DO IT FOR YOUR COUNTRY
Chief Petty Officer (Retired) Jerome Wyatt rolled his vintage, in manufactured year only, Plymouth Valiant to a stop in the driveway of his run down three-room house. The dump was located in a rather shitty suburb of San Diego known as National City. He had bought the place after buckling under the constant bitching and nagging of his second wife, Mi Mi, who had insisted that it had always been a dream of hers growing up as little girl in Manila to own a house of her own.
Mi Mi had not only been the Chief’s second wife, she had been his second Filipino wife. Lois was the name of his first bride and it had taken her only six months to divorce his scrawny carcass after her feet hit American soil. She had taken to dancing and giving blow jobs in the titty bars in downtown San Diego until her unfortunate accident of taking a tumble off the third floor balcony of her and the Chief's downtown apartment. Charges against the Chief, by the way, were never filed. Just another dead whore.
Lois currently resided in a nursing home, and when she wasn’t fading in and out of her semi coma, she often regaled the other residents with her tales of working the bars of the P. I., where she had entertained the visiting sailors by blowing smoke rings and picking up pesos with her snatch.
It had taken Mi Mi two years to leave the Chief after he had married her on his sixth West-Pac cruise to the Philippines. Actually he had kicked her out after coming home early one evening from the enlisted man’s club and found her being hammered into the living room sofa by a burly Yeoman Third Class. A fucking Yeoman of all things! But a Yeoman who had punched the Chief so hard in the nuts that he hadn’t been able to report to work for three days after. Mi Mi had moved out and in with the Yeoman, leaving Wyatt with his trusty rusting Valiant and the house, in a neighborhood that was quickly turning into what could best be described as white trash shit.
Wyatt had just recently retired from active duty after twenty five years in the Navy. He left with a pension, a huge problem with alcohol, two lungs plugged up by tar and nicotine, two alimony payments, and a hankering for sex with people under the normal age of consent.
That problem couldn’t be blamed on the Navy however. Wyatt had that problem when he joined the Navy and was in fact was one of the reasons he had enlisted in the first place. Growing up in Mason City, Iowa he had always known that his tastes where different from normal people and he needed to find places that would cater to his different kinds of needs without the pesky interference of law enforcement types. The rednecks of his hometown would not only not understand his needs but would most likely beat him severely and then imprison him, if not worse. But Wyatt was a student of exotic pornography and he discovered these needs could be met in the back alleys and rooms of faraway places like Bangkok, Amsterdam, and the Philippines. Not quite legally but damn near. So he had enlisted and had wound up loving every minute of it.
He had been successful beyond his wildest dreams in his Navy career. Supervised of hundreds of men, drank the finest liquors, traveled all over the world, and had had all sorts of deviant sex with an enormous amount of young males and females in all corners of the globe.
Mi Mi and Lois had been so attractive to him because of their androgynous looks and he had thought that bringing them home with him would be the best of both worlds but that obviously had backfired on him. Still, Chief Wyatt considered both his life and career a huge success. Mason City, Iowa could kiss his fucking ass!
The only downfall with his retirement is that it cut off his easy access to young sexual partners. Flights overseas were very expensive and his budget just couldn't handle it. People were not as understanding in this country, so he had been relying recently on his enormous collection of 8 mm film, magazines, Polaroid snapshots, and video tapes that were purchased via the mail and which came from overseas. More recently he had discovered that the Internet could more than satisfy his needs. Once the Chief had gotten over his initial reluctance to buy a computer and jump into the joys of cyber porn, he couldn’t get enough. At this very moment he was in negotiations with a sex broker in the Netherlands to set him up for a two week fun filled vacation full of boy and girl toys that was sure to drain his bank account.
Wyatt shuffled slowly up the busted up sidewalk to his front door, all the while ignoring the taunts of "needle dick," "bugfucker,” and "homo" from the teenage boys of the black, burly and often surly marijuana dealer who lived across the street from him. He had made the mistake of complaining about the volume of their car stereo and their constant insults to their no good goddamned father and had been paying for it ever since.
It took him almost a full minute to get his front door open. He had been boozing all afternoon long at the Chief’s club and between the liquor, trying to get his keys in the door, and balancing his bag of groceries all at the same time, he felt practically winded when he finally got the door open. A health nut the Chief was not.
The interior of the house was as shitty as the outside. It was decorated with cheap furniture bought at the base second hand store and smelled of generic liquor, overflowing garbage, stale smoke, and beer farts. On his way to the tiny kitchen he passed the most expensive item in the house, his new computer, an iMac, and noticed that he had left it on all day. Funny, he thought he had remembered shutting it off prior to the leaving for the club. His memory must be going south with the rest of his body.
He put his weekly staples away in the kitchen. Three cartons of Camels, loaves of white bread, instant coffee, Velveeta, Spam, bologna, chips, diet generic cola, and of course, a half gallon of whiskey. The cheapest shit they had on the counter. He had survived on this diet for almost his entire naval career.
“You live like a fucking pig, Chief.”
Wyatt whirled around and almost fell over from the combination of vertigo and flat ass fear. Standing in front of him in the doorway of his kitchen and aiming a military issue .45 caliber Colt Commander at the Chief’s head was an enormous muscular man who was wearing silver wrap around shades, shorts, and a Gold’s Gym “San Diego” t- shirt. His hair was bleached snow white and worn in a semi-mohawk fashion. Wyatt had to clamp down tightly on his sphincter for fear of shitting his pants.
“Who are you?” he barely stammered out.
“Trouble with a capital fucking T. That’s for sure, dipshit. Now put your dick skinners in the air where I can see them and move into the living room. Real slow now. That’s the boy.” He gestured the Chief towards the door with a wave of his pistol.
Wyatt moved into his living room and sat down on the couch without being told to. He had to or his legs would have given out they were shaking so badly. The intruder pulled up a chair and sat across from him.
“You don’t have any idea what this is about, do you? You little prick!”
Wyatt didn’t say a word, just shook his head. It was all he could do to keep from throwing up much less speaking.
“The short version of the story is that you’re a pervert and need to be permanently wiped off the face of the fucking earth so let's cut out all the bullshit.” The man grinned at him.
The Chief thought he was going to pass out but he had to do something. And fucking quick! This was no goddamn time to lose control here! Think, man! Think!
“I have no idea what you are talking about.” That was the best he could manage considering the circumstances.
“Then what do you call that box full of porno I found in the hidey hole inside the closet of your bedroom and those files of naked kids in your computer? Which you may also be interested in knowing that I erased from your hard drive using this handy little software kit that I brought along with me." Mohawk shook his head in disgust. "Man, you are one sick fuck. How can you look that shit?”
Wyatt looked at him quizzically. “If your a fucking cop why did you erase my files?”
The big man leaned his head back and roared with laughter. “A cop? You think I’m a cop?
The Chief was now on panic overload. “If your not a cop, then who the hell are you?”
He removed his sunglasses and looked the Chief in the eyes. “Have you ever seen Apocalypse Now? I'd be surprised if you hadn't. Old Navy fart like you must have seen it a dozen times.”
Wyatt nodded weakly.
“Well, Chief, just like old Marty Sheen said in the movie. I’m been sent to terminate your command.”
“What the fuck for?” Wyatt shrieked.
“Actually just you boning all those kids would do it alone for me but you’ve got different problems. Some folks with a shitload of muscle want you out of the scene.” Mohawk leaned down into his gym bag and pulled out a manila folder, set it down on his massive thighs, and paged through it.
“In twenty five years of service you only had one shore duty stint, the rest was at sea. Jesus Christ! Your either one ignorant motherfucker or just plain stupid. But anyway, your one stint on shore duty was as an Admiral’s personal driver, gopher, booze buddy, and overall bootlicking flunky. An Admiral Callaway. Correct?”
Wyatt nodded his head weakly.
“Well, dipshit, as you may or may not know, it doesn’t matter, your old buddy has now retired and is quite active and successful in politics. He is in fact being groomed for the big time. He’s got it all going for him. He’s charismatic, intelligent, and best of all, he’s black. Plus the President himself just loves his sorry ass. The man is definitely going places.”
“What’s this got to do with me?” Wyatt croaked out.
“What’s it got to do with you? What are you, boy? A fucking retard? You think the higher ups want to put Callaway in Washington, playing grabass with the President everyday and all of a sudden the media stumbles onto the fact that his old driver and drinking buddy from his Navy days is a big time fucking child molester? Holy shit! They’d have a field day!”
“But how would they know? How do you know?”
Chief Petty Officer (Retired) Wyatt was close to crying for the first time since the family dog died when he was ten years old. His dad had stomped it to death one night in a drunken rage after the Hawkeyes had failed in a Rose Bowl bid.
Mohawk pointed to Wyatt’s computer. “By that, you dumb shit. Your dirty little secrets have been traced by that. Did you actually think that when you were corresponding with those freaks over in Europe that you were on some sort of secured line? The Internet is a fucking party line. The FBI is on to your ass. Your sex broker from Amsterdam is an agent, you dumb bastard! Plus your ex is a loud mouthed bitch when you drop a little green her way. Soon as she was paid off the feds pulled her green card and she was put on the first flight back to Manila. She’s probably turned a couple dozen tricks by now.”
Mohawk chuckled softly as the Chief bent over with his face in his hands and sobbed. “By the load of shit I found in your bedroom and on your computer I would guess that you would almost make the FBI’s top ten list. If I had the time I'd love to dig around in your basement or out in the backyard. I've got a gut feeling there are some little secrets buried around here. You seem to fit the profile. Who knows what I might find?” He paused for a little dramatic effect. “But I’ve got a way out of this for you, Chief.”
Wyatt looked up, teary eyed. Was there some hope here yet? Maybe he could pay this big son of a bitch off. He didn't have much money but he'd gladly sign his pension over to him if he had to. Money, yes! He'd offer him the Amsterdam trip money.
“How? I’ll do anything. I have some money.”
“Money? Shit! I'll take your money if I want. No, Chief, you're gonna have to do yourself.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
Mohawk rolled his eyes. “Damn, boy, you are a retard. Kill yourself! I’ll give you two ways. You can hang either hang yourself or OD on pills and booze. I’ve got the pills. The bottle even has your name written on the prescription. Straight from Balboa Naval Hospital. That will probably be the easier way. Don’t you think?”
Wyatt stared in horror. The couch cushion underneath him turned wet.
The big man went on. “They really want your ass. They even had someone put a consultation in your medical record saying you were being treated for depression and the pills are actually prescribed.”
Wyatt finally spoke. “I’m not gonna do it. You’ll have to kill me.”
“Well, I can sure do that. In fact before you interrupted me so rudely I was going to give you that option. This .45 I have was actually taken from your last ship and reported stolen. I’ll just take it and jam down your throat and blow your brains out. No one will notice for weeks. Your mail doesn’t even get delivered here. You have a post office box for all your dirty little secrets. Your neighbors hate you. By the time someone does notice the stink the evidence will be minimal. The cops won’t care anyway. Your just another retired alcoholic military puke who couldn’t handle the civilian world.”
Mohawk reached into his gym bag and set the prescription bottle along with a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label on the coffee table.
“Look at that. I’m even treating you to a good bottle of hooch for your final hours.”
The Chief couldn't or wouldn't answer him.
His assassin cracked the seal on the bottle on poured a stiff shot into a glass.
"Do it, Chief. Do it for your country. Hell, man, it's better this way. If the cops arrest you it's going to be a shitload worse for you. Do you know what they do to child molesters in the joint. It ain't fucking good I can tell you that."
He handed the glass and the bottle of pills to the Chief.
Dying by booze and pills in real life is a lot different than in the movies. You just don't slip off into a peaceful little nap. Wyatt had quite a tolerance to depressants from years of hard core drinking so it took almost the entire bottle of Johnny Walker along with two bottles of Budweiser to wash down the bottle of barbiturates. Along the way the dumb shit began to cry and confess his life’s regrets to his hit man who was busy trying to watch NORTH DALLAS FORTY on HBO, while relaxing in the Chief’s easy chair.
By about midnight it was over. Wyatt had gone into a series of convulsions and had barfed all over himself, but was now laying quietly on his couch. Mohawk packed up the Chief’s massive collection of porno in two large cardboard boxes, wiped the place down for prints, and then checked and double checked Wyatt’s pulse. He pulled out a cell phone and dialed in a number.
“It’s over. Come get me.”
Exactly one half an hour later his phone vibrated on his hip.
“Go ahead.” he answered.
“Clear. Come on in.”
“One block away. Out.” The phone clicked off.
He peeked out the curtain and saw the black van roll into the driveway with its lights off. The driver got out and walked briskly up the sidewalk and walked in the front door. Without saying a word the two men picked up the boxes of smut, turned the heat in the house on high, walked out the front door, put the boxes in the van, gave the area a quick look around, got in the vehicle and drove off.
Mohawk reached into his gym bag and pulled out a mirror, a switchblade, and a little brown bottle. He tapped a small amount of white powder out of the bottle onto the mirror and cut two thin lines with his knife. The driver glanced over anxiously while his passenger took a gold tube hanging from a chain around his neck and snorted both lines up.
Mohawk smacked his lips and leaned his head back. “Tasty. Pure Bolivian flake. Those Coast Guard boys sure take care of us, don't they?”
The driver grunted. “I could sure use a taste of that.”
“You know the rules, buddy boy. Drivers cannot indulge.” Mohawk wagged his finger at him.
He rummaged around in his bag once more and pulled out a silver cigarette case. He popped it open and fired up a joint of Colombian Gold.
“Enough, goddamn it.” The driver yelled.
His passenger chuckled. "Suffer, bitch."
The drove in silence until they turned onto Harbor Boulevard.
“Pull over at the next deserted parking lot." The van swung in.
Mohawk got out and quickly broke down the .45 and threw all the individual parts as far as he could out into the bay and then hopped back up into the van. The driver pulled out and headed towards the San Diego Naval Station.
"Any problems in there?"
"No, dude. Went like clockwork."
The van was pulling up to the sentry at the naval station. The Marine guard popped to attention and saluted the blue officer’s sticker on the van. They rolled on in silence until they pulled up to a plain cinder block building. The driver honked the horn once and the garage door began to go up. The van pulled in and the door closed behind it.
They were inside the burn room facility where all the base classified material was disposed of. The furnace was cranked up and burning red hot. There was no one inside on the floor. The two men got out of the van and walked the two boxes of porn over to the open door of the furnace and threw them in along with their cell phones. The driver put on a face shield and raked the boxes apart with a long metal rake. The heat was incredible and the boxes and their contents were reduced to cinders and ashes within minutes. When they jumped back into the van the garage door began to open and they pulled out into the night.
Once more they drove in silence until they reached the passenger’s motel.
“Two hours and I’ll be ready.”
Mohawk walked into his room, stripped down, and went into the bathroom. Taking an electric clipper he shaved his hair down close to his scalp and began to cover the remaining burr with a men’s hair dye. After showering, he changed into a Marine Corps bulldog t-shirt and a pair of faded Levis. Glancing into the mirror he now looked like a jarhead out on the town. He then put all of the clothes he wore on the job into a plastic garbage sack along with the room drinking glasses and anything else disposable that he might have touched and put the garbage sack in his gym bag. He then busied himself wiping down as many areas of the room as he could with a towel. Satisfied, he sat down and cracked open a ice cold pint bottle of Guinness to await his ride to the airport.
The driver was there two hours on the dot. Warren Zevon was singing softly on the stereo about lawyers and guns and money and the hit man leaned back and closed his eyes. When he opened them they were already parked at the unloading zone of the airport.
"Well, Jimmy, I guess you better take this off of my hands," he handed the driver his coke vial and remaining joints, "Don't want to get busted carrying on a goddamn airline. Wouldn't that be the shits after what we were up to tonight? The bosses would be certainly pissed."
The driver slapped him on the shoulder. "Thanks, Jake. You take care. It's always a fuckin' good time working with you. Give me a call next time you're back in town. I'll have the wife set you up with her sister. Man, the broad is hot! We'll get a babysitter and we can all hit the town."
The two shook hands. "I'll do that, Jimmy. Soon as I take care of this business over in Pearl Harbor. I got some leave coming and I sure as shit could use a vacation. Counting tonight, the hit in Orlando, and this one coming up in Oahu, I'll have done three jobs in just under a month and a half. I'm wiped. What the fuck, at least the weathers been good."
He jumped out of the van and walked inside the terminal and headed directly to the men’s room where he stuffed the garbage bag from the hotel down deep into the trash and covered it with used paper towels.
He had just enough time to buy a SPORTS ILLUSTRATED and a USA TODAY before catching his flight out of San Diego.
After settling in his seat he was approached by a flight attendant who’s better days were behind her but who would still do in a pinch. His hormones were always racing after a job.
“Going to Hawaii on leave, Marine?”
He gave her his All American, God and country smile. "I wish. No, on business. Seems like it's always business these days."