The Aquarius Unit

By Charles L. Pariseau Sr.

This story is told by a fictional character named Jefferson Keyes. Jeff did not agree with the actions of a few government agents whom were continually making life very hard for a lot of normal everyday citizens. Here in the following pages, these agents will experience firsthand how it feels to be on the opposite end of the stick. Someone even ends up having an experience with aliens.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984552426

Charles L. Pariseau Sr.

Charles L Pariseau Sr, born 02/08/1946 New Orleans, LA. Attended Manzano High School Albuquerque, NM. Drafted into the Army during the Vietnam era. He passed away 02/14/2004 Albuquerque, NM. For as long as I can remember, Dad believed the idea that there was more than just us in the universe. He also had great stories of things that allegedly had happened during his lifetime. Well, either fact or fiction, I always had fun listening to those stories and trying to figure out if it was fact or fiction. The following is one of those stories that he had actually wrote.

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Copyright © 2018 by Charles L. Pariseau Sr.

All rights reserved. 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 copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 09/11/2018

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INTRO

This is a story narrated by a fictional character named Jefferson Keyes. Jeff having an extreme distaste for a few government agents who totally perverted the constitution and continually reeked havoc in citizens lives are finally brought to justice. Sometimes Justice is not legal.

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Often mentally I have pictured truly sensational ideas as suddenly bursting inside one’s head and instantly sending great waves of enlightenment flooding to all parts of the brain. Fortunately, this instantaneous form of creativity has never been the manner in which my most ingenious thoughts have occurred. Quite possibly some vital organic compound is in short supply deep within my brain, causing me to think more slowly and deliberately. This slowness of thought does not detract in anyway from the quality of the finished product. In fact, this slow, careful thought serves to enhance, much the way wine improves with age. Some thoughts are only part of the whole picture, bubbling slowly to the surface in small pieces to be assembled later. Such thoughts are passed over and largely ignored by the rapid mind. Although our society rewards those who possess rapid minds and regards them as very bright, I maintain that those who think slowly and deliberately actually produce more candlepower. This slow, careful, deliberate thought shines invisibly within the brain and, like ultraviolet rays, though unseen, can be very useful and even dangerous. These thoughts may be separated by months or even years, and yet, eventually all assembled like pieces of a puzzle to become a complete picture… a masterpiece of planning, ingenuity, and luck. If it is dangerous, then the master plan is more enticing and careful steps can be taken to make that plan a reality.

I took the first accidental, and yet lucky, step towards my special reality several months ago with Richard Greyson. I know now that he will become an important partner in success. I know that he is pleasantly dishonest. I know that he has excellent taste in women, at least as far as female bodies are concerned, and if my moral instinct is correct he has all of the slightly larcenous qualities I require. The morning that I was to see Richard for the first time began as many others. That day, however, would soon prove to be different. Perhaps it was fate, or possibly, after seeing him with Andrea and that bastard Jerry, I realized that I could plan no longer; it was time to act, time to get even. Since I had been so skillfully forced to resign my commission in the Air Force, my days had begun to run together, slowly at first, but all too soon becoming one big blur of mind-numbing boredom. It was not that I disliked my job at Albuquerque Center; in fact, I considered myself lucky to have it under the circumstances. One other very important consideration was that it paid the bills.

I knew the alarm was about to go off, as I had been semi-awake, half-thinking, half dreaming, for some time. I looked over at Carol lying there. The blanket didn’t cover her and I could see through the thin yellow material of her nightgown. I decided to turn off the alarm so as not to awaken her. On the mornings that she did wake up, she always rushed to the kitchen and began making breakfast, insisting that I eat before leaving. On those mornings when I really didn’t want breakfast, I waited till the last minute to kiss her good-bye. If she awoke, I could tell her it was too late to eat, I love you, bye.

There is a lunch room at the Center and if I allowed myself to fantasize about Monte Carlo or Watkins Glen, and piss off a few people as I skillfully maneuvered my way through traffic, I usually arrived in time to relax with the paper and some milk or orange juice before I had to hit the scope. Air traffic control demands total attention. Each morning I could feel the tension begin to make my muscles tighten. Many times I would catch myself and say, Hey, relax. I always stayed away from coffee, the scope made me tense enough. If things were slow, then for a few moments I could actually allow my mind to wander, but this could suddenly become a deadly sin. Your mind and thoughts are never really yours; they are totally possessed by the people in the sky whose lives depend on you. This responsibility can quickly take its toll on your body, as day after day muscles tense, blood vessels constrict, and, slowly, cell by cell, your body begins to die. Death comes to all of us, it just seems to find it’s way more unexpectedly into the lives of those who watch the skies. At one point in my life, I was filled with the arrogant notion that the sky belonged to us in the 350th Fighter Wing, but one day the real, and awesome, truth of just who actually owns the skies was driven home suddenly and… forever. All of that was behind me now as I took my place in front of the scope and looked at the crowded skies, not literally with my own eyes, but through the eyes of an electronic giant, one of the most sophisticated, complex, and far-reaching integrated networks of radar, computers, microwave links, and highly skilled humans that the Twentieth Century had been able to produce.

My day began. American Two-three-seven, this is Albuquerque Center, squawk ident and confirm altitude. The screen lit up with the response from American Airlines Flight 237, tagging that little blip with a computer-generated identification code, his personalized license plates, complete with his present ground speed and altitude.

The pilot’s response came quickly. Roger, Albuquerque Center, this is American Two-three-seven, altimeter reading three-zero-point-five thousand, IFR, in-bound, Albuquerque International, over.

Having his location and altitude firmly in mind, I proceeded with the rest of the traffic on the screen. Cessna Eight-seven-golf, Albuquerque Center, squawk ident and confirm altitude.

Roger, Albuquerque Center, Eight-seven-golf, one-four-point-five thousand, VFR inbound on Victor one-niner-zero for Coronado, and again the screen showed the transponder doing its job, there was Eight-seven-golf, fifty miles out, indicating 14,500 feet.

Frontier Five-four-seven, Albuquerque Center, departing Albuquerque north control sector switch to button one-two-six-point-one and contact Denver Center. Good-bye.

Roger, Albuquerque, Frontier Five-four-seven switching to one-two-six-point-one Denver Center, out.

At this point I noticed Save 25, a familiar and regular ident on my screen. Save was the 1550th Wing at Kirtland Air Force Base, the helicopter search and rescue training wing, and Save 25 was probably a Huey Cobra playing on the east side of the Sandia Mountains. He was abnormally high, showing 14,200-feet altitude, forty miles east of the Center. Ordinarily I would ignore him. He would be VFR, that’s visual flight reference, below Center space and would go to Albuquerque Approach when he hit the thirty-mile point, but this time he was uncomfortably close to Eight-seven-golf.

Save Two-five, this is Albuquerque Center. Radar confirms your location on Victor One-niner-zero, Altitude one-four-point-two thousand, forty miles northeast of Albuquerque Vortac, confirm, over.

Albuquerque Center, this is Save Two-five, confirm one-four-point-two thousand, over.

Save Two-five, Albuquerque, I have Cessna Eight-seven-golf inbound, Victor one-niner-zero, five-zero miles out at one-four-point-five thousand. Descend below one-three thousand and maintain.

Albuquerque, Save Two-five roger.

I watched Save 25 descend out of the way of the inbound Cessna. I wondered why he was up so high. Most choppers stay low and approach from the north, heading for runway eight at Kirtland. Usually they are handled by Albuquerque Approach. Whatever the reason, everything was going along smoothly now and I was comfortable with my traffic pattern.

Suddenly I saw a small blip showing at the Sandia Crest area. On the next sweep it was gone. The radar normally only displayed moving targets to prevent cluttering up the screen with a bunch of ground noise, buildings, mountains, and such A moving target at Sandia Crest could be a hang glider or an ultra-light, although those usually don’t show up due to the small amount of radar reflecting material. Sandia Crest was a favorite spot for hang gliders and ultralights. Maybe my blip had been one of those guys. Maybes were not good items in this business, so to be safe rather than sorry, I went back to work.

Cessna Eight-seven-golf, be advised of possible hang glider traffic in the vicinity of Sandia Crest and Coronado Airport. Contact Albuquerque Approach on button one-two-four-point-four.

Eight-seven-golf, roger, watch for big birds, switching to one-two-four-point-four. Thank you Center.

The Cessna was safely over the crest with only one remaining problem. He had just about ten thousand feet of altitude to eat before he could get to Coronado Airport. Approach Control could keep him out of the way of the big jets in the north-south corridor. Save 25 called to request an altitude change to clear the crest. He was entering tower jurisdiction by this time so I switched him off to Albuquerque Approach Control.

Save Two-five, Albuquerque Center, switch to Albuquerque Approach, button three-zero-one-point-five.

Traffic was very light, not much going on out there. I had time to wonder if Carol was up yet. Probably so, getting Chuck and Ginni ready for school while Jonna was following her every move, crying about this and that. Hell, I could follow her every move. Carol, with her long brown hair and matching eyes, was beautiful. She could look absolutely lovely in raggedy jeans with one of my old shirts tied around her waist. She was fond of a red cowboy shirt a friend had talked me into buying to wear to the New Mexico State Fair. Carol wore it more than I ever had. She could be beautiful in the oddest places. Whether she was in an evening gown or doing dishes at the sink, it made no difference. Once we went fishing in the Pecos, and she wanted to catch a fish so badly that she stood out in the snow until her hair was white and almost frozen. Chuck and Ginni had given up and stayed in the camper with Jonna… but not Carol! She was determined to catch a fish. People fishing the stream asked me if that was my wife or a snow lady with a fishing pole. She was digging worms and the ground was so cold she broke my new shovel, came back to camp and told me a giant worm grabbed the shovel and broke it over his knee. I would always ask her how many fish she had caught, and she would reply, You mean altogether, yesterday and today? We both knew the answer, it was zero, none, but we always managed to have fun.

The scope reclaimed my thoughts as an occasional blip interrupted an otherwise easy day. Suddenly that damn blip was there again over the Crest! I watched for it on the next sweep, but it disappeared as before. I wondered if there might be some noise on the scope. These things always received tender, loving care. I decided to mention it after the shift. If it was noise, the guys in maintenance would find it; they work with the precision of brain surgeons. They can’t stand it if one of their babies is down. I didn’t know why, but I still had a hunch it was one of those sky-loving hang glider boys, or possibly an ultra-light. If it was, I hoped he was well below my powered birds. The radar didn’t actually display true altitude unless the transponder had an analog converter. Hell, if it was a hang glider he sure wouldn’t have a transponder. It was really slow upstairs and I commented to Bob, What the hell, did another airline go belly up, or did everybody take a vacation by train?

Bob came back with, Don’t knock it, just enjoy all the tranquility. Go read a book.

The word book was suddenly shattered by, Mayday, Mayday, Mayday! This is Save Two-five, we’ve just had a mid-air with something. Albuquerque Approach was in control of Save 25, but Albuquerque Center can hear everything that goes on. Bob and I listened as Albuquerque Approach said, Save Two-five, say again. I could recognize the voice of Bob Johnson, the area supervisor at Albuquerque Approach.

Save 25 came back with, We have just had a mid-air with an ultra-light, he’s hanging off the skid. We’re going down, repeat, we’re going down, five miles east Coronado Airport.

The calm voice of Bob Johnson responded, Save Two-five, we have you on radar, will notify emergency equipment. How many on board your aircraft?

Save 25 was about to come down five miles from here. I knew where my little blip was now, he was painting the same spot on the scope at Albuquerque Approach as Save 25, identical in altitude as well as range and bearing.

Albuquerque this is Save Two-five, we’re shaking badly, but, she’s flying. We may not go in too hard. I think I can make the parking area at the tram if she doesn’t come apart. That ass-hole on the skid is still alive. The co-pilot is trying to haul him inside. I don’t know how badly damaged we are; I have regained some control, but she’s going to shake apart soon.

Bob responded, Save Two-five this is Albuquerque, we have notified rescue, they’re rolling. Can you make the tram?

Albuquerque, I think so, but the tail rotor must be badly damaged, she wants to spin.

The pilot’s voice was amazingly calm; he reminded me of some guys I once knew in the Air Force. Although it was my break time and I needed to get out of the way for the relief operator, I felt that I needed to stay. On the other hand, my relief was totally competent, and should Albuquerque Tower need our assistance, he could handle it. We could tie into Albuquerque Approach by computer, and I knew that every unassigned person would be clustered around that console, waiting to witness the next event in the saga of Save 25. I kept thinking, Hell, if they want to see the crash, they should go outside and watch the tram go up in a fireball!

That calm voice in Save 25 came through again. Albuquerque Approach we’re beginning to spin, we’re going to hit that cable car, I don’t think I can hold her…. followed by dead silence.

I could picture clearly what had just happened. I thought of Watinas and Berryman—their radios went silent just that way. They never knew what hit them, exactly. At least Save 25 knew his death was caused by an ultra-light.

Suddenly Save 25 came back with, Jesus, that was close! We damn near took out the cable car. Albuquerque, I think we’re going to make it, we’re going for the parking lot, but that guy on the skid is dead if I spin into the ground.

Bob Johnson’s voice broke in with, Save Two-five, rescue reports they are on Tramway Boulevard, fives miles south of your location.

Goddamn, Albuquerque, the lot’s full of people, get them the hell out of there. I’ve got to set this bird down, get ’em out now, right now!

Roger, Two-five, will advise tram to clear parking lot. Bob Johnson shouted to his assistant, Get them to clear that parking lot, or we’re going to end up with a lot of bodies to take off that hill. It’s a miracle that he didn’t hit the tram car. Bob turned his attention back to his scope, wondering how long 25 could stay aloft.

His assistant hollered back, The fucking phone’s busy, I can’t get through.

Bob immediately reacted, Save Two-five we are unable to reach the tram, can you set down some place else?

Albuquerque, I’m already heading for Coronado. We are unable to bring ultra-light pilot into aircraft. He’s tangled in the harness and out of reach. Can you advise rescue of new destination?

Roger, Two-five, will advise.

Suddenly I realized that this chopper was going to try to make Coronado Airport, which was only a mile away. I decided to have a look for myself. I told Bill Stacey, our area supervisor, I wanted to leave and head over to Coronado. He well understood; he could sense that this was important to me and didn’t mind if I left the center. Bill was the only one there who was fully aware of my Air Force background. If he hadn’t pulled hard on some strings, I wouldn’t have gotten the job. I was very thankful for that. He also knew that I usually put in more, no, a lot more, than was required.

I ran to the car looking over my shoulder. I could hear the chopper, but I couldn’t see him. As I pulled out of the parking lot and drove toward Coronado, I finally made him at 300 feet off the deck, coming straight in toward Coronado from the tram. I could see the wreckage of the ultra-light hanging from the port skid. The pilot was still strapped to the harness and pitching wildly back and forth. I wondered how long the harness would hold together, if it broke, that guy would be dead. That chopper was all over the place. The pilot must be having one helluva time holding that bird in the sky. I knew that he could have set it down on the mesa, that was obvious, but it was also obvious that he was thinking of his unwanted passenger, risking his life and that of his co-pilot to get in close for the rescue boys.

It never ceased to amaze me; how quickly people can collect at the scene of excitement. It was scarcely ten minutes since the ultra-light pilot had decided to hitch a ride and already people swarmed over Coronado like ants at a picnic. The runway looked like a scene from the movie Airport. Crash trucks, fire engines, state and city police, each tried to function effectively within a crowd determined to fight for the available space. The police were trying to push the people back, while the crowd worked relentlessly in the opposite direction.

Suddenly there was the sound of another chopper coming in from the south. It was the Channel 7 news unit, Sky 7, sent to cover the crash. I wished that they had been there once when I could have used them. I sure could have given them a story that day.

Save 25 was coming in close to the runway trying to hold her steady. I parked my car and ran toward something that was sure to be disaster. I could tell she was shaking badly, a real bitch to set down in one piece. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, that guy wasn’t going to set it down, he knew that he would kill or cripple the man on the skid. The pilot was going for broke, actually trying to hover until the rescue boys got the man off the skid. She was spinning to the right rapidly, the rescue team was running in a circle struggling to free him from the skid. I kept thinking, that it takes guts, real guts. That bird was going to spin, the rotors would hit the ground, and every one of the rescue boy Save 25, all of them, would be dead.

Somehow, I didn’t know how, he was hanging there, shaking apart, bolt by bolt. He was fighting hard, managing to give them time to get the guy off the skid. Rescue finally freed him and ran from beneath the sudden death of the rotors, carrying a man who, I felt, was about to die of a heart attack anyway. Save 25 spun wildly one way, then the other, came closer to the ground, shaking violently, she hit hard, bounced, spun slightly, then hit hard again. This time she stayed down. The pilot immediately cut the engine.

The fire units began to move in, ready in case of fire. I knew Save 25 wasn’t going to burn, not after all she’d gone through to get here. That bird was home safe—safe, but not sound. The pilot went through the normal shutdown sequence, and only after that was accomplished did the crew leave the ship. The crowd that had gathered to watch this life-and-death drama cheered as they came running across the field. Car horns began to blow and the place became sheer bedlam.

I began, as many others did, to walk toward the pilots. The police were holding back the crowd. As I walked past, a bright red Ferrari hard-top stopped just short of the police line. I couldn’t believe my eyes. There sat one of the best looking women I’ve ever seen and next to her was Jerry. That bastard, what the hell could he possibly have to do with this?

She kissed him as he stepped out of the car and waited near the back of the crowd. He didn’t see me and I was content to leave well enough alone. I continued to push my way through with FAA identification card held high. The cop allowed me to proceed and, as I approached the ship, I became even more curious about the man beneath that helmet. I didn’t have to wonder long as the pilot gave his name to the fire chief. He stated it loud and clear, Lieutenant Richard Greyson, 1550th Wing, Kirtland Air Force Base.

The Ferrari proceeded through the crowd with the horn blowing incessantly, people reluctantly moving out of the way. The police let the car through. It raced across the field winding its way between fire units, police cars, and rescue trucks, screeching to a stop next to Greyson. The door flew open and that pretty blonde package, who had just kissed Jerry, ran into Greyson’s open arms. She kissed him long and hard. Then with his arms about her, he walked away, away from the cameras, the noise, and the crowd. I watched him, thinking, Well, there’s one reason he flew home, but I knew the real reason. He was determined to give that guy on the skid every chance he could, even at the risk of his own life.

The ambulance had already taken the ultra-light pilot away. Oddly enough, he didn’t seem to be badly hurt. It seemed as though he was trying to walk, and stand, by himself, but the rescue team made him go out on a stretcher. Lt. Greyson and that beautiful woman were now some distance away from the crowd and, judging from some of the gestures, they were about to have a disagreement, right then and there.

I imagined it was going something like this, That’s it, you’re done with this flying shit, or I’m leaving. I vividly remembered having somewhat similar discussions with Carol. I could see the lady’s point, especially at that moment, but I figured she’d cool down eventually, the way Carol always did.

Greyson threw his arms up in the air and turned his back, but she quickly walked around and faced him once again. He reached into his pocket, took out his wallet, and handed her a fist full of money. He then held it upside down as if to make clear that it was totally empty. I thought this to be very odd.

The woman then turned, walked back to her Ferrari, and left as she had come. After the car was past the crowd and out of Greyson’s sight, she stopped, and Jerry got back into the car. I just couldn’t catch on to this one. What was that miserable, venomous snake doing here? I had always wanted him to come back, but not now, not until I was ready. I kept thinking that this was unusual behavior, especially from a wife, if she was Greyson’s wife. In fact, now that I was thinking about it, that was a damned expensive car for a lieutenant’s wife, or girlfriend, to have. Hell, I was a Lieutenant Colonel and Carol never drove a Ferrari. Surely, a wife would not leave her husband’s side after he had been through what Greyson had just endured, or ask for money at a time like that. Maybe she was fooling around and didn’t love him, but the big kiss he received on her arrival said otherwise. What connection could she have with Jerry? I couldn’t figure out why Greyson had given her money, but whatever his reasons were, they didn’t alter the fact that he could handle a chopper, and he sure as hell had nerve. Anyone that had anything to do with Jerry had to have nerve, or a terminal case of stupidity.

A helicopter pilot with nerve, those were only two of the things I would need. This good-looking lady of his, or Jerry’s, could pose a problem though. I sure as hell didn’t care much for her choice of friends. I felt that it could easily be worth the effort necessary to check into, the man, Mr. Richard Greyson, since I already knew something of, the pilot, Lieutenant Greyson.

I read all the newspaper accounts of his heroic action. They provided some background information, but not the kind of stuff that I was looking for. I wanted to know just exactly what connection he had with Jerry.

The articles were interesting nonetheless, and as I continued I also learned about the ultra-light pilot, a Mr. Rodney Len, age 24, and a resident of Albuquerque. At the time of his unfortunate accident he was employed by an Albuquerque firm called Bandelier National Films, Inc. It was his first day on the job. Mr. Len was to take part, as a stuntman, in a short film about ultra-light pilots who fly from Sandia Crest, east of Albuquerque. Each article varied slightly on the details of the accident. They all agreed on one point that, miraculously, Mr. Len received only minor injuries. He was discharged the next morning from Heights General Hospital after treatment for shock and minor lacerations.

One report had it that the film company was demanding that Mr. Len pay eight thousand dollars for a camera, totally destroyed in the collision with the Air Force helicopter. The camera, attached to the ultra-light, was intended to give the film viewer a front row seat during Rodney’s flight from the crest. Mr. Len had been on contract from the Action Talent Agency, also an Albuquerque firm, to Bandelier National Films Inc. It also stated that he was no longer employed, nor did he foresee the possibility of future employment with either firm.

I thought that a stunt man would have received fifteen to twenty thousand dollars for a stunt like that. The newspaper and TV publicity should have been worth a lot to both companies. I felt that they should have paid Rodney, but since the camera and the film were both totally destroyed, Rodney didn’t get anything except the axe. Somebody should do something for the guy.

The late news mentioned that although Mr. Len was not extremely fond of acting or stunt work, his mother had complete confidence that Rodney would make it big… some day. She quickly pointed out that he had just performed a very dangerous stunt and that it was not his fault that the camera had been destroyed. She also felt that the Air Force had plenty of money and could well afford to fix up their old helicopter, as it was only a little bent up.

It was curious enough to ask just what the hell Rodney Len was doing at 14000 feet dive-bombing on a helicopter. Somehow, I could picture him clearly, white scarf flying, as the Red Barron diving his flying machine into the thick of battle, guns blazing, in the best tradition of a Walter Middy or Charlie Brown’s intrepid dog, Snoopy. I wasn’t sure which fit him best.

The paper was also kind enough to provide me with a full color picture of Mr. and Mrs. Greyson; that beautiful woman in the red Ferrari was his wife Andrea. Maybe that was the Jerry connection: Greyson had an unfaithful wife. Hell, if that were true then it could easily work to my advantage. The paper also provided me with their address.

I began to consider asking questions about them under the guise of a newspaper reporter. No one who knew them would become suspicious of that. If anyone mentioned it to Richard or Andrea, I felt sure they would think nothing of it. I thought it best if I were not seen in person, merely a voice on the phone. This was also much easier than driving around town. I still had to work for a living. That however, was a situation I hoped Richard, with some clever manipulation, would help me change.

I drove down Richard’s street to gather addresses that would be of use to me. The houses were modest, I’d say in the sixty-to seventy-thousand-dollar range. That red Ferrari stuck out like a sore thumb. The other cars were much less expensive. Richard drove an older-model green Volkswagen bug. I never could tell what year those things were, they all look alike to me. I used the city directory to acquire the phone number of Richard’s neighbors. The phone conversations that followed provided me with enough information to form an opinion.

I quickly learned that my first instincts had been correct. Richard was well liked and respected, but most of his neighbors were hesitant to talk much about Andrea. The ones who did had quite a story to tell. The Albuquerque Credit Bureau was also helpful. For a humble fee they will allow you to look at your credit reports. I think that’s damn nice of them. For one hour I became Richard Greyson.

I was right about that red Ferrari, it didn’t belong in the neighborhood. The finance company on several occasions felt that the car didn’t belong in Richard’s driveway at all. The electric company at various times felt that Mr. and Mrs. Greyson could do without electricity. The phone company had occasion to have similar feelings. His name was not always popular at Goldwaters, Sanger-Harris, Sears, and Wards. I began to suspect that the pretty lady Richard married might have expensive tastes. I still remembered seeing Richard hand Andrea money at Coronado Airport. I also remembered that tender little kiss as Jerry got his miserable ass out of the car that Greyson was paying for.

Since first seeing him I had spent many hours studying Richard. The fact that he could fly a helicopter was absolutely vital. It was also important that we had never met and couldn’t be linked together in any way. At first I wasn’t totally sure of his character and I needed more information about his financial status. Being a lieutenant in the Air Force is a financial statement in itself, but I required the dirtier, more detailed, personal information.

It soon became obvious that the sexual antics and spending habits of his pretty wife caused him considerable difficulty. She always seemed to demand more than he could provide. At least I could say that Carol had stood by me through my entire humiliating ordeal—how else could I have kept my sanity? We’re probably closer now than ever before and spend more time together alone, and enjoy each other. The kids have forgotten the whole affair, so maybe I should also; but inside, where it doesn’t show, I just can’t seem to turn lose, I can’t forget. Maybe it’s crazy, and I’ll lose the happiness we’ve found, but I’m going to get even with those bastards. It will take a while, it will have to lay dormant a little longer, and gather dust, but when I’m ready it will erupt like a volcano. This time they’ll get burned, not me. I love Carol and the kids more than life, but life, at least mine, won’t be totally complete until I take the final chance and make them pay. They’re going to get caught with both hands in the cookie jar, and the funny thing is there won’t even be any cookies.

I began by following Greyson off post on payday, watching, as he deposited the money into his account. The young girl behind the counter was quite striking, the kind easily remembered. She had long brown hair, a very full blouse, and flashing green eyes.

The next day I returned to the bank with an envelope. I handed it to the same beautiful teller and informed her that my friend Richard had asked me to drop this off on my way to work. The envelope contained five hundred dollars cash and nothing else. As I walked off she called out, Sir, there is no deposit slip, just the money! You will have to fill out a deposit slip.

As I had hoped, she was efficient, not simply beautiful. The deposit slip is in the envelope, I said. Richard must have put it in there.

She held up the empty envelope. No, sir, as you can see, there’s no deposit slip.

I explained to her that Richard Greyson, my neighbor, had given me the money to deposit for him. He was going away for a week, and he needed me to make the deposit in order to cover some checks that he had written.

I’m sorry sir, I can’t make the deposit without the account number.

I tried to get a little sympathy and said, Look, lady, help me out, will ya? He’s already left town and I can’t get the account number. I also added that Richard would be mad as hell, at both of us, if the checks that he wrote bounced and the bank whacked him for a $15 service charge on each one.

Pausing for a moment, she said, Okay, I’ll see if I can get the account number from the computer. She soon returned with the question, Is that Richard or Andrea Greyson, 1517 Muriel NE?

I replied, Yes, that’s it. As I wrote the account number on the deposit slip, I made a deliberate mistake and asked for another slip. I crumpled up the old one and placed it in my pocket. I thanked her, saying that she had performed a big favor for me. I hoped that she would never know how big.

Several days later I called the bank’s customer service department and asked for my balance, giving my name as Richard Greyson. The voice on the phone asked my account number and the amount of my last deposit. Supplied with this information she then confirmed my suspicion: his balance was six hundred thirty seven dollars and eighteen cents. Carrying the deception one step further, and only guessing that he had his savings account at the same bank, I requested the balance of that account also. It was only seventeen dollars and twenty cents.

Now all I had to do was wait and see if he, or more likely Andrea, would use the five hundred that didn’t belong to him. If he did, then that, of course, would be stealing, or at least larcenous, and if a person would steal five hundred bucks, then certainly he would steal five hundred thousand. But in our unique case, it might not really be considered stealing, because the government would soon become only too anxious for us to take the money. It was all very simple, we really wouldn’t have to steal it, just ask.

By March 15th, and only four days after the deposit, Greyson had answered my question about his honesty, or at least his need for money. Checking his account again, I discovered that he was overdrawn. I now felt that I could use money to persuade him to take part with me, because five hundred grand, his share, should be sufficient incentive for almost anyone, or anything.

Sunday mornings usually start slowly around the house, but today Carol was taking Chuck and Jenny to a friend’s birthday party, and then to a show. We were up early and went out to eat. When we returned home, Carol quickly loaded up the kids and kissed me good-bye. It was quite odd the way she did it, giving me one of her questioning looks and then hesitating slightly, before actually asking if something was bothering me. I told her, No, not a thing in this world, and kissed her again.

After they left I realized that maybe this wasn’t as easy to keep inside as I had thought. Maybe Carol could sense something. I made a mental note to keep it there, inside,