Chapter 2 – Coming Home
Warnings and Disclaimer: See Chapter 1.
X
The flight was long.
Long and lulling.
Sleep eluded him.
He had to see everything.
Even if it was just the same endless ocean.
Ocean.
Ocean.
Ocean.
Endless waves.
He was in the cleanest things he'd been in for years.
A uniform crisp with starch reflected in shiny boots and polished buttons.
It felt weird.
All of it did.
He was exhausted. But he couldn't fall asleep. That would mean that it was just another dream. Another pointless tempting dream that only served to break you a little more inside. Not that his dreams of home were ever pleasant … but they were once – before all this mess. Before it really registered that he was stuck over there. Before they tried to cut him off.
(But you could never totally cut him off, he mused. Instead they had only strangled him just enough to turn his sleep distorted and dark – plagued by death and fire and riots and change.)
His thoughts twisted behind hollow eyes.
At least the whole thing was over for him – probably for everyone else soon too. And that, at the very least, had to be good news.
He tried to crack a smile at the man across from him but he was too tired. That, and the other hadn't looked up from his shoes since take off made him not mind the lack of niceties.
They had to nearly be home.
X
No one really noticed that he remained on board at the base back in America.
God they were back – he was back. But no, he wasn't allowed to get off. He'd love a vacation – lovely California beach house, Washington rainforest, some Oregon good times – but no. He may be within reach of all those things but he had to stay put.
"Don't get off the plane," they said.
"We're going to D.C.," they said.
"Sit tight," they said.
Heavy sighs were not becoming for one of his position. But really, he was not trying to sigh. He was just discreetly taking huge gulps of air. American air. Air with the subtle traces that made him, truly him. Hell, he even liked the airport exhaust.
He could feel the land though the tires of the aircraft. It called to him. He was so close – and yet so far. At least he'd be over his home and not someone else's home now. Silver lining – that was all he could focus on to relieve the dull ache of not being allowed to walk around a bit. He has gotta go see the boss though. Probably for a verbal report – goodness knows he couldn't deal with a pen right now. So it was off to D.C.
He just wanted to be on the ground. Maybe then he could get some sleep.
For now there was nothing but the air to fill his lungs and the teeming life beyond the window that screamed out to his soul to be felt and enjoyed.
X
They were just over the Rockies when he managed to break out of his thousand-yard stare. The whole process was more of an internal movement really. No one noticed the shift behind his eyes that had brought on a touch of lucidity to his overtaxed mind.
Something was up. They were not on course for D.C. The trajectory was all wrong.
What did he care? He was home.
The fleeting curiosity crumbled under his apathy.
The window was his only portal to reality. The window was also a curse. He could see but it robbed him of everything else. He could look upon salvation but have none of it. Despite the anguish he couldn't look away. He feared that even blinking would make the whole thing disappear.
Again and again he assured himself that it was there. That America was real. That America existed and it was not just some waking dream or some figment of the imagination.
It was February 28 and they were landing in South Dakota.
X
He didn't remember much after touching the ground.
It's just asphalt – but it's his asphalt, on his land and he was finally back. He's back, he's back, he's back.
The only thing he really wanted to do now was take his boots and socks off. He's grinning like a loony – he knew he was. But he didn't care. Home was great, fantastic, wonderful, amazing. Nothing could get the Hero down.
He stood, oblivious to the hustle and bustle around him. People were talking to him, gesturing, yelling. All he could think about was touching the land.
He felt whole again.
Eventually someone took him by the arm and drug him to a transport. He resisted getting in. He was having too much fun with standing. More came to coax him in. A multitude of gentle hands pushed and shoved for compliance. Eventually they cut through his haze of bliss just enough for him to realize that they wanted him to get in.
He didn't want to get in the truck – he just wanted to stand and be and absorb. So he didn't budge. The hands got more intense. He stayed resolute. His eyes didn't see the worried looks or the gaping hole of the open door. He was a rock among men.
Due to their persistence alone he slowly started to tune the voices back in. Even the brief snatches that filter through his preoccupied mind were enough for him to be motivated to get in the nondescript vehicle to nowhere.
But at least he was in America.
He was home and that was all that counted.
X
No one talked to him for the duration of the ride. It was stuffy and cramped with all of the people. They were FBI. He could tell even if they didn't broadcast it. He always knows these sorts of things.
He was jammed into the middle seat – if it could even be called a seat that is…his elbows were glued to his sides due to the abhorrent lack of personal space.
The trip was awkward and he didn't like it. He wanted to celebrate and take a breather and just rearticulate, find a bed maybe – he'd been up for way too long. Yes. A bed would be great.
X
He blinked.
The car had stopped. They still hadn't told him why he was here in South Dakota of all places. Despite the lateness of the night (or is it the earliness of the morning) all men including the recently relieved of service, former Pvt. Jones, shuffled into a room in some building in some small town in South Dakota. Although he could figure out where he was he just couldn't seem to focus enough to make the magic happen.
The waiting in the room was even more awkward then waiting in the car. Everyone seemed to be on edge. They all knew what was going on. He had no idea what was going on. It was a dichotomy he didn't much care for. Especially after getting back from a war where information was the lifeblood of the action.
His head was all out of sorts.
The room, with its artificial everything and stuffy air from the multitude of bodies, failed to hold his attention. He knew it was just because he was exhausted. So exhausted that he couldn't even move his hands to rub his face or get a glass of water to try and wake up.
A small part of him – part that he hated with a passion right then – kept him thinking that this was all just one big hallucination. It was all a lie and he was still back with the fighting. The room, despite being not so military as normal, could easily pass for a requisitioned building or something. It was not out of the question. The whole thing was just one big magic trick designed to make him break.
Maybe he'd actually lost it.
And yet ... it all felt so real.
The land.
Being back.
He wanted to cry at the indignity of it all. Hurry up and wait. That was all his life was anymore.
He just, just needed to – a man walked through the door before he could figure out what he just needed to do. Lost in his head like he was he wouldn't have noticed but for the dramatic shift in the air. The wait was clearly over (whatever that meant).
The man darted through the crowed and made his way to the front of the room where he turned with a snap that was way to peppy for the hour and addressed the audience.
"Gentlemen. I apologize for the lateness of the hour but we have a situation that desperately needs our attention," he said. "Sorry. I'm getting ahead of myself. You may call me Trimbach. We'll be working together to get this thing fixed so remember it well.
"Some of you have a vague idea about what is going on here and most of you haven't a clue so here's the short form of your debrief so you don't look like an idiot when we get to the real thing. The situation is as old as the American government itself and can be summed up in one word: Indians."
Trimbach looked decidedly unamused when a small wave of chuckles interrupted what was ramping up to be quite the fire-and-brimstone speech. The humor wilted under the stony glare as it dawned on many that he wasn't joking.
"This isn't funny business here!" said Trimbach. "The American Indian Movement is staging a virtual rebellion against the rule of the United Sates Government. About 200 A.I.M. followers have taken hostages and secured the small town of Wounded Knee about 30 miles away from here. As of now, we are unsure of these radicals' demands or their intent for this ridiculous plot. This could be northing or it could be as extreme as a pinko conspiracy to take us over from the inside out."
That certainly caught everybody's attention.
Even Jones, as out of it as he was straightened up a bit. You could've heard a pin drop as Trimbach continued.
"Now, it is our job to get this thing over as quickly as possible before it gets any further out of hand. All of you have been brought here because we believe you to be an asset in a situation like this. You have one day to situate yourselves and your belongings before a more in-depth debrief for your specialized tasks here. Dismissed."
He blustered out of the room after that.
The murmuring was quick to start back up. Never an inspired group to sit on their hands, most worked to figure out where they were housed and such. The room created an ebb and flow that Jones was lost in.
Eventually someone came for him. (He didn't quite remember whom.) Jones, the man out of place. Jones, in full fatigues straight from Vietnam. He'd gotten quite a number of looks for that. (That he did remember.)
He was led to a converted office room with a cot just down the hall from the heart of the action. Its prime location was afforded for his "special privilege."
He counted himself lucky that he kept it together even after whoever got him left.
Distantly he realized he should be flipping out. No, no – that didn't quite cover it – he should be … full on mental? Going absolutely berserk? He couldn't think of a good way to put how he should be feeling but the foggy emptiness really wasn't fitting the situation at all.
He resolved to care.
Just not right now.
He couldn't deal with it all right now. All he felt he could take on at the moment was shucking out of his uniform jacket and crawling into bed. (So what if it was a cot. He'd call it a bed and sleep like a king because it was better then the ground or the absolute piece of junk he'd been sleeping on while away.)
Still. Even with his muted emotional registry, unbidden thoughts swirled about the edges of his head. Why? Even in its vagueness he knew what he meant and wished it would leave him be for one night. Why'd it have to be here? The shadows were already clawing at his consciousness. He tried ignoring them.
Jacket off – one task down.
He looked at the bed. Plump pillows, sheets turned down. It was all ok. Really. He was fine.
Even his sleep-deprived mind didn't believe him. Yet the fleeting moments of horrors his sludgy mind was beginning to dredge up couldn't stop him from collapsing and embracing the cot.
At least he's home. He's finally back. If this was a dream then it was a damn good one so just leave him to his delusions.
Home at last.
It was that thought alone that let him succumb to oblivion at last at the end of a long road. He hadn't even shut the door of the office-turned-room.
It was the early morning of March 1st and at last, he slept.
X
He missed all of March 1st.
He slept on and the world turned round. People came and went. Not even the high traffic outside his open door revived him from his much needed slumber. He slept and people scurried about framing points and organizing things, in general trying not to freak out. Others grouse about crisis control management. Few spared the open door a glance and in the off chance they did, no one bothered to rouse the sleeping man in partial fatigues.
Around dinnertime a young secretary dropped off a small day bag from his boss along with some McDonald's – he didn't stir as she tucked him in and left.
His food grew cold – he slept on.
X
Someone was kind enough to rouse him for the next day's debrief. The whole process was surreal for Jones. Instead of yelling or revelry he was softly shaken awake, handed his cold food and a change of clothes and then propelled out of the room to the bathroom and then straight to the briefing room. He didn't even have time to panic at his lack of proper uniform before he hit the heavy, palpable tension in the briefing room.
Rested and refreshed he was both thrilled and utterly horrified that the situation was real.
Dozens of papers were spread out over the tables. People groused amongst themselves at the headlines. The cogs in Jones' brain began to churn as his picked up some common buzzwords. Indians. Insurrection. Wounded Knee.
He tried not to panic when he spied several international prints in the mix of newspapers. Some big international brouhaha was the absolute last thing he need right now. He hoped that this would all blow over soon. Even then he couldn't help but worry at the causes of such a takeover, or rather, if it really was a take over or just another government justified excuse to shake things up again.
He wanted to believe that the right thing would happen but it was hard to suppress the shudder at the sight of military in plainclothes and all the FBI and the visible increase of arms he saw in his short trip to the bathroom. He was very out of place amongst all the suits and various law enforcement uniforms.
Now not only did he feel self-conscious but his skin began to crawl at the unfamiliar feel of the casual clothing his boss was kind enough to send him. It made him feel exposed and off his game and unprepared to handle the future. He couldn't even take comfort in his trusty bomber jacket. No the transition between war and whatever this problem was becoming was not smooth or welcome.
People parted like a stream meeting a boulder all round him – he hadn't said two words to anyone since leaving Vietnam – he was still trying to recalibrate and find himself again here. So he just stood and ate his cold McDonalds in the middle of it all.
The amount of papers increased as the briefing room filled up. Big headlines and huge front page articles completed with incriminating photos, maps of the area, and quotes from all sides. The media, it seemed, has been swarming since yesterday, dropping just about everything in favor of this story.
"So Jones, what do you think of all this?" a voice called out, clearly indicating the spread of the international papers.
Jones casually turned around ignoring the cold sweat and his heart in his mouth at being startle from behind by a voice he hardly recognized. He silently prided himself at fabulously hiding his real reactions; it would have been awful if he had randomly punched someone.
Swallowing the last little bit of his burger before digging for some fries, Jones responded, "Uh, how do you know my name again?"
Trimbach, for Jones finally recognized the man as the speaker from last night, chuckled and replied, "It was on your uniform last night. You have to be highly attentive during this type of situation. But don't worry about it too much – I've been told that you'll really help us out in this thing even if you don't look a day over 18."
"Right."
All of the fries were gone by now and Jones crumpled the bag and went for a three pointer in the garbage can – "swish" – complete with a sound effect perfect shot. The smile in Trimbach's eyes grew cold and his face slid into an unamused frown.
"The international coverage!" Trimbach said. Jones refocused again. "Everyone is watching! We need to end this quickly before the other countries think that we don't treat those who don't deserve it well enough and start looking to Russia and the commies for answers!"
"But I'm the hero!"
"….what…?"
"Um, well, it's hard for people to keep their eyes off America so of course the coverage is going to be widespread. We just have to put our best foot forward. Grace under fire I think they call that. You are capable of grace under fire, right, Trimbach? I mean, aren't you sort of in charge of all this?" said Jones gesturing vaguely to the swarm around them.
"Well, we just need to end this quickly and efficiently so more headlines like these," Trimbach punctuated by shoving an article into Jones's hand, "don't get out."
"Sure sure."
"And that's where you come in," said Trimbach. He smiled at the outlandish look he received from Jones.
"Didn't you know?" Trimbach continued. "The top – and you know who I mean – said you'd be the best dealing with these people and whatever the hell it is they want. After we further debrief you tomorrow you're going to be on the front lines – negotiator-extraordinaire for the United States of America!"
With that Trimbach turned on his heel and left to organize everyone into groups. Jones stood stock still, reeling inside at what his boss was expecting him to do in this situation as the numerous others were sorted out and given jobs or assignments to fulfill while there. Not long after Agent-in-Charge Trimbach left, another man made a beeline for the still rather bewildered Jones.
"Mr. Jones, I presume." A quick affirmative nod. "Since you missed yesterday's acclimation groups I've been ordered to give you a quick show around the area."
X
Using Jones' room as a base, the unnamed man went about showing Jones everything in the facility and then, driving around in an unarmed car, toured the surroundings.
At the end of the day, Jones had a bag full of non-perishables, the names of the people who could get him more food and a basic map of the area (that, frankly, he didn't really need). It was all around a pretty wasteful day – not that he cared. If anything he'd learned that these sorts of big shakeups take time to deal with so he was better off waiting in the wing until they need a hero.
X
Author's Notes: I told you this was going to be an odd fic. Sorry for the choppy paragraphing. There are only so many ways to convey headspace and what I'm trying to pull off seemed like a good fit. Because of Alfred's position the plane that got him out of the hot zone went to an unnamed military base in California – that's why Alfred thinks of west coast vacations to get away to and why he's been calling the capital D.C. and not Washington like most other non-west-coast-ers. Nearly all of what Trimbach is saying in this section conveys actual government opinion during this event…right down to looking strong but benevolent so that the world thinks America can deal with it's problems in a civilized, respectable manner much better then any Red country. A tid bit of Alfred's disillusion with the government and his boss is part him miffed at being cut off from everything for so long and part him reconnecting with what many Americans at the time were thinking – particularly of the younger age group. Before you flame me for the secretary = female please remember that this fic is set in the 70s. There are a number of things you are probably going to find offensive in this. As for Alfred's twisted dreams – this era was pretty crazy and if you represented everyone in all of it, you'd be crazy too. Also, if you don't understand why Alfred is freaking out about the location keep reading or do yourself a favor and google "wounded knee massacre." Lastly, if you run across a detail that doesn't sit right with you (ie media coverage, povs, military in plain clothes) please note that many of the seemingly weird details are actual fact. The bibliography for this fic would be longer then the fic itself and if I were to footnote/endnote the fic we'd be here for another few years. The biggest fabrication of this whole story is the person guiding us through everything.