Chapter Five: The Wind Shifts

About a few miles due north from the base sits Buck's Hiking and Camping with its constant glowing neon sign, What we have here will help you out there. Underneath the words an arrow points toward the distant mountains. One wouldn't call Buck's an institution. To get that kind of reputation, one needs more in the way of paying customers. Buck's is more of a home opened up to accommodate friend and stranger alike. Richard Buchanan Miller, the "Buck" of Buck's, was born of the baby boom generation. Raised on freshly manicured lawns and jello-mold summers, Buck, as he is known – then and now – rebelled, as did so many of his peers. As a freshman at Berkeley, Buck fell in lock and step with the summer of love crowd. He let his hair grow long and eschewed anything he felt screamed authority. That eventually meant Berkeley itself. In the middle of his junior year, he packed up his bags and decided to hit the road, much to his parents' dismay. He would see America as it was, the heart and soul of its backcountry. He drove around in his orange beat-up Volkswagen Beetle without any particular destination in mind until he came here. Utah – let's face it, it's really no big secret where the base is located, I mean, how many times is Cobra going to attack before we face facts – spoke to Buck. The dried dirt and sand, the looming mountains, it all meant something. A few weeks backpacking through the desert and Buck claimed he had an epiphany. His purpose was to help others with theirs, purpose in life that is.

Fortunately Buck's mother never broke ties with her son. Reconciliation was soon had with his father. Afterward, Buck washed his hair and tied it back with a discarded buckskin lace. He shaved once a week and bought a new chambray shirt. With his parents as co-signers, Buck took on a not-insignificant loan to rehab an abandoned gas station into his vision, Buck's.

Buck's started out as a simple store catering to those, who like him, found themselves out wandering without proper supplies. He stocked a lot of water, compasses, and socks. Soon, he added on a storeroom and started offering bigger and better equipment like tents, hand and foot warmers, sunglasses, and sleeping bags. As science and societal views progressed, so did Buck's. One bottle of SPF 15 lotion was joined by an assortment of lotions and balms until a whole display case stood proudly on one side of the entrance with an overhead sign proclaiming, If you want more time out there, you need sunblock from here. A skin cancer scare in the late 80s served as confirmation for his newfound view.

The people who come to Buck's tend to congregate. Buck saw another opportunity. He dipped into the store's equity and financed several renovations. He added a small coffee café to the front and added a restaurant and bar to the back. The bar is how he made the Joes' acquaintance. Sometimes you have to get off base. You don't have the ability to go far, that goes without saying; you just need to go someplace to be reminded that you were human. You want to eat and drink and laugh without the reminder of what it is you really are. Buck's ably serves that need. I don't know who first discovered Buck's; my introduction was through Mainframe and Ripcord when our Wednesday meeting fell flat. Mainframe had heard of Buck's from some of the techies, who had picked up the information from Gung-Ho, who claimed that it was Roadblock who had first stumbled upon the bar. Whoever it was, I thank them. Buck's has been a perfect respite.

The bar set-up is pretty standard and straight out of a Hollywood movie. There's a long mahogany bar stretching across one side. A few of Buck's remembrances from another life hang above. Buck's is the place to catch Saturday afternoon Cal football games and cheer on the Bears. Several booths flank the opposite side with a smattering of tables filling the space in between. Bathrooms are always clean, and Buck weatherized an outside porch to provide a separate nook for table games and pool. Buck prefers that you don't smoke, and I tend to prefer that as well. I used to hate the mornings after a youthful night spent barhopping, when my pillow would reek of the tobacco smoke still permeating my hair. It's nice that I can go back to the base and leave Buck's behind. The atmosphere of Buck's has a cloudy haze, which does give it that proper bar feel. Buck once showed me the fog machine hidden in the rafters. If he couldn't get it naturally, he was determined that his place would have the proper ambiance, no matter the means.

Sometimes Flint and I will go to Buck's and pretend that we have a normal relationship. For those three, four hours, we can sit and flirt, talk of everything and nothing, and brush knees underneath the table. Sometimes others come and Flint is drawn away into the back porch, challenged to a game of pool. Flint's pretty good. He doesn't always win, that honor belongs to Ace. Flint is always a good sport though, amazingly enough, and is never stingy on picking up the tab.

That's where he was now, on the porch finishing up a game. Shipwreck had racked the balls and called Flint in to sub when his com-link went off, signaling Ship back to base. I'm no pool shark and usually hang in the main room, socializing or watching television. Buck recently installed a satellite dish and picks up most sporting events. Thus, I can get my occasional Red Sox fix and Flint can keep up with Jayhawks basketball. The room was empty tonight. Most were in the back placing bets or angling to be the next in line. The silence was nice until an eruption of cheers and I knew the game was almost over.

"So what are you going to tell him?"

The question brought me out of my thoughts and I jumped in my skin to see Tomax sliding into the booth seat across from me.

"What on earth are you doing here? They'll kill you."

"I highly doubt they'll kill me." He smirked. "Geneva convention and all." Tomax motioned over to Buck, ordering the special on tap. Buck returned, placing an overflowing frosty mug in front of Tomax, who promptly raised it to his lips, taking a long sip. "Ahhh, that hits the spot." He wiped the foam away from the corner of his mouth on his shirtsleeve.

Somehow I never pictured Tomax as a beer drinker. Whisky, port, brandy – yes. Beer? Not so much.

"I am human." Tomax said.

"Not really."

"Michelle and I went to many happy hours together."

"You did?"

"I think so. It's coming back to me slowly."

"Fine, you're human." I looked around, wondering how much time we had before almost every patron in the place drew their side arm against him. I leaned across the table. "Why are you here?"

"So that's how it's going to be. Straight to business." He held up his hand, stopping me in mid-thought. "This is all under your control. You wanted me here. You need to talk."

"What?"

"Have you told him yet?"

"Told who what?"

"The dolt."

"The what? . . . whoa, hold on there a sec. You can't call him that."

"But you can't help thinking it can you?" Tomax flashed me an exaggerated wink. "It's stuck in your head. A much better word than some of the other things you used to think when you were mad at him."

I closed my eyes for a moment, wishing that this was all some sort of bad dream. I peeked; he was still there and waved a hand at me. No such luck then. "Ok, I'm stuck with you. What am I supposed to tell Flint?"

"Listen, you're not stuck with me." Tomax said. "I am but a fabrication of your mind. You clearly have things you need to discuss with our macho friend. Perhaps you want to run them by me. Maybe you want support. I don't know what's going on up there anymore." He tapped hard against my forehead.

"Oww." I swiped his hand away, rubbing at the sore spot.

Tomax eased himself back into the booth, stretching his arms up and bringing them down, rolling his shoulders into a more relaxed position. He took another chug of beer before addressing me again. "I told you, this is all you. I'm all in favor of cloak and dagger but look where it's gotten me. If you ask me, which clearly you are, I'd say it's time to come clean. And now's your chance." He nodded off in the distance and I turned around to see Flint emerge, several dollars poorer no doubt, from the back porch. Flint paused, scratching at that spot just underneath his beret, the place where his hair grew in sparsely, if at all. Scanning the crowd, his eyes lit up when they settled on me. He broke out into his lopsided grin. Damn I loved that dolt. And damn you Tomax for putting that in my head.

Although happy at seeing Flint, I cringed, waiting for him to recognize the other person taking up space in the booth. A minute passed while Flint walked up to the bar and placed his order. Good, I thought, he's controlling his temper – he's going to take care of this quietly, discretely. I knew Flint didn't hate Tomax; Tomax had saved me. I also knew that Flint didn't much like him either. He tolerated him. Tolerating was good in a situation like this.

I settled back into the seat and my mouth fell open. Tomax was gone. The little devil had snuck out. Tilting my head, I wouldn't put it past Tomax to hide out under the table. Nope, vacant. Where could he have gone? I didn't have much chance to ponder because Flint set his glass down and took up Tomax's former spot.

"How'd it go?" I said.

"Not too bad this time. Just one round of drinks."

"Well, better than the three of last time. We can drink to that." I held my glass up to him.

"And that we shall." Flint clinked his glass against mine, raising it to his lips. He didn't take a drink though. Instead, he held the glass suspended against his mouth, his lips barely showing over the top. I could sense his mind churning. It did that, churned like no other brain I'd ever witnessed. I swear you could almost hear the gears inside his head spin at light speed as he contemplated a million permeations all at once. He settled on one and put his glass down. "What's been going on with you Jaye?"

That was unexpected. How could he go from eyes all alit to this almost serious scowl? For that's what was on his face now, a scowl. The grin was gone.

"Ever since you came back from New York, you haven't been yourself. I can't put my finger on it. It's like you're guarded. I don't know. We sit here and you have this wall around you. I can't scale it. I want you back but I don't know what I've done, or if it was even me at all. What happened?"

His words were puzzling. I tried to think of how I had acted since New York. Nothing came to mind. Sure, Tomax stirred up some memories. I was careful though. Those memories would be pushed back down where they belonged. I was the Jaye now that I've always been. Come to think of it, I couldn't think of it. I couldn't recall anything after New York. Was I different? And I had my answer for Flint. "I haven't acted different, but I will, won't I? I will avoid you until it's out. I don't want to let it out Flint, even though there are things you should know. I should have told you. I was too afraid, ashamed really. I have to talk to you. But I'm going to hold off as long as possible because . . ." And that's where my trail of thinking stopped. The thought to follow that preposition was one I wasn't prepared to face. I had one last question for Flint. "I'm still in New York, aren't I? This is the conversation we will have."

The Flint in my head nodded once. There was a reticence to his eyes. I was projecting onto him.

No, I wasn't ready to complete the "because."

My eyes fluttered open and I blinked against the sunlight flooding my vision. It was as if I had been in a cave for days. My pupils couldn't contract fast enough. I rubbed at my eyes, constrained by the IV line poking out of one of them. Panic set in upon the thought of one word, hospital.

"Don't worry sweetheart, this ain't a looney bin."

I turned my head toward the voice and slowly made out the blurred outline of a furry face, which wasn't a furry face, but a mask. Beach Head. I tried to say his name but my throat was scratchy and unused. "Where?" was all I could manage to croak. My eyes still hadn't adjusted.

"Your pad. Nice setup you got here."

It made sense. Chuckles wouldn't have allowed the team to take me to a hospital – that would have been bad. On a good day, hospitals tend to freak me out. Chuckles is well aware of my aversion and has my proxy in these matters. Listening to Beach Head recount the story, there were a few choice words exchanged between Chuckles and J.T. – J.T. was by-the-book, and that meant a full cadre of doctors and nurses to make sure Tomax hadn't been up to something. Beach Head reluctantly sided with Chuckles, breaking the stale mate. Good thing too. I hate hospitals. Let me say it again, I truly hate hospitals. Always have, likely always will. Just the thought is enough to give me hives. I can assure you, when I go, it won't be in a hospital.

I wish I could trace back through my history to the defining event where my fear – and let's call a spade a spade, it is a fear – manifested. I don't think a fear of hospitals is something with which you are born. It has to be grown and nurtured. Early arrival onto this earth at MV Hospital notwithstanding, I can't find anything. One would assume that there's some recessed childhood trauma buried deep within my psyche. Psyche-Out has analyzed me this way and that way and every which way since Sunday to no avail. He's the first person I ever talked to about it, beside Flint. The great tragedies of my life have all taken place safely away from any hospital. Maybe that was the problem, where was a good doctor when you needed one? I find it's best not to dwell and to just accept.

Setting that aside, a hospital would have been very bad in this situation for I would have been exposed as a great fraud. Two, maybe three, tests tops and it would be revealed that there was nothing physically wrong with me. Try and explain that away. Instead, I'm glad Chuckles made J.T. drive me over to my apartment. My memory was starting to come back and I had a foggy recollection of that hurried drive.

"So you're back among the living?" I cringed at the sound of Beach Head dragging a chair closer to my bed. I just had the floors refinished last year. Beach Head mistook my pained expression for a physical ailment. "How you feeling?"

"Better. But you have to get this thing out of my arm, it's really uncomfortable." I held my arm up, motioning to the IV. Beach Head nodded and went to work. "Where is everyone?"

"Well, I'm here." He pulled the line out with a flourish and pressed a cotton ball to the site. He tapped my hand. "Here, hold this down. It's bleeding." He turned away from me and his voice dimmed. "Chuckles accompanied the flash drive back to base. I would have preferred that." He turned back toward me with some medical tape in hand. "Instead I get to babysit your sorry six."

I stuck my tongue out at him.

"You'll take that back darling after you see the on-demand movie bill I managed." Beach Head taped up my hand and sat back down. "J.T. flew back to Washington. He wants a word with you. Seems something funny happened to his setup and relay. He managed to get nothing but static. No record of your little conversation with our friend Tomax. I told him you might have a few answers. Seems he didn't disagree."

I shrugged; he had me there. "So what happens next?" I said.

"Well darling, that depends on you. That twin sent some quack over to check you out. As you can imagine, there was some demand for a second opinion." Beach Head smiled at the welcome he gave the doctor, a trim, bald-headed mustachioed man wearing wire-frame eyeglasses so fine that if you didn't look him straight on, the hallway lighting made it appear that the good doctor was wearing a monocle. Beach Head wasn't going to play Tomax's game. "Quack told us you picked up some food bug and needed a day or two of rest to let it run its course."

I had faint recollection of said doctor locking me behind a door under the guise of keeping a lady's privacy. He didn't do much other than hook up the IV and give me something for the headache and nausea. That was all I remembered. "How long ago was that?" I prepared myself for another Rip Van Winkle moment.

"Last night. Quack also gave you a little something to help you sleep through the night." Beach Head pulled his com-link out. "It's about 11:30, decent enough."

I was comforted at that. I had a fear that it would be more like a few days. That was a horrible feeling – waking up that one time in fog after Christmas and New Year's Eve had passed. It took much longer to acclimate and adjust back to life than I estimated. The doctors back in Germany said it would take time, perhaps months; I didn't believe them. In addition to the issues of muscle atrophy and stomach sensitivity, it was remembering the day-to-day stuff and the constant frustration at always feeling off – of being neither here nor there. What had happened in the caves threw me for a loop to say the least. And the nightmares. Reluctantly I admitted that I needed help. Psyche-Out was kind. He never teased me about my previous treatment of him. He just helped. Still, I was glad that was in the past and the past wasn't repeating.

"So we have another day then?" I tested the waters.

"You have another day. I'm not gonna sit around here while you play fairy princess in your castle."

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, grateful that I could. "Oh come on Beach. Think of all the fun we could have. You know, we never get to spend any quality time together. We'll rent movies and order Chinese and . . ."

"And paint each other's nails? Yeah, like I'm gonna eat anything you suggest. Darling, I get all the time I need with you on the course. I have no desire to extend my torture. Romeo promised me that once you were up, my mission was complete."

I pouted. "But think of all the fun you'll miss . . ."

Beach Head's com-link started buzzing and he shushed me as he answered. He nodded his head a few times, frowned, and said, "Ok, I'll pass you to her." He held the com-link out to me. "It's for you."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Mainframe. I don't know what your girlfriend wants."

Rolling my eyes, I accepted the unit from Beach Head. "What's up?"

"Hey Jaye. Glad to hear you're doing better! Guys said you ate something nasty. You have to be a little more careful with what you eat."

"Thanks. I will. Anything else?" It was clear Mainframe didn't call me to discuss my dietary habits; he was stalling.

"Yeah, well, um, remember those names I monitor for you and Chuckles?"

That got my attention.

"Yeah?" Chuckles and I have made some questionable alliances in our line of work. Over the years Mainframe has maintained a database of individuals for the purpose of keeping tabs on their whereabouts. We feed the names to Mainframe and his computer program does the rest. We don't want to be the last to know when a source becomes compromised. I, however, have used the list for a bit more. Some of the names I've passed along to Mainframe haven't been what one would call "work-related." Mainframe is a smart guy; I'm sure he's figured it out. He is nothing if not discrete though and has never questioned my submissions. He feeds those names in with all the rest. Given Mainframe's hesitation, I had a feeling this call was about that other list.

"Well, some of your names pinged this morning." Mainframe said.

"Oh?" I straightened up, planting both feet on the ground. Steady. This was about my other list.

"Yeah, um, wait, where . . . hold on." I could hear Mainframe typing away on his keyboard. "Um, Michael. Looks like a Michael Flannery. He was the first."

"First what?" I gulped, trying to remain calm. My hand trembled slightly.

"Well, I'm sorry Jaye."

"Mainframe, you have to tell me. Why are you sorry?"

"Man, he was murdered."

"Murdered? When? How?"

"Sometime in the early morning, well, night for us. Shot in the head, point blank range. Authorities are calling it a retribution killing."

I closed my eyes. "You said he was the first. How many?"

"Seven in all."

"All on my list?"

"No, only two were on your list."

Please don't let it be him, please don't let it be him. I prayed to every god I knew, the fiery one of the Old Testament, the loving one of the New Testament, any god out there willing to listen, I plead, please, not him. "Who else?"

"A Dermot, Dermot Dunne."

My entreaties were ignored. I suddenly felt the weight of age pull on my shoulders. Dead? He couldn't be. Not now. Not like this. "Give me the details." Beach Head's head cocked at my hard edge and he grew a sudden interest in my half of the conversation.

"This one is still sketchy. He wasn't like the others. It wasn't execution style. He was found a few blocks away from his home, pockets cleaned out, shot. Looked like a robbery turned homicide. But because of the others, investigation is pending."

Each word dug a hole into a part of me I'd forgotten about. This went beyond a matter of the head or the heart. This hit everything – every nerve, every synapse, every fiber that intertwined to make my beating heart and my now-whirling brain.

"Jaye? You still there?"

"Yeah, sorry Mainframe. Thanks for letting me know. I'll see you soon."

"Sure, no problem. And Jaye, I'm sorry. Bye."

"Bye." I held the com-link out to Beach Head, not caring if he'd take it or let it fall to the floor. I'd almost rather watch the thing hit the ground, shattering into a million pieces.

"Jaye Bird?"

I looked up at Beach Head. Jaye Bird was a little nickname he came up with for me. It started off as an insult and gently morphed into a term of affection – not that kind of affection – no way, no how is there anything between Ranger Boy and me no matter how luscious his physique. It was his way of being a human. On the team, we all long for the moments when we can be human. I'd call him Wayne, and he'd call me Jaye Bird.

"Wayne?"

He held out his hands and I gripped them tight.

"I need to get back." I managed to sputter out before I lost it.

"Nothin' to it darling." He took me into his lap and let me cry.