Renaissance Man

By John Carpenter

After finishing a mission in Afghanistan, TI spends a vacation in Italy with loved ones. When his friend is murdered and the local police close the case, TI is forced to gather a group of friends to find the perpetrators and deliver justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798889604204

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Renaissance Man

John Carpenter

Copyright © 2023 John Carpenter

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

ISBN 979-8-88960-410-5 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88960-420-4 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

About the Author

Other Books by John Carpenter

A Well-Regulated Militia

The Price of Our Sins

Dreams and Nightmares

For Those I Love…I Will Do Horrible Things

The Gaza Protocol

This book is dedicated to the late great James Yeager

Be careful who you call your friends. I'd rather have four quarters than one hundred pennies.

—Al Capone

I don't care what your momma told you, sometimes violence is the solution.

—Chris Kyle

The hottest places in hell are reserved for those who, in times of great moral crisis, maintain their neutrality.

—Dante Alighieri

Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.

—Nietzsche

Sing O muse, of the rage of Achelles, son of Peleus, that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans.

—Homer, The Iliad

I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.

—J. R. R. Tolkien, The Two Towers

Preface

This is the third book featuring the TI character. I wanted to address why I chose him. We live in a time when superheroes and people with extraordinary skills live in our minds, on the movie screen, on the pages of our books, and on news feeds. Maybe these are Navy SEALs, Green Berets, Army Rangers, or comic book superheroes. They are all—well, at least the real ones—deserving of our respect and admiration. But when we reserve so much attention for these people, we tend to overlook and dismiss the abilities and exceptional contributions of our neighbors who may have fought in Iraq, Afghanistan, or even the old guy that shuffles to the mailbox, yet in his youth, he carried an M-60 through the steamy jungles of Vietnam or fought gallantly at the Chosin Reservoir.

The second amendment to the constitution of the United States says, A well-regulated militia. In this case, regulation has nothing to do with government oversight. It has everything to do with training. I have taken many shooting classes with retired veterans as well as electricians, pipefitters, and lowly sales guys who move and shoot as well as any. In my opinion, these are the real superheroes. It's fun to willfully suspend reality and watch Ironman, Thor, Spiderman, and Batman battle archvillains. However, it's the everyday people that surround us, safeguard our lives, and allow us the freedom we so often take for granted.

The TI character is my attempt to pay homage to these often-unsung heroes. There is a real TI, and he is my friend. Yes, he has uncommon abilities that were developed in the military and elsewhere. But he's also a devoted family man who sees his real legacy as that of a father and husband. Why? Because ultimately, it is our family that defines us. Our ancestors make up who we are, where we came from, and often define our standards. The weak in our society mistakenly believe that because we train for violence, we somehow delight or yearn for it. Nothing could be further from the truth. We are commanded to be peacemakers and yearn for the good. Sometimes that requires us to walk away from the idiot in the parking lot that refuses to control his emotions. Other times, we need to destroy evil so that peace can take root. Either way, we bring peace. I do not know a single warrior that does not desire peace for their children. It is the soldier that abhors conflict the most. Why? Because they are the ones that are thrust into the dirty and horrific arena that is war. They are the ones that carry the lifelong scars of conflict, both physical and mental. They are the ones who have paid the price and have watched beloved friends die. The warrior, more than anyone, desires peace, but not at any cost.

Unfortunately, too often, we are confronted with phrases like toxic masculinity, oppressive patriarchy, cultural appropriation, and cancel culture. Today's society expects us to genuflect before their politically correct alters and make sacrifices to their shadow gods. The very idea of traditional manhood seems almost archaic, a fairy tale born of the age of chivalry and the legend of King Arthur and the knights of the round table. I'm sure there are some who subscribe to this woke mindset. For them, the idea of a character like TI is almost antithetical. Chances are, they are not reading my books. Instead, they pompously sit in a corner of an anonymous coffee house, delicately sipping a soy mocha latte, passionately banging on their laptops covered in Go Green and anti-gun stickers while they desperately search for their missing testosterone.

I believe society needs men who will stand up and selflessly declare, Here am I. Send me, not effeminate Peter Pans that refuse to launch. Rough individuals that can be meaner than evil yet at the same time are capable of checking that rage. They are essential to any healthy society. That doesn't mean that men should be uncivilized cavemen. As Jordan Peterson teaches, men should be dangerous and capable of extreme violence. But they should control that side of them with discipline and sacrifice. We need people who will man the walls and be guardians, who will fight for the weak and elderly, and who will revere womanhood. Who are these people? They are the ones who strap on a gun every day, even though it's hot and uncomfortable. They are the ones who carry a chest seal, tourniquet, and combat gauze around their ankle so the sheep aren't reminded that bad things can and do happen. They are the ones whose heads are on a swivel in the grocery line and who kindly shovel a widow's walkway. Finally, they are the ones who love their families and fill church pews. Don't fall for the fake and poisonous line that society doesn't need dangerous but disciplined men. We do. We are better because of them. America survives because of them.

Chapter 1

Outside of Kabul, Afghanistan

TI peered out a circular window into the vast darkness that surrounded the aging Russian-built helicopter. Only the stars and a sliver moon offered mediocre illumination which fed the night vision goggles (NVG) the pilot wore. The NVGs produced a ghoulish green image of the rugged landscape that sped by less than fifty feet below as the pilot matched the harsh terrain on the outskirts of Kabul in an attempt to covertly insert TI.

This is by far the worst part, TI thought. There was literally nothing he could do but sit there and think about what might happen. The pilot could hit a powerline or clip a tree with the rotor, and he'd die. Once he was on the ground, everything depended on him. But now, nothing did.

Just put me in was his silent plea. Although he'd been in situations like this before, TI felt the familiar rush of adrenaline that normally occurred just prior to action. Nonetheless, he knew he had to control it. As the chopper approached the preplanned coordinates, he checked his modest load-out, under the baggy Shalwar Kameez that he hoped would allow him to better blend in. In addition to the traditional, flat turban-type hat, that is so common among Afghan men, he also wore a shemagh tied to his neck that he'd wrap around his face to conceal his western features. He would have preferred to grow a real beard, but time didn't allow that, so the organization that hired him instead applied a fake beard that, although looking very natural, itched like crazy. The spirit gum the artist generously applied was both tacky and itchy, forcing TI to unnaturally hyperextend his jaw, like a snake, in a futile attempt to find some momentary relief.

I hope this stupid beard stays on, he thought. It would be terribly embarrassing to have half of it peel off in front of a bad guy.

The dress-like top that covered his pants concealed a sterilized and suppressed FN 502 pistol chambered in .22LR, two extra magazines loaded with 40-grain subsonic hollow points, a multitool, a blowout kit that had been shrink-wrapped to reduce its size and keep the various medical components clean and dry, and finally, a compass. Around his neck, TI wore a small blackened fixed-blade knife secured in a Kydex sheath. The only Western item he carried was a Rolex watch that served the dual purpose as both a timekeeper and an emergency bartering tool if he needed to enlist help. Even in the third world, everybody appreciated the value of an authentic Rolex and had an ego that coveted one.

Although a diminutive .22 seemed an inadequate choice to bring into a war zone, the mission required stealth and avoiding enemy contact, so the modest round was just what the task called for. The hand of the crew chief punched out of the red haze that bathed the helicopter's interior displaying three fingers.

Three minutes! Stand by! he shouted above the ear-shattering whine of the dual Klimov TV3-117MT turbine engines.

Roger, TI coolly answered as he made his final preparations. He unbuckled the rudimentary safety belt that provided only a marginal sense of security and slid the side door open, allowing a frigid blast of air to crash into him like a wave against the shore. After a quick check of his immediate surroundings, he scooted toward the opening. As he did, he couldn't help but remember past times he'd made similar insertions either into water or an LZ behind enemy lines. Although it was seemingly routine, the initial insertion was often the most dangerous part of any mission. The combination of the helicopter's engines and its whirling blades made a horrendously loud commotion. The bird was blacked out and would only hover long enough for him to exit before flying away. Hopefully, if the enemy was alerted; its brief stop wouldn't be noticed, and nobody would know that he was on the ground. The plan was that after insertion, he would locate a hidden motorcycle a kilometer from his position. The bike was delivered earlier by a local who had worked with NATO Special Forces during the American presence.

The helicopter flared a few feet above the ground, and the chief smacked TI on the shoulder while flashing an encouraging thumbs-up and a smile that was just visible under the visor attached to his flight helmet.

Good luck, Spartan!

TI pushed off and landed in a world of dust and tumult caused by the rotor wash of the Soviet-era bird. He immediately hunched over and scrambled toward a small shrub and laid flat behind it. He would have preferred the cover of a large boulder, but the scrubby plant was all he could see. TI remained still long after the helicopter departed, listening attentively for any telltale sound that would indicate his insertion was compromised.

It's said time can stand still. Some say a watched pot never boils. What they're trying to convey is time seems to linger at the most inopportune moments, especially when you're wondering if you're going to be captured, tortured, and spend a lifetime in a third world prison. Your mind is going so fast, considering so many possibilities, that every minute noise sounds like a truckful of enemy soldiers. Every snap of a branch telegraphs a footstep, and the most subtle click is surely a rifle coming off safety.

After about twenty minutes, which seemed like an eternity, the ambient sounds and scents stereotypical of a third world suburb started to return. The aroma of burning wood and trash, as well as the occasional dog barking, was joined by a chorus of insects chirping and buzzing, creating a type of soundtrack that signaled all was well. TI scanned 360 degrees around his position before cautiously rising to his knees, repeating his search, and enlarging his perspective.

It's amazing, he thought, how much more can be seen from even a slightly elevated position. He quickly noted the rolling topography of the plain he was on as well as a rutted dirt road that ran parallel to his position. Pulling out his compass, TI shot an azimuth in the direction of the sequestered motorbike and deliberately rose to his feet.

After a quick glance at his watch, he told himself, Okay, time to get moving. Even though he was confident all was well, he continued to scan the horizon for anything or anyone that might prove problematic. Even someone as modest and unassuming as a goatherder or a child searching for a wayward pet can compromise a mission. Just ask the survivors of Operation Redwings or Bravo Two Zero.

Although TI was on a strict schedule, he forced himself to walk leisurely so as not to draw attention. Most parts of the developing world operate at a slower pace than the West. There's a saying in Afghanistan: We have the time, while you have the watches. Or as Fouad Ajami observed, speaking of the Middle East, It is not a fast part of the world. Contrast that with the popular dictum of a New York minute, and you'll start to understand.

After a short walk down the dirt road, TI found a stand of trees where the small Chinese-built Honda motorcycle was concealed under a blanket of branches and leaves. After pulling it out of its hide, he straddled the bike and checked the gas tank by shifting it side to side. The gasoline sloshed, telling him the tank was partially full.

The guy that dropped it off must have ridden it a good distance before leaving it here for me. TI pulled out his radio and keyed up his support.

"Spartan to Pegasus. How copy?

Pegasus to Spartan. I read you five-by-five.

Pegasus, mark my position as Chula Vista, he informed the helicopter.

Roger, Spartan. I copy you Chula Vista was the disembodied reply.

The two-stroke motor started with one firm kick, and he sped off into the darkness. As he rode toward the lights of the capital, he passed several locals who casually looked up but just as quickly dismissed him as another resident on his way home after a long day. It wasn't long before the dirt road ended and was replaced by a paved street that indicated he had entered the capital.

After looking around to make sure no one was watching, TI once again radioed his progress. Spartan to Pegasus. Phase line Tijuana.

Pegasus to Spartan, copy phase line Tijuana. Be safe.

As he passed several broken-down and abandoned buildings, TI was reminded that he was in a war-torn city. At the same time, he wondered why, after all the money the US poured into Afghanistan, everything looked so dilapidated. Then he reasoned that there were towns in the US like Detroit and parts of Baltimore that were barely better off.

I guess it's a matter of civic pride and the general acceptance of governmental corruption. TI pulled over and checked a small map for the directions to the safe house where his package was waiting. It was in the western suburbs of the city, close to Kabul University in an area called Khushal Khan in the fifth district. One positive result of the twenty years American forces were in Afghanistan were accurate maps. When the Americans first arrived in 2001, they had to use tourist maps and decades-old charts left by the Russians that were of questionable accuracy. After a quick orientation, TI took a left on Darulaman Boulevard and continued on his way. As he arrived at his destination, he slowed down to visually inspect the exterior of the house for anything that seemed suspicious. After ditching the bike about a block away, TI identified a small late-model Japanese sedan which he knew he could easily requisition. After surreptitiously looking around, he withdrew a thin, flat, and flexible metal shim from under his belt and quickly defeated the driver's side door lock.

Entering the car, he put the transmission in neutral and silently pushed it down the street and away from its owner's home before starting the engine and driving to his target. After parking outside the safe house, he noticed two streetlights illuminating the area. TI withdrew his pistol and fired at the lights, making sure both were out. He enjoyed the cover of darkness.

After checking that nobody was around, he firmly knocked on the door.

"Taslim (Delivery)!" TI announced in a strong but cautious voice as he continued looking around.

A female voice cautiously answered through a closed door, "Ma al-dhay tugom petusilha (What are you delivering)?" That was the predetermined sign.

"Mishmish (Apricots), TI answered, providing the countersign. The door opened guardedly, and a woman appeared. She anxiously urged TI to enter. Before closing the door, she did a quick scan of the immediate area to make sure no one was watching. You are the American who is here to get me out of the country?" she asked in broken English after closing the door.

Yes, ma'am, he answered in a curt yet professional tone. Please gather only what you can easily carry. We have to go. Please hurry.

"Alhamdulillah (Thank God)!" The lady quickly threw on a long black abaya and a white hijab which covered her head before grabbing a small satchel. Then she looked at TI with apprehension. She understood how dangerous the next couple of hours would be.

TI reached into his pocket and withdrew a face mask and