Mind of a Killer: Blood Smoke

By DJS

All David has ever known is to take orders, now that the Government has been scrutinised, David is now in the cross hairs. Journey on a rollercoaster ride as David tell his side of the story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491828045

DJS

Coming from a family who have served in every Branch of Service, I have endured a fruitful life.

Book preview

Chapter 1

You think I’m guilty? I asked him.

He smirks. My opinion doesn’t matter.

It does to me.

How do you expect me to formulate an opinion when I don’t know your story?

I sigh through a curse.

My name is David Jeremiah Stephens, a Master Sergeant in the United States Army. I’m a member of an Elite Special Operations team called Night Stalkers, or so everyone thinks. When they’re on a job, out on a mission, they don’t exist. A great cover for a government task force. Now, someone on the hill had the great idea of inserting a task force within a task force, their personal lap dogs, till something goes wrong.

I was ordered back home and restricted to quarters, I realized everything had changed. The same organization that helped conceal my operations, erase all evidence of the people we’ve killed, had been forced to make an example of me for some bull shit allegations. They had changed. I had changed. And we could never go back.

People don’t have to talk. They can provoke you to kiss them… or even eradicate them with their eyes. Talk is cheap, but I’ve struggled through enough crap to learn that for some, life is even cheaper. People often ask me why I am cold and indifferent. Why can’t they understand? That question is so simple to me, it’s just that I cannot feel anything through the scars that others have left behind.

I had orders. I did what I had to do. They say I had an option, but I didn’t. I have never done anything more complex in my life. And now they want me to pay for my sins. An escape goat for all the unsanctioned activities.

I haven’t slept in two days. The increasing humidity here at Fort Campbell makes it harder to breathe, and when I go to the window and run a finger across the glass, it comes up sweaty. The humidity is all I have to keep me company.

My father taught me that it’s simpler to cut wood with the grain rather than against it, and I carried that simple figure of speech into the Army. I promised myself to remain apolitical, do the mission at hand, go with the grain, not because I was trying to cop out but because I just wanted to be a great soldier. I’d already seen what torn loyalties and jealousy can do to the warrior spirit, and I wanted to protect myself against that.

But for what? My life is now a blade jammed in a heavy knot, and I’m nineteen again, Deanne was fading away in my arms, there was nothing I could do but watch her life slip away. When I think about her, I lose my breath. It’s a panic attack, and all I can do is hide behind sarcasm and belligerence.

Silver, who’s shaking his head at me now, showed up two hours late with some bullshit excuse about a deposition running long, and I told him to have a seat at my little kitchen table so we could talk about saving my life. He gave me a look. He’s a Captain with the JAG corps, probably my age, twenty-nine or so, with circular glasses that suggest hippie rather than scholar.

Now he lifts his chin and grimaces. Is that you?

What do you mean?

That ungodly smell…

I scratch my beard and rake my fingers through my hair. All right, I hadn’t showered in a couple of days, either, and I’d been growing the beard and hair for the past month.

You want to wait while I take a shower?

Look, Master Sergeant, I’m doing this as a favor for Whitney, but you can hire your own attorney.

I shake my head. Before I shipped back home, Whitney told me about some of the other cases you did, maybe a little similar to mine.

He sighs deeply. Not similar. Not as many accusations. Some reasonable doubts, the chance that it might have been just a mistake. Everything I’ve read in your case says this was hardly a mistake.

No, it certainly wasn’t.

And you understand that you could lose everything and spend the rest of your life in Leavenworth?

I stare back at him, unflinching. You want a drink? I mean as in alcohol…

No. And you shouldn’t have one, either. Because if you want me to help you, I need to know everything. The narrative they gave me is their point of view. I need yours.

You don’t even know what unit I work for. They won’t tell you. They just say D Company, Second Battalion, Special Operations Group. You ever heard of the Night Stalkers… or even DISC?

No.

I didn’t think so. They want plausible deniability. Well, they got it, all right, and now I’m the fall guy.

Tell me everything, everything from the start.

You really think I have chance of saving my career and not spending the rest of my life in Leavenworth?

I’m here to defend you, to keep you out of prison. Not to save your career.

I take a deep breath. That sounds like an inconvenience.

Master Sergeant, I know where this is coming from, and I’ve seen it before. You’re angry and upset, but you’d best not forget that I’m all you’ve got right now.

I’ll ask you again; do you think I’m guilty?

He dismisses my question with a wave. Start at the beginning, and I need to record you. He reaches into his fancy leather tote bag and produces a small tablet computer with attached camera that he places on the table. The camera automatically pivots towards me.

Neat contraption. I make a face at the lens, then rise and head toward the kitchen counter, where my bottle of Jack awaits. I pour myself a glass and return to the table. He’s glaring at me and checks his cell phone.

Oh, I’m sorry if you don’t have time for this, I say, as I take a sip of my drink.

Master Sergeant… ?

You got any kids?

We’re not here to talk about me.

I’m just asking you a question.

As a matter of fact, NO.

I grin slightly. I do. I have two daughters with my previous wife and one daughter and a step-son with my current wife.

Can we get on with this now? I assume you know about attorney-client privilege? Anything you share about any missions and what conspired on those days will remain classified, compartmentalized, and confidential, of course.

I finish my jack, exhale through the burn, and then narrow my gaze. Well, I’ll tell you one thing: I am not a murderer.

Chapter 2

I sat in the second row of the lecture hall, staring at the professor with what I hoped passed for concentration. My eyelids were so heavy they felt as if lead sinkers had been glued to them. My head pounded in tempo with my heart, my tongue tasted like something had curled up and died on it. I’d arrived late, only to find the huge hall packed and just one seat available: second row center, smack-dab in front of the lectern. Just my luck.

I was majoring in Criminal Justice/Criminology. I’d elected this class for the same reason other students had done for the last three decades, it was a gimmie. English Literature-A Humanist Perspective had always been a course you could breeze through and barely crack a book. The usual professor, a fossil old relic named Schimdt, rambled on like a hypnotist, barely ever looking up from his forty-year-old lecture notes, his voice flawlessly pitched for sleeping. The old fart never even changed his exams, and copies were all over the dorms. But, of course, just my luck, for this one semester, a certain established Dr. Thomas Bryant was teaching the course. It was as if Metallica had agreed to play the senior prom, the way they fawned over Bryant.

I shifted miserably. My butt had already fallen asleep in the bitter plastic seat. I glanced to my left, to my right. All around, students-upperclassmen, mostly-were typing notes, running microcassette recorders, hanging on the professor’s every utterance. It was the first time ever the course had been filled to capacity. Not a Criminal justice/Criminology student in sight. What a crock.

Bryant walked back and forth on the podium, his profound voice ringing. He was like a gray lion, his hair swept back in a mane, dressed in an ostentatious charcoal suit instead of the usual scruffy set of tweeds. He had an unusual accent, not local to Muncie, certainly not Southern. Didn’t sound English, either. A teaching assistant sat in a chair behind the professor, diligently taking notes.

Good morning class, Dr. Bryant was saying, today we’re looking at Eliot’s The Waste Land, the poem that packaged the twentieth century in all its disaffection and bareness. One of the greatest poems ever written.

The Waste Land, I remembered now. What a title. I hadn’t bothered to read it, of course. Why should I? It was a poem, not a damn novel: I could read it right now, in class.

I picked up the book of T.S. Eliot’s poems, I’d borrowed it from a friend, no use throwing away good money on something I’d never look at again, and opened it. There, next to the title page, was a photo of the man himself: a real weenie, tiny little granny glasses, lips pursed like he had two feet of broom stick shoved up his ass. I snorted and began turning the pages. I flipped to the end of the poem; found it contained over four hundred lines. Oh my God, it was like a nightmare: here I was in front of the class and not understanding a word the professor was saying. Who’d have thought you could write four hundred lines of poetry on a freaking waste land? Speaking of wasted, my head felt like it was packed full of ball bearings. Served me right for drinking until four last night, doing shots of Everclear and finishing off the Southern Comfort, but it was worth it, Bryan finally got laid.

Dr. Bryant, a voice interrupted my thoughts, I need a word with Mr. Stephens.

I looked up at the doorway and saw my Platoon Sergeant staring back at me. I quickly gathered my stuff and exited the class.

Stephens, you and Whitney gear up. We’re sending you two to Honduras. You have orders to escort a soldier to a new location. Apparently, this soldier has been running a scheme and collecting profits against government equipment. I want a full report when you get back.

Seriously Sergeant, I said. Don’t they have their own MP’s down there?

Bryan and you were specifically asked for by JAG to investigate, Sergeant Kwan said. You two must have made some impression at the last competition.

I guess. When do we go? I asked.

Chalks up in two hours. The C130 is leaving out of Indy International, Sergeant stated while handing over the orders. You’ll have an escort to the airport.

The buzzing sound from the air conditioning unit to the room interrupts me.

So you got orders to Honduras? Captain Silver asked.

I wasn’t too happy about the whole thing, but, it was a relief. I had heard word that I was not up to par in my classes.

You were given the opportunity to attend college while the government paid for it?

Yup. I had a full load of classes and apparently I was only passing European History. How ironic, I replied. I guess you can say that I wasn’t cut out for college.

Guess not, Captain Silver said.

My Platoon Sergeant felt that if he pulled me out with some mission, I’d forget about doing the college thing and focus more on my career with the military. I guess he never figured I would go this far.

So what happened in Honduras? Captain Silver asked.

Let me see…

Chapter 3

I exhaled out a firm breath of frustration and glanced into the passenger mirror of the five ton cargo truck. The two or three days that it would take to close this scrupulous task meant that the mountain of paperwork waiting for me back at Soto Cano Air Force Base would need to be quite meticulous. At this rate, I’d never catch up with my school work.

Behind me, a convoy of military supply vehicles extended for a quarter of a mile along the muddy road. I didn’t typically accompany the movement of supplies to the outlying villages, but this assignment was unique. I was personally escorting the senior supply clerk, Specialist Shai Thompson, from Soto Cano Air Force Base to The Valley of the Angels, a forward operating camp located a hundred kilometers away. The Army no longer entrusted her with the responsibility of supervising the massive supply operations in Honduras. At the Valley of the Angels, she would work under the direct supervision of a senior officer in supplying repair parts and construction equipment to the Engineers in Honduras. Technically, it wasn’t a demotion, but I was sure she didn’t see it that way. A quiet woman by nature, she’d been even more so during the two hours that we’ve been driving together.

My gaze slid sideways toward the Specialist, noting the shimmer of sweat that coated her skin. As if sensing my tranquil assessment, she turned her dark eyes to me and I had to push down my own uneasiness and feelings of shame about having initiated an inquiry into her activities. She has the largest, most animated eyes I have ever seen on a woman, and right now they remind me of a dog that has just been kicked. She obviously didn’t understand why she was being moved to a new location and I couldn’t tell her the truth. I’d merely told her that Valley of the Angels needed an experienced supply clerk, but her happiness with that explanation was apparent in the defeated slump of her shoulders, and the way she repeatedly sighed.

If you’re getting tired, we can switch at the next turnoff and I can drive, I offered, although I knew she would decline. Despite my uncertainties, Specialist Thompson was unfailingly courteous and respectful of my rank, but if only she knew.

Her eyes widened. Oh no, I’m fine driving, Sergeant. But thank you for the offer.

I nodded and turned my attention away. Maybe I should have confronted her directly. Maybe, after all, there was a logical justification for what was going on. It was difficult to envision the angelic Specialist was capable of any misconduct. But it was too late; I had already initiated an investigation into the supply process at Soto Cano and now it was up to the Inspector General to determine if any crime had been committed.

The Army suspected that Thompson was accountable for the misappropriation of tens of thousands and maybe even hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of supplies, but they had no solid evidence. Although her job required that she attain receipts for the equipment she received and sent out, she consistently had justifications and explanations for why she hadn’t acquired the mandatory documentation, or why the paperwork she did was so sloppy and full of inaccuracies. She also had access to a substantial fund of money with which to procure certain supplies and services from local contractors, rather than going through the prolonged process of waiting for the items to be shipped from the States.

Lieutenant Wilson, her platoon Leader, had begun the task of settling these accounts, but it would take him months to sort through the thousands of transactions. Constructing buildings, repairing runways, and maintaining an infrastructure in such a remote and inhospitable location was hard enough without somebody deliberately sabotaging their efforts. That one of