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Soldier 333

Eric Burbridge

    Twenty-five rounds, twenty-five .50 caliber rounds and he’d put everyone to use, non-lethal use. Solider 333 was that good. Asad Mitchell Wong only heard his former number from General Jerry Antov who hated him. The intruders, he and his lifelong friend Willy, had their sights on the mercenaries. He bet Jolly Jerry’s mercs. Asad focused the cross hairs on the crouched merc while he relieved himself. He fanned flies and mosquitoes, inserted the cartridge, adjusted for the wind and waited for the guy to pull up his pants. “I got a surprise for you big guy.” Asad’s arthritic finger rested on the trigger. The merc reached...Asad squeezed; the bullet shot between his legs and ricocheted off the boulder. He jumped and slid in it. Asad laughed. If only he could upload it.
    Time to move.
    He maneuvered his crawler behind a fallen tree twenty meters away and refocused his sight. Here it comes. The merc screamed and spray bullets in Asad’s direction.
    Spray on, asshole, spray on!
    He couldn’t wait to tell Willy. A flare shot skyward. Ten seconds later intense sporadic gunfire and RPG blast. Willy had engaged the enemy. Several trees toppled a hundred meters to his west. Willy destroyed that set of loud speakers. The enhanced ear aching call of the cicadas stopped. He stood enough to see the bush waiver.
    Willy’s wide track crawler designed to cut through the heaviest of the genetically modified underbrush, aka, badass bush burst through and crossed the pathway. Before Asad opened his mouth Willy shouted with joy, “Did you see that? They scattered like roaches.”
    “Stay down.” Asad gestured. “They’re scanning everywhere by now.” They crawled behind a pile of rotted tree trunks. Bullets cut through the bush tops from the east. “They’ll stop in a few seconds.”
    “Right.” Willy said, gasping for air.
    “They got a chunk of your leg. You okay?” Willy nodded. “I got a spare.” Asad giggled.
    “What.”
    “I caught a merc taking a dump and I...I put a round past his balls.” Asad laughed so hard tears formed in his eyes. “When he jumped he slipped and fell in it.” They cracked up.
    “You lying.”
    “No, I’m not. I know he’s embarrassed, but anyway I’ll continue along the river’s edge and meet you later.”
    “Cool.”
    Cat and mouse wasn’t his game, direct fire in the enemies face gave him goose bumps. Be careful you ain’t young anymore. Those mercs across the gorge used guerilla tactics for the past few days. Appear and disappear. Bullets whistled past his head the enemy attempted to calculate the movement of the bush. Another shot, they missed. Asad stopped crawling and extended a rod and shook the bush two meters to his right. No shots. Good. He retracted the seat on the crawler and continued. The bush got shorter the closer he got to the rock formation that lead to a path down to a small creek.
    Where was the shooter?
    His nerves were on edge. Enhanced audio receptors (EARS) worked in the bush, why he didn’t know, but his vehicle was designed to make natural sounds of animals moving. Laying flat bothered his stomach while he maneuvered over clumps of dirt, broken twigs and branches. He slowed at the rocks and turned off the power.
    Had they seen him?
    He crawled and peeked between two small boulders. Nothing but tree tops that lined the drop off to the still waters below.
    Where did they go?
    He strained to see through the foliage. Nothing...natural movement. They could’ve followed the creek further east or dropped back into the forest and left altogether. He focused his binoculars and panned left and right. Nothing Time to leave this spot and finish his little romantic project. He’d return later, but he did have to report strange activity.

*

    He hacked his way through thick bush off the normal to get here. Aching fingers and palm was worth it. He pushed the blade of his bayonet over the smooth surface of the honing stone with the even rhythm of the song he couldn’t get out of his head on an old cassette recording to keep him company. He rubbed his hand over peeling bark to find the ideal spot to carve his name. Found it and he stabbed at the wood with passion. The humidity was intense and sweat trickled through the wrinkles in his face. Too bad Lily couldn’t be here to see this after thirty-five years of marriage cancer got her. An hour later he finished and blew away the excess chips.
    Asad Mitchell Wong and Lily Wong were inside a heart.
    Silly, but it warmed his heart. His comlink read; 0750. Time to check in at 8:00 one of the more humiliating changes he tolerated to stay here. General Jerry Antov objected to the program that allowed Medal of Honor recipients access to any section of the DMZ regardless of the activity in the region.
    Asad loved to poke fun at the short brawny with the hooked nose that wiggled with every word he spoke. Antov refused to address Asad by his name, instead he called his number; Soldier 333. Asad concentrated on the brush and prairie grass his vehicle pushed aside on the way back home.

*

    Nestled between several fallen rotting trees Soldier 333 brushed back the interference foliage to the area he called home. Camouflaged domed windows protruded out the bunkers side which gave him a view of the river valley. Badass bush was a GMO marvel; it grew and changed colors with the season and it covered, in patches, the entire length of the hundred miles demilitarized zones. Satellites and other electronic scans couldn’t penetrate it and locate your position. If the enemy needed Intel it had to be up close and personal like being a tunnel rat. Drones were used on occasion, but they were easy targets even in stealth or chameleon mode. Asad’s hermit like life style wasn’t without the luxuries he felt necessary to enhance his creativity. He didn’t watch too much TV instead he read a variety of books and wrote stories of various lengths. If only Lily could critique his latest manuscripts. How did he maintain his fine mental edge at 80 they asked? Eat your heart out. They hated that answer. He was a conceited old bastard, so what. He smiled at Lily’s portrait and plugged the phone into its jack. “Time to check in, Jolly Jerry.” After that he’d rendezvous with Little Willy, his place was more spacious and camouflaged the same. Willy jokingly gave himself that nickname from having lost both legs to diabetes, but he kept the latest prosthetics. Asad needed to visit more often for spiritual comfort and listen to his endless collection of jazz albums from the late fifties to two thousand.
    Nothing changed in thirty days, two rings and “Code Please,” a flat male voice asked.
    “Wong, DMZ.”
    “Hold on.” This was what he hated. The last time he held for ten minutes.
    “This is General Antov, Wong or should I say Soldier 333?” Antov asked that stupid question in his usual unique brand of disdain.
    Wong sighed. “Asad Mitchell Wong would be appropriate, but I know who much you hate Islam so Soldier 333 will do for the umpteen time, General Antov.”
    “Good, good. What do you have to report?”
    “Nothing as usual...peace, quiet and the badass bush swaying in the gentle warm breeze. The thing a retired special ops soldier loves.” Asad chuckled slightly, loud enough to irritate Antov. “Not just retired, but a retired triple three a privileged position as you well know.” He felt Antov’s rage seep through the receiver. “See what a medal of honor gets you even if it was fifty years ago. I’m eighty, so that happened when I was thirty and you’re fifty, so that means when I fought at the Nicaraguan Canal you were still swimming around in your old man’s nuts.” Silence, the kind he loved while his nemesis gathered his thoughts. “Why carry your Dad’s anger about special ops missions during that war because his unit didn’t get the credit? But you love it, so enjoy.”
    “So what, soldier!”
    “A reminder about respect for the elders.” He was sick of the same crap, was this recording or what? “Remember I was an officer too.” Silence.
    “Nothing to report, Wong out.” That lie would piss him off while he and Willy played cat and mouse with the mercs he probably hired for whatever reason. He started to slam the receiver, but why damage a beautiful black rotary dial antique. Amazing something that old still functioned; Made in America by Western Electric. He ran a piece of terry cloth over it and placed it back in its case.

*

    Antov slammed the receiver into its cradle. His staff got out the way of the brawny officer when he stormed out of the command center. He slammed the door of his, way too small for a two star general, office and stopped at the mini-bar. No alcohol that early in the morning a cold bottle of nutrient water instead of the booze. The seal cracked, fluid dripped between his massive fingers and he gulped down half the bottle and sat in his chair.
    He sighed, damn he hated 333’s especially the types like Wong; a European, Arab, Asian mix like dogs and that Economic Growth Commission who made dumb and questionable decisions. Their influence in Washington circles convinced administrations to leave too much authority to the states before back to back super hurricanes packing 300 mph winds virtually wiped out the east coast. The minimal federal military response gave way to chaos and the formation of militia’s that ignored the National Guards. Several states combined to form provinces. Mass migration wasn’t received well and with the help of the media the government downed played the firefights. Things really got nasty after the flood water receded. Civil unrest was actually Civil War. When the country heard the Eastern Bloc nations navies were headed west repelling an invasion became paramount. True or not in a matter of days there was a national cease fire and the threat subsided that left DMZ’s all over the country, most stretched north to south west of Appalachia and east of the Mississippi. And, now the EGC found that land invaluable.
    TO HELL WITH THE LITTLE GUY...REGENTIFY.
    Antov’s superiors chose him to be the liaison with the 333’s DMZ’s in the Ohio Valley area. After he met the CEO, Maurice Cavanaugh, his career depended on a good relationship with the well connected wasp whose head was well up his superior’s asses. Certain DMZ’s were granted to the 333’s and other DNA coded groups. Over several uears Antov watched the progression of the EGC’s move toward the Ohio Valley. He didn’t understand why spend that kind of money on that portion of the DMZ? The bush and other anti-personnel measures would take forever to remove, but Antov wanted more then ten percent commission. The first stage of whatever Cavanaugh’s plans was dependent on his cooperation, but there was more he wasn’t sharing.
    “Major Joyner.” The short and wide expectant mother snapped to attention when he walked out of his office. “Call Maurice Cavanaugh’s secretary. I’m on my way and I’ll wait if he’s not there.”

*

    Cavanaugh wasn’t a big fan of DNA classification, but people wanted to know where they came from, what country or region. You’re still White, Black, Latino or whatever. If you had more of one another he’d never heard of it improving their bottom line. Those DNA findings caused trouble for the weak minded. The military used it for psychological experimental purposes, but unofficially they used it as a joke in certain units. Triple 1’s, pure whatever, triple 2’s, mixed and triple 333’s a third whatever. Stupid...but it stuck. Those issues reared its ugly head for all to see after the mid twenty-first century. Everyone had a pie chart on file accessible by authorities, but a few wore it as a badge of honor. What difference did it make if your genetic makeup was from East, West Africa, Asia and a percentage from Europe, light with straight hair or bright colored eyes you were still whatever.
    You still die!
    But, he used bigotry in corporate espionage and acquisitions to earn his place in the billionaires club. And, he’d been taught since childhood his pure White (111 status) heritage put him at an advantage. His height, wide square shoulders, sharp features and high strong cheek bones oozed self confidence. Veterans Affairs guard the disabled and retired elite forces jealously with laws that populated certain DMZ’s with 333’s. That sacred decree wouldn’t stop him. The trick; greed and lust. If a few politicians look the other way...by accident or an innocent mistake that would be nice.
    He sat in his favorite relaxed position legs and arms crossed naked on the patio of his high rise condo. The sun beamed down warming his closed eyelids. Meditation was good for body and soul. Time to solve the problem.
    He offered his first obstacle Representative Jonah Peters, a seat and a drink. Peters wore his lengthy blonde hair in a bun and didn’t shave often. He was basically hairless by nature or hormonal treatment with keen figures and a petite frame. He worshipped young boys or men, if you wanted to call them that, which were of age, but appeared childlike and found several in Bangkok, investigated their backgrounds and made arrangements for their immigration. Cavanaugh convinced a master forger to produce documents that said otherwise. Accusations of being a child molester would ruin him. He understood Peters’ attraction to the young being the youngest looking guy in Congress. Peters remained calm despite a drastic change in color from normal WASP to sheet white when he heard Cavanaugh’s proposal. “Quietly, but sternly support reclamation of the 333’s area along the DMZ.” Cavanaugh admired Peters’ sexy stride as he stormed out his condo.
    One down!

*

    Lucas Lomax planned for his second term in Congress to be productive. What congressman didn’t? Veteran Affairs had priority that’s why he was chosen to sit on the VA committee. What did Cavanaugh want? He scared the crap out his secretary. Did someone die or what? Lucas dabbed make up on the razor slash that for years marred his otherwise perfect complexion. Hollywood makeup artist experience served him well. That scar was a constant reminder of envy and jealousy and how few people can accept rejection. He twirled his comb through his thick black hair and snapped on his gold/diamond studded earrings. He smiled, ran his tongue over a perfect set of teeth and adjusted his panties then zipped up his one piece suit. “This shouldn’t take long right, Cavanaugh, I got to get back to press my newest outfit for a date and he demands his ladies be punctual.” Lucas said in his most sexy female voice. He kissed himself in the mirror and hurried to the heliport. At 5'6" he was the shortest and most influential guy on the committee.
    Lucas ran from under the chopper’s blade to an elevator bank that led directly to Cavanaugh’s office. The silver haired elderly woman cracked a quick phony smile and handed him an electronically sealed envelope. “The boss suggested you open it at home, Lomax.” She snapped. “The chopper is waiting.”
    Lucas wrapped his legs under him on the round king size bed and scanned the barcode according to the text from Cavanaugh. He took the antiquated flash drive to a special unhackable, untraceable system he installed and programmed himself. A click of the mouse and a blue silk g-string between a big set of tanned cheeks rotated by a bearded redneck. The beautiful woman twisted and turned on the bar to burlesque music grabbing and fondling her breasts. Lucas slammed the laptop. A cross dresser would not be accepted by his by ultra conservative constituents. His cell rang. “Representative Lomax, how are you today? Sorry I couldn’t meet you I got called away on an emergency.”
    “What do you want, Cavanaugh?”
    “A favor when I call about a change in DMZ policy, that’s all. And, FYI I got this video myself I’m a pretty good detective. I figured you had an alter ego.” Cavanaugh chuckled. “It’s safe with me, good bye.”
    Two down! Any others who opposed would fall in line easily.

*

    Instinctively Antov straightened his uniform and brushed his sandy thinning hair. The minute adjusted his tie the door opened.
    “General Antov, it’s good to see you.”
    “Good to see you too, Maurice.” Cavanaugh stood more than a foot taller with muscular hands like catchers’ mitts. Antov always hid the pain of his hand shake. He sat on the sofa before being offered a seat. Rude, but so what.
    “You know Cavanaugh, I’ve been privy to other economic growth project of your company and friends, but this one is the most ambitious and profitable.” Antov crossed his legs. “But, I want more of a percentage. It wasn’t the easiest thing to get a group together to do installations in that part of the DMZ, but I’m sure you’ll give me a hefty bonus with an additional ten percent. I paid those guys a lot extra to forget getting shot at and then leave this part of the country.” They stared at each other. “And, all of them haven’t got out yet. Those elderly 333’s are putting up a helluva fight. Why? I assume they don’t want it a group of seniors gave them a fight. Pride can be dangerous...a few of those guys might not go easily. Fuck the money. Miraculously nobodies been hurt, but with every passing day those odds increase. This harassment plan you purchased concerns me.” Antov walked around the office and admired the collection of photos of music legends of the past hundred years. “I can’t help but think it might have something to do with the old timer’s music festival held a few click from the DMZ.”
    Cavanaugh watched the general glided his fingers tips on the glass. “Beautiful aren’t they? Many of those are the original not replicas. That group photo taken in Harlem of a then, not so famous, group of musicians is one of the most sought after shots of Miles Davis with Dizzy Gillespie and others. They’d been up all night partying at that hotel and in the morning somebody invited them out on the street for a photo shoot. You see that White guy on the far right?”
    “Yeah, the one with that big Black lady nibbling on his ear?”
    “That was my great granddaddy.”
    “Really?”
    “Really.”
    “Jazz...Black music in general has a special place in my heart. My dad played the horn and sax; he loved Miles Davis, Dave Brubeck Winton Marcellus and others. He tried to get me to play, but I didn’t have the gift, but I love to listen. Come and have a seat, Antov and I’ll tell you all about it.”
    Antov smiled and turned in a circle. “All this and no bar, shame on you, Maurice.”
    “Drinks this early?”
    “Why not, I have the feeling I’m going to need one if not several.”
    “Ok. And, I’ll have to join you.” A panel opened on the opposite side of the room. “What do you like, a popular wine or one hundred year old scotch or everything between?”
    “A cold beer to start.” They laughed and Cavanaugh opened the frig and tossed a bottle.
    “We at the EGC came to the conclusion that the idea of DMZ’s on American soil was a vessel for negative propaganda against our ideals and values. And, we all know they will disappear in time.” Cavanaugh poured two fingers of scotch. He didn’t have Antov’s attention like he wanted, that was about to change. “But, you know that. Well my interest in the Ohio area DMZ is simple. Both sides, militia versus police departments destroyed the Rock and Roll Museum. While other important buildings and landmarks were burned or blown up none have the memories of a truly American institution imitated worldwide.” The enthusiasm in his voice lit up Antov’s eyes. Now he had his attention. “Everybody loves jazz and R&B. You know my interests are in rebuilding starting with the museum with a stronger emphasis on jazz.”
    “Sounds good to me, but...it could sound better if you.” Antov finished his beer and gently sat it on the cocktail table. “If you pay me more, Cavanaugh, this shit is getting expensive.”
    “I got your money and percentage. I didn’t like the other one, but I couldn’t do anything about it and now this opportunity will enable it to be built away from the city. You’re wondering about Congress on the set aside for the 333’s, but that’s been taken care of my friend.”
    “What about Pentron, Inc? They’ve been eyeing that area for years? Rumor has it members of the Congressional Committee are in their pocket.”
    Cavanaugh’s heart skipped a beat. Be careful not to show concern. “Oh really...don’t listen to that crap.” He crossed his legs and hoped the general didn’t notice his body language. Fuckin’ Pentron, he hated those pricks. If those politicians double cross him their dead.
    “But, I’ll keep that in mind. Need another beer I want to show you something?”
    “No, a shot of scotch will do.”
    Cavanaugh uncorked the decanter and poured. “Now follow me.” They walked through an opaque sliding glass door. “Lights.” In the center of a converted bedroom a huge scale model of what use to be the area of the Ohio DMZ Cavanaugh was interested. Antov could tell by the sudden drop of a river into a valley the rapids were shallow that moved slowly since there wasn’t a steep waterfall ahead. Along the banks were a series of ultra contemporary energy absorbing and reflective glass paneled buildings connected by walkways and people movers. The landscaping was a combination of rock gardens, ponds, strips of forest preserves and golf course like grass and sand traps. “What do you think, Antov?”
    “It’s beautiful.” Antov walked around the model. “Such magnificent detail, how much land do you need?”
    “A square mile, give or take a few acres to be safe.” Cavanaugh smiled. “Guess what...I designed and built this myself.”
    “Damn, you’re good...real good. I take it, from the satellite photos those areas around the forest are where the badass bush used to be, right?”
    “Right.” Cavanaugh picked up a laser pointer and adjusted it.
    “That will cost a fortune to remove that shit. What will you use, napalm?”
    “Exactly, but in small controlled quantities.” The red beam circled the scale buildings. “See the area around the forest?” Antov nodded. “All that by the hills and rocks leading down to the river banks and ravines will be burnt to a crisp and the toxins released will be minimal.”
    “Ok, what else aren’t you telling me, Cavanaugh?”
    “Pentron, Inc. is working like hell to beat us to the punch. They want this area as part of a collateral package for trillions in previous loans or it’s to spite the EGC for previous losses like that big project associated with the gates for the Nicaraguan Canal.”
    “That’s a stretch, but if you say so. What about those elderly soldiers. or could you say hermits — what will become of them?”
    Cavanaugh shrugged. “You think I’m a bully, don’t you?”
    “Um... I don’t know.”
    “Well, I’m not the reason for the harassment; one of them anyway, if they leave that would make it easier to convince Congress to put it up for bid. And, do you remember the big party the 333’s have annually with all the old R&B, house music and jazz?” Antov nodded. “Well, they use a lot of turntables, speakers, mixing equipment and other antiquated stuff things that will go into the museum. Just think if they would sell it to us and if we could offer to buy back looted items from the old museum. That would be great.”
    “Whoa...how do you know if it’s in the area? They might have it warehoused outside the DMZ?”
    “Well, Antov, I didn’t get to be CEO without a vision.” Cavanaugh pointed at the general’s glass. “Another?”
    “Yeah, that scotch is smooth.”
    He poured and returned it. “I’ve had every storage house and warehouse of every checked for a hundred miles. Nothing. That means it has to be in the DMZ somewhere.
    “Sounds good.”
    “I set up an anonymous website to sell back what was stolen without fear of prosecution, but one of the main items I’m looking for hasn’t turned up yet.”
    “And what’s that?”
    “My granddad’s horn, it was bent similar to the great Dizzy Gillespie’s. What I wouldn’t give for it, within reason of course, but that damn Harvey Sugimoto is and was in my way.” Cavanaugh slammed on the table hard enough for scotch to jump out the glass. “That asshole will not get that part of the DMZ...over my dead body.”
    “Now, that I didn’t know. I thought that obsession of yours, if you don’t mind me saying so, was a local matter. Is it Pentron or Sugimoto that want the DMZ?”
    Cavanaugh could’ve kicked himself for mentioning Sugimoto. He sighed and took a sip. “It’s Sugimoto.” He lied. “He wants, allegedly, to do a hotel or something like that.”
    “Sounds like rumor to me.” Antov said.
    “Whatever it is it’s in your, our best interest, right?” Antov nodded. “Sounds like you’re on board for the duration.” Antov nodded again. “Good, we’ll work out the details later. Be right back we need some food.”

*

    “I got a surprised for you, Cavanaugh.” The general sat his glass down. “I cannot be seen tipsy this early. I’m getting ready to contact my team.” He took a phone out of his pocket. “They’ll pull back to make contact.” He hit the speaker button. “Hello, friend, how are you?”
    They strained to make out, “Questionable” through the static. Antov adjusted the phones position on the table. “Speak up I can hardly hear you.” Antov heard gun fire. “You under attack or what?”
    “There’s been a misunderstanding since we arrived.” Friend said.
    Code for what Antov feared could happen. They weren’t supposed to start a fuckin’ firefight, but be discrete in setting up the incentives to vacate the area.
    “Anybody on lunch now?” Code for; any death or injury.
    “Goddamn water moccasins all over the place, no bites. The landscaping plan will work in time, but it could be costly.” Code for; the longer they stay the operation could be exposed.
    “What’s going on, Antov?” Cavanaugh asked. Antov held a finger to his lips.
    “Hold on please. Quiet, they don’t know who you are, as far as they know this is my op. I’ll get the details later, but they went in with non-lethal stuff; active denial systems, invisible pain fences and skin irritation sonic rays. My guess those 333’s unleashed sniper equipment and the like. You there friend?”
    “Yes.”
    “The contract has expired; good work.”
    “Copy that, on our way, but got important info will contact you shortly.”
    “Shit, I don’t like the way that sounds.”
    “I don’t either.” Cavanaugh said. “They sound exhausted and in a hurry. I just know a few seniors, elderly seniors at that could give young guys a problem.”
    Antov grunted and poured a drink. “I got an opinion you might not like, but it is something you need to hear.”
    “Speak freely just don’t talk about my momma,” Cavanaugh chuckled. The smile Antov cracked wasn’t reassuring what he was about to say would solve the problem. And, the 333’s weren’t leaving yet. No sooner than the general’s lips parted his phone rang.
    “Hello friend, so what happened?” Antov signaled Cavanaugh to be quiet. “I’m putting you on speaker I’m moving around.”
    The young guy with the baritone voice cleared his throat. “Well I think they expected us or they saw us first from the time we pulled up I felt eyes on us.”
    “Of course, friend, observation bunkers line that edge of the river.”
    “When we set up the loudspeakers we ducked sniper fire as soon as we tested the equipment. Fifty caliber rounds ricocheted off trees and rock formations. Those guys know what they are doing. They forced us back to the wetlands. Fuckin’ snakes everywhere! They could’ve hit us but they didn’t. We sent mini-drones up and they shot them down. We played cat and mouse for a few days until it was apparent who were the mice. My guys are pissed a couple of old guys are fuckin’ with them like that...”
    “They’re what’s left of the 333 program,” Antov interrupted.
    “I heard something about that...that was years ago wasn’t it?”
    “Yeah, decades ago. Did you get to use the audio tapes?”
    “Extremely loud nature sounds didn’t bother them either, but more money will help their/our wounded pride.” Friend said. “Maybe the backup team you sent will do better.”
    “Back up team...what back up team?” They looked at each other dumbfounded. “I sent no team, Friend.”
    “It was seven Asian guys dressed in landscaping clothes, whatever happened to diversity. They laid back about a half a mile or so. I signaled them, but no response, more reason to get out. We left no traces behind, don’t worry about that.”
    Cavanaugh gave the thumbs up. “Understood and accepted for the usual channels for payment.” Antov said.
    “Friend, out.”
    A red faced Cavanaugh said. “Back-up team my ass that was Sugimoto’s people. How did they know we’d be there?”
    “They probably didn’t, Cavanaugh, it’s a coincidence.”
    He sighed and sat down. “Man this is one helluva way to start the day. You had something to say?” Antov nodded. “Okay say it.”
    “If you want that property and other stuff from those guys why don’t you do it the old fashion way? Ask them, they don’t bite it won’t hurt to get off that corporate high horse. That’s what Sugimoto will do. If the people agree without all that harassment it’s better. Cavanaugh, those old timers don’t give a damn about the bureaucrats. Hell I wouldn’t either, they’re in their eighties. You heard ‘friend’. they had them on the run, pinned down one minute and terrorized the next. I can imagine the types of booby traps. Those hermits are having the time of their lives. Go ring their bell and introduce yourself. And, guess what?”
    “What?”
    “They still get mail.” Antov laughed.

*

    Cavanaugh cursed every time his ATV hit a pothole and the rocking back and forth turned his stomach. Sunlight burnt through the early morning misty humidity
    Why in the hell did let a grunt general talk him into visiting a 333 in the DMZ? Desperation that’s why. Beat Sugimoto at his own game or else. The ten foot bush, the weird foliage mixed in and the insect noise made his skin crawl. His ear drums begged for relief and he’d forgotten the earplugs recommended by Antov. “It gets really noisy in parts of the DMZ especially closer to the river’s edge.” The road dipped and twisted forcing him to slow down. All he saw in the rear view mirror, dust. He passed several roads that led to residences. The directional landmark should be close. “You can’t miss his place you’ll see a mailbox with a scarecrow standing next to it.
    A scarecrow by a mailbox!
    Another sharp turn and there it was...a six foot scarecrow and a mailbox with a rickety wooden staircase leading up an embankment. He parked and dusted off his camouflaged overalls. At the top was a foliage covered concrete structure surrounded by suburbia type landscaping, no shrubbery and colored stone patterns were embedded in the sidewalk. A reinforced steel door opened before he rang and a fragrant cool breeze hit him in the face. The elderly medium built Asad stood erect about six feet tall. He smiled and squinted shading his eyes from the sunlight. “Good morning, Mr. Cavanaugh, come in.”
    “Well thanks, good morning yourself, Mr. Wong, it’s really humid out here.” Cavanaugh stepped into a foyer and was surprised at the contemporary chrome and stainless steel sculptures along the wall.
    “Follow me.” They walked through a long hallway to a large open room separated by book cases and what appeared to be large entertainment centers that displayed various types of electronics; receivers, turntables, tape decks, speakers and TV’s. “Are you a jazz fan or country music man?” Mr. Cavanaugh.
    The CEO was speechless while he walked over to touch a huge reel to reel tape deck. All the equipment was museum quality. He figured they had it, well not all it, but enough for a start to restock several exhibits in the new facility. “Mr. Wong, this is impressive to say the least. Jesus, you are a man after my own heart.”
    “Again, Mr. Cavanaugh, jazz, country or whatever?” Asad turned on the tape deck and the reels spun.
    “Jazz...Miles Davis is one of my favorites.”
    “Miles, it is, Mr. Cavanaugh.”
    “Forget the formalities call me, Maurice.” He didn’t expect the curious look he got from the old guy.
    The crisp clear sounds of Davis echoed from every corner of the room.”I’m surprised old 333’s like me are regarded worthy of someone of your stature...Maurice. Can I get something to drink, water or orange juice? I’m not a drinker of anything else, bad for the liver.”
    “Water’s fine. I like what you did to this bunker. They say the places in the DMZ especially this close to the Ohio are trash. Good to know that’s a lie.”
    “Thank you.” Asad handed him a bottle.
    “Mr. Wong, I’m not one of those that agree with DNA classifications or however that goes.”
    “Call me, Asad, Maurice.” They shook. “Have a seat. Glad we got that out of the way. Now what can I do for you?”
    Cavanaugh got right to his redevelopment of the DMZ’s back to private enterprise. The war or whatever they wanted to, call it was over. He exercised caution in his wording not to aggravate past tensions between the classes. After all the rich started the shit, unbridled capitalism damn near destroyed the Western World. Asad Mitchell Wong was a charming likable guy, but not being a blue blood added certain challenges to the conversation. Cavanaugh couldn’t relax like he did and he dare not smoke, but he removed his shoes until Asad offered him a tour of his back yard that covered a quarter mile in each direction along the edge of the river. Asad’s eyes lit up when he asked about the annual retro music festival his fellow veterans had for the area. And for the next hour they talked about various artists from the late twentieth to the mid twenty-first centuries. Asad spread out picture albums of events he attended with family and a friend that included military memorabilia and that’s when Cavanaugh saw it. A legal document size envelope with Pentron, Inc. on it.
    Harry Sugimoto had been there!
    Now what did he do?
    He had to counter whatever offer he’d made, but first he had to go formulate a plan. How or did Sugimoto know Congress will change the law about DMZ’s? The committee dare not cross him. He thanked Asad for the chance to talk and they scheduled another meeting later in the week. Cavanaugh left pissed. He’d seen enough, the old timer had plenty museum pieces that worked. Why buy them...send someone to steal. That was the thinking Antov suggested he change. He’d noticed a door that probably led to a sub basement where he stored the real good stuff. Wouldn’t that be wonderful if he had his granddaddy’s horn? He didn’t believe in miracles, but that would be one, but before he left he asked about an old horn that was bent similar to Dizzy’s. The look on Wong’s face said he knew something.

*

    Asad struggled to hold back the tears when he laid his hand on Willy’s flag draped coffin. They were like brothers who couldn’t be in the same room twenty minutes without arguing, but they loved each other. Willy didn’t want a fancy send off. What was the point? He had no kids and no living relatives. “Cremate me and be done with it.” But, before he took his last breath he said, “We gave those mercs the blues didn’t we, Asad?” And they did, but Willy tripped, cracked a rib and started internal bleeding that proved to be fatal. Later he got a call from the VA Hospital and rushed to his side.
    Maurice Cavanaugh wanted to sit and talk, joke and probe his mind like he was a friend playing psychologist. What an asshole. You think I’m stupid like the rest of the people in the area you want for yourself and other billionaires. You want to move us around like pieces on a game board. “Well, Maurice, you can go to hell!” Asad shouted. Eminent domain will win in the long run, but perhaps he could put some shit in the game. Asad saw Cavanaugh spot the envelope from Pentron and his whole persona changed even though he tried to conceal it. “That’s right; Cavanaugh the old man can still discern bullshit.” Further thought was required before action was taken. But, first he’d tell Lily.
    The room had been virtually sealed for months, the mildew said it all. He hit the exhaust fan switch and it roared to life. The electronic candle lights flickered around his late wife’s portrait while a song by Sarah Vaughn played. Her memorial needed dusting, but there weren’t any cobwebs or mouse droppings. He sat in the recliner and the lyrics took him back to time and places he wished he could relive. A half smoked joint in the ashtray next to her picture called his name. He didn’t like weed it made him absent-minded, but Lily did and on occasion he’d share one. He lit it, inhaled deeply and let it out slow. “I’m back Lily with news...those rich assholes are fuckin’ with us again, but me and Willy gave them hell. But, I’m too old babe and a decision will be made. I know you’d understand. Love you much.” He cut her picture out of the wooden frame, rolled it up and turned out the lights.
    For the next two weeks Asad studied the proposals by the competing corporate giants for the rights to the DMZ. What threat could a bunch of old 333’s be to the powers that be?
    None, but there could be pain.
    The kind of pain that irritated the egos of the CEOs
    What was Sugimoto’s angle other than pure greed?
    The EGC was an American nationalist corporation and further intrusion into the country from foreigners bothered them. He was convinced Cavanaugh’s interest in his antiquated equipment and huge collection of music was the driving force to push out the 333’s.
    Ok, Maurice, have it your way.
    After several calls to the CEOs secretaries Asad said he’d contact them in a couple of weeks. They sounded disappointed but he explained he needed time. “A sentimental thing I hope you understand.” And, if they didn’t so what. His neighbors had been approached about selling, but not as aggressively as he and Willy. But, all of them were part of the festival with huge music collections. That further empowered him to invite a few neighbors and probe their minds. A week after the party Asad conference called the CEOs.
    “Good morning, gentlemen, how are you this sunny hot day?”
    “Fine, Mr. Wong.” Harry said. It was clear he was busy having sex and a massage.
    “Good to hear from you, Asad.” Cavanaugh said. Asad couldn’t tell what he was doing.
    “I’ll get to the point. Mr. Sugimoto I’ve decided we cannot do business, thanks for the generous offer and enjoy the rest of the day.” The screen went blank. “Congrats Maurice, EGC is the winner. Yea for you.” Asad laughed at the confused expression on his unshaven face. “I or should I say, we didn’t appreciate those fuckin’ mercs harassing us, but you probably heard we fought back. But loudspeakers Maurice, is that the best you can do?” Asad waited for a response, but got silence. “Anyway, I decided to distribute my equipment and albums to my neighbors. If you want it for whatever reason talk to them. Being so powerful you’ll find a way to get whatever. And, before I forget that horn you talked about I think I found it going through Willy’s things. A neighbor who plays the trumpet found it interesting. She’s getting married again at eighty-five. Amazing ain’t it? Where they plan to honeymoon they didn’t say, but I’m sure you can find out.” Asad giggled while rage crept into the EGC’s CEO face. “I’m checking into a nice fancy assisted living facility. I’ll have my attorney contact you concerning the particulars. Aren’t you happy for me? That look says it all. I’m excited about getting back in mental shape learning to play well with others again. Good bye, Maurice.”

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