Veterans' Tales of Intrigue, Adventure, and Mystery

By Marshall Ginevan

Synopsis: Veterans' Tales is a collection of stories about veterans. Intrigue, Adventure, and Mystery describe the types of stories, each one different from the others. But each story will hold the reader's attention until the end.

Autobiography: Marshall Ginevan grew up in southwestern Pennsylvania. He joined the Air For

• Language: English
• Publisher: Writers Branding LLC
• Release date: Mar 7, 2024
• ISBN: 9781639458950

Marshall Ginevan

Marshall Ginevan is a pilot who has served in the military, work in law enforcement and is retired from airport management.

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VETERANS’ TALES

OF INTRIGUE, ADVENTURE, AND MYSTERY

MARSHALL GINEVAN

Veterans’ Tales of Intrigue, Adventure, and Mystery

Copyright © 2024 by Marshall Ginevan

ISBN: 978-1639458950 (e)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher and/or the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

The views expressed in this book are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Dedication

Flashback to Viet Nam

In Search of Bella

Over the Ridge

RETURN OF THE GRAFF NORDE

The Littlefield Occupation

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the men and women who have served in the armed forces of the United States over the years, in each branch of our military. Some served in the time of war and paid a price for their duty to country in pain and injury – and some with their very lives. Some served in time of peace, but stood ready for whatever mission they were called, wherever they were called.

The British have been our allies and close military partners for over a century and through two world wars. I want to include them I this dedication and recognize their service.

To these serving veterans, I dedicate this collection of fiction stories as a way of saying thank you for your service to your country. And to the cause of freedom around the world.

They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength;

They shall mount up with wings like eagles;

They shall run and not be weary;

They shall walk and not faint.

- Isaiah 40:31

Flashback to Viet Nam

by Marshall Ginevan

It was one of those stiflingly hot days in the mountains of West Virginia. After a day of heavy rain, a dome of high pressure slid in from the west and stopped. The summer temperatures quickly pushed up into the upper 90’s and the air stopped moving. It was an uncommonly muggy day.

Jack Taylor’s wife, Nelle, hated days like this. It was not just the lack of air conditioning. It was her husband. Ever since Jack returned from the Viet Nam War he had . . . well, problems, Nellie explained. He was fine most of the time, especially in winter. But on days when it was hot and muggy, Jack would start having dreams. He would never talk about it, but she knew they were dreams about the war.

Sometimes, on hot summer days, Jack would just sit in a chair on his porch, looking off into the woods. Nelle said he was reliving terrible things from the war. But he would never talk to her about it. He and the other men in their valley who went to Viet Nam would sometimes get together to talk about the war. But they would only talk about it when they were alone with each other drinking beer - in the winter. Never in the hot summer. Nelle was sure it made it too real for them.

Some of the other wives said that their husbands would run off into the wood during those bad days, hiding from Charlie. Charlie was the little Vietnamese man in black pajamas who carried the big AK-47 rifle. On hot summer nights Charlie was everywhere watching them. Getting ready to attack. The men would sometimes sit up at night with their guns, watching, never sleeping. But other times they would go off into the woods with their guns. Sometimes they would stay out for several days.

As the afternoon shadows grew longer and the valley grew darker, Jack Taylor grew increasingly more nervous as he sat in his chair looking out into the woods. And Nelle grew increasingly more worried. Jack was a good man. Well, maybe he drank too much. But what else was there for a poor mountain man to do? Suddenly, from out her kitchen window, she saw Jack running toward the tractor shed in a low crouch.

Nelle ran out the back door and over to the tractor shed. She looked all around, but Jack was suddenly gone. He must have gone into the woods somewhere. But his dogs were still tied up. Nelle was afraid for Jack. It was the war again, she was sure.

It was just after 10:00 p.m. when the sheriff and two state troopers pulled up into her yard. She met them on her front porch, wringing her hands on her apron.

It’s my husband. He’s run off into the woods, I think.

The young trooper, maybe in his early 20’s, spit some tobacco juice onto the ground and said, He might ‘ave gone hunt’n.

Dogs is still here, she said, her voice tight.

The old overweight sheriff ran a red hanky over his damp head and said, Ain’t what it is. He’s runn’n from Charlie.

Who’s Charlie? the young trooper asked.

The older trooper rolled his eyes, but said nothing.

He’s that little Viet Nam man that Jack and them boys who fought in the war is afraid of, Nelle said.

Well, I recon we’ll just have to loost them dogs and go git ‘em, the young trooper said, then spit again in the grass.

We ain’t go’in down in no woods, the older trooper said, shaking his head.

The younger trooper looked at his partner, then heard the sheriff say, We need to let the Army go git ‘em. They made ‘em this way.

The older trooper nodded his head in agreement.

The Army special forces unit was setting up camp a few miles away. They, too, came to these mountains every month to do whatever the special forces do in the woods at night. The sheriff and the two troopers pulled up and asked for the commanding officer.

A young lieutenant, accompanied by an older mean-looking sergeant, walked up to them.

The lawmen quickly explained the situation.

Well, we’d like to help you guys, the lieutenant said, but federal law prohibits us from enforcing civilian law.

We just need you boys to find ‘em, the young trooper said, then spit on the ground. We’ll take care of him. You just point him out in the dark.

Well, the lieutenant started slowly. I’m not sure that is ev---

It’s a training mission, El-Tee, the deep voiced sergeant said. We find him, simulate the kill, and pull a tactical withdrawal. No one even knows we were there.

Maybe y’all won’t even have to simulate the kill, the young trooper said.

Just find him in the woods for us will be great, the older trooper quickly added.

It was settled. The five-man special forces team, led by the mean-looking old sergeant, got into a truck, and followed the police cars to the Taylor place. The young lieutenant, who rode over with the sheriff, agreed to wait at the house with the lawmen until Jack Taylor was found.

The young special forces recon team formed up at the tractor shed for a quick briefing from the sergeant. No one has live rounds on them. Heads immediately shook. Watch for booby traps. It’s his back yard. He may have live ammo, so don’t let him find you first. We do a simulated kill without him knowing we were there, notify the El-Tee, then secure the perimeter until El-Tee brings in the cops. Everyone silently nodded. Remember, we are and everyone said in a subdued voice, NIGHT STALKERS. WE OWN THE NIGHT.

Weapons were readied as if they were loaded with live ammo, night vision goggles were put into place, and just after 2:00 a.m. they silently moved into the woods.

For nearly an hour the team moved slowly and silently down the small trail, carefully checking for booby traps. Everyone was keenly aware that on this training exercise the person they were looking for probably was armed with live rounds. He would not be playing war. For him it would be real. Near the bottom of the hill someone turned up his night vision goggles in two quick flashes. The team froze in place. Almost instantly the gruff sergeant was standing beside the soldier. Silently the man pointed to his nose and waved his arm to the right.

The sergeant smelled it too. There was an acid sweet smell that was strange, yet at the same time very familiar. The others were now queuing in on it, also. They silently reformed into a firing line and inched their way along the hillside. Several minutes later they heard the sounds. A few more feet through the brush and they had a visual contact.

A four-compass-point ambush firing position was taken up. One team member silently slipped up behind Jack Taylor and carefully attached a ‘YOU’RE DEAD" tag to the collar of his shirt. When the team member was back to his firing position, four red laser dots from the team’s assault rifles appeared on his chest, neck, and head. The sergeant then notified the lieutenant to bring the law officers down the hill.

Just seven minutes after the radio call, four flashlight beams lit up Jack Taylor. His eyes were closed, and Jimmy Hendrix guitar music was blasting in the headset from a small battery-operated cassette player that was hanging on the arm of the lawn chair. As the sheriff and the troopers stepped up to Jack, Jack’s hand slowly raised to his lips. In his fingers was a crudely rolled marijuana cigarette. He inhaled deeply, slowly dropped his hand back down while he held his breath, then slowly let the smoke escape from his lungs.

The old sheriff looked down at Jack Taylor with a contemptuous look on his face and kicked the lawn chair over onto its side. Jack squirmed on the ground, pulling his headset off, and pulled his arms up in front of his face.

The two troopers quickly handcuffed Jack. As they stood reading Jack his rights, the sheriff picked up a plastic bag containing a half-pound of marijuana.

I can’t help it, Jack began yelling. It was the war that made me do it. It was the pressure of the war.

The old gruff sergeant could stand it no longer. He charged out of the brush and up to Jack. When were you in Viet Nam? the sergeant demanded.

Se-se-seventy-one, Jack stammered.

What was your unit?

We were resupply headquarters company in Saigon. I processed supply orders for units in the field.

You never saw Charlie. You never even saw combat. You were a REMFee! the sergeant boomed.

What’s a REMFee? the young trooper asked.

He was a rear echelon motherf----

AT EASE, Sergeant, the lieutenant barked.

Jack Taylor hung his head. These hot nights. It’s just like Viet Nam. The sun goes down and we sit and listen to Jimmy Hendrix music and smoke dope. I mean, that’s what the war was like, right?

The old sheriff ran a red hanky over his damp head, exposing the long scar on his arm. These hot nights, dark woods, the smell of dope in the air. Just the way my last night in Viet Nam started.

In Search of Bella

by Marshall Ginevan

He sat on the floor of the small kitchen with his back against the wall, too drunk to get up. He desperately wanted another beer. There were several bottles in the frig, but the woman lay on the floor against the frig door. She was just staring at the ceiling. Crazy bitch! I just wanted a beer, he whined. Her reply was stone cold silence.

He crawled into the living room, pulled a pillow off the couch, and fell asleep.

A few hours later, he managed to get up off the floor and stagger into the bathroom. When he saw the kitchen light on, he cautiously peeked around the corner. She was still on the floor in front of the frig, staring at the ceiling. He fumbled for the light switch and the kitchen light went off. But he could still see her there on the floor, staring at the ceiling. The darkness could not block out the image of her. It was imprinted in his mind, like a shameful tattoo that he could not wash away or hide.

It was early Saturday morning when a woman with purple hair stepped out her front door to let her cat out. Curled up at her neighbor’s front door, on their common porch, was a man passed out drunk. No one seemed to like the man. He was nice enough when he was sober. But every weekend he got drunk. And he was a mean drunk. She had no idea why her neighbor let him into her apartment.

She yelled at him several times, but there was no response. She looked all around. There was no one else awake and moving at this hour of the morning. So, she stepped over to him and delivered a strong kick to his back side.

He jerked awake, banging his head on the door. Slowly he looked around, then rubbed his head. Looking up, he said in a slurred voice, What do you want?

Go home, she said.

I’m waiting for Bella. He tried to sit up.

Bella isn’t here. She hasn’t been here all week.

The man slowly sat up and reached for the door handle, but there was a lock box over the doorknob. He looked at the lock box and asked, What’s this?

She hasn’t paid the rent. I think she skipped out.

The man struggled to his feet and muttered, She isn’t coming back. She’s gone.

And you need to be gone, too. Stop coming here.

The man staggered off the porch, mumbling something about poor Bella being gone.

The woman watched him as he staggered out to the street and around the corner.

Around noon on Saturday, the landlady knocked on the purple haired lady’s front door.

Have you seen or heard from Bella this week? she asked.

No, but that jerk she was seeing was passed out at her front door this morning. Said something about her being gone. I think she skipped out. Probably to get away from him.

She didn’t skip out, the old lady answered. Her purse is still setting beside her chair. Her car is still parked around the corner.

The purple haired woman made a face. She wouldn’t leave without her purse.

And a man from the Veterans Office called me. She missed two appointments and is not answering her phone. He wants me to check her apartment.

Check it for what?

To see if she’s in there.

Purple hair followed the landlady into Bella’s apartment. Her purse was setting beside the chair where she always kept it. They looked around the apartment, but Bella was not there.

She always leaves the rent on the table in an envelope. If she isn’t home, I just pick it up. But it wasn’t there this week.

Call her, purple hair said, as she slowly walked into the kitchen looking around.

In a few seconds, they heard her phone ringing in the kitchen. But they could not see it anywhere. She called several times before they found it under the stove.

She wouldn’t leave without her phone, purple hair said.

I’m calling the police.

It was more than an hour before a police officer showed up at the door. He took a missing person report and suggested that she may be spending a few days with a boyfriend. Purple hair told him about the drunk who Bella was seeing and that she found him passed out on the porch that morning. He noted that in his report, looked around, and left.

Monday morning, there was a knock on the door. Purple hair opened the door and saw a clean-cut man in a shirt and tie standing there. He extended her his business card and said, Morning, I’m trying to find Bella who lives next door. She glanced down and saw a police badge on his belt and a gun on his hip. She slowly took the card from his hand.

Haven’t seen her, she answered curtly and crossed her arms on her chest.

I understand that you found a drunk on the porch at her door on Saturday morning. Care to tell me what that was about.

He was drunk. He left.

The officer glanced around the small living room, then reached down and picked up a pack of rolling papers from an end table next to the door. Surely you remember when you last saw Bella?

Look, I don’t know where that came from, she said, nervously.

I’m just here looking for Bella, he said, flipping the rolling papers in his fingers. Anything you can tell be would certainly help.

She looked at the papers, then back at the officer. Ah, this drunk has been spending the weekends with Bella. I don’t know why, but they fight a lot. You know, loud yelling.

When was the last time you heard them yelling?

Saturday night. Late. Not this past weekend, but the one before.

Does the drunk have a name?

I don’t know, she said, unwilling to say more.

You have my card. Cell number is on the back. If you see or hear anything that will help me find Bella, I’d appreciate hearing from you. He held out the rolling papers to her.

She took the papers and muttered, Thanks.

The policeman walked into the Veterans Office and asked to see Matt. He was taken back to Matt’s office.

Hey, John. What brings you in today?

Your name in a missing person report, the officer said, settling into a chair.

Bella Collins. One of our regulars. Suddenly dropped out of sight last week. Won’t answer our calls. Not answering her door.

Rent was due last Monday. Landlady says it’s always on the table in cash. It wasn’t there. She found Bella’s cell phone under the stove in the kitchen. Her purse was left next to the chair by the front door. All her ID and credit cards were in the purse. Just her keys were missing.

Her car?

Still parked around the corner. So, what can you tell me?

Off the record? Matt asked.

Need everything I can get to find her. Just tell me what I can write down and use.

Matt pulled up a file folder and flipped it open on his desk. Navy veteran. Medical retirement as an E-5 with just over eight years of service. Had a head injury in an accident, but when she returned to duty she was confused and couldn’t remember how to do her job. She has been working as an office temp at different places around town, she tells me.

Any family, friends, or contacts?

Has a sister named Ella. No current contact info.

Not the type to just run off without telling anyone?

Matt flipped the folder shut. No. She seems to have trouble remembering and concentrating. Not a lot of friends.

Party girl?

Not that I could tell. Not the type to just up and run off.

This doesn’t look like a run-away to me either. But there is no evidence of foul play.

What can we do?

Post flyers with her picture. Maybe someone has seen her. This town isn’t that big.

Tuesday morning, John had a message to call the girl with the purple hair. He stopped by and knocked on her door. She was surprised to see him again. But she noticed that he wore a sports jacket to cover his badge and gun.

Thought you’d call rather than come by, she said defensively.

Well, I was going to give you a ring, but I see that you already have several, he quipped.

She pulled her hair over her ears. I think I saw her last night. Someone was on the porch, so I looked out the window. She was looking through mail in the mailbox, then turned and walked away.

She take her mail?

No. It’s still there.

You’re not sure it was her? he asked.

It was dark, and she had a hoodie. But it looked like her. She hesitated, then added, We had a party, so . . .

John looked around and sniffed the air. Yea, I can still smell the weed.

She looked at him, then looked away.

What time was it?

The party?

What time did you think you saw her? John asked slowly.

Around midnight, I think.

So, why didn’t she go into her apartment?

The landlady has her locked out. She didn’t pay the rent last week.

John walked out and looked at the mail in her mailbox. He took a few notes and put the mail back.

That afternoon, John called her bank and asked about Bella’s credit card. They could not give him any information about her card without a court order, but the woman did say that there had been no activity on her card in the past two weeks.

John then went knocking on doors along the street where Bella’s car was parked. Two homeowners had video of a woman checking on Bella’s car. That verified the story from the purple haired lady.

He then downloaded Bella’s driver’s license picture and started showing it around at several local motels. Maybe she had a local room. He then headed for the local car rental agency.

The young man at the car rental counter looked at the picture for several seconds.

Staring at the picture isn’t going to change the face, John finally said.

This come with a name?

Bella Collins.

The young man began tapping on his keyboard. He then announced, Name is spelled wrong. Got a date of birth?

John handed him a copy of Bella’s driver’s license.

Right date of birth. Wrong address. Wrong state. He then turned his computer monitor around.

John stared at the license for several seconds.

The young man said, Staring at it ain’t gonna change it.

John looked at him. Print that for me.

That’s against company policy, he said, then grinned. But I like breaking the rules in front of the law.

In a few seconds, John had the copy of the driver’s license. He also had a make, model, and license number of the car she was driving.

Wednesday morning, John walked into a small diner and looked around. He stepped up to a table and said, I’ll buy you breakfast if I can join you.

She looked up from her menu, then looked him up and down. You a local?

I am, he answered with a smile.

She extended her hand and smiled. He sat down across the table from her. Thank you.

The waitress stepped over and asked, Your usual.

He nodded and smiled.

The waitress then looked at the woman. When she had taken her order, John said, On me.

You own this place? the woman asked.

No. I’m looking for you, John said, then handed her his business card.

She looked it over and asked, And why are you looking for me?

Because, if you’re Ella, then we’re both looking for Bella.

She took a sip of her coffee and said, I like intelligent men. So, what have you found?

So far, only you. I wonder if you had something to share with me.

You a homicide investigator?

John showed a look of surprise. No. This is a missing persons case.

No. He killed my sister. And I’m going to find him.

Where is she?

I don’t know. But he will tell me.

Who is he?

I don’t have a name. Not yet.

They sat in silence for several minutes. When the waitress brought them their breakfast, they settled into small talk as they ate.

So, how did you land this job? Ella asked.

I was a policeman in the Air Force. Worked in investigations.

Ever had to solve a murder?

Nope.

Ella shook her head.

What about you? What do you do?

Office manager for a group of real estate lawyers. No excitement there. She shrugged. The closest I’ve come to violence is tearing papers from the copy machine.

After breakfast, John took Ella to the police station.

They settled into his small office. John pulled out a fresh legal pad and said, I need you to tell me everything about this case. Why do you think your sister was murdered? When did it happen? And who did it?

Ella looked toward the ceiling for a few seconds, then said, Let me tell you a story, John. Can I call you John?

Yes. John is fine, he replied with a smile. He just wanted her to relax and talk.

I have an older brother. I used to have two older brothers. They were twins. One evening, my brother ran into the living room crying. He was heartbroken. He told my mother that his twin had just died. He didn’t know how it happened or where it happened. But he told us that it had just happened. He knew it. It was a few hours later that there was a knock on the door. A state trooper was there to tell Mother that my brother was killed in a car accident. My father was seriously injured, but he survived. It was sad, but my brother knew when his twin died. He immediately felt the loss.

John nodded. Bella is your twin sister. You felt it when she died.

Yes. I feel that half of me is missing. It is gone. She is gone.

When did you feel it?

Late Saturday night. Bella was angry. Then she was frightened. Then she was desperately fighting for her life. Then she was gone.

John was frantically writing on his notepad. Finally, he looked up at Ella.

He choked my sister to death. She fought him, but he was too much for her.

Did she tell you who she was seeing? Give you any clue who this guy was?

We don’t talk much. We don’t keep in touch that way.

So, how do you know it was a guy who killed her?

She called him Jack Off, Ella said. I don’t know if that was a name or a description. She seemed to glare at John.

John noticed her intense look. We’ll find him, he said. But he did not sound all that confident.

Looking over his notes, John seemed to stumble over his questions. Do you know, ah . . . Do you have any idea when this happened?

The Saturday before last. Nearly two weeks ago. It was near midnight.

So, was your sister feeling different on the weekend than during the week?

Ella took a breath and looked around. Yes. During the week she was very calm but was lonely. On weekends, she was often upset and angry.

For how long?

How long was this weekend anger going on?

Yes, John nodded.

Several weeks. Maybe a month or a little more.

She was a military veteran?

Yes. She was some kind of a crypto specialist working with secret codes. While on board a ship somewhere, she was accidently knocked onto a deck and suffered a head injury. The injury healed quickly, but she had some type of brain damage. She couldn’t remember and couldn’t concentrate. So, the Navy retired her. She gets a disability check and her medical is taken care of. But she really missed the Navy life and her friends there.

John flipped some pages on his desk and took a few more notes.

So, what’s your plan to find the guy who killed my sister? Or do you even believe that he exists?

He’s a white male and he’s a drunk. He’s been staying with her on the weekends and they argued a lot. I’ve got to check on a few things first, but I hope to have him in custody by this weekend. No promises, though.

Ella gave John a surprised look. You know who he is?

Working on it, he answered, nodding.

John called the landlady and asked if anyone had been doing any work in Bella’s apartment. She gave him the name Moe’s Air Conditioning Company but could not remember just what they were doing in that apartment.

John called the owner, then met him at the air conditioning office that afternoon.

Old Moe sifted through a folder of work orders and tossed one on the table.

John looked it over, then asked, What was done in this apartment?

Moe looked it over and said, Looks like we pulled a new thermostat wire.

Who did the work?

Jack did.

Date and time on that job? John asked, then he wrote it down. And who is Jack?

Jack Offenhauser, my lead tech. JO is in the signature line, right here.

Must be a good man, if he’s your lead.

"Four days a week, he’s good. On Monday, he’s hung over.