The Rampage of Ryan O'Hara (10 page)

Rosie said grace. He thanked the Lord for the bounty of food before them and for the visit of his friend to their humble abode.

Even after years of soldiering and heavy combat, Rosie still possessed the reverence of a quiet and pleasant choirboy who once sang hymns in the all-black church in his hometown. Raised by loving but strict God-fearing parents, his had been a happy childhood spent roaming the rural Georgia countryside and cat-fishing with his five brothers and two sisters. He was a good, solid man, secure in his being and faith. His upbringing had prepared him for the disciplined life of a military leader.

They engaged in small talk as they ate. The topic of Ryan’s failed marriage soon came up.

“Ya know, sweetie, Rosie and I always had reservations about Ciara and thought you were too good for her. We were puzzled as to how she was able to snag you like she did.” Monique looked slightly embarrassed and wondered if she was stepping out of line.

Ryan laughed and replied, “Well, thanks for telling me, dearie. I only wish you’d said something before I married her. Could have saved me a lot of trouble.”

Rosie interjected. “We wanted to tell you. But how were we supposed to tell a friend that the love of his
life is a…? Well, skip it, man. You know what I mean. You wouldn’t have listened to us anyway. You had your mind made up and that was all there was to it. We’re just glad you were finally able to break free of her. It’s just a shame that you had to go through the pain of learning about women like her the hard way.”

“No worries, my friend. It’s water under the bridge now. I got screwed over by a barfly and I learned a hard lesson. The hard ones are the kind you never forget.” Ryan continued, “I think the worst part of the whole thing was the fact that the lowlife that partnered up with her in that web of infidelity was a San Francisco vice cop. My grandpa died serving that department and I’ve always thought the police in the city were beyond reproach. So it was a double whammy to find out not all of their members are honorable.”

Rosie chuckled and shook his head. “You know something, brutha? You amaze me. Here you been through multiple tours in the Sandbox and Stan. You’re a top-notch fightin’ soldier with so many medals ya can’t fit ’em all on yer dress greens an’ you don’t have the sense God gave a heifer-headed fool when it comes to women.”

“Well, that’s all changed now,” replied Ryan. “I’ve found a wonderful woman in San Francisco and when I retire someday, I hope to find her still waiting for me. I intend to settle down with her if she’ll have me.”

“I take it you didn’t meet up with this one in a bar.” Rosie faked a frown.

“No, my friend, as a matter of fact I didn’t. We were introduced by mutual friends at a quiet little dinner party and it took off from there. I had absolutely no
intentions of having a romantic relationship and was, in fact, very bitter about women in general. No offense, Monique. I didn’t mean you,” Ryan quickly added.

“No need to explain, honey. I know you didn’t. Now how ’bout some dessert? I got my little Ryan his favorite. I’ll bet you can’t guess what it is, can you?” she teased.

Ryan faked ignorance. “Well, I uh…No, I can’t. Wait a minute, is it…?”

“Yeah, baby, it’s pecan pie, homemade right here in your little tan sista’s Georgia kitchen.” Monique laughed at the scripted back-and-forth she and Ryan always played.

A few minutes later, as they finished up the last of the pie and downed their coffee, Rosie asked, “How ’bout a cigar?”

“Sounds good,” Ryan replied as they got up from the table.

“Y’all ain’t smokin’ in my house now, Rosie. You take them stinky logs outside and smoke them in the yard,” Monique scolded, knowing full well that Rosie already knew the rule about not smoking inside. Yeah, she ran a tight ship. First Sergeant Theodore Roosevelt Washington may be the first pig at the range, but the missus clearly outranked him around the house.

Rosie grabbed a couple of cigars from the box and a bottle of cognac that he saved for special occasions. Pouring two shots, he handed Ryan a glass and motioned toward the front door. The smoke and after-dinner drink were a nice way to end a perfect evening.

“If you can hang around for another night or two, I can take you out to the range with me tomorrow and show you around. What about it?” asked Rosie.

“Yeah, I’d like that,” Ryan said. “Always wanted to see what old, out-to-pasture workhorses do to justify their existence.”

“Okay then, we better turn in, ’cause reveille’s at 0500 and if your pale white ass ain’t out of the rack when it blows, I’m gonna dump it over on ya.”

The two old friends laughed and went inside. Rosie showed Ryan to his room and went to join Monique, who had long since retired for the night.

S
edona, Arizona, was a slice of paradise to most people. But to the disheveled former math professor who’d dropped out of society and chosen to live in semi-seclusion, it was more like a hideout. No longer able to cope with modern society, he lurked on its periphery, coming out only to shop for the few essentials necessary to sustain him.

One of his few pleasures was sitting on the porch of his cottage near Oak Creek Canyon drinking tea and watching the rising sun cast its light on the golden spires and rock formations that towered above the ponderosas and sycamores. Twice divorced and burned out from too much drug use, he whiled away his days
talking to his golden retriever, the one living being that didn’t argue with his disjointed and sometimes incoherent ramblings.

When he wasn’t mumbling to himself or engaging in one-way dialogue with his dog, he was inside his dank little home hunched over an antiquated typewriter, pecking out the memoirs of a unspectacular life—a life highlighted by a brief period four decades earlier when he’d been a leader in the radical domestic terrorist organization known as Lenin’s Legion.

He’d once aspired to be like his idol, Che Guevara, but was now a forgotten, jittery shell—a staggering, slobbering, emasculated mix of jaundiced skin and bones. Long gray hair, an unkempt beard, and soiled attire made the former anarchist look even filthier than he was. And that was saying a lot. He didn’t bathe but once or twice a month, and only then if he remembered.

People snickered and pointed when he ventured into town to buy groceries or pick up mail at the post office.

Yes, Gilbert Hayward the recluse was a reject and outcast. He hoped the autobiography he was in the process of writing would inject some meaning into his worthless life and earn him some recognition and respect. The once loud and boisterous college radical who’d rioted, burned, and blown up buildings was going through an inner crisis, torn between a need to be recognized and a guilt born of the realization that his past was wrought with evil acts, some of which had resulted in the deaths of other human beings. He hoped to redeem himself through the book and explain his actions so that readers would be able to understand him and realize that,
although still an ideological Marxist, he was remorseful for the harm he’d inflicted on others.

Now broken and approaching the twilight of life, he wondered if perhaps there really was a God. An avowed communist, he’d always rejected that notion and gone about his criminal activities fearing nothing of an afterlife. Recently, however, with age closing in, he was having second thoughts.

Gilbert’s confusion and anguish was further aggravated by his increased consumption of cocaine and marijuana. The drug abuse was his attempt to self-medicate, but instead of helping him cope with the panic attacks that were plaguing him, it was just making matters worse. The attacks had started a few weeks back when he’d picked up a newspaper and read about the murders of his former companions, Bill and Brenda Delgadillo. “Hell,” he’d thought, “they even killed Hugo.” Little Hugo was only an infant when he’d last seen him.

Gilbert wondered if the murders were related to the days when the three of them and the pack of radicals they’d roamed the country with had tried to bring about a Marxist revolution. Had they been murdered by the CIA or the FBI? No, no, he wouldn’t go there. He knew that was being paranoid. Or was it?

Perhaps it was just a random killing carried out by sadistic home-invasion robbers who got pleasure out of torturing and massacring their victims.

But what if they’d been killed by a friend or relative of one of the countless people who’d suffered at the hands of Lenin’s Legion? That possibility sent shivers up Gilbert’s spine because it was the most likely of the scenarios rampaging through his mind. If that were the
case, would he be next? And if so, how would the killers locate him, tucked away out here on the outskirts of town near a creek in the forest? What would they do to him when they found him? He shuddered at the prospect of being burned to death in the same manner as his former comrades.

R
yan looked at the clock next to his bed and saw that it was four forty-five. He rolled out of the sack, grabbed his shaving kit, and went down the hall to the guest bathroom, where he showered and shaved.

Dressing quickly, he stashed his green beret in the cargo pocket of his ACUs, laced his boots, and headed for the kitchen. The smell of coffee and bacon greeted him. He was met by Rosie, who wisecracked, “It’s about time you got up, shitneck. I was just fixin’ to pour some ice water on your lazy ass.”

Ryan laughed. “Now I see why they call you Rosie. You look so domesticated and feminine, puttering around your kitchen like a little old lady.”

Rosie feigned a frown and chuckled. “One more crack like that and you’ll be wearing over-easy for a hat, boy.”

They were just finishing up breakfast when Monique wandered into the kitchen. She grabbed a cup and poured herself some coffee. “So, what do my two favorite fellas have going on today?” she asked.

“I’m gonna take Ryan out to the range and show him around. We have a qualification going on at the flat range this morning and some demolition classes in the afternoon. Pretty full schedule, so don’t expect us home before 1700,” Rosie replied.

“You planning on staying another night, Ryan?” asked Monique.

“Probably, if that’s all right with you, little sister,” he replied.

Monique smiled. “You know it is.” She was pleased Ryan was staying. It had been a while since she’d seen her husband relax the way he had the night before. She attributed the improvement in attitude to Ryan’s visit. Rosie had been moping around a lot lately. He missed the camaraderie that came with sharing danger with other men in mortal combat and found the transition from warrior to instructor about as fulfilling as sitting in a rocking chair.

“Come on, Irish, it’s time to shove off,” Rosie said as he motioned to Ryan. He bent over and kissed Monique good-bye, and they were soon out the door and driving away from the housing area toward the far reaches of the reservation where the ranges were located.

Rosie passed the red range flag and stopped to chat with the communications NCO, who was preparing his equipment for the day’s qualifications. There would be two of them today, one with the Beretta and the other with the M-4.

“How’s it going, Charlie?” Rosie asked.

“Okay, First Sergeant. Everything’s good to go. The ammo’s here and the troops will be out at 0900 sharp.”

“That’s great. Is the doc here yet?” Rosie inquired.

“Roger that, First Sergeant. He arrived a few minutes ago.” Staff Sergeant Charlie Bradford pointed to the medic, who was setting up a table and removing his aid kit from a Humvee about fifty yards down the line.

“Yeah, I see him. By the way, Charlie, this is an old buddy from my days as a fighting soldier. Name’s Master Sergeant Ryan O’Hara. If I get preoccupied, look after him and show him around the operation, will ya?”

“You got it, Top,” replied the staff sergeant as he shook Ryan’s hand.

Rosie drove toward the makeshift aid station, which, like the communications station, was mandatory at all live-fire exercises. He greeted the young medic. “Good morning, Doc. All ready for another day of operating?”

“Just about, First Sergeant,” replied Staff Sergeant Wilrolan Nunes.

“Very good, Doc. Carry on,” Rosie said.

After introducing Nunes to Ryan, Rosie drove the jeep over to the ammo shed, where the rest of the crew were looking over the morning report and preparing for the day. As the A-team got ready, the range masters and safeties began the briefing that was required before each live-fire session. Ryan offered to watch the
ammunition and communications equipment so that Doc Nunes and Communications Sergeant Bradford could attend.

He looked over the boxes of 5.56 and 9 mm ammo set aside for the day’s close-quarter marksmanship training and qualification. Like most Green Berets, Ryan felt that this type of qualification course was useless. Shooting at stationary targets on an open range was not the type of drill Special Forces soldiers found helpful. It did little to hone their skills to the degree necessary for fighting the war on terror. What was needed were exercises designed to challenge them with simulated combat situations that imitated the types encountered in the Middle East and other lesser-known trouble spots in which Special Operators fought.

Emphasis needed to be on training the operators to fight their way out of ambushes, breach defensive positions and clear urban areas street by street and house by house. Situations to test reflexes and decision making also needed to be thrown into the mix. Shooting at stationary targets was well below the threshold that these operators required to keep ahead of the curve.

The only explanation Ryan could think of to explain this total waste of training time and resources was that it probably enabled some rear-echelon desk jockey to get an administrative-excellence rating on his OER.

Ryan was anxious to get on the demolition range to see what would be used—or, better yet, what wouldn’t be used—in that segment of the training. The rifle and pistol ranges were not where he wanted to be, but he’d have to hang out here until the training moved over to
the other site. He hoped to find some of the items he needed there.