintances, yes, but friends and comrades, no. Too much had happened since those days and he had successfully and by necessity shut out almost every living, breathing, human being he had come into close contact with, for fear of losing them, or worse, for fear of trusting them too much.

He trusted in his own abilities and God, but nothing else. He had long ago decided that to do otherwise was deadly to himself and a hindrance to his duty. So after Fort Gordon and his first two years in Vietnam, he shut out the world and became more of a ghost than his dead comrades.

He passed through the old training area, blocked out the memories again, and continued through the main post to the BOQ. He found a convenient spot in the BOQ parking lot and walked to the front entrance. The building was the same as all the other buildings on the fort. A two-story, wooden-framed, rectangular building, painted dull green. The only distinction it had was that it had curtains in the windows. A BOQ was much like a civilian motel, but on a much smaller scale.

Inside the front door and directly across from it was a registration desk where he once again left a copy of his orders and filled out more paperwork. The private first class in charge of the desk was very efficient and very young, Evan was feeling much older than his 30 years. Has it only been 13 years since I was here? It seemed to him more like several lifetimes ago, and in a manner of speaking it had been, many, many lifetimes ago, or at least many lives ago.

He made a couple of trips out to his jeep and up the stairs to his second-story room, looked around, and found that the room met his expectations, which fortunately were not very high. The room was about 15 feet by 15 feet and there was a single twin bed pushed up against the wall; using the wall for a headboard. A small, well-used end table stood in the corner next to the bed and sported a reading lamp. A tall reading lamp was sitting next to a lounge chair and a single dresser was up against the inside wall. A solitary window afforded a view to the north. A small personal-sized refrigerator was jammed in a corner by the bathroom door, undoubtedly a bathroom shared with the adjoining room. Taking a last look around he stepped out into the hallway and wearily made his way back down the stairs. He turned left once he was out the front door and walked leisurely down to the officer’s club just a block down the street to the west.

In the club, he ate his meal in a semi-dark corner by himself. He had chosen a small table that backed up against a corner so that he could eat with his back to the wall. The lighting was dim, but not so dim that he couldn’t easily see the other diners and there were quite a few. The walls were covered in a dark-brown wood paneling, and several high chandeliers provided the lighting. The dining room had a pleasant rustic appearance and the walls were decorated with paintings depicting military scenes. He cataloged all of this information for future reference. He survived on information. Information of all types and information gathered in the most unlikely places, at the most unlikely times.

He never knew when he would overhear something that might be useful in the future or keep him alive just one day longer. Plus, he was on a job and his job was uncovering information that gave way to answers. Answers to questions asked by the people who sent him. People whose names he knew, within certain limitations, but people who didn’t know his name.

Evan Lansing wasn’t his name. Evan Lansing was the name he used in Central Illinois. He wore names and changed names as most people changed clothes. Names, were just labels that meant nothing by themselves. Right now and for the past few years the name Evan Lansing had been his label.

In the area he now resided, not lived, he didn’t really live anywhere, the people knew him as Evan Lansing, but not many outside that area did. The name Evan Lansing was generally not know by anyone, including most of the people in the organization. He didn’t know who or how many people knew his real name or if anyone from the past still remembered it or was alive to tell it, if they did.

... I tell you something is squirrelly out in training area 142. I can’t put my finger on it but it’s…, the voice faded away to a whisper, no longer distinguishable by Evan, who was immediately alert and straining to hear more, but no more would come. However, his eyes missed nothing. The voice came from an officer of small stature, about 40 years of age, he guessed, who was seated across the dining area.

He watched the mannerisms of the man as he continued to speak, although he couldn’t hear the words, the mannerisms led him to conclude that the man was in earnest conversation with another of equal rank and that both men were apprehensive about the subject matter of the conversation.

For the next few minutes he studied both men thoroughly. The other man at the table was a man of medium build with red hair. A little older than Evan maybe in his late 30s, Evan calculated and younger by far than the first man. Evan felt compelled to be able to recognize either of these men in the future should he encounter them in different surroundings. This was important information, he knew it in his bones, but at present he didn’t know why.

Apparently someone else was thinking what the people in his organization were thinking and that could be very important. Not only that, he said to himself, it could be very dangerous for either or both of these men.

As he watched, but heard no more, the men finished their meal and got up from the table. Evan stood up, too, tossed a few dollars on the table for a tip, and followed the men out of the room, but not too closely. Just outside the dining area was a counter with a cashier. He slid in close enough behind them to take a quick glance at the check. The first officer, who had been the speaker he had heard, had signed for the meals to be charged to his club card.

Uncharacteristically for a hasty signature, this signature was relatively well written. Evan just had time to make it out before the cashier picked it up and placed it in the charge box, Stephen L. Peters. Okay, Evan thought, it’s a start, as he paid for his meal.

He followed the men as they left the club and watched as they got into separate cars, heading for parts unknown. Straightening his cap on his head, he noted the air seemed slightly cooler. Good, he decided, the air conditioning in my room was having a hard time keeping up when I was in there earlier. Maybe I’ll have a cool and comfortable night’s sleep. No, I won’t, I haven’t had a comfortable night’s sleep for as long as I can remember.

As soon as he was back in his room, he settled into the well-worn lounge chair, flipped on the reading light and took out the map the MP had given him, scanning it to find training area 142. The area was just on the edge of the fort’s boundary and to the north. It looked to be the farthest north and most remote training area on the fort. I wonder what training area 142 is used for? He made a mental note to find that out as soon as possible.

Sitting in the lounge chair, he slept off and on, until hours later when he decided it was time to slip out. It was well past midnight and everyone in the BOQ and on the post had surely settled in for the night.

Quietly he slipped down the stairs, passing the now empty registration counter and noiselessly left. He got in his jeep and slowly drove out of the parking lot. After he had driven well out of the main post area, he found a likely spot to pull off the road and took out his map. He had decided to make a quick motor tour of some of the training areas and a foot tour of the ones he had highlighted, which were where the training accidents had taken place, and of course, area 142. Surprisingly, none of the accidents had occurred in area 142; or maybe that shouldn’t have surprised him.

After he finished scrutinizing his map he stepped out into the darkness, opened the back luggage compartment, and took out a change of clothes. He slipped into a black outfit, rubbed some camouflage paint on his face, took out his pistol and after chambering a round he slid it smoothly into the holder under the dash. He eased the jeep back on to the road and began a slow survey of the training areas. There were no cars or lights of any kind in