10mm

Ten Millimeters 

11.0

A novel authored by David Santin Kilday (DSK).

Copyright 2024

—

Here is a novel I began in 2024.  I hope you like it and don't mind my quirky characters and witty dialogue.  The narrative arc sweeps from a seaside town in California (where the novel begins with the discovery of a terrible crime), to the shores of Venezuela, to a compound in the Andes piedmont, and back to the California coast again.  

I began this novel in 2024 and picked it up again during the operation in which we nabbed Maduro.  The end of what I have written so far occurred in the aftermath of our successful operation in Venezuela.  No US military personnel died in the operation that captured Maduro.

DSK

—

STIFF

So, I took my warm bagel to the edge of the boardwalk.  There I sat down with my bare feet dangling in the air over the beach.  I bit into the bagel: crisp exterior, chewy interior, and soft cream cheese.  When I had finished eating the bagel, I shook my feet aimlessly and inhaled the thick sea air.  

There was something familiar on the edge of the scent that I recalled from my tours of duty with the military.  I sat erect and smelled the edge of the scent like a bloodhound.  It was the acrid and tangy smell of blood.  I dropped down to the beach and followed my nose.

The scent came from underneath the pier.  The pier protruded into the sea.  I tapped the pistol on my hip with the tips of my fingers and walked carefully towards the underside of the pier.  The scent intensified as I approached the pier.  I raised my arm and grasped the edge of the wooden slats that formed the pier over my head.  It was silent under the pier and it was dark. 

I drew my flashlight and lit it.  Where the sand and the pier met in the darkness ahead, I saw a contorted body.  It was chin down in the sand.  Its pants had been drawn down around its ankles.  There was a mass of congealed blood where the anus had been.  

I moved forward and trained the flashlight on the body’s upper half.  The man’s throat had been slit.  A mass of congealed blood covered the neck and chest of the body.  The corpse’s hands were outstretched.  The fingernails had been ripped from its fingers.  A plunged hypodermic needle protruded from the torture victim’s neck.

I squatted in the sand.  Even I, who had seen so many mangled, dead bodies in my tours of duty, felt a little queasy.  I waited for my adrenalin to surge and fade.  Faced with the choice of fight or flight, I decided to fight for this human being, this tortured and slain corpse, before there were more.

I phoned the dead body in to the dispatcher and told her to wait to pick it up.  There was a chill wind blowing towards the ocean.  It was off-season in this resort town, and the chill wind was keeping the stench of the corpse from being noticeable to the locals and tourists on the pier above.

I clicked off the flashlight and made my way towards the light where the overhang of the pier ended.  There were four people playing sand volleyball on the beach near the pier.  They were playing mixed doubles.  They were all wearing sweatshirts, shorts, and matching caps.  It was midafternoon.  They had kicked off their flip flops and left them at the base of one of the poles that held the net.

I stood a little ways off, a flip flop Major. I stood at the end of the court and waited until the ball was spiked and rolled from the court to a point directly in front of my two bare feet encased in flip flops.  I picked up the ball and took a step forward to meet the players.  A woman approached and asked me if she could have the ball back.  

“I see you’re busy.  Do you mind answering a few questions?”  I showed her my badge.

“Is everything alright Detective?” she asked.  “Did we do something wrong?”

“You’re doing what you're supposed to do at the beach.  I’ve noticed you here before.  Do you play here often?”

“Every day.”

“I need a lead.  Have you seen anything strange?  Have you seen anything out of the ordinary?  Have you seen anyone suspicious?”

“We play at the same time every day,” she said.  “We’re done before dark.  Then we take drinks and watch the sunset from our place up the hill from the boardwalk.”

“So you’re not on the beach after dark.”

“No.  The beach gets weird after dark.”

“What do you mean by weird?”

“Derelicts, crime, you could do a better job of policing the beach.”

“Most of our force strength is committed to the city but I now work the boardwalk and pier.  You’re not to tell anyone I am a Detective.”

“Oh, allright.”

“It will be our secret.  You notice anything ‘weird,’ please report it to me immediately and discreetly.  I’ll be around.”

She checked me out and replied, “I can be discreet, if you can be discreet.”

I laughed at this flirt and tossed the ball to her.  She was tall and leggy. 

“Are you available?” I asked with a smile.  “I like your legs.  I like your eyes.”

“Well, you’re tall.  I have a hard time finding men taller than me.  What should I call you?”

“Call me Zaphat.  It’s pronounced Zap - fat.”

“That’s a strange name.  I like the way it rolls off my tongue.  Call me Susan.”

“Glad you approve, Susan.”  I laughed again.  “If you see any trouble, I’ll be around.  Just be discreet.  I am undercover.”

“My secret protector.  What a turn on.”

“You turn me on too.”

I turned on my heel and slogged through the sand back to the boardwalk.  I sat down cross legged at  the intersection between the boardwalk and the pier and wondered if the murdering weirdo would return to the scene of his crime.  Weird is weird, but this guy was a real sicko.

WATCH

From the pier, Zaphat watched Susan and her friends finish their beach volleyball match.  It was difficult to determine who had won because both teams celebrated at the end of the game.  

They were collaborating for fun, not competing for domination, though there might be some gentle ribbing from the winners when they returned to their beach house for drinks at sundown.

He recalled his last partner.  Since she had died, he had worked alone.  She had caught an armor piercing round in the temple through her helmet during an operation.  She had died in his arms.  Zaphat had thought about partnering with a Belgian Malinois or a German Shepherd but he found that he preferred working alone.  He was simply more comfortable that way.

The sun began to descend into the sea.  When it descended beneath the waves, it seemed as if a bright halo of light was projected up into the sky.

When night fell, he shifted his position to sit near the dead body.  He slowed his body down, through meditation, until he became invisible.  

Criminals sometimes revisited the scene of their crime or repeated their crimes long after they had been found out.  The police just sat back and observed them increase their time in prison and their fines.  Add it up.

From where he sat cross legged on the edge of the pier, he watched the intersection with the boardwalk and the pier to the sea.  The pier was  lit by lights which partially projected their spheres of visibility onto the beach.

He waited the entire night through, but no one approached the pier from the beach.  When he felt the sun warm his body, he rose and moved stiffly from the pier to the boardwalk.  The bagel stand hadn't opened yet.  

The pier was sparsely populated because it was customary, in this beach town, to stay up late into the morning and awaken for breakfast at noon.

Zaphat watched a limousine, rare for these parts, turn at the intersection and accelerate up the hill.  He wondered what it had under the hood.

McKAY’s

He let his bare feet take him to his customary early morning restaurant, McKay’s.  He walked through the outside tables and passed the bar that was positioned on the side of the first room.  A man and a woman sat at the bar staring into space.  He opened a door at the end of the room and entered a smaller room with a bar across the back wall.  The bartender approached.

“Zaphat,” the bartender greeted him by name.

“How are you doing, Paul?” Zaphat replied.

“I’m fine.  The usual?  You look like hell.”

“Yeah, hash and bangers sticks to the ribs, but make the whiskey a double.”

The bartender pulled a pint of Guinness stout and set it down in front of Zaphat.  Then he poured a double Jameson Irish Whiskey and set it down next to the stout.  Zaphat took a sip of the whiskey and felt its comfort burn as it passed through his mouth and throat and warmed his belly.

“Hash and banger scramble?” said Paul the bartender.

“Yeah, the usual.”

“New beat.  Found a dead body under the pier.  He had been drugged and tortured.  Keep it under your hat for now; we haven’t picked up the corpse yet.”

“Oh no.”

“I called it in but told them to wait.  I sat up last night to see if the sicko came back.  It wouldn’t surprise me, based on the brutality of the crime, if we have a corpse fucker on our hands.”

I took a pull at the comforting whiskey and washed it down with the heady stout.

“Is he still at large?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“How long has he been in the wind?”

“Over a decade.  Same MO as an unsolved case a decade ago.  Thought he’d moved on.  I’m worried he’s come back.”

“Same Method of Operation: MO?”

“Yeah, male victim, vic paralyzed with a hypodermic, raped in the ass, fingernails pulled off, throat slit.”

“Sicko.”

“Sicko.  When I catch him, it's the California gas chamber for him.”

“I hope it hurts.  Want some more whiskey?”

“No, I just wanted to steady my nerves.  How’s the scramble coming?  I’m famished.”

“Any moment now.  It's early and we don’t have many customers yet.”

“Two in the front room?”

“Two more couples now.  There are now four at the front bar and two more at a table outside.”

I wondered at Paul’s extra sensory perception: ESP.

A bell rang in the kitchen.

“That’s you,” said the bartender.  He disappeared through two swinging doors and reemerged with a plate of food.  I finished the black stout and Paul set the heaping and steaming plate of food down in front of me.

BARISTA

After I finished at McKay’s, I returned to my quarters.  My quarters were in a rectangular apartment building from which two wings extended to the street.  There was a courtyard between the two wings which contained a fountain.  Four benches were located around the fountain.  The benches faced inward towards the fountain to produce an involuted effect.  I lived in a ground floor apartment on one wing bordering the courtyard.

I sat wearily on one of the benches around the fountain and lit a cigar that I had purchased from Paul at the bar.  I used a torch lighter.  I puffed at this cigar and idly watched the play of water in the fountain and the smoke rings disperse in the breeze.  

Shandra, who lived in the apartment opposite my own, approached and sat down next to me on the bench.

“How are you, Zaphat?” she asked.

I looked her over.  She was very tan and wore a tank top, hot pants, and flip flops.  

I replied, “I’m tired.  Now, I have what I need.  I’m down to three cigars a day.”

“That’s not too bad.  Do you inhale?”

“I did in my youth.  Now, I just puff and wait for the effect.  I have grown more patient with age.”

“I’m still youthful.”

I laughed.  Shandra and I had known each other for several years.  She lived in the apartment across the courtyard from my own.  She worked as a barista at a local coffeehouse.  I said, “You’re too youthful for me, I guess.” I said.

“Age is just a number.  You’d be more handsome if you shaved your beard and got your haircut.”

“I’m past the dating age and, as you know, I’m not looking for a wife.”

“You lead a dull life.”

“My work, as it says in the good book, is the only truth I need.”

“Square.  I do better than some.  Our coffeehouse is popular.”

“Yeah, too popular.  I don’t want to be popular.  I have a few commendations from work that I am proud of.  It’s enough.”

“Boring,” she exclaimed.

“No, I’m just older than you.”

“That’s encouraging.”

“I didn’t mean it to be.  I’m tired.”

“Okay, maybe someday.”

“I should be so lucky.”

She smiled and said, “Thanks.”

“Think nothing of it.  Why, how’s your dating life going?”

“I’m betwixt and between.”

“That’s the problem with dating.  You’re often betwixt and between.”

“You’re missing out.  Dating is thrilling.”

“Yeah, I’ve been there.  Celibacy has its appeal.”

“Ever marry?”

“No, never.”

“Why not.”

“I don’t approve of the institution.”

“It's good for people who want kids.”

“Is it?  I never wanted kids.  I had myself sterilized years ago.”

“A vasectomy?”

“Yeah, women who knew I didn’t want children kept jumping my bones for seed out of time.”

“That’s not very ethical.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that.  Ethics are fundamental to law. Are you keeping it clean?”

“Yes, I always make them use a condom.  For added protection, I use a diaphragm.  I wear gloves and a mask.”

“You’re wise for your years.  How’s your sex life?”

“The last one was a thriller but he’s thrilling someone else now.”

“Well you're a great girl.  It’s his loss.”  I teased her, “Are you good in bed?”

“Sure thing, I like fellatio, cunnilingus, and anal.  I get around.”

“Just don’t waste your time on guys who don’t appreciate you.”

“Oh sometimes I just want a bone.”

“That’s cool.”

“I’ll bet you have a bone,” she flirted.

I laughed and said, “Maybe sometime, Shandra, but not today.”

“Well, really, why the fuck not if we could keep it casual.”

“It always starts that way.”

“Well, we’ve been flirting for years and nothing has come of it.  You’re good for my ego.”

“You’re good for mine.  You just need a little more encouragement and a little more self confidence.”

“I might surprise you some day.”

“That's encouraging.”

“Good.  Like I said, I should be so lucky.  Now, I have to get some rest,” I said.

“Want some company?”

“Not today.  I’ve been celibate for over a decade.  I don’t even have a bed in my apartment anymore.  Just a meditation pillow.”

I stood, smiled at her, and walked away.

GRINDER

I arose from my meditation pillow in the afternoon.  I could hear the fountain in the courtyard murmur and tinkle while I meditated.  I took a cold shower.  After my shower, I changed into a new outfit.  I wore charcoal shorts that covered my knees, a black vee neck T Shirt, and a charcoal zippered hoodie.  I slipped my feet into a pair of black flip flops.  I pulled a black watch onto my wrist.  I slid my compact 10mm pistol into the holster in my shorts and pulled my T-shirt up and over it.  

I slipped a beaded prayer necklace around my neck from which hung a fixed karambit knife.  I dropped two extra magazines, my torch lighter, and a flashlight into the slash and cargo pockets of my shorts.  I let myself out of the apartment.

I felt renewed and refreshed.  The long meditation session had cleared my mind.  I walked down the hill to the beach and bought a bagel from the owner of the umbrella bagel stand.  He wore a Hawaiian shirt decorated with a floral print, board shorts, and flip flops.  He wore round, silver rimmed, amber-tinted glasses.  His white hair was shoulder length and curly but he kept his beard neatly trimmed.  He was a retired cop like the bartender Paul at McKay’s.

“See anything strange, Grinder,” for we all called him Grinder.

“It’s always slow this time of year.  A corpse is news.  That body I hear you found might make press.  Do you think he’s back?”

“I’ve seen the victim.  He was violated, tortured, and killed just like the other victim ten years ago.  I’m going to chump the sicko this time.”

“He could be a hundred miles away by now.”

“I guess you’re right.” I said sadly.

“You’re all bull.  I hear they’re going to pick up the body tonight after the dinner rush when things quiet down.”

“With this wind, you wouldn’t even know the corpse was there.  Probably early in the morning.  How’s your business going, Grinder?”

“It’s steady.  The rent for my cart keeps going up though.  If I didn’t have Social Security I couldn’t make it.  This bagel hustle gives me some spending money.  Plus, I like being in the thick of it.  I’m pissed you located that body before I did.  It was right under my nose.”

“I found it with my nose.  I smelled the scent of blood and followed the scent to the corpse.”

“I can’t be here all the time.  I need to sleep and the wife gets lonely.  When are you going to get married?”

I laughed and said, “Not very likely.  I’m too old and too set in my ways now.  I wouldn’t want to neglect a wife.”

“So, you understand.  Ever tempted?”

“Once or twice, but for all the wrong reasons.  I was a child then and was seduced through emotional control.”

“I remember you when you were cutting your teeth.  Do you still have more kills than anyone in the department?  Are you still carrying a cannon?”

“Yeah, it’s effective.  I don’t draw my sidearm unless I plan to use it.  I don’t fuck around in combat.  I like the ten millimeter.  If I remember right, you had your share of kills.”

“Never saw a reason for anything heavier than a nine millimeter.”

“Yeah, ‘the divine nine.’  Well, I like an edge.  You killed three didn’t you.’”

“Yes, sadly.  It simply had to be done.  Defensive requirement.  I have my piece with me now.”

“That’s for the best.  We have to be wary of reprisals from the criminal element.  You keep a good  lookout here.  You give me some of my best intelligence.”

“I like to keep my finger in the pie.”

“Better your finger than your dick.”

Like the movie, “American Pie.”

We both laughed.

“See any good movies lately?”

“The last movie I saw was Apocalypse Now Redux.  I don’t own a radio, a television, a VCR, or a DVD player.  I haven’t been to a movie in over a decade.”

“So, you’re in a slump.  You know, you can watch movies and listen to music on your smartphone.  I’m watching Hamilton, the musical, now.  Broadway.  Original cast.  Free on YouTube.  As for dating, you should date.  It would be good for you.”

“Who has the time to date when I’m on a case and I’m always on a case.  I have over two hundred days of vacation time banked, but why leave when you live in paradise?”

“This asshole of a beachtown, why don’t you visit the mountains?”

“I don't have the wardrobe.”

“Me either,” Grinder said with a laugh.  “Why don’t you take a cruise and put your feet up?  The wife and I took a Scandinavian cruise last year.  The scenery was incredible and the food was out of this world.  You’ve never had a better cinnamon roll than an Oslo cinnamon roll.”

“Maybe when I retire, I’ll see the world.  I’ve read about enough interesting places.  I’d like to visit Europe and Asia someday.”

“Why not Latin America?”

“There too.  The Latin Americans have some great authors.”

“Yeah, everybody likes Gabriel Garcia Marquez.”

“Borges too.  I’m surprised you have the time to read.”

“The wife and I never watch television.  Ever get the feeling they're watching you from a camera in the television set?  We have a television we use only for YouTube, a DVD Blu-ray player, and video games.”

“I’m surprised you play video games at your age.”

“My quest for the chalice means I must proceed upward from level to level.  I grew up in the 1980s.  The wife and I play together.  It's good for our relationship and it keeps my reflexes sharp.  I’ve still got a sub second draw.”  

“Not bad for a retired cop.”

“Thanks.  I haven’t had to draw since I retired, but I’m prepared.  What's your draw?”

“Subsecond.”

“Could we go to the police range together?” asked Grinder.

“Yeah, I’m sure the guys would be glad to see you.” 

“Oh, I see them often enough.  Like you, they drop in for a bagel or a cigar.  I frequent McKay’s too.”

“Got a cigar for me?”

“You know I keep a box.  Cohiba today.”

“Then, I’ll buy one.”

He retrieved a cigar from a box in his cart.  I handed him a banknote and he handed me the cigar.

“Need a light?” asked Grinder.

“No, I have my torch.”

GRAVEYARD 

They dragged the limp body away in a body bag.  It had gone through rigor mortis to the other side. 

I shed a tear for the poor, dead man and then morosely began walking slowly up the hill towards the graveyard.  It was located on a bluff overlooking the ocean.  Here lay the sad democracy of the dead.  A lyric of a Pink Floyd song emerged into my conscious mind, “Going to blow this soul right through the roof of the night.”

I made my way through the graves to the potter’s field.  It was surrounded by a high hedge.  I entered through an iron gate.  The gate was painted black.  The metal was coarse and pitted beneath my hands.  

The body of the previous victim murdered in the same way had been buried in this potter’s field.  The potter’s field was reserved for strangers and the friendless poor.  Now I had two victims to avenge.  It seemed we had a serial killer on our hands.  I had to stop him before he killed again.

I sat wearily down with my back against the gravestone of the first victim.  I could feel the bas relief image of the crucifixion engraved in the tombstone cut into my back.  I lit a cigar and sat quietly smoking.  I was pensive and sad.

Something was not quite right.  I sensed three people slowly approaching through the tombstones in the graveyard beyond the gate.  I sensed that they were here to kill me.

I quietly arose and moved to the other side of the gravestone.  There I crouched down and drew my pistol.  I had a clear view of the gate.  I had left it ajar.

The three slowly came through the gate.  They were all men.  They were all armed alike.  In one hand they carried a semiautomatic pistol.  In the other hand, they carried a left handed knife.  They stopped inside the gate of the potter’s field.  Their heads rotated on their shoulders.  I sensed their menace and their murderous intent.

They were only twenty five feet away.  My eyes had adjusted to the darkness so I could see them clearly like a cat in the night.  I had drawn my pistol so I would use it.  I shot each of them through the heart and they dropped one by one.

I approached them cautiously with my gun still drawn.  I checked each one for a pulse but they were all dead.

I heard tires screech on the street beyond the graveyard.  Through the night I heard a high pitched, maniacal laugh. 

I ran to the gate.  A long black limousine sped through a stop light at the end of the block.  I could not make out the plates.  

The maniacal laughter of the serial killer reverberated through the night.

TRANSITIONS

The potter’s field was awash in light.  Three lights on tripods had been placed  around the dead bodies.  The lights lit the three corpses like daylight.

The coroner’s team was analyzing the crime scene.  One of them approached me and said simply, “All three were clean kills, Killcount.  You shot them all through the aorta.”

I had a long conversation with the chief about my necessary defensive use of force.  Since the serial killer might send more hit men, she allowed me to keep my guns and badge provided I immediately make a full written report to Internal Affairs.  

I caught a ride to the precinct in the car of another detective.  I didn't own a car and I didn’t feel like walking.  At our headquarters, I sat down at my desk and hunched over the keyboard.  I slowly typed into the computer my recollections of the attack, the limousine, and the laughter of the serial killer.

I walked slowly home, let myself into my apartment, and drew my  gun.  I thoroughly cleaned the compact 10mm on the table in front of the couch and wiped it down with a chamois.  I opened the gun safe on the table and withdrew a clean, holstered, larger and heavier ten millimeter pistol than the compact. I then placed the newly cleaned and holstered compact 10mm into the gun safe and closed the lid.

I was too keyed up to read comfortably so I let myself out of my apartment and sat down on a bench in front of the fountain.  The illuminated fountain lit the night.

LOUISE

I lit a cigar.  Louise from Headquarters: HQ walked across the shadows cast by the palm trees in the courtyard and approached me.  

Louise said, “Hey Zaphat, the chief has decided to protect your home.  She will post two officers here to secure your apartment building against reprisals.  I’ll wait with you here.  The officers should be here presently.”

“Well at least I’ll have a safe space.  I  was half worried that I might get overrun again.”

“She can spare two to protect you.  You have to sleep.  Now, you’ll have a bubble.”

“Actually, Louise, I don’t sleep.  I just meditate.  It is as good as sleep.”

“Why don’t you sleep on the couch for a spell when the officers arrive.”

“I’m too wound up to sleep.  I don't kill three people every day.  I thought I might take a walk.  It’s a weekend night so the situation on the boardwalk sometimes gets dicey.  I may be needed.  Just look after the people here in my building.  I can look after myself.”

“I know Zaphat.  When was the last time that you slept?”

“I don’t remember.”

“That can’t be good.”

Louise was already a detective when I joined the force.  She was a stalwart of the force and shield.  She didn’t take vacations either.

As if she had read my mind, she said, “Maybe you should take a break and take a vacation.  Now might be a good time to get out of town.”

“Yes and no.  I am not afraid to stay.  As for the villain, let him send more men, I will bury them.”

“Maybe you should stay here.  At least here you have the police to look after you.  If the villain is riding around in a limo, he might have the reach to attack you on your vacation.”

“Too true.  He made it personal.  He overreached.  I’m going to bury him.”

“You do need some rest.  You’re all worked up.  They’re here” said Louise, “I’ll walk with you tonight.”

“I could use the company.  I'm tense is all.”

“You know, I’ve been there.”

Two police officers in full riot gear took up positions on either side of the apartment building’s courtyard.  One carried an AR-15.  The other carried a pump action 12 gauge shotgun.  They looked grim.

Dominoes

We turned the corner and stepped out onto the sidewalk.  Louise’s head was on a  swivel but mine was fixed straight ahead.  My perception was semi-spherical.  Louise was very sensitive.   Louise appeared to react to her hearing before her vision.  She kept turning and switching her head to look behind us.  She moved from side to side.

When we got to the boardwalk, we decided to check in at Dominoes for a drink.  The facade of Dominoes stretched an entire block.  The second floor was cantilevered over the boardwalk so that walking the Dominoes’ block was like walking in a partial tunnel: the nightclub Dominoes on the one side, the cantilevered ceiling overhead, and the beach and sand on the other.

It was off season so there wasn’t a crowd in Dominoes.  We found two stools together at the bar and sat down.  Louise ordered a gin and tonic while I scanned the crowd.  There were three knives, one sap, and no handguns.  The guy with the sap might have known what he was doing.

All the handguns had been filtered out by the two off duty police in plainclothes at the only entrance to the building–a break in its block-long facade.  The police at the front door were calm even though it was a hot room.  I was aware that they were both armed and each had sharpshooter credentials.  

One off duty cop was checking people in.  The other cop faced inwards and kept a sharp eye on the room.  Occasionally, their backs brushed or made contact: bracing and allied.

I said, “Greetings,” to the guy sitting alone next to me at the end of the bar.

“Milton,” he said and smiled at me with a smile notable for its lengthy incisor teeth. 

Milton was very heavy.  He pulled a pair of gold framed eyeglasses from a pocket on his vest and peered at me through them: up and down and side to side.  He seemed to make a decision, because he harrumphed, returned his glasses to his vest pocket, took a sip of whiskey, and slumped down, eyes ahead.

I remarked to Louise, “It's a little dull in here tonight.  Moribund.”

“This place probably peaked earlier tonight.  There’s no one on the dance floor.  And you, stalked like prey and under fire, you're not even wearing your watch.”

“I know, the doctors who monitor us like the vital signs information from the watch.”

Louise added, “Your location on the Global Positioning System, GPS, is monitored too.”

“You’re with me like a second skin tonight.  I guess I am still hiding in the light.  Plenty of cameras and scanners in here tonight–some legal, that one illegal.”

I got up.  I walked over to the illegal hidden camera on the wall at ankle height and sprayed the lens with a can of spray paint.  I kept a red and a black can of spray paint hanging from my utility belt most times.  I returned to the bar and took a draw from my mug of beer.

“It's getting so that the US has more in common with China than otherwise with all this surveillance.  Both are total surveillance nations.  Intellectual property means something to be stolen in both nations, it sadly seems.”

“Are you resigned to no privacy even at home?  Taking a dump.  Fucking your girlfriend.  How many are watched?  Are we just porn stars to the overlords?  It's like we've all become actors on our own private stages.  We're all watched by malevolent and benevolent eyes.”

“Many are watching.  Many are watched.  Private concerns often get involved illegally and mine data and spy.  There are still some shreds of privacy law left in America, or are there?

“Chief says you and I are new partners.”

“Fine then, Louise.”

“Do you need some range time?”

“Grinder and I have been talking about popping off some rounds at the range.  Why don't we all go together.”

Louise said, “It's four thirty AM right now.  I never sleep.  I'll watch over you while you meditate or whatever it is you do.”

“When I meditate, my field of perception expands.  I don't need you to tell me when they’re coming for me.”

“I'm a smell, then hearing, then sight, then touch, then taste kind of operator. You?

“I don’t perceive the world that way.  I perceive intensities in a three dimensional hemispherical matrix.  There are some weapons on the floor here according to my scan, but everyone is relaxed this morning.  Everyone needs a clean, well lit, place.”

“Hemingway.  Yes.  I’d cut you down from your cross,” said Louise.

“You don't need to worry about that.  I'm not in my romantic death-cult twenties anymore.  I dislike drama now.  I don't like fuss.  I did forget how much I enjoy your sense of humor.”

“Morale is just part of my role.”

“Do you ever think about when we were together?” I asked.

“That was decades ago so no, not really.”

“I don't mind you.  When we were together at least I got some sleep.”

“I don't know whether to feel insulted or complimented.  That's a perk to dating someone who doesn't sleep but let's keep this straight, I was assigned to protect you so let's keep it professional for now.”

Susan from the volleyball court approached me and passed me without looking at me.  She wore thigh high latex boots, a frilly French maid’s skirt, and a tank top.  She appeared taller than me with her boots on.

I said to Louise, “I think I had a vision.”

“Sunup soon.”

“Let's go to the diner and get some food for you.  You do eat don't you?”

“One large meal a day–like an Anaconda.”

“Nice trigger for a production gun.  You should have several light meals a day for your health.”

“I didn't know you were a doctor.”

“I have several doctorates.  I'm the brains, you're the brawn.”

“We may need two brawns.  You prepared for that?”

“Sure.  I’m quicker than you.” Though she was scarcely five feet tall, her balanced limbs were encased in well maintained whipcord muscle.

“Quick is good, accurate is better.”

“Debatable.”

“What are you carrying anyway?”

“There’s a Zion machine pistol in my bag and a nine under my jacket.  What do you carry?”

“Only a ten millimeter Glock with two extra magazines.  Together, it feels like a light loadout.”

“You’ll be singing the praises of the Zion if we find ourselves in a rough patch.  Anyway, you have yet to meet my friend Cowboy.  He’ll add twelve, forty four caliber rounds of ammunition to our team’s loadout.”

“I've never seen you blow up with a machine pistol before.  Cowboy likes a .44.  This might be fun.”

“I wouldn't call it fun but we should be able to lay down some rounds if we get in trouble.  Fun is dinner and a movie.”

“I'd like to requisition a rocket launcher in case I ever see that limo again.”

“‘If I had a rocket launcher, I'd make somebody pay.’  They’re awkward to requisition.  The Zion with the NATO round can fuck up any limo, so don't worry.  I'm using two spliced thirty round magazines so I only have to flip and slip for sixty rounds.”

We both laughed at her wordplay and rose.  Louise had taped two magazines together so she could eject the spent, 30 round magazine, flip the two taped together magazines and then slip the unspent magazine back into the receiver for 30 more rounds of ammunition.

Louise paid and tipped the bartender.  We left the now empty nightclub through the swinging saloon doors and stepped into the night.

Chapter 10

I started striding along the boardwalk towards the diner and Louise followed, now behind and now ahead, now on one side, and now on the other.  I would have to find a bird nickname for her, I thought, a quick and perceptive bird.  Her footwork was brilliant.  Her head rotated from side to side.

Ahead, extended out over the water and supported on shafts in the water, the diner appeared like an illuminated beacon in the night.  A man sat  on the curb under a street lamp next to a parked Harley Pan American 1250cc motorcycle.  He wore cowboy boots, jeans under leather chaps, and a leather belt from which hung two heavy revolvers in two open carry holsters.  I didn't recognize him although it looked like he might be a lawman.

He wore a gingham shirt under a shearling vest.  He had tied a red bandanna around his neck with a knot.  He was rolling a cigarette.

He looked up and focused on us when we broke the plane of range one hundred yards.  We were in range.  Cowboy automatically unsnapped the guards on his pistol holsters.   I watched him closely as we approached.  He shifted his stance and lit his cigarette.  He looked away but I felt like he was still watching me.

“That's Cowboy,” said Louise.

“He's alone.”

“He's allied.  I brought him in.  We really need three.  We've been communicating.  He's waiting on us.  He can cover the front while we eat.”

We approached Cowboy.  At fifty yards, he rose and squared his shoulders.  He looked fixedly at the orange-red ember at the tip of his hand rolled cigarette and then took a drag.

I sensed his odor as we approached.  It was a curious blend of smoke, oil, and rawhide.  He watched us approach silently.  He seemed wholly at peace with himself but wary and measured.

As we approached, he began to grin.  He exclaimed, “Is that lovely Louise?”  Louise sprang into his arms and began to kiss his mouth with her own.  

I came to a halt and pawed the ground with the ball of one foot and grinned bashfully.  It seemed that their friendship had been resuscitated.

“Where have you been,” said Louise.

“Four corners,” replied Cowboy.

“I heard you were in the Badlands.  What were you doing there?”

“Killing killers for the law.”

“Sometimes you gotta be meaner than the mean.”

Cowboy twitched and began to roll another cigarette.  He placed a folded leaf of paper between his thumb and index finger.  Into the v-shaped trough formed by the folded paper, he placed a pinch of tobacco.  He smoothed out the tobacco in the trough and then added a little more.  He then smoothed the lot down with the outside edge of his pinkie.  He muttered, “Roll them thin to win.” 

He rolled up the cigarette.  He pressed the cigarette flat, removed specks of tobacco from each end, and then placed the hand rolled cigarette between his lips.

“Cowboy, meet Killcount,” said Louise.

“I can't tell if you're from upstream or downstream, Cowboy,” I said.

“Downstream.  Corporal.  We gotta stop this homicidal, fraud aristocrat.  Louise brought me in.  We're tracking the same man.  He's attacked me too.”

“How many did he send?”

“Dumb ass charged two forty fours with three hit men.  I sensed them coming and chewed them up when they charged,” Cowboy said.

“Yeah, a forty four really chunks them.  So does my ten millimeter, but with a tighter grouping I'd maintain.” I shrugged.  “He sent three after me too.  I don't chew my targets though.  I shoot them through a vital organ, the heart or the brain, and that's usually enough.  I'll thread them twice when necessary.”

“Me too.”

“Did you have a similar victim: tortured fingernails, butt raped, slit throat?” I asked.

“Exactly.  Sicko’s victim.”

“He's headed for the gas chamber when he gets caught.  That's total eradication.  He knows this.  Sicko’s a thrill killer.  How's the diner this morning?”

“I haven't been here long but the late night crowd has moved on and the early birders are just moving in.  Everybody's peaceable.”

“Sure you don't want to have breakfast with us?”

“I'm not hungry.” I looked him over.  He was tall, rail thin, and encased in corded muscle. 

They liked cops here at the diner.  The diner was open 24/7/365.  They liked the undercover police presence.  The detectives added to the uniformed cops for whom the diner was a regular part of their beat.  The police kept the restaurant peaceable or cooled things off in a hurry when the restaurant got hot.

We ordered our food.  Then we talked about the football team.  The Rams had won their last game with a reverse.  The military and the police saw football as an allegory of their own experience.  They took the field.  They fielded an array of positions.  They called these positions weapons.  They adapted strategies.  They played to win.

The men upstairs watched the clock and called the plays.  The conflict of the two opposing play strategies, combined with the players’ tactical improvisations, made for endless conversation within the confines of the eternal return of the same.  

Once you had seen one football game, you had seen them all, argued Zaphat.  Louise argued that the details of the game made every match different.  They argued as they ate.  

Zaphat had Louise figured as a defensive back.  Louise had Zaphat figured as a fullback.  They played on the same team, but they didn't play the same position, and they hadn't played on the same squad in awhile.  

It was good to be back together again, they agreed.  They stood, Zaphat leaving a generous tip, and stepped to the cashier’s post.  The cashier was going to give them free meals with a thank you, for hadn't their presence made the restaurant safer, but Louise insisted on paying the bill.

TANK

Cowboy had heard them approach.  He stood with his shoulders squared against them and said, “You had a good meal.”

“We're regulars.”

“Give you the police discount?”

“Wanted to but I refused this time.  Wait a minute . . .”  Louise clenched her right hand around her right ear from which an earbud projected and said, “We've got a call up.  We’re going to mass to kill a crack house on 376 Craig Street.”

Cowboy said, “We’ll go together.  Is it far?”

“It is too close to the boardwalk for comfort.  I don’t like the idea of their pushers so close to the pier.  It's only a twenty minute hump from here,” said Louise, who had done her military service in the behind enemy lines, HALO jumping commandos before she joined the police force.

Cowboy drew an AR-15 from its scabbard on his motorcycle and we began to double-time it towards the crackhouse.

There was a tank parked outside the front door of the crackhouse.  Three cruisers were parked out of range.  The six cops from the cruisers stood warily behind the tank.  They all carried assault rifles or shotguns.  When we arrived, the tank was delivering its final warning to “Come out with your hands up, or we’re coming in.”

In answer, a gun barrel broke an upstairs window and sprayed the tank and neighborhood with 7.62mm bullets.

The tank whumped twice and the crackhouse exploded convulsively.  The orange and red fireballs from the  explosions sent massive mushroom clouds into the dawn sky.  

Cowboy grinned from ear to ear.  The reverberations from the tank’s shells set off car alarms up and down the block.  A few early risers stepped cautiously out onto their porches to see what was the matter.  

“It’s like I always say,” said Cowboy, "kill them all and let God sort them out.”  Everyone laughed at that because it had been a tense standoff. 

HELICOPTER

There was a break in the case.  As we were grouped near the tank smoking cigars we had lit from the burning crack house’s firey flames, the chief approached and began to speak.

The chief spoke, “We lifted some of the serial killer’s skin from underneath two of the victim’s toenails.  We traced his DNA.  I can't tell you his name just yet.  We will call him ‘Sicko.’  He's a modern Mengele.  He holds both US and Venezuelan passports.  He was originally a German Nazi who stole tons of POW gold  while he ran a concentration camp in Poland.  Sicko transported the stolen gold to South America as keel ballast in Nazi U Boats during WW2. 

He was killed in Berlin in 1944.  The Nazis had his memory chip in Venezuela so they cloned his body there.  He is considered an enemy of the state and if we catch him we’ll hang him for treason.  

We have to stop these American Nazis with Venezuelan gold.  They control hundreds of American corporations, a Hollywood studio, and many politicians.

Sicko flies around in a widebody plane with a limo in the hold.  We are planning on swatting his home here on the West Coast.  It's under surveillance.  He’s in Venezuela now.  I am in talks with the military.  I want to overrun his home here.  The military wants to bunker bomb Sicko’s compound in Venezuela.  

He’s going to be hard to execute but we will.  He has one hundred clones, many international cloning tanks, and lots of gold.  Once we siphon his gold, we can snipe all his clones, except for one punishment body, and quickly kill off or sell off all his cloning tanks because he owes.  The heat is on.”

“What's next for Zaphat, Cowboy, and me?” said Louise to the Chief.

“I am putting you on the offensive.  I am not going to let this turn into target practice.  A helicopter is on the way to take you to the airport.  At the airport, we'll put you on a plane for Venezuela.  I need some intelligence on Sicko’s compound there.

“Just the three of us?” said Louise.

“Louise, you're in charge.  I am attaching a tactical squad of twelve soldiers to your command.  We will let you have two Nighthawks, an Apache, and a drone missile platform.”

Louise looked at me and said, “We are ready to roll.  This might be better than dinner and a movie.”

I made eye contact with Louise.  She looked away and I followed her gaze to the helicopter approaching from the Northeast.  The helicopter landed in the center of the street.  The chief got into the front seat next to the pilot and attached a headset to her head.  There was room for three of us in a row on the rear seat of the helicopter so we sat there: Cowboy, Louise, and me, Zaphat.

AN AIRPORT

The helicopter spiraled as the pilot immediately ascended to the helicopter's maximum altitude.  Then, the machine tilted forward and we began to speed forwards towards a private airport just east of the coast.

We alighted next to a C-130 Hercules aircraft.  The chief told us we were to fly to Venezuela to assault Sicko’s compound in the mountains South of Lake Maracaibo.

Sicko had originally brought his gold laden U-boats (during the Nazi looting that was part of WWII) across the Atlantic Ocean and into the Caribbean Sea.  From there, the Nazi U-boats full of Jewish gold traveled through the Gulf of Venezuela to Lake Maracaibo.  At the southern end of the lake, they unloaded the gold from the U-boat's ballast chambers and transported the war-prize gold by pack mule to Nazi Sicko’s compound in the mountain range to the south.

A man in uniform broke away from the tactical squad watching a game of Farkle in the shade in the hangar and approached Louise.  He said, “Hello, Captain.”

I said, “Hello, Major, is this your show?”

“He’s your con to catch but this case does have national security issues.  We want him off the map.  Venezuela has authorized a ground attack to capture or kill but not a bunker bomb.  We’ll see what happens; they do want the compound out of play.”

“Is that drone missile rack equipped with a bunker bomb?”

“Two.”

“What else?”

“Four Hellfire missiles and two 500 pounders.”

“How deep is the compound?”

“We have the schematics.  It is five stories deep.”

“So they're vulnerable to the drone’s bunker bombs.”

“Yes.  We could totally destroy it with the bunker bombs.  Only Venezuela wants us to try to overrun the place first.”

“Okay.  What is our route?”

“We’ll need to refuel before we land in Maracaibo.  We’ll refuel on the Gulf coast before we continue to Maracaibo.  We may get permission to refuel in the air or land on a the USS Ford which is performing blockade maneuvers off the Northern coast of Venezuela.  All our documents are in order but, since the president of Venezuela has just been arrested by our government, the situation on the floor there will be fluid and chaotic.”

“Why was he arrested?”

“Cocaine corruption charges.”

“Why was he really arrested?”

“Venezuela contains 300 billion barrels of oil.  That’s more than Saudi Arabia has left.  By comparison, the US and Russia have only about 80 billion barrels left apiece.  Our president wants Venezuela’s oil.  He’s rich, but he wants to be Saudi rich and our government may let him take over there.  It might be the perfect place for a kingdom.  All that oil under our  control could really be an asset for the country.  Currently Venezuela sells 80% of its oil to China.  Chevron, America’s second largest oil company, is the biggest American corporate oil player in Venezuela.  

In addition to liquid gold, oil, there is actual gold in Venezuela.  There is more than 150 metric tons of gold in the reserves of Venezuela.  In addition, Venezuela has a huge potential for gold mines.  There is 8,000 metric tons of gold beneath the ground in Venezuela.  He who controls Venezuela, controls the largest gold and oil deposits in the Western hemisphere.  For some people, the tangible assets of gold and oil are preferred.

We have to keep on the President’s good side.  The USS Ford is in the area.  It has the capacity of delivering 160 airstrike sorties within any 24 hour period.  Now, that’s power.  There is also a Marine WASP-class amphibious assault craft in the region, the USS Iwo Jima.  It contains more than 2,000 battle-hardened Marines.  The Iwo Jima has quick-strike assault teams and the extraction potential we may need if our mission goes south.”

“There are twelve of you?”

“Twelve and a war dog.”

“We may be facing a riled up country.  Is it enough?”

“In Venezuela today, it should be enough.  You know the only reason we are going is that the US invasion is coming too.  The US wants control of Venezuela’s oil.  The US wants Sicko’s gold and it is all in his compound.  Take the gold; killing the wallet is the only way to kill the man these days.”

“How are we going to move something as heavy as all that gold with fifteen people and a dog?”

The major laughed and said, “Don’t underestimate our war dog.  He’s one of the most effective members of our battle group.  He ranks just under our medic in usefulness to our team.  As for the gold, we just need to get hands on, then we can teleport the gold into the rightful owner's US space bank where it safely belongs.”

“Does the President want a cut of that too?”

“Not this time.  He’s rolling in billions of dollars from his meme coin.  It’s really a legal matter.  Sicko mostly wiped out one particular family’s gold.  The Burnbaums.  They persist; Sicko won’t.  

We're working with this family, the Burnbaums, too.  They are pure space brains with no human bodies left on earth.  Their bodies persist in space where it is safe.  They transitioned to orbital residency with a moon base a long time ago.  Their space assets are closely watching us and they may intervene if we need help.  They were the ones who provided us with the technology to teleport the gold.  It's a little beyond our present technology.”

“So our goals are to purify Sicko’s compound and retrieve the gold.”

“You’re into purification?”

“Yes, I am,” said Louise.

“Beware purity of essence, Louise, I celebrate impurity and difference.”

The major was a tall colored man of mixed lineage.

Louise said, “I’m a minority too.”

“Of course you are.  You’re a woman.  Expert marksmen are welcome on any team.  How much time do you spend practicing your shooting anyway?”

“Three hours.  An hour of target training.  An hour working on my draw.  Then, another hour of target training.”

“We’ll, I've seen your highlight videos.  You don’t miss.”

“Thank you.  No, I don't miss.  You can’t miss.”

“You’ll need your Zion machine pistol for this mission as well as your 9 millimeters.”

“I never leave home without them.  One team member comes with a 10 millimeter; the other likes his AR-15.  I’m to protect our 10 millimeter, Zaphat.  The chief brought in Cowboy to complete our trio.  At the front, Cowboy comes with two kantanas.  He’s our Samurai.”

“I’m trained with a saber.  I’ve seen Cowboy with his two kantanas.  He’s a little tall for a swordsman but it doesn’t slow him down.”

The two pilots had completed their inspection of the Lockheed C-130 Hercules transport aircraft and signaled to the Major that it was time to go.  The operators quit their dice game and jogged over to the airplane and up its rear ramp.  We followed.  Some of the battle group were stringing up hammocks.  Others cracked cans of beer.  The war dog looked like he’d seen it all before.

I dragged a cushion down from a rack of them and wedged myself between the floor and an interior brace.  Louise broke away from the Major and sat down next to me.  Cowboy lit a cigar and remained standing as we taxied to the runway and took off.  As the crow flies we had around 2,500 miles to our destination and this C-130’s range was a few hundred miles short of that.  The major had said we would refuel at a gulf coast airbase, refuel in midair, or refuel on the aircraft carrier that was a big part of the blockade of Venezuela in the Caribbean Sea.  Maybe a deal had been cut.  The US gets control of the oil in Venezuela and China gets the semiconductor industry in Taiwan.  I just hoped we weren’t triggering WWIII in our own backyard.

ALOFT

The Hercules C-130 seemed to float in the air.  The drone of its four turboprop engines and the floating sensation made me feel sleepy.  To counteract this sensation, I began to field clean my pistol.  I was glad I had the full size piece with me when the helicopter had landed out of nowhere and not the compact.  The three of us were receiving combat pay for this mission and I expected a firefight.  

I would have to talk to the Major about my loadout.  As I cleaned the Glock, I gazed out the window.  There was a F-16  Fighting Falcon off our wing.  If there was one there was likely to be more so I felt comforted by this escort.

I recalled playing the early, ray-scale graphics, F-16 simulator called Falcon on my Apple Macintosh SE-30.  The F-16 was said to be a perfect airframe.  It could rocket through the air when its afterburner was engaged.  It could accelerate to supersonic speeds so it was a perfect interceptor.  Capable of the Immelmann, it could avoid enemy missiles and planes with its acrobatic agility.  The Falcon also excelled as a fighter bomber.  Part of Falcon the simulation was eliminating surface to air missiles systems so that they couldn’t target your F-16.  The simulation was as hairy as it sounds.  The MIGs that must be eliminated in air to air combat are no pushovers so watch your six.

I shook my head.  This flashback stopped when I completed the final step in reassembling my pistol and snapped it together.  It was heavy but I liked its weightiness in my hands.

Louise had opened up the national edition of The New York Times.  I read over her shoulder.

António Guterres, the secretary general of the United Nations, said in a statement that he was “deeply concerned” that the United States had not respected the rule of international law when it attacked Venezuela and captured its president. “I am deeply concerned about the possible intensification of instability in the country, the potential impact on the region, and the precedent it may set for how relations between and among states are conducted,” said the statement, which was read aloud at an emergency meeting of the United Nations Security Council.

So we were coming in hot and no one really knew what the situation would be like on the ground.  Cowboy was reading the news on his smartphone.  A freshly minted article from Democracy Now! read.

The Trump administration did not seek congressional authorization prior to attacking Venezuela, as is required by the Constitution. It also violated “probably the first principle of international law … that countries have to respect their neighbors, and they can’t simply invade a neighbor or any other sovereign nation because they don’t like the way they are running things there,” says law professor David Cole. The attack was clearly not a law enforcement operation, as the administration has claimed, but an “imperialist intervention,” says Cole, who notes President Trump’s comments on extracting oil from the region.

Cowboy groaned and asked, “Has our foreign policy been reduced to criminal imperialism and overt piracy?”

Louise replied, “Think of all that gold and oil.  In a hundred years, that could mean the difference between the survival or the end of our empire.  Those tanks and planes run on refined oil, ultimately.  Venezuela is just a refueling stop.”

“Since when do we want an empire?  Isn’t it enough to secure our borders?”

“We need planes to patrol our airspace and ships to patrol our coast.  What happens when our 80 billion barrels run out?  We take Venezuela’s liquid gold, 300 billion barrels of oil, and our empire will really last.”

“And the actual gold?”

“That will be well defended.  A quick 150 metric tons should pay for our trouble and the potential for 8,000 metric tons should make our trouble worthwhile.”

‘This is trouble we don’t need.  This is bad trouble not good trouble.  Think of the precedent this sets.”

Ahh, Venezuela is just the latest Panama.  We’ll bury Maduro together with Noriega because we have more power.”

“More power?”

“More power.”

“Give me Mo’ Better Blues.

“You mean the Spike Lee joint about the tension between the order and discipline of jazz and the chaotic loss of control brought about by gambling and its odds-on debt.”

Cowboy groaned, “Yes.  We are taking a gamble in Venezuela.  Our representative and manager in chief is a gambler.  Is he in debt?  

What effects will the invasion have on us poor American improvisers?  For aren’t all us Americans trying to make it shucking and jiving, improvising, living jazz, like Horatio Algiers wrote in our older tradition.  Through “luck” and through “pluck" we will overcome and become independent.  

Can we now expect to be abducted too if we venture into the formerly safe Caribbean sea?  There go half of the American cruise industry’s Caribbean destinations for the Caribbean is in lockdown.”

“Look, Cowboy, our job is simple.  We grease a Nazi Sicko who has been plaguing the world since cloning beds were invented in the 1940s.  Remember the cloning tanks in Brave New World.  

Clearly Sicko hates human life.  The only way to kill this guy is to take his gold, repatriate it, and dynamite the cloning tanks in his compound.  We are authorized to do just that.  In a pinch, we’ll drop the bunker blasters followed by the 500 pounders, followed by the incendiaries and just blow everything to hell.  The drone is our failsafe.  If we fail, it will simply unload.”

“What would happen to the gold there if we bomb the compound?”

“They could still extract it and beam it into space once we take down the shield they have up to prevent teleportation.”

“Where’s the shield generator?”

‘The compound is shaped like an upside down pyramid and the shield generator takes up the entirety of the fifth floor.”

“So we have to fight through five floors of armed freaks to blow up a shield generator with dynamite?”

“More or less.  Don’t forget, we have the Major and his men.  They have trained for this.  Haven’t you ever been involved in a tower assault?  This is the same thing but in reverse.”

“Great.  The grenades and the bullets will be flying.”

I broke in, “This is what we're getting combat pay for.  I’d rather be in the thick of it than dancing in some three-step waltz.  There will be time enough for dancing when the fighting is through.”

"After this mission, due to the combat pay, all three of us could retire.”

I said with a laugh, ‘I’m not retiring until I take all of my vacation days.”

“How many do you have left?”

‘Nearly a year left of vacation days.  I’m not retiring.  I am expected to perform in a military and police role for 350 years before I settle down, marry, and start a dynasty.  I have strange family connections and expectations too and this is our custom and tradition."

“You won’t want for work, listen to what an aide to Trump with 40 staff members, Stephen Miller, had to say about the ‘new reality’ in Venezuela and potentially Columbia and Greenland as well.  He was really speaking about the strategic value of Greenland.  The Trump aide said to Jack Trapper of CNN, ‘We live in a world, in the real world, Jake, that is governed by strength, that is governed by force, that is governed by power,” he said. “These are the iron laws of the world since the beginning of time.’

Cowboy replied, “I had hoped we had advanced beyond the ‘iron laws’ of barbarism and piracy but my role as a warrant officer has always bordered on the barbaric.  My mission is to kill murderers before they kill again and it is just that simple.  I'm never asked to capture; I am only ordered to kill.  I’m going to nail this Sicko and enjoy dynamiting his last bank of cloning tanks.”

“I think the aide was just speaking the truth.  I found Miller refreshing.  At least he's not a hypocrite.  We live in a dangerous world where only the strong survive.  Usually spokesmen sugarcoat the use of force.

As for Sicko, we'll nail him.  After what he has done to his victims, I won’t feel much remorse taking him off the map.  He and his allies and minions are a menace to society.  Until he is gone, no one is safe.  Sodomy and murder are illegal in all 50 states.”

Louise looked up from her paper.  She and Cowboy, despite their differences, met each other's gaze and they laughed.  

Cowboy remarked, “Greenland is a member of NATO.  You'd think the administration would try to strengthen our relationship with NATO instead of arguing we need to take over a NATO country like Greenland.  It simply is not ours.  It is a protectorate of Denmark, another NATO ally.  Are we allied with Russia against NATO now?  

Recall, Russia isn't a Communist state anymore.  Russia is a pure power player.  Russia is the great brown bear.  We seem to have become another Russia.  We both have around 80 billion barrels of oil left.  We both have stockpiles of nuclear Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles (ICBMs).  We both have invaded a neighboring country.  We both are oligarchies with a veneer of democracy.  I tell you,” Cowboy sang, “‘Back in the USSR, You don't know how lucky you are.’ The USA has a lot in common with Russia.  Do we want to become another Russia?  Do we want to run Caracas like Russia wants to run Kiev?”

Louise groaned, “It's probably just talk.”

“I thought so too but the Venezuelan naval blockade puts our air power in range of Columbia.  We have plenty of excuses to invade Columbia and I think this administration aims to invade Greenland too.

Some people believe in warfare.  All I see is the bloody hell of war.  I have flashbacks.  A PTSD episode is no one's idea of fun but they are real.  In a PTSD ephisode, I reexperience my memories of combat on the battlefield.  Battlefield memories, when they rest up during civilian life, are most uncomfortable.

People say no blood for oil, but oil resources and gold resources have been the primary historical motivations for warfare in our time.  Why do you really think we invaded Iraq.”

A Pit Stop

We were to land on the USS Ford.  The runway had been cleared and we had begun our descent.  Because of the short runway capabilities of the C-130, we would be landing on the aircraft carrier without runway restraints and we would be taking off without the need for the Ford’s new launch system.  The Ford is a big step up from the old Nimitz class warships.  

I stood up and stepped to the front of the plane.  I looked through the windshield and there was the aircraft carrier below us, a speck of matter, looking impossibly small in the vast ocean, surrounded by other ships in the blockade.

The major approached me and said, “You’ll want to belt in for this landing.  Remember, our landing strip is pitching and yawing just like we are.  This landing could be rough.”

I belted myself into one of the fold-down, jump seats that lined the walls of this C-130 and waited for impact.

We were descending; we were descending; we alit, bounced twice into the air and then the powerful turboprops reversed and we sharply reduced and then reversed our momentum to stop abruptly in the middle of the aircraft carrier's landing strip. 

Two soldiers clipped a moving droid to our front wheels and the droid pulled us over to the refueling dock.  Two more soldiers affixed a fuel line to our plane and the jet propellant 8 (JP-8) began to flow.

The major passed us and actuated a lever at the back of the plane.  The ramp in the back of the plane slowly lowered.  A man dressed in black body armor carrying an old .223 M-16 approached the plane, walked up the ramp, and saluted the Major.

The Major laughed at the salute and said, “Hi Caesar.”

Riverine Command Boat (RCB)

Caesar said, “New orders: we will take an RCB assault ship the rest of the way inland.  I have intelligence from the landing zone (LZ).  It's a hot LZ and we may have to fight our way through the gap from the Gulf of Venezuela to Lake Marachaibo.  

The Catatumbo River entrance will also be contested too so get set to see some action south of the lake.  The administration just absconded with the President of Venezuela.  Don't expect our presence in Venezuela to be popular.  Thanks to our Administration, Americans are hated all over the world.  But unlike the civilians, we are armed for bear.

The RCB is heavily armored so we should be able to sit safely inside while the remote weapon systems on our outside hull unload.  I had the six men piloting and gunning this ship load some extra ammunition.  They are pulling the Riverine Command Boat up to the side of the carrier now.  Follow the Major and prepare to disembark.”

The Major and his twelve men in two columns of six double-timed it down the ramp.  They wore heavy backpacks on their backs and also packs across the front of their torsos.  Each soldier carried a different type of weapon from knives and swords, through handguns and rifles of every description, to rocketry tubes.  They approached a wide stairway on the edge of the flight deck and disappeared beneath the lip of the ship.  

We hastily followed and raced down several flights of stairs.  At the bottom, we stepped across a gap and dropped down onto the deck of the 53 foot riverine assault ship.  

There were three .50 caliber remotely operated machine guns and one grenade launcher attached to the hull of the RCB.  

We followed the Major’s team through a hatchway and sat down in two rows which faced each other.  There was a loud clank, then a sense of building momentum followed by the sensation of gliding through the air.  The RCB was cruising towards the entrance to Lake Marachaibo at a steady 35 knots per hour.

The Major spoke up, “We are approaching Lake Maracaibo.  We will speed through the lake to approach the Catatumbo River Delta to the Southwest.  The pilots know about the new mine field in the lake and will evade it. 

The area, where the river meets the lake, has more lightning strikes per year than any other place in the world.  Sometimes the area is struck with lightning bolts at a rate of thousands of strikes per hour  This RCB can survive a direct lightning strike.  Do not exit this craft until you are given orders to do so safely south of the meteorological hazard. 

These lightning strikes should allow us the cover we need to fight through the Delta.  The drone, a  MQ-9 Reaper, with the missiles and bombs will remain above us at 45,000 feet.  It will provide intelligence, an eye in the sky, and plenty of firepower if we need it.  

Then we'll take the Catatumbo River all the way South to Cucuta where we will resupply at a military base and transfer to Hummers for our assault on Sicko's compound in the mountains.  We want him to know we're coming for him.  

Sicko has accumulated billions of years of prison time.  We will haul this murderous, petty, little prick back to our prison called SUPERMAX in the Rocky Mountains where he can't hurt anyone else anymore.  It's our most secure prison system.  It's like the roach motel: the roaches check in but they don't check out.  

SUPERMAX was designed to process prisoners with his kind of time.  Billions of years, even trillions of years, can be processed in a matter of minutes in SUPERMAX 's stasis chambers.  Under the circumstances, we don't expect to take him alive.”

“We will take him alive.  Have no fear of that,” said Caesar from the front of the craft.  “ Just shoot him; I can raise the dead.”

Lake Maracaibo

To get to Lake Maracaibo we first had to pass through the narrow Tablazo Straight.  The city of Maracaibo loomed to our West.  Piers projected into the straight from the Western city so the pilots of the boat hung to the Eastern edge of the straight.  We passed beneath the General Rafael Urdaneta Bridge that spanned the Tablazo Strait and began weaving to and fro between the oil derricks and the oil drilling platforms that occupied the surface of the brackish lake.  Technically Lake Maracaibo isn’t a lake at all but a huge tidal bay formed 36 million years ago by the collision of the Caribbean tectonic plate and the South American tectonic plate which, over time, formed a foreland basin between the mountains.

Now, oil is formed by deposits of organic matter like trees and flesh.  The essential molecule of organic matter and oil is carbon.  In the Gulf of Mexico, or Gulf of America as it is sometimes known, organic matter was trapped beneath miles of salt to transform to oil over the years.  In Lake Maracaibo, a stagnant, shallow sea formed 90 million years ago in the Late Cretaceous Period, there was little oxygen at the bottom of the basin so organic matter accumulated without decay.  This is known as the La Luna Formation.  The La Luna Formation is why there is so much oil beneath Lake Maracaibo today.

I was reading over Louise’s shoulder again.  She had her phone up so I read the Lydia Polgreen editorial in The New York Times about the boomerang of imperialism and what Polgreen calls its new model: a Möbius strip.

Adventures abroad have always come back to haunt the home front. There is even a term for this: “the imperial boomerang.” It describes how the violent exercise of power over other nations eventually returns to the metropole in the form of domestic repression and democratic erosion. Now it is happening in reverse. The toppling of Venezuela’s cruel dictator is not just an example of a resurgent American imperialism or a shredding of the last remnants of international law and the rules-based order. It is also an extraordinary demonstration of how Trump is collapsing the crucial binaries of America’s Constitution — between law enforcement and military action, between executive and legislative power and, above all, between foreign and domestic.

Trump has no ideology beyond his own power, just as he has no sense of America as an object beyond his own person. In his hands, the imperial boomerang has been transformed into a Möbius strip — a surface where the inside and outside have no meaningful distinction, forming an endless loop. In this dizzying dissolution of boundaries, there is little to stop him from feeding his hunger for limitless power. With the resources of the world’s richest nation and most powerful military at his disposal, Trump is claiming borderless license to turn on his perceived enemies. That should terrify us all.

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Additions: 

colectivos <armed Venezuelan government militias>

Maria Corina Machado: opposition leader, Trump won't back her for succession 

ConocoPhillips 12 billion claim against venezuela (Hugo Chȃvez); Exxon Mobile $20 billion claim against Venezuela; 1998, 3.4 million barrels of oil per day from Venezuela; 2018, 1.3 million barrels per day (NYT, Ivan Penn, 1/9/2026)

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Here ends what I have written so far in the novel Ten Millimeter by me, David Santin Kilday (DSK).