Today is my mother’s birthday. She’d have been 83 and one of her strengths was the ability to ignore bad stuff and find joy in things, and maddeningly so at times. She’d smell the flowers, and play the piano while whimsically dropping ice cubes into her white wine, social conventions not being something she followed. She loved animals and would be aghast at the ongoing slaughter of horses on BLM land. She wouldn’t understand it, no matter the explanation. She had a stubborn streak. Makes me wonder where I get mine.

My parents have been gone a long time, more than 20 years each, so it isn’t often I think of them, I’m sorry to say. Anniversaries like these are one’s where I do, of course, and it makes me consider the value we place on life and death and living and dying.

You probably pass a cemetery during some part of your commute and don’t think at all about who is buried there. Just rows of granite slabs marking the final resting place of someone important to someone else, and then fading into the fabric of time’s eternal tapestry.

Social Media is a curse. It’s influenced and created a world in which I’m not equipped to exist. I lose subscribers every week for unknown reasons and my growth is flat, even though I’m saying the same things as others with larger followings. Perhaps it’s because I’m not shrill and shouting from the rooftops on Notes from the moment I awake to the minute I sleep, with an AI bot publishing pre-written thoughts when I can’t.

Recently, I paid for an evaluation service to examine my Substack and Amazon author pages to optimize my discoverable sides to accelerate book sales. Luckily I’m not out much money, but damn if I expected more. Yes, I want to be a priority to a company set up for making things better for authors. I don’t know shit about marketing, selling, or anything else in this regard. Yes, I need help. No, I don’t want to have to pester the people I paid to help me with this. It’s why I paid them.

My Social Media presence and persona must be everything to everyone. I must be all parts vulnerable, revealing, interesting, confident, humble, trustworthy and relatable. My work must be promoted, but not braggadocios, but my Substack isn’t focused enough on…what, I don’t know. It’s interesting, but veers off-topic. What topic, exactly? I write this column for me and my subscribers. If people discover it and like it, great. When they leave, I do care, truthfully, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

Even though I hate Social Media, Substack is my Social Media platform of choice. I have Facebook and Instagram, but I don’t post much on the former and haven’t posted anything on the latter in months. I tired of competing with Russian underwear models, fitness influencers, and better established authors than me who have publicists and marketing teams to ensure their advertising remains a juggxrnaught while they attain seven-figure streaming TV deals. I walked away and my psyche is so much better for it.

My mother was an English Professor who specialized in expository writing. This is how I was trained, an unfortunate method in an industry which harps on “show, don’t tell”. I have discovered I’m not good at that, so it means there are areas of my writing I must hone.

Striving to be better at your craft is a critical skill, and one which breaks the spirit sometimes as you realize you have to suck at something sometimes to get good at it. I believe she’d be proud of my writing pursuits, even if Social Media would have confused her.

She wasn’t a Nihilist, but she would say that Social Media platforms are pointless wastes of time and that people should be living—really living—for the moment they are in, such was her whimsical approach to life. You only get about 80 years, if you’re lucky, so there’s an importance, a principle, of moments. She carried a Kodak box instant camera with her everywhere she went to capture the memory. An Apple phone’s camera and features would have mesmerized her.

Instead, we spend it online (thank you for reading), trying to matter, to be heard, to feel like we are contributing to something with what we do, calling it worthwhile. In the end, we all end up in the same place, wherever our souls and spirits go in accordance with our individual belief in karmic alignment, having lived a pointless life and fading into obscurity. Puts things in perspective, doesn’t it?

Growing up in a military family, I moved a lot. I learned to accept friendships might be short-lived and I myself could be uprooted at any time. This led to an impermanence I struggle with in adulthood, and my parents dying so long ago contributes to my pall of angst.

A dear friend of mine recently informed me he’s selling his house to pursue a nomadic lifestyle with his wife. Good for them, I suppose, but I’ll miss my friend, turning wrenches with him, and drinking beer in his garage. I know how life goes. You say you’ll stay in touch, that you’ll get together, but you don’t. As I wrote in my novel, we once pledged forever to the other. Now we never talk.

So today, as I reflect on my mother and the loss of friendships and demise of relationships over time, I must focus on more positive things. I’ve written five books. I have another with my editor and publisher now, release date TBD. I don’t write using AI. I’m authentic and forthright. What you see is what you get. I’ve stayed true to who I am, the critics and my algorithmic discoverability be damned. My work ethic remains intact and I’m able to pursue my passions. I’m finding elusive joy in between places I shouldn’t. I value living.

As a person who appreciated our existence as what the band R.E.M called “life’s rich pageant,” my mother would approve.

Happy Birthday, mom.

Thanks for sticking with me.

My books are available through Amazon and are listed on Fleur Hull’s the Substack Bookstore.

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Indie books worth buying, handpicked for readers who've given up on the algorithm. Subscribe and get the FREE Amazon Visibility Checklist for indie authors.

By Fleur Hull

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Why that Sailor killed himself is also a mystery. He left no note, but took the time to abscond to an obscure part of a U.S. warship to hang himself, ensuring someone would notice when he failed to muster and that, eventually, someone would discover his body. He was the only U.S. fatality of the operation. As Bono wrote of his dear friend, INXS front man Michael Hutchence, who took his own life in 1997, he “got stuck in a moment whose time will pass.”

I have multiple tours aboard Naval vessels. In fact, I have more “Sea Time” than many Sailors, some of whom, paradoxically, have never set foot on a ship and gone on a cruise. I know what it is to have your food rationed. To run out of things where everyday items become luxuries. To live in cramped conditions with thousands of humans in some sort of mad social experiment which pits people against each other in a test of nerves. Fist-fights are regular occurrences and friendships disintegrate under the strain. Some people even fall in love with disastrous results when they return to normal living. It’s a simultaneously real and artificial environment.

Which brings us to the present. When someone like your laughable and sotted Secretary of War, one Pete Hegseth, who doesn’t have a single minute of real sea time under his belt, lectures people about the reported conditions aboard the USS Abraham Lincoln, I take umbrage.

There are ~5,000 troops on board that ship. Americans. Out there on the edge of the Empire on your behalf. They’ve been deployed and at war for nine months. Now we’re blaming the troops for their own shitty living conditions when their leaders aboard the ship are doing all they can to keep up morale and unit integrity intact—cornerstones for organizational performance, you know?—while their higher’s (CENTCOM Commander Admiral Brad Cooper as an example) tell them everything’s fine.

If so, at least seven documented suicide attempts tells a different story. That isn’t an indicator of a high-performance unit which believes in what they’re doing and that their leadership has the situation in hand.

Hegseth is easy to despise, and believe me, I do, and he has zero experience with living aboard a ship at sea, never mind at war for nine months straight. Like most things in his life, he lacks perspective and God knows I wish he’d step aside since impeachment isn’t going to happen.

The only thing I’ll give you, Pete, is that you wore the uniform. Unlike your boss to whom you suckle, I at least respect that you put on the coat. It ends there, however. You’re no leader and no example, except of who not to be. I’ve added you to the expanding list of shitty military leaders I know, now in a position you should never have attained (do we see a trend here?). Would that I could fail ever-upward.

Pay attention, Pete, if only between drinks. There are two basic rules in leadership, ones I carried with me all of my career, which served me well.

1. Treat your people with dignity and respect.

   You don’t. Neither does your boss.

2. Don’t waste their time.

   You do. So does your boss.

Takeaway: Troops want to know their leadership gives a shit about them.

Neither you or your boss do as clearly demonstrated based upon your recent comments on things aboard the Lincoln being “completely misrepresented,” and DJT expressing that the Lincoln hasn’t been deployed “nearly long enough.”

You first, tubby. Some flight deck PT might actually do you some good. Hell, even better, you and Pete can go visit the troops aboard the Lincoln and Pete can lead them in physical training since he loves to get out with the warfighters so much. You could both then ascertain first-hand what exactly is being misrepresented when you serve chow on the mess decks and dine alongside those you sent into harm’s way. If you time it right, you might even enjoy a “beer day.”

Barring your own participation, Donny, I’ve even deployed on ships that brought astroturf mats and golf clubs for people to shag balls during their “off time.” I’m sure you could be accommodated as you inspect the aircraft launch catapults to ensure their conversion to steam will pay off for you and your cronies who stand to benefit financially yet again. I digress.

But let’s say the garnered attention is indeed just a minority of malcontented, whining, disgruntled goldbricks who wanna come home. They’ve been part of militaries since the dawn of time and a counter narrative has sprung up from within the military and veteran community that those who serve should suck it up, stop complaining that this isn’t what they signed up for, and perhaps they should have read the fine print.

I can identify with their perspective, to a degree, but “I’ve had it worse, so you can just embrace this, too,” isn’t a proper lens through which to view this issue. Spare me the myopic sanctimony.

One can exist aboard a ship indefinitely so long as your food is decent, you can receive morale-boosting mail, you feel valued, and like what you doing is important and matters as you struggle to reconcile your endeavors.

I’ve wrestled with the latter while serving in various areas of the world during my own career.

It isn’t that the personnel aboard the Lincoln shouldn’t expect hardship. Austere conditions are part of deployments. I would know.

It’s that their National leadership are blundering, incompetent fools. The ill-conceived war with Iran is an American war of choice. One we can’t prosecute and win. And it’s costing us $Billions daily along with mounting U.S. casualties, the number of which we are not permitted to know, coupled with between 7,000-9,000 Iranian dead, most of them civilians.

The Lincoln shouldn’t be in this situation at all.

Thanks for sticking with me.

My books are available through Amazon and are listed on Fleur Hull’s the Substack Bookstore.

The Substack Bookstore

Indie books worth buying, handpicked for readers who've given up on the algorithm. Subscribe and get the FREE Amazon Visibility Checklist for indie authors.

By Fleur Hull

Please consider becoming a paid subscriber. It’s $2 a week—less than a beer when you go out and perhaps as satisfying without the caloric deficit—and $80 annually. It really helps me as a writer, and you’ll receive access to exclusive content including advanced project previews and releases. Thanks!

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I served in the United States Marine Corps for most of my adult life and put my theatrical dreams on hold. Then I retired and decided to live my life in reverse. Maybe I’m a Temu Benjamin Button.

For the past two years, however, I’ve been in three movies as an extra and two with speaking roles. Two of them will premiere next year and I have a few writing and consulting credits to add to my small IMDB profile. You’ve got to start somewhere, I suppose.

Last week, I was cast as Ambrose Bierce in the eponymous author’s short-story, Killed At Resaca. Filmed in and around Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, I play an older Bierce reflecting on his experience in the American Civil War as he pens a tale for his employer, the publishing magnate William Randolph Hearst. This was no small task and I was elated when I received the call for the part since I’d spent a great deal of time studying Bierce and he is a key influence on my own writing, to include my masterpiece novel, Once We Pledged Forever.

Additionally, I assisted with writing some of the scenes for the script and consulted with the director, Jacob Bates, to ensure the tenor and pacing of the film was correct throughout because Bates did a masterful job of toggling between the past and the future-present. I’m happy to have been a small part of it.

Bierce was an interesting character, one who I felt drawn to play. More arrogance from me, but it’s true. He was a combat veteran, disillusioned with his military service, acerbic, pragmatic, angry, and forthright. I admire him in ways I’m still discovering, even if I don’t want to be like him, exactly. I find, however, my own experience and background lend to an accurate portrayal of a haunted veteran attempting to reconcile his past. God, it feels freeing!

It’d been a while since I put on an actor’s façade, became someone else, and memorized lines. I used to relish it in high school and in college. In fact, when I was going to take the stage I’d combat an adrenal dump to ensure my focus. This included sweating, shaking hands, and a feeling of overwhelming electricity. Not unlike being in love.

I haven’t ever suffered from stage fright, but I haven’t done much film work, so I approached the project from the perspective of the camera not being there and just being myself, in the moment, for what I could be. I needed to harness that voltage and turn it into something positive.

As I don my costume, reviewing my lines (and I don’t have many) and the environment in which we’ll immerse ourselves, I control my breathing and calm my nerves. In my military career, I’ve done this before a free-fall jump or a night raid. The stakes aren’t as high in this situation, certainly, but the energy coursing through my veins is familiar, comforting, even. I feel alive!

A serenity settles over me as I enter the set. I’m home. I’m where I am meant to be. I embrace the tension and ignore the disorganized camera crew or lights not working as desired. I’m present as Ambrose Bierce. I’ve become him and wish only my interpretation translates onto the screen in a clean, authentic portrayal. Not Ivan as, but Ivan IS, Ambrose Bierce. To disappear into the role.

Then we get to work. Truthfully, I love it. I love the action. I love the adrenaline. I love the takes and getting it right. I want to do well and be perceived as same. Who doesn’t want to be known for doing something well, of being good at something—so good that your name is associated with the production? That’s what I seek as an actor and writer.

There.

My ego is in the open.

I don’t care about negative reviews of my writing or what I do, but I do care what people think. I do want people to like it. What a dichotomy. Again, my vulnerability.

I spent most of the morning in a professional recording studio reading voiceovers for the film, ones that will lend gravitas and drama to an already excellent production. Now I’m Bierce himself, reflecting on his past, wondering what it was all for, attempting to explain it to a layman, and frustrated the words will not appropriately capture the moments. I’ve been there, Mr. Bierce, and I raise my glass to you

.If art imitates life, I’m amazed I’m a part of this. I find I dig into my psyche for certain parts of this role, reliving vignettes only known to me, uncovering long-dormant emotions in the interest of conveyance. I’m not sure Jacob can understand so I don’t explain them to him, but he’s happy with the outcome, more-so than he expected, I believe. He’s ebullient, even.

I maintain it is up to veterans to bridge the civil-military divide between those who have served and the majority population who haven’t. This isn’t a castigation, but a truth, one I attempt to address head-on in my writing, music, and now, acting. I want to take people on a journey and let them decide on how they feel. No spoon-feeding or preaching. Give the audience credit to interpret what they are seeing and they’ll thank you one hundred fold. Something like that, paraphrasing David Mamet.

That’s how I approached this role. I viewed it as a valuable opportunity, one I couldn’t pass up nor muddle—I had only once chance to get it right. Again, not unlike missions in my military career. I never thought my own combat experiences would translate in such a way, and definitely not when I was traipsing about the stage at a small state school in Southern Maryland in the latter part of the 20th Century.

A few hours later we finish our scenes. Some of them are ad-libbed and energetic. I’m yet more excited by the prospect these lend to a more complete production. If there’s value in being part of the process, then I’ve achieved more than I envisioned going into this, never mind my technical expertise applied to various other scenes to include some of the combat scenarios.

Upon completion, I feel a sense of relief, and also one of supreme pride and joy, having taken my own journey back to my roots of sorts. If the arts can heal, then some of my own struggles with Post-Traumatic Stress have been alleviated through this process of sharing and expression.

Would that others are so fortunate.

The films will premiere in 2027. You can follow their progress at The Red Badge of Courage and Killed at Resaca, respectively.

Thanks for sticking with me.

My books are available through Amazon and are listed on Fleur Hull’s the Substack Bookstore.

The Substack Bookstore

Indie books worth buying, handpicked for readers who've given up on the algorithm. Subscribe and get the FREE Amazon Visibility Checklist for indie authors.

By Fleur Hull

Please consider becoming a paid subscriber. It’s $2 a week—less than a beer when you go out and perhaps as satisfying without the caloric deficit—and $80 annually. It really helps me as a writer, and you’ll receive access to exclusive content including advanced project previews and releases. Thanks!

Subscribe now

One hour before I take the stage, though I’ve been here for two days, rehearsing music and adjusting, rethinking, and tinkering with the script. I’m still not sure I’ve got it right.

Unseasonable heat and smothering Canadian wildfire smoke greeted me upon arrival, and now these mix with a pall of nervous anticipation. My throat feels like knives are aligned to either side due to the so-called air quality. The building in which we’re performing is more than 100 years old. The window-unit air conditioners are working overtime in a losing battle. I examine my notes, consider the six-song set list we’ll play. No, I’m not ready.

My friend and former Marine, , assisted in creating this performance, including the title. He also graciously lent me his poetry to augment the message. His book, Phantoms is an amazing tome of verse.

I also reflect on the counsel and tutelage from my friend and Army vet, Chris Meyers at , and jot a note to thank him for his support and feedback as I designed the program, for which he provided review and improvements.

But what is this thing about? America has been at war for all of the 21st century. It’s so commonplace in our collective experience it no longer registers with the general population.

Less than 1% of people serve in the military, and fewer than 6% have served over the past 25-years. This means the gap–known as the Civil-Military divide–between those who’ve served and those who haven’t is growing wider. Americans don’t know how to talk to veterans and the veteran population is becoming invisible

This show attempts to bridge that gap through shared experience and commonality with which people can identify. Feelings of emotion and alienation, loneliness and trauma, of memory, ethics, and morality are not germane to veterans, and can be experienced by anyone, though the situations in which they do may differ.

highlights their great work in supporting Veterans rights and benefits. Reading their column spurred on my efforts to bridge the gap I’ve identified. I believe it is up to the veteran to close it.

There’s an importance to music and dance, verse and prose, and I can think of no better vehicle than in music because everyone likes being entertained. Even my Afghan adversaries enjoyed when we played guitars at night around fires.

Tonight, my dear friend Sean Michael Dargan, his drummer Bill Guetschow, and I will take the audience on a journey. One that causes them to pause, to think, to consider. We welcome their participation on this intimate evening where we explore military service and the continued impact of modern wars, combat, and reintegration into society.

But it’s not just us. I’ll share the stage with a hero of mine, writer, speaker, and fellow veteran Doug Bradley, who authored an amazing book about service, music, and healing from the moral injury of the Vietnam War called, We Gotta Get Out of This Place.

Doug Bradley. He wrote the 2015 Music Book of the Year as rated by Rolling Stone Magazine. This overwhelmed me. I’m buried in self-critical analysis and a supreme feeling of imposter syndrome.

I’m not a real musician and not an accomplished writer, at least not a critically acclaimed one. Real writers have awards and accolades, reviews and followings. they don’t hock books from the trunk of their car. Real writers books sell themselves. Real musicians look and sound like Sean and Bill. Real musicians have records. Real musicians aren’t concerned with chord changes and keeping pace because their left wrist is permanently fucked up and it makes them self-conscious.

A litany of misgivings runs through my mind in rapid succession. Who cares what I have to say? I even had a guy write me once telling me to go fuck myself because it didn’t matter what I thought—he was too busy to talk with me, but took the time to tell me to fuck off—at least I struck a nerve. How will the show be received? I haven’t done a full dress rehearsal of this, we just integrated Doug this evening, and I’ve never played with Bill, never mind singing accompanying harmony with him to augment Sean’s amazing voice. Shit…

But then I think, no, I deserve to be up there and what I’m doing is more than most. Not all veterans get out and start a podcast highlighting their views on the country and their service or promote tacticool firearms training. We are as diverse a community as any, but the ones who make the most noise get the attention. But there is a message that must be heard—there’s something you should know. To that point, I have something to say, and I’ve determined to present it in a live show, with real people. But as Chris warned me, there’s a respect that must be earned.

He’s right and even one person deserves as much of my dedicated passion to this project as a room full of 1000 people. I shudder at the thought of that many waiting for the show and settle in that a smaller audience is better. Either way, there’s no safety net. It’s got its own adrenaline, not unlike combat.

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I pump myself up since no one else will. Writer. Speaker. Storyteller. Musician. I’m not a big star. I don’t know anyone famous. I don’t have a lot of support, but I do have drive. Then another wave of doubt.

I’m scared people will see through me. That I won’t perform well with the people with whom I’m performing who are true professionals in their craft. Am I actually any good at this? History doesn’t support it. Does it?

Through engagements to corporate audiences, I’ve attempted to express myself and demonstrate relevance in the face of leadership gaps they’ve asked me to address. I’ve also given public talks about my service, writing, and the impact of war. My attempt to build a brand has amounted to nothing because I hate social media and I’m a shitty marketer. At least I know the cause.

Fifteen minutes to start and no one’s in the audience. That’s okay, and tell myself, Monty Python had two people at their first live show. One of them walked out during the performance. One way or the other, I smirk, I’m doing this.

As a Marine combat veteran, I have my own baggage. My mind flips through a slideshow of conversations past. From an interested party who didn’t serve. “What was your service like, Ivan?”

“Well, I’ve written five books. Perhaps read them and you’ll get a clear picture of what my service and serving is like.” I want to say, but that’s obviously obnoxious. I just hit the wave tops. But why read my story when you can get the Cliff Notes as I spill my heart tonight?

A friend texts. He can’t make it. I’m frustrated. I’m playing a particular song just for him and now he isn't coming. Damn. I begin to spiral, the doom cycle generating momentum. Am I just another aggrieved veteran with an agenda? An axe to grind because I’m not seen or feel misunderstood? Woe is me.

I’m not talented nor do I have the looks to make up for it. I’m not a sports or influencer personality, actor or pundit. While those people were enjoying living in America, I was dragging my hands through the dirt in a foreign land searching for IEDs that could at minimum maim me and my fellow Marines. I don’t know how I survived. I really don’t.

Then I slow down my mind, the doubt reduced to a gentle hum. It’s about mitigation, not elimination. I’m good at that, always have been, it’s what made me a good leader in war. Another vignette. Many years ago, when I was losing friends in combat at an alarming rate, I commented to another friend of mine, “I’m tired of my friends dying.”

The guy, who also hadn’t served, replied, “It’s a war. I’m not sure what to tell you.”

I believe that’s the primary contributor to the divide I’ve identified. People aren’t sure what to say because, for the most part, the wars don’t affect them in any meaningful way. So it is up to me to extend the hand. It is my responsibility to my fallen comrades to make “this” matter. Perhaps if our collective understanding of veterans and war improved we’d protest and stop the endless wars in which the United States is involved.

Sound checks are complete. Doug’s arrived and excited to be a part of this. I’m humbled he is, along with my friends. Time to start the show.

My tension fades as we play to 25 enthusiastic people who applaud and sing along for a little more than an hour. Not a bad start for something we generated buzz with through grassroots advertising and word of mouth. In a word, I had fun.

I even sell a few copies of my novel. Doug and I exchange signed copies. Winning.

People are pleased, a few blown away by the show, saying they wish they’d been able to get more of their friends to join them.

“Next time.” I say.

A musical show producer attended. He liked it. The message. The music. What I conveyed. He’s interested in building this into something bigger and more impactful.

Stay tuned as it comes to a city near you.

I hope, anyway.

My books are available through Amazon and are listed on ’s the Substack Bookstore.

The Substack Bookstore

Indie books worth buying, handpicked for readers who've given up on the algorithm. Subscribe and get the FREE Amazon Visibility Checklist for indie authors.

By Fleur Hull

Thanks for sticking with me.

Please consider becoming a paid subscriber. It’s $2 a week—less than a beer when you go out and perhaps as satisfying without the caloric deficit—and $80 annually. It really helps me as a writer, and you’ll receive access to exclusive content including advanced project previews and releases. Thanks!

Subscribe now

Pete Hegseth laughs off any attempt at questioning budget increases as being “woke”, funding deficiencies as a holdover from the Biden administration, or people just plain old not liking his sugar daddy, DJT.

My good friend, highlighted his own misgivings on this increase and the entrenched Military Industrial Congressional Complex (MICC) in a recent series of articles.

Bracing Views

Not Another Article about the Military-Industrial Complex

Last week, I was chatting with an old friend, fellow veteran, and loyal reader when he suggested I should write less about the military-industrial complex. I laughed. I wish I could, I replied, but I’ve got 1.5 trillion reasons to write about it…

Read more

a month ago · 24 likes · 43 comments · Bill Astore

Never mind $1.5 trillion, half a trillion dollars is enough to entirely overhaul the Veteran’s Administration to make it an efficient and useful enterprise instead of the glacial impediment to Veteran care that it is, this coming at a time when the organization has cut 80,000 jobs and is attempting to redefine veteran disability status in the interest of cost savings.

Further, there would be enough remaining to fund a national health care system; to include hospitals with world-class care for all Americans so they can get a medical and dental checkup.

Part of it could be used to revitalize our crumbling infrastructure which is always a campaign promise but never fulfilled.

The still remaining money could fund school lunches for poor and underserved communities for decades. Whatever efficiencies and monies the now-defunct DOGE was supposed to create by cutting programs like SNAP are eclipsed by this staggering amount of cash.

But it won’t. We always have money for wars and the war machine. The same endless wars Donald Trump campaigned to end and has yet again embroiled our country. Those who rail against what I listed above should bear in mind that the United States doesn’t fight wars with its own money. It either borrows it or taxes its people to fund it.

That’s right, the burden to pay for our military falls on the American people who receive very little on that return on investment, the more important human capital notwithstanding. This leads to unnecessary deployments and further fiscal waste. If the budget passes, it will cost each American $9K. That’s everyone including your kids, as an aside.

Of this, ’s Executive Major General Dennis Laich, US Army, (ret.) wrote a direct and scathing critique, published this week in the USA Today.

The full text of his OpEd is embedded below.

Eisenhower Media Network

A Budget of the Pentagon, By the Congress and For the War Profiteers

By: Major General Dennis Laich, US Army, (ret.) Executive Director, Eisenhower Media Network…

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2 months ago · 32 likes · 3 comments · Eisenhower Media Network

As a Marine combat veteran, I benefit from the very system I’m protesting. I recognize the hypocrisy here because, as a country, we are not being judicious in taking care of all Americans who expect more from their leadership than war. But those who approve our bloated defense budgets don’t ever examine the bigger picture of what those funds could be better utilized for, particularly in the interests of their own constituents, and anyone who protests military monetary provisions is shouted down as being unpatriotic.

On April 16, 1953, U.S. President Dwight D. Eisenhower addressed the American Society of Newspaper Editors in Washington, D.C. Only three months into his presidency and on the heels of the death of Soviet leader Joseph Stalin, his speech came to be known as the Cross of Iron speech, though his intended title was the Chance for Peace speech.

During his address, Eisenhower enumerated the perils of a competitive arms race between the United States and the Soviet Union as detrimental to international relations and equated the cost of various pieces of war material to civic and economic programs. He stated:

“The cost of one modern heavy bomber is this: a modern brick school in more than 30 cities. It is two electric power plants, each serving a town of 60,000 population. It is two fine, fully equipped hospitals.”

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President Eisenhower served as a career military officer and knew the burden of leadership attendant to sending troops into combat. He knew the cost of war, both in people and money, and sought to take advantage of a limited window for peace and understanding before the Cold War all while acknowledging no system, not even the American one, was perfect. But his hope was that the Soviets would concede the cost of their own armaments against what their people required and not engage in what became the largest arms race in human history, one now characterized by more than 8,000 nuclear weapons between the two nations. My colleague William Hartung provided an article to me about that here.

At this critical juncture, we must consider the cost trade-offs of more military spending to what it could be allocated for in the interest of all Americans, including veterans, with whom the American government made a pact. It isn’t about having the money to do so, it’s about appropriating it to better causes.

It is high time we revisited this as the Military Industrial Congressional Complex against which Eisenhower warned at the conclusion of his presidency maintains its 70-year stranglehold on our economy and political system. It’s time to invest in genuine national security.

My EMN Fellows agree. As Jack Nicholson found in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, it helps to have friends inside the asylum.

Turns out I’m in good company.

Thanks for sticking with me.

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I run quiet and without headphones or distractions. On my route, I consider the significance of Independence Day. Having enjoyed the musical, 1776, in a live performance earlier in the week, I revisit vignettes from the stage play and, if it’s true to history, reflect the United States of America was founded under auspices and circumstances which plague it to this day. The country barely got off the ground.

The delegates to the Continental Congress, mostly aristocrats, represented all of the original Thirteen American Colonies and each member had a stake in the future of a fledgling nation, one which required unanimous support to declare itself independent from Great Britain, an unpopular decision with many members of the Congress.

While Thomas Jefferson is credited with drafting the Declaration, it was reviewed and adjusted over a period of many days, all while Jefferson remained its reluctant scribe. The final draft of the Declaration of Independence resulted from contrarian debate and several contentious issues being stricken from the document to appease various factions. It is a monument to the difficulty of consensus.

For all of it, once approved, the Continental Congress knew they were committing treason in writing and that there would be no going back. They could already be hanged by British authorities for acts of sedition, but now this document cemented it. I covered the signatories in an article last year.

These traitors moved forward with hope and promise of a new and better future. A lot can happen over 250 years. There are many current arguments that we have strayed from their original purpose. Still, we’ve come a long way from the Boston Tea Party, government representatives being tarred and feathered, and outright pitched battles against occupation forces resulting in the deaths of thousands of people on either side.

On my run, I focused on that promise, one founded on dissent and pragmatism. Currently, dissent is viewed as unpatriotic and crushed at the earliest opportunity. People are arrested under shaky premises, excessive prison sentences are meted out, and the vandals who polluted the Reflecting Pool haven’t been caught. Wait, yes they have, or they’ve been identified. Anyway.

The promise I want to see enabled is one of what America can and should be as evidenced by the pride we have in our American men’s National soccer team, as culturally diverse and representative of our National character, and not the über-nationalist bullshit of the guys running the country into the ground, to include our military.

I marvel at the massive crowds supporting the international game of soccer and the intense pride respective countries have in their teams, the same pride American fans have in theirs. It isn’t political or divisive, it is about OUR team, and not some shameful UFC fight or sideshow American State Fair no one attended.

Post Note—Trump still found a way to taint the World Cup experience by meddling in sports officiating. Despite his call ahead of their match, Belgium defeated the USMNT 4-1, another US sports team falling victim to the Trump Curse.

Then there’s the joke of Trump preaching from a bully pulpit in Wyoming, ever the symbol of rugged individualism and a State which annually accepts more $4 billion in Federal aid, that half the country are Communists to further cement that he and his ilk do not represent the United States of America for all Americans, but merely for themselves. Senator Joe McCarthy would applaud.

As for the Declaration, still a bedrock of democratic theory, I pause my run to attend a live reading in Colonial Williamsburg, Virginia. Thousands gather in the sweltering heat and take in the recreation of a momentous event. My friends at republished it. It’s worth reading again if you haven’t in a while.

Lethal Minds

The Decaration of Independence

IN CONGRESS, July 4, 1776…

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2 months ago · 19 likes · 1 comment · Lethal Minds Journal

Hearing the Declaration read aloud, I recognize the hypocrisy in much of it if viewed through a modern lens. Then it occurs to me that Trump especially stands in direct contradiction to many of the Declaration’s tenants, he himself playing the role of despotic King he so desperately wants to be with actions that mirror that of King George III. If one replaces British affronts to liberty with policies enacted by Trump and his sycophants, to include the invertebrates in Congress and the gutless Supreme Court, after 250 years we’re back where we started with a tyrant abusing his position and power. Interesting.

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I continue on my route. Another thought. Trump has not divided the country so much as turned his back on it and a faction of the populace followed him. I must believe the country can right itself, though it may take more time than we have patience for because we are conditioned to expect immediate change and results and also to accept they will not happen because they don’t. It’s Quixotic and my ire quickens my pace.

Panting, I enter my heart rate zone shuffle, once an important part of of my fitness regimen when such things mattered to me, and my run concludes with a cool down walk, in name only because of the stagnant humidity. The sweat wraps my clothing around me. I sigh, relieved I’m finished, and muse having served in my Nation’s wars for most of my adult life, that I’m grateful my body is physically whole and further I’m able to do this in America. Oh, the patriotic hypocrisy…

I draw in a cleansing breath and wish for a rectification of our past to enjoy a more balanced future. If we’ve made it this far, perhaps we should view the next 250 years through a different, better lens. The country is worth serving, however one chooses to do it, if only for tenants espoused 250 years ago, and, though there are myriad reasons and exceptions in our daily newsfeeds, we must maintain hope for more positive outcomes.

Like the founders of this nation, we know both what hasn’t worked and that there are more tough times ahead.

But we’ll get through it.

We always do.

Thanks for sticking with me.

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Adirondack Mountains, New York. March 1928.

“I had Devil of a time getting out of Argentina, especially without identification paperwork. Boarded a tramp steamer after significant negotiation. Took that to San Francisco over the course of six months. One could say I earned my sea legs. Then worked my way to Boston. Only cost me a Luger.”

“How did you find me?” Donahue disbelieved this specter from his past was standing in his house.

“When I discovered you weren’t in Boston, I smacked your butler around and he folded like a lady’s card table while spilling the beans to your location, and I headed to the Adirondacks. I’ve got a pretty good memory. I committed what I saw in the photo of what I assumed was your house and took the map off the wall. Then I watched you yesterday to understand your pattern of life. And now here I am.”

“Very patient of you.”

“After the time I waited, what was a little more? But really, I’m here to warn you about Cory.”

“Why? He’s my friend.”

“You stopped receiving messages from me because those I sent went directly to him. He tracked me through my travels once I arrived in Buenos Aires.”

“I wondered what happened when I stopped hearing from you, but that isn’t unusual given the nature of the area.” Donahue struggled with befuddled recollection which vied for the truth in his mind.

Saunders stared at Donahue. “I admit, it was a pretty good, if considered, plan. Cory introduces me to you. Has you hire me to obtain the Amulet. I find it, and I think let you know, but this instead alerted Cory who put his henchmen in pursuit of me to steal it to undercut you. It provided deniability and you were unaware of the proceedings. Ostensibly, Cory’s goons kill me, he collects the Amulet and takes advantage of its sale or powers. All you’re out of is my initial money, and what little it cost Cory when he cut me off in Buenos Aires, and you’re none the wiser. Quite the return on investment.”

“I-I don’t understand—”

“You were betrayed by your own business partner, an erstwhile friend, out of greed. If that can happen to rich men like yourselves, then there’s no hope for the rest of us.”

“You have a fantastical imagination.” Cory quipped from a hallway adjacent the main room. Both men oriented on the voice, Saunder’s eyes popped open with disbelief.

Saunders sensed Cory had the drop on him and turned slightly to see Cory Liquorice dressed in a maroon smoking jacket with matching hat, a .455 Webley Fosbury automatic revolver in his left good hand, the crippled right one shoved in the pocket of his robe. He leaned against the wall for balance.

“Set your pistol down, Thomas, and move away from it,” Cory directed icily. Saunders obeyed, placing it on the floor next to the empty chair which held his untouched Scotch.

Donahue’s astonished face reflected the fire’s shadows. “Cory! Is what Saunders is saying true? You have the Amulet?”

Cory’s pistol boomed, and the .455 caliber round slammed into Donahue’s chest. His eyes bugged-out from behind his glasses as the impact drove him into the chair. A dark maroon stain appeared on his quilted brown smoking jacket and his legs spasmed and kicked off one of his blue velvet bedroom slippers. His hands clenched his wound and he regarded Saunders, still on his feet.

“W-w-wait!” Donahue gasped, his lungs filling with blood.

Saunders gave a pitying look to Donahue. He never knew what hit him, let alone the depths of the scheme which created Liquorice’s betrayal. Donahue’s body sagged into a heap and Cory limped to push the corpse to the side with his foot, resuming a seat in his dead friend’s chair. He placed the pistol on the armrest for ease of access and picked up Donahue’s tumbler, took a quick sip, and regripped the pistol.

“It’s a good job you showed up here, Thomas. I couldn’t have planned it better.”

“You murder Donahue, kill me, then pin it on me as you attempting to save Donahue. Brilliant.”

“I mean, I came upon a crazed war veteran in a state of lunacy who shot a millionaire for whatever reason. Who can say the madness a man ingests during war? Then I dispatched you, a nameless patsy. We’ll just switch pistols. It’s perfect.”

“Not unlike yourself. The madness part, that is.”

“I don’t deny it, unlike the rest of the world. Gives me a leg up.” Liquorice’s clipped accent heralded arrogance in every word.

Saunders winced. “But there’s more to it than that. You both have equal partnership in Black Fire Holdings. With him dead, you can run all of it.”

“Correct.”

“To include United Fruit.”

Cory sniffed. “Kerwin’s untimely death means I inherit all his operations and can manage it as I see fit. No more philanthropy or charitable nonsense. And with the Amulet, who knows how long I can keep things going.” Cory’s eyes took on a dark pallor. “I’ll be immortal.”

“What will ever be enough for you?”

“Must I have a limit? The monarchies are dying and it’s up to people like me to fill the void. The rest of the world can’t be trusted to care for themselves, so I’ll acquire what I want, the Devil take the hindmost. I must say, your intellect and resourcefulness are impressive.” Cory’s tone was one of complimentary condescension. “I’ll miss that about you, Thomas.”

Saunders determined Liquorice was the cruelest creature he’d ever encountered, his soul as black as his namesake.

Saunders eased into his chair and picked up his tumbler. His hands shook with adrenaline, and he suppressed a wave of fear. The noise and suddenness of Cory shooting Donahue unsettled him.

“Here I thought Donahue was the one to be wary of, and like him, I never saw it coming. Russia was a great ploy to lure me in for this job. Even with my research about you, I’m still the chump.”

Cory in turn set the pistol down as before and sipped his drink before picking up the firearm. “Research?”

Saunders calmed himself through steady, even breaths. “Normally, I don’t care about my employers or their background if the check clears, but one spends a lot of time thinking on midnight watches at sea. I focused on Donahue on my return from the hellish experience into which he’d sent me.”

“Go on.”

“You two are the main investors in your private equity firm. But Kerwin Donahue, the late successor to the Donahue Corporation, is the primary contributor to the secretive Black Fire Holdings.”

Cory scoffed with snort. He swirled the whiskey and took a small sip. “You haven’t any idea how vast Black Fire is. How complex our arrangements are.”

Saunders nodded and took a long swig from his glass. “With Donahue’s steel production, to include armaments, and your shipping, why not start conflicts across the globe and take advantage of unrest you create? But I concentrated on the wrong shareholder. It’s you, Liquorice. Your family owns the world and is responsible for the deaths of millions.”

Cory sighed. “Here you are in the role of another peon jealous of the success of capitalism. We get blamed for everything.”

“That’s just the problem, you don’t see yourself as complicit. The economic warfare you wage, the class divisions you perpetuate, the endless wars you cyclically fund. It’s impressively profitable for you and your cronies. And guys like me, former soldiers, we help you reap the rewards. All without risk to yourself.”

“Is it money you want? I’ll get my checkbook.” Cory’s sarcasm dripped from his statement.

Saunders sipped his own drink, the warm scotch burning as he tasted its complex bouquet. He inwardly admitted it was damn fine liquor.

“Money? Sure. Why not? If I could be compensated at a reasonable rate for the destruction I wrought on behalf of your conglomerate and the governments you fund, that’d be a good start. Lord knows a soldier’s pay pales compared to the dividend payouts derived from the wars we fought on your behalf. It’s so lopsided that I might just take a check from you.”

Cory gently rested his forearms on the arms of the chair. He studied Saunders from under his pronounced, bushy eyebrows, his eyes glinting. Saunders detected a predatory undercurrent and knew not to underestimate Liquorice who shifted the tumbler in his left hand, the pistol on the armrest still oriented on his adversary’s chest.

“Thomas, without us there is no future. It’s what the world expects. I could use a man like you, given how you got yourself here tonight. You’re resourceful, calculating. Intelligent. I’m impressed, Tom.”

Saunders paused, admiring the disarming nature of Liquorice’s compliments, and homing in on that being the first time Cory had ever called him by his truncated first name. Saunders nodded slightly, examining the psychological snare being set, and saw first-hand the adroit negotiating power behind Liquorice’s fortune. Saunders also felt charmed by his cold delivery.

Saunders set his drink down on the mahogany table. Cory sneered at Saunders’ lack of using a coaster but said nothing. As soon as Cory was distracted, Saunders reached across to Cory’s chair, grabbed the Webley and sprang to his feet to retrieve his Colt. Cory attempted to shift his glass to free up his good hand, but Saunders stood over him.

“Well. Done.” It was an odd apposition against this backdrop that Cory exhibited no nervousness or fear as Saunder gained control of the situation.

“Get rid of the Amulet, Cory. The Uruguayan’s say that thing is cursed.”

Cory relaxed into his chair. “Perhaps that’s part of its appeal. I’d hoped the Amulet’s powers would cure my Polio and wounds so I could return to international travel and exploits.”

“Donahue believed the same thing. But you know what I think? The Amulet’s an expensive trinket. Nothing more than a prize awarded by a carnival barker. Useless to anyone.”

“Except those who believe, Saunders. Unlike you, it offers me hope. People like you never understand that, of course. You’ve too many other distractions.”

The glib tone caused Saunders to cringe. The arrogance. The self-assured dismissiveness of an aristocrat talking down to a peasant. Saunders’ ears burned with anger when he heard the patronizing voice of an immensely rich tycoon who didn’t care if Saunders lived or died.

“I realized something one day in Uruguay. It would be one thing if Donahue wanted the Amulet to propagate good, or even to erase parts of his life where he fell, to amend the guilty stains on his soul. That’s almost noble. But instead, now I see you wanted it for the most selfish of reasons: to live as you have, and want to continue, in the interest of more.” Saunders pointed for emphasis.

Cory glared at Saunders with passive disdain. “Don’t cheapen me. When you’re twenty years past your greatest mistake, does time dilute its impact? Or do you live with that mistake all your life in constant rumination, held hostage by your past? I know this doesn’t bother you, Thomas, but I don’t want to live in the latter anymore. I was hoping for one more run. Again, you could join me.”

Saunders pocketed the Colt. “The closer I got to the Amulet, the more I was enslaved to the process. That’s it’s true curse. I don’t want to work for people like you. Recovering items. Fighting in your proxy wars. Never again.” He eyed Donahue’s dead body then back to Liquorice. “You’d never view me as an equal, anyway—no, the only way is to destroy you.”

“Killing me will solve everything for you?”

“It’d be a start. I fought for my country. I fought for ideals I felt were noble, but these were sold to me. What I never knew is who I was, what was important to me. If this entire quest has revealed anything to me, it’s that I have a lot of growing to do. Unlike you, thank God I have the opportunity.”

Cory’s mouth turned downward, and he gave a slight cock to his head before setting his whiskey back on the side table. “Fine.”

“I had no idea you were here. Now who’s lucky?”

Saunders sighted over the Webley and a slideshow of faces flashed rapidly through his mind. Atchison. Emil. The Padre. Rosa. Broadside. Clyde. Zapata. Mikey.

Saunders placed the muzzle an inch from Cory’s head and pulled the trigger. The Third Earl of Botswain’s head exploded, splitting the sleeping cap in half in a detonation of quilted fabric and bone fragments. Crimson blood and dull gray brain matter sprayed over the chair back and onto the wall, spattering a large oil portrait painting of Black Fire’s founder, and the Donahue patriarch, Kerwin’s grandfather Sheldon.

Saunders stood in front of Cory’s body stretched over the back of the chair, the Webley pistol at his side. Dark blood pooled beneath Donahue’s carcass like an oil slick. He cascaded Liquorice’s remaining Scotch into his own glass and sipped on it, again taking in Donahue’s shattered body. Kerwin Donahue and Corinth Liquorice, the major architects of Black Fire’s success, were now dead. He raised his glass to the deceased.

“Cheers, you old bastards.”

Draining the glass, he shattered the crystal tumbler against the large stones of the fireplace wall. He wiped any prints from the Webley and placed Cory’s pistol next to him. A murder-suicide fueled by liquor and jealousy. Saunders checked his Hamilton watch and estimated he had less than ten minutes before neighbors ascertained something was amiss and came to investigate late-night gunfire.

He went to Donahue’s study and from the open wall safe retrieved packets of bearer bonds coupled with stacks of crisp American dollars. Thomas Saunders was a benefactor to more than one hundred years of malfeasance, but the orchestrators had been in place for a long time to ensure that succession. For tonight, he could reap the benefits.

Saunders slipped the remaining bottle of Scotch into his satchel alongside the bonds and cash. He glanced around the opulent estate house a final time, stepped out the side door though which he’d entered, and ran through the woods to arrive at a small track and a darkened Ford Model T car.

Saunders opened the passenger door and slid into the seat. “Thanks for waiting, Jackson.”

Jackson smiled. “Didn’t have a choice, suh, though I’m a bit cold.”

“Sorry for the delay. And I told you to call me Tom.”

“You’re the boss, boss.”

Saunders sighed, “Let’s go.”

They both laughed and Jackson melded the car into the darkness of a crisp, late winter Adirondack night.

Saunders watched the car’s lights consuming the darkness in front of them and reflected that something had indeed changed. His prayer had been answered.

So concludes The Curse of El Corrado!

Thanks for reading and look for more fiction soon!

Subscribe now

Please consider becoming a paid subscriber. It’s $2 a week—less than a beer when you go out and perhaps as satisfying without the caloric deficit—and $80 annually. It really helps me as a writer, and you’ll receive access to exclusive content including advanced project previews and releases. Thanks!

There’s Something You Should Know:

Service and the Aftermath of Modern Wars.

An Intimate Evening Featuring Music and Prose from Award-Winning Musician

Sean Michael Dargan and Award-Nominated Author Ivan F. Ingraham

(Madison, WI -- 30 June 2026) At 6:30pm on Thursday 16 July 2026 Dargan and Ingraham will invite the audience into the intimate auditorium at Wingra School for an exploratory journey through military service and the impacts of a quarter century of war.

America has been at war for all of the 21st century. It’s so commonplace in our collective experience that it no longer even registers with the general population. Americans don’t know how to talk to veterans. Less than 1% of people serve in the military, and fewer than 6% have served over the past quarter century. This means the gap between those who have served and those who have not is growing wider as the veteran population becomes invisible. Conversations about veteran experiences are more important than ever. This show follows the Global War on Terror and the veteran experience as its primary focus while examining veteran experiences from other wars. The show seeks to bridge a widening gap between those who have served and those who have not, to reach common ground on how the wars our Nation fights have longer reaching impacts than people realize.

Featuring Sean Michael Dargan and Ivan F. Ingraham (Marine Corps Historical Foundation James Webb Nominee). Special Guest Doug Bradley will also reflect on his own experience as a Vietnam veteran. This show features music, poetry, prose, and many thought-provoking themes; Dargan and Ingraham shift between agency, blurring the line between veteran and civilian. At moments, they appear to direct one another—music, songs, poetry and prose, impactful messages delivered with passion and conviction, but without force. The result is a visceral exploration of military service and the continued impact of modern wars, combat, and how veterans reintegrate into society.

Post-performance there will be Q&A and a chance to meet the performers.

Wingra School is at 718 Gilmore St. Madison, WI 53711

For press inquiries, contact seanmichaeldargan@gmail.com or 608.213.9271.

Come on out for a great evening! I’ll be there signing books and SMD will have his music and merch available. The show is all-ages, free, and open to the public. I’d love to meet you!

Argentina. July 1927.

The car bounced on overworked leaf springs and jostled Saunders awake. He attempted to get his bearing, but his head ached and he felt crusted blood on his neck and along his shirt collar. Further, his head was covered by what smelled like a burlap sack, the sunlight making its way through the fabric’s semi-tight weave. He didn’t know how long he’d been out but knew enough that he was in the back of a vehicle. Moving his hands, he felt they were tied and further secured to his bound feet. There wasn’t any way to sit up.

After an indeterminate amount of time the car slid to a stop and Saunders heard the front door open. “Andele! Up you come.” Zapata instructed, pulling Saunders up by his hands and cutting the line to free his feet, which reduced the tension in the line, but left Saunders’ hands bound.

Zapata helped Saunders shuffle inside a building and pushed him into a chair, then removed the hood. Saunder’s squinted in the musty light of a one-time sharecropper cabin which hadn’t been used as such for some time.

A table was between them as Zapata took his own seat.

“Where are we?” Saunders groaned.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s where you’ll stay.”

“This is pointless. What use is killing me to you? Don’t you know Liquorice could come for you too?”

“Perhaps, but the tidy sum he paid me for this is enticing enough.”

Saunders was gaining his consciousness and fully taking in his surroundings in a lush, forested area, but he had no idea where he was. He noticed the car, a small roadster, out of the empty window frames. “I don’t think you have the stomach for it.”

“Let me tell you something, Señor Saunders. Despite my rather bookish appearance, I’ll have no qualms killing you.”

Saunders stalled for time. “Really? You don’t look like you’ve ever killed anything in your life, Zapata.”

“Oh, no? You doubt my sincerity?” Zapata scratched his head with the front sight of his Luger. “When I was a young man, about nine-years-old, I discovered a small mouse stuck inside of a dustbin outside of my home in the slums of Buenos Aires. It looked up at me with the widest, fearful eyes—not unlike yours—pleading with me to let it go. Do you know what I did?” Zapata trained the pistol on Saunders.

“Killed it.”

“Good guess. But I killed it by mashing it with a long log. I did it this way to see how it would feel, if doing it would bother me. It didn’t and does not. So, if I’d do this to a helpless rodent, what makes you think I wouldn’t kill you out of hand?” Zapata’s voice dripped with cruelty juxtaposed against his mild-mannered appearance.

“You’re comparing me to a rat?” Saunders asked with a hint of incredulity, but his spine tightened as he inwardly acknowledged Zapata wasn’t bluffing. Under the table, Saunders worked his hands free of Zapata’s sloppy knot.

“If that makes it easier to know what I feel about you before I kill you, sure.” Zapata shrugged, wiping his face and pulling beads of sweat from his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

When he did this, Saunders sprung across the table at Zapata and used the rope to smack the Luger out of Zapata’s hand. The heavy pistol thudded to the floor and Saunders kicked it further away while grabbing Zapata’s lapels, the rope falling in a heap at his feet. Saunders deftly lifted Zapata’s glasses and tossed them to the floor before raining a flurry of slaps to Zapata’s face. Zapata cried out in high-pitched pain with each impact.

“I don’t have enough respect for you to punch you, so being slapped is all you get!” Saunders snarled, slapping Zapata twice more. He hauled Zapata up and tossed him into the chair and Zapata collapsed from it to the floor to lay in a whimpering heap. Saunders pounced on Zapata and hauled him up. “Liquorice put you up to this. That’s how you knew to look for me! Did you know about the Amulet?!”

“Please! Señor, I’m not sure!”

“Bullshit!” Saunders rained three more slaps on Zapata and shoved him into a far corner before retrieving the Luger. “Get up. Give me the keys to the car.”

Zapata, panting, stood on unsteady legs and fished the keys from his trouser pocket.

“Toss them in front of me and take off your clothes.”

Zapata slid the keys across the cracked concrete floor and paused, shocked. “Wha-what?”

“You heard me.”

“Wha-wha-what are you go-going to do?” Zapata’s voice quavered.

Saunders wagged the pistol’s barrel at Zapata. “Just get down to your unmentionables, Miguel.”

Zapata stripped down after removing his shoes and stood sheepishly in a tank-top undershirt, boxer briefs and black socks held up by garters, his skinny legs protruding from the boxers made his entire outfit seem oversized.

“Ball your shoes up in your clothes.”

“Señor, please, do not be cruel.”

“You’re lecturing me on cruelty? Now who’s the mouse?”

Zapata swallowed hard. Saunders utilized a handcuff knot to secured Zapata to a post inside the hut. His yells for mercy and protest grew smaller as Saunders drove away down the small, rutted road on which they’d arrived. Somewhere along the road he threw Zapata’s clothes into the woods.

Saunders parked the car outside the hotel he’d last stayed in Buenos Aires with only the cash he’d sewn into the waist band of his trousers and the clothing on his back. The desk manager was surprised to see him in his beaten down state but didn’t comment and gave Saunders a room. He retained the car keys for good measure.

It was late evening, but Saunders would try American Express the following morning on the off chance he could access Donahue’s account, but being as it was Liquorice’s, he doubted there would be any luck. Saunders ditched his old, nearly destroyed clothing and bought a new pair of slacks and shirt, his old boots holding true.

This was confirmed the following day when all numbers were shut down and there was no way to contact anyone. Saunders was stuck.

At a small café Saunders formulated a plan. The object was to get back to the United States. This would be complicated without his passport or other credentials and, though he had a modicum of money, this too would run out in an area of the world where the U.S. dollar didn’t go as far as one wanted if a bribe was necessary, and he might have to make a few of those.

Plus, Liquorice was doubtless awaiting Zapata’s confirming Saunders’s death, but then again, the arrogant Brit might not concern himself such trivialities. Like Saunders, Zapata was just part of a larger scheme wherein the large cogs ate up the small cogs in a machine designed for the larger cogs’ benefit. Liquorice had the Amulet and at this point would fall victim to assumptions.

Saunders surmised he could work this to his advantage, but not in Buenos Aires and it would be yet more difficult to travel northwards in United Fruit territory. He’d have to go South, then find a suitable port where he could jump a tramp steamer and work his way home. Not the ideal travel conditions he’d experienced on his way down to Argentina, but it beat the alternative.

He had enough money to outfit himself and Zapata’s Luger gave him firepower without having to bring attention to himself on an international market run by the dregs of society. Granted, he only had eight rounds of ammunition, but the goal was not to get in a gun fight. Saunders nodded to himself, dropped a few coins on the table and set out to gas up Zapata’s car, acquire his travel items, and split town.

17.

Argentina. August 1927.

Saunders looked at the map beside him and estimated it would take a week to get to Mar De Plato, but that would have him well away from Buenos Aries. He only hoped there were large enough ships that could take him home, but if not, a coastal city would be a welcome hideout.

Saunders drove South working on his German accent and his conversational German to assume his next role. He didn’t believe he’d be compromised with his current French persona, but it helped to change who people were seeking, he’d even bought a small set of tortoise shell glasses and slicked his hair with Dapper Dan pomade to complete his appearance as a German traveler. Without credentials he could be whomever he chose, but he had to be careful. No one would mistake him for a German Baron or recently-inherited lothario. No, blue collar was best. A simple German veteran trying to escape his past and the war while his country was in shambles.

Zapata’s car puttered and trundled along. It was a nice vehicle and Saunders wondered if Liquorice had supplied but it was more likely obtained by Zapata’s graft and smarmy extortion of foreigners trying to leave the country. Talk about a racket.

The only issue with the roadster was its roof was stuck in the down position. Saunders thought of the necessity in a rainy country, but he’d purchased a raincoat, so he’d just deal with that eventuality. What he didn’t plan on was the atrocious roads, if they could be called that, and their attendant potholes and ruts.

On the third day, Saunders attempted to negotiate a larger divot in the track and smashed the rim of the front left tire. He had a spare, but the impact also dented the accompanying fender into the wheel well and that made changing the tire useless since it wouldn’t turn. He abandoned the vehicle and began trudging towards his objective.

Saunders thumbed rides on passing carts and other conveyances until he arrived at Mar Del Plato. He’d been alternately rained on and sunburned and at this point in his journey he just wanted to lie down and sleep. He barely scraped his toes over the entryway to a hotel, got a room, and collapsed in bed for almost two days, awaking only to use the restroom and ensure his belongings hadn’t been ransacked. He’d have probably slept through a robbery anyway, but his possessions remained undisturbed.

Mar De Plato, Argentina. August 1927.

Saunders awoke and cleaned himself up before heading to the docks. He was famished but wanted to scout the ships. There were plenty of steamers and other transports, so he figured he’d hit a few bars and gain information about them. He entered one called The Bitter End and ordered a drink. The barman was an English expat whose face pinched in irritation at Saunders’ German accent, but money was money, and the pint of lager tasted as good as any had.

“Danke schön!” Saunders raised his glass.

“Bloody Bosche…” the barman let it trail off as he turned away scowling.

Dust in the air got into Saunders’s nose and he sneezed.

“Gesundheit!” a thick voice offered.

“Danke Schön, mein Herr!” Saunders returned in near-perfect German.

“Ach! Du sprichst Deutsche auch?” The voice used the informal, a slight insult Saunders noticed, or familiarity that the voice least didn’t respect him.

“Ein bisschen.” Saunders turned to see a large ox of a man glaring at him flanked by another. Saunders surveyed the two men, “En shculdiging.” He attempted to pass them to sit in a small corner when he felt a hand on his back. “Don’t I know you, friend?”

Saunders stopped. The voice was unmistakable, and he set his beer down before turning towards it. He barely suppressed his immense surprise to see Mikey Fraioli, the longshoreman he’d beat at darts in Boston, accompanied by the two burly men as companions. “Ich tut mir lied, I don’t think so, mein Herr. My name’s Dieter Bach.” He extended his hand. Mikey ignored it and Saunders held it a beat, let his fall by his side.

One of the larger men stepped closer to Saunders. “Du bist kein Deutschlander.”

“Ich bin! Naturlich!”

Mikey grabbed Saunders’s shoulder and spun him towards him. “Nah. You’re no Kraut. I know you.”

“How? We’ve never met. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Saunders picked up his beer to move away from the old man with leathery skin, toughened by a lifetime at sea. Mikey and his friends followed him. The two accomplices sat on one side of the booth and Mikey shoved Saunders into the other bench seat, effectively trapping him.

“Accent or not, I know you, Saunders. You sure quit Boston in a hurry. What are da’ odds, of all the shitholes in da’ world, dat I’d run into you. Here.” Mikey jabbed his index finger at the tabletop for emphasis.

Saunders again began to protest but doubled over when Mikey punched him in the gut. It was awkward coming from the side, but the old man’s fist was like a concrete block.

“Save it. Da’ way I see it, I owe you a punch in da’ throat, an’ you owe me a hundred bucks.”

Saunders held his side and gave up the ruse. “Okay, Mikey. Let’s all settle a moment. Not to drag you into anything, but I’m in a bad state. I’m trying to get back to the States, and, like it as not, yours is the first familiar face I’ve seen in a few months.”

“So what? My pals and I here are gonna take you outside and give you a good goin’ ovah.”

The German compatriot grinned in satisfaction behind battered teeth.

Saunders sipped his beer. “At least let me finish this.” He coughed once.

Mikey sighed as the sound of a dart hitting a board alerted Saunders who wiped a strip of lager from his moustache. “Mmm, tell you what. Let’s get back your money, and if I help you win, you get me on your ship back to the states. Deal?”

Mikey considered the offer. “What? Like we play teams?”

“Exactly. I know you can throw darts, and you’re aware of my skill. We could clean out this bar, and you’ll have plenty of cash. If we lose, you can take me out the back.” Saunders’s eyebrows came up to question if this was amenable.

“You got it.”

Saunders finished his beer, ordered a round for his three newly-acquired compatriots, and yelled in his best German accent, “My friend and I will challenge any and all in cricket!” This was met with cheers and people lined up to take the wager.

Saunders winked at Mikey as he lit his first pipe of the night.

Three hours and many drinks later, the bar patrons gave up on playing Saunders and Mikey. They’d won more than $500, which Saunders was more than happy to give to the three men so long as they kept his secret of being German safe.

They exited the bar, the other two roughnecks moving to another slop chute and Mikey stood with Saunders. “Dat was wicked! You trowin’ those darts with that pipe in ya’ mouth? We could do dat all ovah!” he smiled and slapped Saunders’s back.

“I need a ride to Boston.”

“We’ll get you on our boat, but I got some unfortunate news for ya’. We ain’t takin’ the short route.”

“I’m in no position to complain, Mikey.”

“You’ll also have to earn ya’ keep. No freeloadah’s.” Mikey waived the cash. “Think of this as a down payment.”

“Understood.”

“Meet me here tomorrah mornin’ at ten. We shove off at noon.”

They shook hands, and Saunders returned to his room to pack.

End Part 9. Tune in next week for the thrilling final installment!

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This week, two of my EMN friends, and , New Englander’s no less, published excellent analysis pieces pertaining to the Iran war and America’s military writ large. They each produce articulated and thoughtful articles every week and I encourage people to subscribe to their work.

Matt’s Thoughts on War and Peace

How The Empire Recruits Its Soldiers

We’ve already spent a trillion dollars on debt payments for the American wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. By 2040, it will be five trillion dollars we’ve spent. So, you have this hollowing out effect. You have nations pulling away from us, not buying our treasuries. Interest rates go up. The dollar, of course, then becomes devalued. Things become a lot mor…

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2 months ago · 30 likes · 4 comments · Matthew Hoh

Matt’s latest interview enumerates how the military industrial complex entwines corporate sponsors and the entertainment industry to entice recruits, propagate war, and perpetuate America’s involvement in military adventurism. I’d be remiss if I didn’t admit it all worked on me, too.

We’re 0-3 in 21st Century wars to the tune of trillions of dollars. Only in the U.S. can we repackage these into victories or something noble. We haven’t won anything and this is akin to a drunk who got his ass handed to him at the bar he was thrown out of running back inside and telling people to line up for their ass kicking.

“We are who we are,” elitists muse smugly at cocktail parties as the money is squandered. The overarching message is that America is inviolate and always right regardless of a tragic outcome.

Just think about it. We started a war under dubious premises. Blustered we’d won. Keep complaining Iran will not yield to our demands. Can’t end it. Spent $billions better utilized for refurbishment of, say, the recently refurbished Reflection Pool and then declared victory so many times while violating any ceasefire agreement that people believe it. There’s a Monty Python sketch in here somewhere.

Iran closed and owns passage through the Straits of Hormuz. The current Memorandum of Understanding (MOU) will not hold until Israel ceases its assault on Southern Lebanon, a key tenant in reopening said Straits. You can’t make this shit up when your ostensible ally subverts your negotiating team by not supporting or honoring the terms of the agreement.

sums it up perfectly.

One of Bill’s posts this week focuses on the cost of war in the human sense by way of justifying budgetary increases to enable the killing of whomever we deem are enemies. This can be nebulous and lead to suspect or questionable engagements as we’ve seen in the Caribbean and in Iran. These are also known as war crimes.

Bracing Views

Thou Shalt Not Kill

An argument the Trump administration is using to justify massive increases in war spending is that the U.S. military is short on munitions. What a surprise! After the Iran War, attacks on Yemen and Somalia, supplying Israel with all sorts of air defense missiles as well as bombs and who knows what else (some of it is classified), the ongoing Russia-Ukra…

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2 months ago · 8 likes · 6 comments · Bill Astore

When I served as a Ground Force Commander in Afghanistan, I lived in mortal fear of inflicting civilian casualties, also called CIVCAS. It was always a consideration and the calculus for employing aerial delivered ordnance put civilians at the forefront of battles fought with an elusive enemy.

CIVCAS incidents led to an immediate investigation. Officers were relieved of command and cashiered out of the military for even unknowingly or inadvertently dropping bombs on civilians (woe to those who did so deliberately or abetted a CIVCAS incident) during combat engagements. I don’t know how many careers ended over it, the moral injury of doing so notwithstanding.

This is totally normal, acceptable even, under Trump and Hegseth. Witness the Minab school bombing where more than 170 people were killed, the majority of them young girls.

Trump isn’t going to hold anyone accountable because, “war is nasty” and it isn’t anyone’s fault. Well, actually, it is someone’s fault, but again, that’s the point. It doesn’t register. “It’s just how it is,” some might utter as “mistakes are made,” according to Donald Trump.

And the money continues to flow. That’s by design.

To date, we’re on our way to spending half a trillion dollars. That’s what the war with Iran has/will cost if the MOU is ever honored. Breaking it down, it’s ~$80 billion for daily war costs, but coupled with the amount of expended ordnance that must be replaced it’s probably twice as high, so let’s call it $160 billion. Tie in $300 billion in restitution funds payable to the Iranians and, rounding up, we have a cool half-trillion bill that you, my fellow taxpayer, will foot. Not the war industry. Not the bankers. Not those who benefit from every conflict we fight. You, the everyday, hard working American.

But maybe the problem isn’t the price tag—we’ll pay for it regardless. Maybe the problem is the war themselves being so interwoven into our National fabric that we can’t see anything else? It isn’t that we don’t have the money, it’s that if it isn’t being utilized for war—tied to National security and GDP, always a salient selling point— it’s a waste if otherwise obligated. This part is irrelevant and irrespective. Both sides of our political aisle do it.

The money could be better spent on, well, anything, but how wild would it be if our Nation used its immense wealth and economic power in peaceful pursuits? Crazy, I know.

This begs the question, what has this bought us?

• We’ve lost a ton of international standing and capital as our bullying and saber rattling is seen as bluster. Our alliances are weakened and our global relationships have ruptured while simultaneously upending the rule of law. We aren’t as good as we say we are. The damage to our partnerships will outlast Trump. Who would trust the United States after this?

• We hide or downplay our casualties and wrap them in the guise of patriotism and sacrifice. Say anything about the needless loss of life and continued risk to force and you impugn the brave service member and their going where other’s will not. Thank you for serving so I and/or my kids don’t have to, in other words. It puts veterans like me in an uncomfortable position. I’m proud of my service, but my eyes are open. Such a juxtaposition.

• Add that to the burgeoning deficit now hovering ~$40 trillion due to a quarter century of unmitigated warfare, a dollar losing value coupled with increased inflation, national debt in the form of treasury bonds that are too risky for foreign investors to assume, and we’re so far behind in the race we think we’re winning. “Ho hum. That’s America for you,” people shrug so long as gas for our SUV’s and accompanying boats doesn’t climb too high.

Indeed, because the wars keep going. And they will because we’re the good guys, remember? It’s how we’re conditioned from our youngest age with every piece of the U.S. apparatus behind it.

It’s just how it is.

Thanks for sticking with me.

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The train rattled, made worse by a narrow, non-standard gauge track undoubtedly installed by the United Fruit Company for their own purposes to discourage competitors with designs on their enterprises.

After sneaking aboard, Saunders found a discarded ticket and used a pen in his bag to alter it, hoping it would withstand scrutiny from the conductors, but no one came to check. Saunders sat in his cabin, windows open to the stifling climate, what little available breeze coming through open windows with a mixture of soot and dust. Sweat trickled down his back and stuck his shirt to the back of his wooden seat; his clothing and bag still damp from the river smelled like a musty dishtowel. “We’re a long way from first class,” he muttered to himself.

Not many passengers were riding the train, a relief to Saunders who, after confirming the Amulet was still in his possession, breathed a little easier. The pursuit over the canyon was wild enough and he thanked his Uncle Sam for recruiting him into the cavalry and teaching him to ride a horse. Though he never had use for the expertise when serving in France, the Army provided him with a life-long skill. In another time, and things being different, he’d have liked to have kept Bandito, but he had to be released. Saunders smiled at the little pony’s endurance and fearlessness, a great mix for a horse, and hoped he’d find his way back to Emil.

Saunders swayed back and forth with the train’s erratic swings and the heat lulled him into a sleepy daze. Against his will, his body began to relax and he dozed, perhaps feeling safe for the first time in a while, or succumbing to the psychological and physical strain of the past few weeks. Saunders knew humans could only take so much and he wasn’t immune to exhaustion. He leaned his head on the wall and put his hat over his eyes, his arm looped through his rucksack, the remaining pistol now in his waistband and covered by his shirttail.

The cabin’s door slid open with a bang, startling Saunders awake. Two men, one slight and one of a beefy build stepped into the car. James Broadside slid onto the bench seat next to Saunders and the larger fellow, a pug-nosed, bald lumberjack—the driver from Miami—shut the door and pulled down the privacy screens.

Saunders sensed danger and moved to draw his pistol, but Broadside pressed his own into Saunders’s side. “Don’t. Just give us the Amulet,”

“What amulet, Broadside? How’d you—” Saunders’s head bounced off the side wall as it recoiled from a punch delivered by the brute.

“Play dumb again and Imma have Clyde here jog your memory some more, only worse,” Broadside chided. “Give it up.”

Saunders rubbed his jaw, his eyes a kaleidoscope from the force of the blow. “Gimme a second.” He held up his hand in protest and blinked tears from his eyes.

“I don’t have it.”

Broadside cocked his pistol, Saunders glanced at it and saw it was a French .25 caliber revolver. Not a big caliber gun, but certainly enough to kill him. “Last chance. We’ll just shoot you and find it on your body.”

Saunders took in the men for the first time. Broadside was dressed in a too-large linen suit with a battered straw fedora. Clyde wore linen slacks and a locally made button down shirt paired with a similar hat. Both men were dirty, their clothing stained.

Saunders sighed, “I hid it, just in case.” He hoped it was enough of a stall to spare his life. These two were bent on hurting him at the least to get the Amulet and Saunders knew they’d have no compunction in killing him.

“That’s a loada’ crap, and you know it,” Broadside sniffed, unimpressed. “So what’s it? You don’t have it or you hid it?”

Clyde stepped closer.

The train whistle blew and grew louder in intensity as the train entered a tunnel, shoving the interior into darkness. Saunders saw his opportunity and simultaneously grabbed Broadside’s hand holding the pistol and punched him in the face. With his hand wrapped around Broadside’s hand and the gun, Saunders maneuvered it toward where Clyde was standing and twice pulled the Broadside’s trigger finger with his own. The pistol discharged in two small sparks and hit the big man in the stomach.

Clyde’s monstrous body toppled backward onto the opposite bench. His moans filled the cabin.

Saunders and Broadside tussled for the pistol and Saunders slapped it away where it slid to an unseen part of the dark cabin. A few sparks from the train wheels added some brief brightness as the train continued through the tunnel and Saunders hoisted Broadside to his feet and held his head out the window where Saunders felt Broadside go limp when his head struck something within the tunnel. Saunders lifted Broadside up by his belt and dumped him out of the train where his body was run over with a ‘thump-thump’ by the passing cars.

The train’s whistle sounded once more as it exited the tunnel. Daylight flooded the inside of the cabin to reveal Clyde clutching his abdomen, blood pooling on the seat, and his other hand on his chest, indicating a lung wound. Saunders was reminded of a gut-shot French soldier he’s seen who died slow and painfully. In a flash, Saunders transposed that soldier’s face on Clyde’s, the same hollow eyes and ashen skin despite the heat which enveloped them.

“Who’re you working for? Who sent you?” Saunders entreated, knowing that unless Clyde received immediate medical attention there was nothing that could be done for him.

“Dunno. Jimmy knew the details.” Clyde groaned, pushing his hand against the stomach wound, his chest oozing red. “He just got me to come along for a few bucks.”

Saunders tisked. “Hope it was worth it, Clyde.” He located the French pistol and retrieved it from the floor and threw it out the window.

Clyde looked up and surveyed the car. “Where’s Jimmy, anyway?”

“Stepped out for a bit.”

Then Clyde lay his head back and sighed, bright pink sputum drooled from his mouth. He died within another minute. Aside from the blood, he appeared as if he were sleeping, and his pink shirt merely took on a maroon shade. Saunders placed Clyde on his back, folded his arms over his chest, crossed his feet, and covered his face with his battered hat.

Saunders resumed his seat as the conductor walked through announcing the next station. He’d evaded Atchinson, but he knew at some point soon someone would come looking for these two. Regardless of where they were, that was Saunders’s stop.

15.

Buenos Aires, Argentina. July 1927.

The train stopped twenty miles outside of Buenos Aries. Saunders saw it was a way station and decided not to exit. If a dead man on the bench across from him wasn’t enough, he would stand out as the only white person in this area. A few more passengers boarded, but none entered to sit with Saunders who indicated his companion was sleeping and didn’t wish to be disturbed.

He finished his trip in a state of paranoia. Every person moving through the passageway was a potential threat, Saunder’s checked and rechecked his door as his heartrate remained at a steady quick pace. But the trip concluded without further incident and as the train approached the main station Saunders made his way to the forward cars to exit with the first-class passengers, himself not at all blending with the cleanliness of these riders, but most of them being white, he could make his way with the amorphous mass.

Saunders sidled through the crowds and onto the main street and immediately went to the American Express office. He assembled a telegram and sent it to Donahue.

“Found it. Stop. 8. Stop.”

He knew he’d have to wait a few hours for a response. From there, he sought a hotel to get cleaned up and eat. It was only now that the adrenaline had worn off that he acknowledged how hungry he was and he coveted a bath as only he had after his time in France living in trenches for weeks on end. Sweat-chafed and mosquito-bitten, sinking into the claw-foot bathtub was luxurious, though he kept a pistol by his side along with a bottle of Argentinian malbec.

A message awaited Saunders when he returned to American Express the following morning. He opened it immediately. “Excellent. Stop. Come Home. Stop. D. Stop.”

Saunders smiled to himself and withdrew an additional $500 for his return trip. He knew not to get stranded in a foreign country without money.

§

Saunders stood in the long embarkation line awaiting his turn. The glass windows in the upper level of the immense structure were open to ostensibly allow for air circulation, but the accompanying floor fans couldn’t keep up with the thick humidity and swirled the moist air around a large crowd of humanity.

Sweat streamed down Saunders’s back, his cotton bush jacket draped over his arm. With only his small rucksack, he wondered if he looked out of place among the throng of passengers, some of whom dragged matched sets of leather-bound, steamer-trunk luggage.

Armed guards stood along the side walls, but most looked bored. Saunders noted they carried Remington rolling block rifles, and obsolete weapon sold to the Argentine government from surplus stocks acquired by Bannerman’s. Saunders smiled to himself when he pictured the immense warehouses of old military items and outdated weapons sitting on pallets in Bannerman’s New York island on the Hudson just North of West Point.

“Señor!” A voice called. Saunders looked towards the source but couldn’t determine if it were meant for him. Half the men in the crowd turned towards it as the long line snaked through the embarkation area which would lead passengers to their respective ships.

“Señor! Aqui!” A hand reached above the crowd to point at Saunders. No mistake he was being singled, probably for being one of the few Gringos. A swarthy man in a dark suit and white shirt wove through the crowd toward Saunders and Saunders noticed his dark, receding hair and small glasses.

Great. Saunders thought. His guard was up and he thought about how he’d discarded his remaining M1911 pistol ahead of coming to the docks. Part of him wished he’d retained it, but he was further glad he didn’t have any weaponry to either arouse suspicion or lead to the pistol being confiscated and his subsequent arrest. The sidearm’s mate remained at the bottom of a Uruguayan river.

The Latin man arrived next to Saunders. “Hola! I can help you! No need for you to stand in line with all of this,” he said, sweeping his hand across the crowd.

“I think I’m okay, here. Thanks.” Saunders rebuffed.

“Oh! My apologies, Señor! I’m Miguel Zapata, from the Import and Export Office. We know how it is for Americans to stand in line. There’s no need for you to do that with these people!”

Saunders frowned. “I’m not American. I’m French.” Then he wondered if he subconsciously slipped into an American accent and his spine went cold.

“Ah, your accent, of course.”

Saunders’s forehead tightened. He’d blown his cover.

“Please. Come.” Zapata motioned, tugging on Saunders’ hand. Saunders pulled it back, but considering the long line of people and his sweaty condition, reluctantly followed Zapata through the mass of humanity to a door which led to an office on the side of the cavernous warehouse.

Zapata closed the door behind them. The room was stifling and Zapata dabbed at his pate with a stained handkerchief. His matted, thinning black hair merged with a thicker band that surrounded his head above the ears. It lent Zapata an appearance of a penguin who’d misplaced its hairpiece.

The room had no windows or other access except the door and in the middle was a table and two chairs across from the other. There were no other occupants.

Zapata slid the chair closest the wall from underneath the table and sat in the chair closest to the door, blocking it. He motioned to Saunders to sit. “To expedite your passage, I will need to see your passport, Señor.”

Saunders slid his chair further out and edged into it. He removed his passport wallet and presented it to Zapata.

“We will converse in English, if that is amenable to you, Señor—” Zapata looked at the passport. “Michel Richelieu.” He pronounced it ‘Michael.’

“Oui.” Saunders replied to continue the charade.

“Do you have anything to declare?”

“No. Nothing.” Saunders noted Zapata had no clipboard or any official paperwork and the table was bare.

“And what was the purpose of your trip to Argentina? Business or pleasure?”

“Business.”

“And what in your line of work, Señor Richelieu?”

“I’m a reporter.”

“For whom?” Zapata dabbed his head again and swept the wisps of his matted hair across his balding dome.

“Le Sourire. A French news magazine. I was covering the chess championship.” Saunders back chilled despite the stuffy and hot room as his nervousness increased. He’d never really considered his back story would be minutely questioned, though he was sure Zapata didn’t have the odd copy of the French periodical lying around to confirm his bylines.

“You were here for all two months?”

“Yes, why?”

“I’m in charge of all customs and excise and I don’t recall your name. Who won?”

“The Russian, Alekhine. He’s a master.”

Zapata thumbed deliberately through Saunders’s passport, examining the pages. Saunders felt his lips tighten in a slight tell of concern. Zapata stood. “Please excuse me. I must take your passport to have it appropriately stamped. I won’t be but a minute.”

“Shall I come with you?”

“No. I’ll return shortly.” Zapata opened the door just wide enough for him to slide through and shut it behind him. Saunders pushed back from the table and tried the door handle. It was locked.

Saunders resumed his seat and packed a bowl of pipe tobacco. Zapata had at least left him with his accouterments.

A few minutes later, the clicking of a walking stick outside the door caused Saunders to bolt upright as the door swung open and, in the threshold, stood Cory Liquorice dressed in a cream linen suit and matching ascot and pocket square. Zapata entered second and shut the door behind them.

“Don’t get up on my account, Thomas,” Liquorice stated slimily. “Señor Zapata informs me you’re in a great deal of trouble. Smuggling with falsified documents. Shame. Shame.” He held Saunder’s fake credentials in the air and handed them back to Zapata.

“You’re a long way from Pretoria?” Saunders eased back into his chair and dragged on his pipe. He resumed his normal American accent, his voice more relaxed without the ruse.

“Good memory. Where’s the Amulet?”

“Safe.”

Liquorice nodded to his left and Zapata moved and grabbed Saunders’s rucksack and bush jacket. He dumped the contents onto the table and rifled through it. Liquorice snatched the jacket and began inspecting it along the seams. He found the Amulet sewn into one of the larger backing pieces of the lower left pocket after ripping out the stitches Saunders had so carefully placed.

Liquorice held the Amulet in his good hand then let it dangle by its chain, his eyes alight with fascinated greed. He smiled through closed lips his eyes locked on its opulence. “It indeed was.”

“Donahue doesn’t know I take it?” Saunder’s puffed on his pipe, struggling to calm his nerves with the nicotine.

“Kerwin? Of course not, and for all he knows you’ll have died down here on your errand—that part will be true—and he’ll send another after this piece. Then another. No matter. I’ll have it now and he need never know. He’s dying anyway. It’d be wasted on him.” Cory tapped the end of his cane on the floor for emphasis.

Saunders’s mouth went dry and he tried to swallow as he took in the betrayal. “The messages went to you. Damn. That’s good.”

“While you’re expensive, it’s a small investment on my part. How’d you think you made it down here so easily? Of course, the clumsy incident in Cerrito was your fault, but you were successful. Damn glad Atchison didn’t shoot you. And I must further compliment you for dispatching Broadside and his brutish accomplice.”

“Atchison was on the take for this thing, too. I just undercut him in finding it because he wasn’t smart enough to do so. And with Broadside, I took the slack out of your impatience.”

Saunders shook his head, a tingling at the top of his head indicted his feelings of being duped.

“I knew something was amiss when I went to American Express and found no messages or money waiting after the second time. Sure, you provided enough to satiate my curiosity that I’d not be double-crossed, so I chalked it up to a miscue or delay. Then again, I thought I was talking to Donahue. Since I had to get the boat to take me out of Argentina, I couldn’t wait around. This is a slow part of the world, likely because of the heat coupled with a drowsy culture and I left without resolution, though I unwittingly sent you a cable letting you know.”

Cory sniffed. “Yes, I received it. Proof you were among the living, at that moment, anyway. Your final communiqué.”

Cory pocketed the Amulet. “Señor Zapata will take care of you from here, Thomas. Don’t worry about the $500. I bid you Adieu.”

Cory stepped to the door and quickly exited, the clicking of his walking stick melding with the crowd noise as he disappeared into the sea of people.

Saunders eyed Zapata, noting he pointed a 9mm Luger pistol at him and pursed his lips. Zapata motioned at Saunders to precede him from the room and pocketed the pistol keeping it pointed at him. Saunders stood and tamped out the pipe before sliding it into his trouser pocket.

“What about my stuff?” Saunders called over his shoulder.

“You no longer have need of it, amigo. Vamanos.”

Saunders stepped out of the room and his world went black. He didn’t feel the blow to the back of his head.

End Part 8. Tune in next week for another installment!

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While I sat with this impressive group, I was struck that I don’t know what it is to serve in the current environment. Though I had a long military career, I am also nearly five years retired and have quickly become one of the “old dudes” at the party people look past. Still, it made me consider how insulting it is to women and minorities to not only be marginalized, but also overlooked.

Trump and Hegseth have ordered that the sacrifices of female veterans not be acknowledged at Arlington National Cemetery, ending a 28-year tradition. Whiskey Pete has personally stricken female and minorities from being promoted into the General Officer ranks under the auspices of not supporting DEI initiatives. These are career military professionals who earned their rank.

The same can’t be said for a sotted former Fox News couch host who not only hit a drummer with an axe, but also can’t hold a candle to the women and people of color he disdains.

I wonder what it’s like to serve in a racist and misogynistic organization where this is tolerated at the highest levels and the people beneath the management have to carry on in a toxic work environment? And these are the people we expect to fight and win our wars. Pete’s bluster aside, the current one with Iran—which we started, as a point of fact—cannot be classified as a victory.

Which brings us to the namesake for this week’s article, General Daniel “Chappie” James, Jr., United States Air Force. His photo in the Pentagon was ordered removed last week by the Secretary of War Crimes. My fellow writer, Keifer Allan, summarized the act in his excellent Substack listed below.

Keifer Allan

Erasing a Hero: Hegseth Rips Down First Black Four-Star General to Please Trump DEI policy

Pete Hegseth, Donald Trump’s hand-picked Secretary of “War Crimes” and anti-DEI nazi has committed an act of staggering disrespect. According to a bombshell report in The Atlantic, Hegseth ordered the portrait of General Daniel “Chappie” James Jr.—the first Black four-star general in American history—ripped off the walls of the Air Force Art Gallery i…

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3 months ago · 6 likes · 1 comment · Keifer Allan

Chappie was the first African American USAF four-star general. He flew 101 combat missions in Korea and another 78 combat missions in Vietnam. That’s 179 more missions than I’ve ever flown, and equally more than Hegseth, certainly, since Apache helicopter rides don’t count. Say what we want about the wars in which Chappie fought, his accomplished career is unmatched, but that’s too much for an otherwise unremarkable and selfish prick like Pete.

Chappie was a Tuskegee Airman. He flew both prop planes and jets, fighters and bombers.

He was also a staunch supporter of integration, being arrested for his convictions during the Freeman Field Mutiny in Indiana over April 5 and 6, 1945.

His storied career included flying with legendary Ace, Brigadier General Robin Olds, and an in-person stand-off with Libyan strongman, Muammar Gaddfi.

Chappie considered it an honor to be an American patriot and could be at times controversial. Some of his statements critical of the militancy of the Civil Rights movement were read into the Congressional Record. Hegseth has stuff in the Record, too, but for the wrong reasons.

Married to his wife, Dorthy, they had two sons and a daughter. General James died in 1978 and continues to receive accolades according to his wikipedia page.

He was awarded honorary doctor of laws degrees from the University of West Florida in 1971; the University of Akron in 1973; Virginia State College in 1974; Delaware State College in 1975; and St. Louis University in 1976. He was named honorary national commander of the Arnold Air Society in 1971.

In 1993, James Jr. was inducted into the National Aviation Hall of Fame in Dayton, Ohio.^[21]

In 2019, he was chosen as the Class Exemplar for the U.S. Air Force Academy Class of 2022.

In 2020, the Pensacola Bay Bridge was renamed the General Daniel “Chappie” James Jr. Bridge, with Florida Governor Ron DeSantis signing the bill designating the bridge’s name on June 2, 2020.^[22] Representative Alex Andrade and Senator Doug Broxson sponsored the successful initiatives in the Florida Legislature.^[23] The bridge connects larger Pensacola with Gulf Breeze and the beachfront community of Pensacola Beach.

Erasing Chappie is an insult to him. Doing so further insults those who currently serve who once again must endure what he actively campaigned against.

To quote Chappie’s youngest son, Claude James on the occasion of his father’s 100th birthday:

“A warrior dies two deaths, one is the physical death and other is when his name is no longer mentioned. And, it’s on me because I’m the last of his children to push that as far as I can before I’m gone,” declared [Claude] James.

No, I opine it’s on all of us. Chappie, you deserve to be remembered at the highest levels. For your accomplishments. For your legacy. Oh, and that you’re an African American shouldn’t matter. A warrior is a warrior. A good man is a good man.

And Hegseth couldn’t carry your boots.

Thanks for sticking with me.

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A buzzed Rosa held up Atchison, himself a drunk mess with disheveled shirt and tie as they stumbled out of the cantina. They were both laughing and making out when Atchison spotted Saunders ambling up the road puffing on his pipe.

“You’re up late, mon ami.” Atchison slurred.

“Out for a stroll and a smoke. I’m glad I ran into you, Lieutenant. My reporting is complete. I’ll leave tomorrow. I wanted to bid Au revoir.”

“So soon? First boat out is at 6. I’ll meet you at the dock for a proper farewell.”

Atchison’s watch read 1245.

“Bonsoir, Rosa.” Saunders complimented. “Mañana, Lieutenant.”

“Rosa and I were just leaving.” Atchison guided her away and she gave Saunders a demure wink.

Then they were gone.

Saunders slipped out the back of the cantina, found Bandito, his rucksack tied to the saddle, and led the horse slowly along the dusty cobbled streets of El Cerrito to the chapel.

If Saunders possessed any scruples, the thought of breaking into a place of worship put those at odds with his sense of right and wrong. Technically, he was going to retrieve something, not rob the coffers or the empty the collection boxes. He doubted anyone would miss the item, either.

13.

Saunders ensured each of his pistols were loaded and went to the back door of the chapel. He tied off Bandito for ease of access, then used the key the Padre provided to unlock the heavy door. It creaked opened and he entered to find the candles still lit causing shadows to dance the Grotto of Lordes.

“Hail Mary, full of grace,” Saunders said as he looked at the statue.

Centered on her chest, hidden behind multiple rows of dangling Rosary beads was the Amulet. Saunders stared up at the painted alabaster figure and hoisted himself onto the altar, so he was standing on it in front of the statue.

“Blessed are you among sinners. Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.”

He reached up, parting the lattice of beads to hold the Amulet in his hand, the gold chain the only impediment to removing it.

With the amulet in one hand, he slid the chain around the statue’s neck until he located the clasp. The positioning meant he was on his toes, and the Rosary’s clicked and knocked together like a hanging bead and bamboo curtain as he unfastened the delicate snap and the Amulet dropped into his hands, creating yet more noise from the Rosary’s while they settled. He stumbled unsteadily on the altar, staring at his prize, unbelieving that he possessed it.

“Stop, THIEF!” a voice yelled from the back of the church.

Saunders turned towards it to catch the gleam of a nickel-plated pistol pointed at him and fell from the altar onto the floor, smacking his knee against the edge of the tabletop. He heard footsteps running toward him, but these stopped abruptly when the person tripped and they fell onto the stone floor.

The pistol, an ivory-gripped Forehand and Wadsworth .32 rimfire, clattered across the surface. Saunders ignored this, leapt to his feet, and limped out the side door, slamming it behind him.

The chapel’s door groaned opened behind him and a scowling, angry face jutted from it. “You’ll die a sinner for this.” The man, a priest who’d been asleep in the back room, fired two rounds from his now-recovered pistol and ran back inside to the rope of the bell tower and yanked on it with all his might, the weight of the bell pulling him up and down as it clanged, alerting the entire town.

People emerged from darkened houses; a hum provided by generators coupled with a glow indicated the lights at the dock were on further in town, the remainder of the buildings lit by oil lamps or candlelight as Cerrito came awake.

The police and Marines ran to the church to ascertain the commotion. Two policemen fired down the alley at Saunders who immediately drew his pistols and lay down a withering fire which drove them back, bullets smacking off the stucco walls in big chunks, his face ghastly, illuminated by the muzzle flashes. Saunders reloaded and heard the tell-tale rack of a pump shotgun behind him.

“Drop ‘em, bub.”

Saunders dropped to a crouch, pushing his right hand under his left armpit as he twisted to fire at the voice. Two bullets crashed into a United Fruit mercenary who pitched backward to spread-eagle on the ground, another crucifixion on the dirty streets of Cerrito.

Saunders holstered his guns, pulled the quick-release on his reins, vaulted onto Bandito and spurred him forward.

The priest yelled of what happened and pointed in the direction Saunders had taken. The police and Marines recovered from the hail of bullets looked up the road and saw Saunders silhouetted on the ridge leading out of town. They fired at a rearing horse and rider fading to an apparition.

The Marines and police mounted their horses and rode in pursuit of Saunders, the horses’ shoes sparking off the cobbles as their riders spurred them into a canter departure and up to a gallop. Riding full-speed at night over unknown territory was at once exhilarating and simultaneously terrifying and most of the Marines and cops slowed down except two Federales who raced after Saunders.

Saunders pushed Bandito along, keeping the road in view as a white track slipping through the dark jungle and down through the United Fruit operation where he blew through the checkpoint, awakening two guards who were similarly surprised when the two policemen galloped past them. They were more alert when the remainder of the party pulled up and the two men leveled their shotguns at the midnight riders where Atchison, pissed he’d been abruptly pulled out of Rosa, engaged in a heated argument with the guard about who he was and what they were doing.

Bandito raced along, its breathing coming in labored snorts, but Saunders trusted the horse and let it guide him.

“PARA!” came from behind him as the policemen gained. Without thinking if Bandito had been exposed to any gunfire from his back, Saunders turned and drew a 1911 with his free hand and popped two rounds in the direction of the voice. The horse underneath him thundered forward, apparently unbothered by the noise.

“Damn, Bandito, I think I’d like to keep you.” Saunders complimented the now-sweating, snorting steed.

It dawned on Sanders that even if he could get to the dock, he’d have to steal a boat to take him downstream to the railroad. With all of United Fruit now alerted, if Atchison was smart—and Saunders didn’t underestimate him—then the Marine had already taken most of the reinforcements to the dock to cut off that avenue of escape. Off to his right, Saunders heard the river.

Saunders slowed Bandito whose breath came in deep pulls through its mucus-slathered nose. The two policemen were approaching fast and Saunders fired two more rounds at them. They pulled up on their own mounts who whinnied in protest, one sliding to a stop before falling over on top of the cop who struggled to extricate himself from the wreck.

Saunders deftly dismounted, untied his rucksack, and patted Bandito on the withers. “You were a good boy. I’ll miss you,” and sprinted into the underbrush, leaving Bandito in the road.

The remaining policemen checked on his friend who was now standing and spun his horse around and charged at Bandito, only to discover Saunders gone. The policeman spotted Saunders evading through the Yucca plants towards the river and gave chase, his horse crashing through the brush.

Saunders reached the edge of the Yucca and looked down at the Cerrito River moving past thirty feet below. Even in daylight it would be a risky jump to land in the middle of it, but the sides of the chasm were so precipitous that it wasn’t possible to see all the obstacles that might jut from the sides.

The policeman crushed onward with his revolver raised and spotted Saunders. He fired the revolver which spooked his horse to the right and Saunders returned fire with two more rounds. Though the first one missed, the second slammed into the rider’s side who grunted in pain.

The rider’s horses’ rear right hoof slipped from the edge and the weight of the horse and rider pulled them both over the side in a grotesque dance macabre as the animal and man remained together, the yell of the man intermingled with the frightened cry of the horse. The two ricocheted off the canyon walls and then into the river where the horse landed atop the policeman, breaking his neck and instantly killing both animal and human.

“Poor horse.” Saunders lamented, looking down and only being able to make out the white of the animal. From behind him he heard the remaining rider working his way through the Yucca, calling for his friend.

Saunders fired his last round and the slide of the 1911 locked back. He lost the empty pistol over the cliffside when a rifle round slammed into it, knocking it out of his hand. Saunders drew his second one from the shoulder holster and exchanged fire with the remaining federalé. Saunders reloaded when he expended the ammunition in his magazine which he let fall in the dirt. Then he heard Atchison’s shrill whistle as the remaining Marines arrived. They had not raced to the dock as Saunders surmised.

Running out of options, Saunders looked towards the river, then turned his back to it so he faced the Yucca. In the moonlight he could see Marines’ campaign hats arrayed in a skirmish line as they worked towards him. The cop had stopped and gone to ground, moaning for help. He sounded wounded, but Saunders hadn’t heard him cry out as if hit.

Saunders holstered his remaining pistol, thought about picking up the expended magazine but couldn’t locate it in the grass, and then another .30-’06 round flew past him followed by two more. The Marines were shooting at him, then the Lewis Gun barked in staccato mayhem. Saunders faced the Rio Cerrito, focused an eye on a dark spot he hoped was a deep pool and not a rock, and leapt into the void.

The velocity of the fall sent Saunders crashing into the rushing water as Atchison and his Marines arrived. By the time Saunders emerged gasping from the water, he was well out of their sight, so he rode the rapids as far as he could, attempting to pull up on a part of the riverbank with a few overhanging branches.

Reaching for the first one he found, the branch supported his weight, but suddenly broke free and sent him spiraling down the river. But then Saunders reevaluated his situation and gave an inward smile.

He was in the river he’d have needed to travel anyway, and in darkness knew he wouldn’t encounter any boat traffic until at least morning. Further, without a body, Atchison was likely already sending word to be on the lookout for him.

Saunders would ride the river to at least the second put-in since he couldn’t board the train at its terminus without suspicion. Saunders put his knapsack in front of him and lay on it like a float. The current carried him downstream toward Belén and, despite being chilled by the cooler water in the warmer air, Saunders drifted with confidence in his escape.

End Part 7. Tune in next week for another installment!

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When I started writing this article I wasn’t sure what it should look like. Mental burdens can lead to suicidal thoughts and, unfortunately, action. For the number of famous people who’ve taken their own lives, it can’t be because they were tired of making money. Hemingway comes to mind.

Then again, I’ve never made, don’t make, and won’t ever make that kind of cash, so what do I know? But I’ve also known everyday dudes who ran out of runway. No, it’s got to be something else.

I was a Marine Officer. I served in often violent combat, being blown up, shot at, hit by shrapnel, and knocked unconscious. I’ve been through multiple mental health screenings. When I returned from one deployment I actually provided honest answers on the post-deployment psychological questionnaire. These included such gems as, “I have seen dead bodies.” or “I have thoughts too horrible to talk about.” No one ever called me to follow up. I’ve undergone a lot of therapy. It was on me to find it.

I’ve learned to accept my life and attendant choices with grace, though it’s been tough. It comes down to forgiveness, which is a Herculean task for many people. Ask me how I know.

One thing I’ve discovered is that we’re all struggling. At least those who take honest personal assessments are. Part of male angst is also tied to denial. They say things like, “I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Nothing to not be fine about. It’s everyone else who’s fucked up, though, poor fellows.”

Yeah, right. Many men carry invisible burdens with a sense of shame and that, perhaps, feel they deserve the baggage.

Of course, if your life is indeed great, you have people who love you, make all the money you could ever want, and nothing keeps you up at night, awesome. This article isn’t for you, however, unless you have a sick sense of humor. Go pour yourself a glass of something comfortable and do something you enjoy.

Back to the topic at hand. Men take their lives for any number of reasons. A bad breakup or divorce. Losing a job. Monetary worries. Feeling inadequate. Feeling like a failure. Estrangement. Anguish. Depression. Anxiety. Hopelessness.

Rest assured, I have no intention of taking my own life. But I understand why men do it.

They are exhausted.

Exhausted by Trump and Vance. Exhausted by Hegseth and Rubio. Exhausted by every bullshitter politician, elitist, and corporate fuck who can’t keep a promise. Exhausted by endless wars. Exhausted by the inequalities and inequities of life. Exhausted by societal bifurcation, and misogyny, bigotry and racism, your unqualified boss (a poster boy for the early withdrawal method of birth control) who is there due to nepotism. Exhausted by wages that haven’t kept up with inflation for decades and being blamed for it. Exhausted by hoping—against hope—that things will improve though they never do.

Men are tired of being lied to while they struggle to be what society expects. They are burned out from not being able to keep up with those expectations and trying to be everything to everyone while remaining true and authentic, all as people take a swipe at them for being a fraud.

Hell yeah, boys, you’re gassed.

Mental health issues are especially acute in the veteran community. It takes eight months through Veterans Administration scheduling to get seen for ‘emergency’ mental health issues. No wonder veterans take their lives at an alarming rate, and the age demographics are staggering because it’s young and old alike.

To address this, I wrote a book about veterans and their mental health struggles. It’s called 22. In a sobering research project, I interviewed veterans who either attempted and failed to “unalive” themselves or stopped short of doing so. I wanted to understand why people do this. What they go through to get them to that point. It was tragic. It’s raw and emotional. It’s meant to be. Pick up a copy.

For veterans, they exist in a world of competing priorities. Themselves against others. Existential and real threats to their psyche. Coming to terms with their service in wars which can’t be called victories. A feeling that nothing is or was worth it. Feeling invisible as they watch Congress renege on veteran care and benefits while ballooning the deficit. Those who blame you for serving in wars others sent you to fight. Senator Susan Collins from Maine comes to mind. I get it. Oh, and fuck you, lady.

PTSD. There’s a stigma surrounding it, and the ‘d’ should be dropped. People suffering from post-traumatic stress don’t have a ‘disorder’ nor are they irreparably damaged. But those traumas and experiences don’t just disappear. They stay with you forever. It’s about making peace with your past and moving forward, which isn’t the same as moving on.

Men want to be heard. People do best when they talk. I mean, actually talk to someone, to express, to get it out. The virtual world isn’t a substitute for human interaction. Call a friend if you’re feeling overwhelmed. Chat with another colleague. Don’t suffer silently. All of that energy has to go somewhere and doing so healthfully is better than an emotional and/or violent explosion. As I’ve learned working with horses, there is no ‘all of a sudden.’

Though men’s mental health is highlighted this month, it’s a serious topic at all times. If you’re struggling, and you need not be a veteran, PLEASE don’t take your own life. Be a hero in your own story and keep struggling mightily. I know it sucks, but you are worth it.

Keep this in mind: If you were to end your life, the very bastards or situations you hate, the ones you detest for putting you in this position whether by action or inaction, would win.

And that would be the most tragic ending to a story of all.

Thanks for sticking with me.

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Pre-dawn, Saunders arrived ahead of Emil to observe the small stable. There was no sign of anyone, but Saunders then wondered if Emil slept with the horses. Continuing his surveillance of the animals, all was quiet except their shifting in the paddock. Approaching footsteps alerted the animals and Saunders turned to see Emil.

If Saunders was suspicious of Emil’s intentions, the lad was going about his business with preparing the horses without any nervousness or underhanded actions that indicated sabotage. Maybe Emil was just as he said, a guide who took people to the Grotto of Lordes.

Saunders eased back from his observation spot and circled around the block to lend the appearance he was approaching from within the town and not surprise Emil by just emerging from the shadows.

“Hola, Emil!” Saunders called maintaining his French accented English façade.

“Hola, Señor! You are on time!”

“You said we should start early.” Saunders shook hands with Emil over the fence.

Emil finished tightening Bandito’s girth, causing the horse to grunt. “Most clients do not adhere to the schedule, but this means we will make it to the Grotto and be back before nightfall.”

Emil walked the horses out to the cobbled road. Saunders looked over his horse and the tack, difficult to adequately examine in the half-light ahead of dawn but knew by feel the horse was correctly rigged. He stepped into the stirrup and deftly mounted Bandito.

“Bueno, Señor! You know what you’re doing!” Emil complimented, mounting his own horse with equal aplomb.

Saunders adjusted the stirrups for a better seat and then Emil led them out of town, the horses’ shoes clicking on the cobblestones.

Saunders and Emil rode as a pair until the road gave way to a trail outside of town and then began ascending. As they climbed, the air became cooler, less heavy, though the trail was still covered by jungle. Emil in the lead, the ride continued largely in silence, unless Emil called out an obstacle or asked the odd question of Saunders in small talk of curiosity.

§

Mid-morning, Emil halted their horses and dismounted. “We must hike from here, Señor.”

There wasn’t a defined trail, per se, more of an overgrown track that melded into the arboreal canopy, so thick the sun’s rays struggled for penetration. Emil was an accomplished guide, and Saunders was impressed at his movements. Emil’s slight stature belied his fitness and they continued their trek, the track turning into an escarpment. They stopped at the base of a nearly-vertical rock face, covered in lichen and trickling water. Saunders was sweating and breathing hard despite his own conditioning and now at a higher altitude he was chilled with his shirt wet against his back.

“We pause here,” Emil then motioned upward, “it’s a climb straight up to the grotto. Stay behind me and put your hands and feet where I place mine.”

“Now I get why most people don’t come here. And why your rate is so high—though fair, I admit.” Saunders rubbed his shoulders and deltoids. He was in decent condition, but the constant strain of the ascent caused his muscles to burn with lactic acid.

“Si, Señor, but those who make the trip come away with more than they sought when they started. It is a journey worth making.”

Saunders swigged from his canteen and closed the cap. “I’m ready.”

Emil nodded and began climbing. Saunders followed behind him and they ascended in a steady rhythm until they reached a small shelf at tree-top level where they stopped for more water and a brief rest. “You are okay?” Emil asked.

“I’m fine.” Saunders replied, sitting on the shelf. “How much further?”

“No far, I promise the climb is worth it. The view incredible!” Emil’s eyes gleamed. Saunders smiled slightly. Emil stood and Saunders got the hint they were resuming the ascent.

Emil pulled and climbed steadily upward, Saunders behind him. It wasn’t vertical, but damn close at times and then they broke through the canopy and finished the final fifty feet to the top, ending on another shelf that gave way to a cave of sorts. Emil motioned inside and said, “The Grotto is here!”

Saunders felt a chill as the breeze caught his sweaty skin and he looked out across a massive expanse of multi-hued green intermixed with mist and smoke from the distant town. “It’s amazing up here, Emil. Thanks for bringing me.”

“We stay as long as you like. No hurry.”

Saunders again beheld the view and turned toward the cave. He stepped closer and inside saw the statue of the Virgin Mary. It was intricately carved from the rock and beautifully painted. Someone had taken a great deal of time and effort to create this. Many questions ran through Saunders’s head, but instead he examined the statue and saw what he was looking for. The Amulet was around her neck and as Saunders got closer, he found it was a highlighted part of the carving.

“Damn.” He swore under his breath. But he was alone, Emil had remained outside to respect a pilgrim’s visitation, and Saunders wondered if there was anything worth more than blind faith at this juncture.

Emil was sitting on the overlook when Saunders exited the Grotto. “Do you find what you were seeking, Señor?”

“Somewhat. It revealed more what isn’t there to me than anything.”

“Si. People come here for one reason and leave with more. I’ve seen it.”

Emile pushed himself up to his feet. “As I said, we stay as long as you like.”

“I’m ready. We gotta’ get you paid.”

Emil shrugged and began the downclimb. Saunders followed Emil in reverse, trying not to let the lack of finding the Amulet distract him. But he couldn’t let it go.

They reached the bottom in late afternoon, the horses where they’d left them. Once mounted, they headed back to Cerrito.

Saunders asked. “Emil, what do you know of the Amulet of El Corrado?”

Emil didn’t answer for a few seconds, considering his reply. “It’s a myth. All of us are told of it at a young age, but it’s never been found. You’d be wise to let it go.”

“Why?”

“Part of the rumor is that it is cursed. Owning it drives the person insane as they seek a former glory. The lack of fulfillment weakens their resolves, and it makes them crazy.”

Saunders sensed something in Emil’s tone. “But is the exchange somehow worth it?”

“I believe you are on a fool’s errand, Señor.

§

Closer to town, they encountered a priest riding on a donkey up the path from where they descended. The Padre’s feet nearly dragged the ground, preceded by frayed and mud-stained robes, his portly belly balancing him on the little animal’s withers.

“You made it to the Grotto?” The Padre smiled through yellowed teeth, the front left chipped, accented by his gray stubble. He looked like a hobo dressed in discarded religious habit.

“Oui. It was breathtaking.”

“And did you discover anything about yourself? It’s a long way to not experience a change.”

“I’ll have to continue my spiritual journey, padre. I’m still reflecting on today’s experience.”

The padre raised his chin slightly and studied Saunders’ face.

“Without specifics, and I must respect if you do not answer, what did you ask for?”

“Something to change.”

“Señor, that which you seek can only be found through faith. There are none so blind as those who will not see.” The padre tipped his straw hat to Saunders and coaxed his donkey forward with a light touch of his switch.

11.

Saunders and Emil arrived back in Cerrito at about five-o’-clock. A federalé dozed in a chair, his cap pulled down over his eyes. Two Marines ambled by him, M1903 Springfields slung over their shoulders. Saunders didn’t want any trouble with American troops. He knew the Marines’ capabilities and further understood they’d shoot him without question.

“Emil, can I keep Bandito while I’m here?” Saunders dismounted.

“Si, Señor. But let me bring him back to the stable tonight so he can eat.”

“Gracias!” Saunders said, thumbing out the remainder of the payment for Emil’s services plus a little more.

“Ah, some Spanish! ¡Usted es bueno! Bien! And thank you for this.”

“Da nada!” Saunders winked and Emil laughed as he departed.

Saunders ambled back to his room above the cantina. He discovered one of his tells, a match tucked into the door, now on the floor. That, and the smell of American cigarettes confirmed someone had been in his room.

Saunders went through the items he’d left in the room, but they remained in tidy piles, The room had been searched; someone lifted things to look at them before replacing them. Saunders set down his rucksack and sat on the bed before lying down for a late afternoon siesta, surprised at how tired he felt.

§

Knocking. Slightly louder. Emil’s voice hushed through the door. “Señor? It is Emil. Wake up, Señor.” Another small knock.

Saunders awoke, groggy, in darkness, his watch indicating 8:30 PM. Noise from the cantina below heralded a crowd of imbibers. He reached for one of his Colts and padded to the door. “That you, Emil?” he whispered hoarsely.

“Si, Señor. Can I please come in?”

Saunders opened the door a crack, his pistol behind him and then further to let Emil enter the room. Saunders lit an oil lamp on the table.

“What is it?”

“I need you to follow me, Señor. Pack your belongings and I can explain when we get there.”

“There? What’s that mean?”

“Mi Padre can tell you.”

“Mi Padre? Your father?” Saunders’ grabbed Emil’s shoulders. “Take me to him.”

Saunders quickly packed his rucksack, donning the shoulder holster rig over his shirt and then covering it with his bush jacket. Emil and he descended the stairs, the raucous noise of the cantina masking their footsteps and fading as Emil took Saunders to his stable.

Inside at a table lit by two candles sat the Padre they’d met earlier in the day. A bottle of red wine and three glasses rested between the candles. The Padre’s face brightened when he saw Saunders. “Please, sit.”

Emil poured them all a drink of red table wine, and he tapped his glass against Saunders. The wine was young and tight. The tannins tightened his throat.

He winced. “It’s a long way from absinthe.”

“What is this?”

“A drink in Paris.”

“I know nothing of such things.” Emil tossed back his own wine.

“What are you doing here, Señor Richelieu?” The Padre nodded once.

“Please, Monsieur Richelieu. And I’m a reporter.” Saunders’ heartrate increased and he emphasized the French, if only to maintain his own front and keep the lie convincing.

The Padre leaned forward. “Did you notice when you looked around there are not many dogs?”

Saunders considered this with a furrowed brow.

“Not even a mangy cur would live in Cerrito. Do you know why?”

“No.”

“Because the entire town is loco. The women. The drinking. The fighting. All of it didn’t exist before American interests awoke this sleepy hamlet. My home. You know what, Seńor Richelieu, I don’t believe you are a reporter or even a spiritual pilgrim. Emil told me of your quest. We know you are a treasure hunter, so please, don’t dally with the explanation.”

Saunders sprang to his feet and drew one of his pistols.

“And you’re not a real priest. Sure, your duds make you look like one and your talk might be confusing to anyone who tried to listen too hard, but the message is hidden, which is the point. What’s your angle?” Then he turned to Emil, “How long you been working for Atchison?”

Emil and the Padre’s eyes darted between Saunders and each other. “I-I don’t know—”

“Sacré Bleu! The hell you don’t. Atchison connects me with you. You take me out of town on a wild goose chase for an entire day so Rosa can search my room. She was careful about it, I admit; only the scent of the Chesterfield cigarettes Atchison gives her betrayed it. You and Rosa are both on the take from him.”

Emil pleaded with Saunders, his eyes red. “Si, but for different reasons. We are all trying to survive here. Rosa goes along with Atchison for what she believes it can get her, namely out of here. He is a paramour, nothing else. I work for him to keep tabs on his activities in Cerrito to report to my father.” He gestured towards the Padre. “And Atchison vets every newcomer in the town.”

“It’s always a femme fatale…lemme guess, United Fruit’s operation is two-fold; bananas and the associated profits, and as a cover for the Marines to find the Amulet.”

“Si. The two dead you saw when you arrived were shot by Atchison’s Marines for impeding their searches.”

Saunders pointed at the Padre. “Emil admitted to me Amulet is known in the village. Out with it: Where’s the damn thing?”

The Padre sighed. “I hid the Amulet in plain sight inside of the church among the Rosary beads which adorn the statue of the Virgin Mary.”

“Just give it to Atchison, then. He’d have it and be done with it.”

“I refuse to cooperate with the Americans for what they’ve done to the townspeople and surrounding area. I’ve hoped they’ll leave, but the Amulet has brought nothing but bad luck to Cerrito by United Fruit and the American Marines coming here. Cerrito is cursed so long as the Amulet remains in town. Because of its very existence the town has descended into madness. I was a joker to believe I could protect it. All I want is for it to be gone.”

“Why have you held onto it for so long?”

“Because what if the rumors of it are true?! What if it can prolong life even if it drives the wearer insane? Does the American military need that kind of power?!”

Saunders downed his wine. “I don’t believe in fairy tales, legends or wives talking outta’ turn. I’m only here because my employer sent me. Even if I do recover it, the Americans will not leave Cerrito.”

“No, but they will stop hunting for it and hurting us. The curse will be lifted. Even if a Frenchman delivers it to a discerning collector, where it goes from there is none of my concern, a mad priest who rides a donkey.”

“Please, Señor. It took us a moment to trust you.” Emil again implored.

None so blind as those who will not see. Reverberated in Saunders head as he calmed down. He holstered his pistol and took his seat. He packed his Petersen and puffed away while his mind turned over. Then it came to him in a rush. It can’t be that easy… Saunders thought.

“What’s the plan, mes ami?”

The Padre refilled their glasses and gripped Saunders’ arm. His gaze bored into Saunders’ eyes. Two desperate men with very different needs. “Rosa will distract Atchison and I’ll get you into the church. But understand, there are other priests—real ones—you must contend with. I can’t speak for how the real brothers in the cloisters will react. But if you do it tonight while they sleep, and remain undiscovered, take it. Take the Amulet as far from here as possible. But don’t destroy it, otherwise you will live with the curse forever. It cannot be buried or thrown in a river. It’s why I haven’t done away with it. But someone like you could get us out of this by taking it far away.”

“I’ll have of Bandito ready in a few moments.” Emil offered.

End Part 6. Tune in next week for another installment!

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The Logbook went over 250 subscribers this weekend.

Who would have thought since I want to quit almost constantly?

With more than 100 articles to date, please take a stroll through the older posts. Like. Share. Subscribe. I can’t do it without you.

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Thank you for your support and continued readership.

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There are ponds, stands of trees, and, in some places, forests. Of course, some developers currently want to erase more of the landscape in the interest of building more homes, but isn’t that always the case? Why keep anything when a dollar can be made. It’s why corporations exist, you know?

My back yard abuts a pond stocked with Bass and Crappie, Sunfish and Bluegills. You wouldn’t want to eat any of these because of the chemical runoff from the golf courses which wind their way through the neighborhood, but, coupled with a few beers, it makes for some fun catch-and-release in the evening hours .

Admittedly, I’m not much of an angler, though I periodically enjoy fly fishing. My son, however, is a rabid enthusiast, and we’ve enjoyed many moments together on tributaries both small and wide in pursuit of elusive fish. He is patient with me, even when my luck bests his for he is the better fisherman.

The other night, my son and I fished the pond and reminisced earlier fishing trips on wide rivers, him teaching me, as he always does, the finer points of fly-fish angling. If there is anything better than a cigar, a good drink, and a steady companion on an ebullient summer evening, I have yet to find it.

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The following morning I awoke with the final monologue of Norman Maclean’s 1976 novella, A River Runs Through It, in my head, though I don’t know why. It’s been years since I read the story. Would that Robert Redford would have found me to adapt my books to tell a similar tale, though Maclean would write circles around me.

The quote:

_{“Of course, now I am too old to be much of a fisherman, and now of course I usually fish the big waters alone, although some friends think I shouldn’t. Like many fly fishermen in western Montana where the summer days are almost Arctic in length, I often do not start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.
Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.
I am haunted by waters.”}

I know I’m aging. I know I’m being confronted by the life’s limitations as one grows older. I am not yet in the same frame as Maclean when he wrote this amazing, metaphorical closing to his seminal work, but I identify with its message. Then it came to me.

Data centers. Water consumption. The destruction of the environment. None of has ever concerned any Presidential administration, less so under Trump.

Data centers are built in rural areas and often approved in secret without discussion. These areas are abundant in water and beautiful terrain, but low in financial capital.

In many cases, the rural communities rubber-stamp the construction of a data center for small profits. The money is spent, the money is made, and the carnival moves on, the long-term damage and consequences be damned.

Data centers are modern fracking.

To that point, the very spot Maclean wrote about is now being considered for both a gold mine and an AI data center. If approved, there will be no Montana to ogle. Nothing nature provided will be held in awe.

We have more data centers already than our next three competitors, so where do we need a further advantage? Because you might want to investigate how these are being financed since your 401k is likely rolled into them. If AI doesn’t turn a profit, guess what happens to your retirement? It’s all going into Kevin O’ Leary’s pocket.

As usual, we’ve been sold a lie. There’s no AI requirement in our lives. If you don’t subscribe to it you will not get left behind, promise. With some data centers as large as 40K acres and utilizing 7.5 gigawatts of power, we don’t need these things.

I worry. I worry about the future for my granddaughter. I worry what will this planet look like in the wake of the greediest people who ever lived lining their pockets until the very end. I worry it will never be enough, so there will always be something to consume.

I want impossibly rich people to use their power and influence for good. God, how much will satiate you?

I want the humans on this earth to come to their senses. If we don’t we will be haunted by our decisions as the water dries up and is syphoned off for ill-gotten gains.

I want the countryside to remain unchanged. But I know the answer to that desire.

Still, I want a river to run through it.

Thanks for sticking with me.

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Cerrito, Uruguay. June 1927.

The building marked Guardia Civil indicated the local police station. There were a few local cops, a bunch of white enforcer types, and a small complement of United States Marines. Saunders estimated a Platoon, judging by the numbers, but he didn’t exactly see them in formation.

“In here, gringo.” A voice called from an adjacent room.

Behind a desk sat a U.S. Marine 1^st Lieutenant. Slim, fit, officious, with a small moustache Saunders noted despite the sweltering heat didn’t sweat very much. The officer’s uniform, complete with jodhpurs, was wilted, however, but he wore a tie including a tie bar. Saunders guessed the officer ensured his men do, too. A whistle on a chain was tucked into his breast pocket. A campaign hat hung on the wall and a swagger stick rested on the desk next to his propped-up feet.

“Name’s First Lieutenant Lance Atchison. Gimme your paperwork.” Atchison held out his hand and Saunders produced the items from his pack as directed. Over Atchison’s shoulder, behind a gated portico, was a cell repurposed as a well-organized armory. A Lewis light machinegun rested on its bipod on top of a table. Several of its drum magazines were stacked beside it.

Atchison opened Saunders’s credentials, turned the photo upwards and held it out to match the picture to the man standing before him. Saunders’ scruffy beard offset the photo, which was a good thing given the paperwork was artificially aged and the photo was less than a month old.

Saunders extended his hand. “Micheal Richelieu, French Free Press.”

“French, huh? What brings you to this part of the world? It’s a bit off the beaten path.”

The springs in Atchison’s chair groaned as he removed his feet from the desk to crush out the last of his cigarette. The yellow walls rendered any residual smoke indistinguishable. He tossed Saunder’s credentials on the desk and slid them back to him.

“Good thing we bailed you guys out in the big one, eh?”

“Three years late, but better to have been to the party, non, mon ami?”

“We’re not friends.”

“My loss, apparently.” Saunders retrieved his identification documents and returned them to his pack.

“Again, what’s your business in Cerrito?”

“I’m covering United Fruit operations to report back to France for a potential partnership and investment.”

Atchison eyed Saunders a moment then stood from behind his battered desk, the hobnails of his riding boots scratching the wooden floor as he walked across the room. He donned his campaign hat, placed his swagger stick under his arm, and stepped into the morning sun. “C’mon, Michael—can I call you that?—I’ll show you around.”

Saunders shouldered his rucksack to balance it on one shoulder. They strolled side-by-side.

“We Marines are here to ensure American interests remain undisturbed. What happens at the local level is their problem unless they make it our problem.”

“Do you ever make it your problem?” Saunders asked as he saw two handcuffed men being marched by the local police.

Atchison gave a closed-lipped smile, accentuated by his thin moustache. “Rarely.”

“And United Fruit? They don’t pay you?”

“No. They have their own security and enforcement apparatus.”

“You’re Marines are for presence, then?”

“Insurance.” Atchison winked.

“Lieutenant. When I arrived, I saw two men, I assume they were men, under ponchos or canvas laid out against a wall. Does this kind of thing regularly occur?” Saunders pronounced Atchison’s rank as ‘Left-Tenant.’

“Two men dead in Cerrito? Sure. It’s a rough town. Lots of disagreements.”

“And United Fruit is supposed to provide for the local workers in their enterprise?”

“I suppose. Payroll isn’t my problem. The overall security of Americans and associated interests is.”

They wandered through the town to the outskirts of the banana groves where armed members of the United Fruit security stood overwatch while groups of local men and women picked the fruit and placed it in large crates.

“The crates get taken to the dock at which you arrived, are shipped downstream to the train head at Belén, and then taken to the Buenos Aires on the coast for shipping. It helps to pick the bananas when they’re very green to ensure they stay fresh. This is but one grove. They extend up the hill.” Atchison motioned with his swagger stick away from their current spot and Saunders could see people further up doing the picking.

“Would you say things are reasonably secure? I know my articles will influence potential French investment in this area of the world, but if they can do so without committing French military forces, so much the better. Of course, I’m not statesman.” Saunders chuckled.

Saunders continued. “Is this your first assignment in South America?”

Atchison sniffed. “Here, yes. But I was with Butler in Haiti and several other backwaters. One is much the same as the other. Poor, uneducated people who need a steady hand. Thank God for the United States Marine Corps.”

“How long have you been a Marine?”

Atchison removed a brass trench lighter and trench art cigarette case with a German belt buckle braised on the front. He offered one to Saunders, a hand-rolled job which impressed Saunders with its taught construction, lit their cigarettes, then exhaled a long blast of smoke. “I don’t know. I was issued.”

The smoke hung languidly in the humid air.

Atchison continued his tour. “The town—more of a hamlet—was here before United Fruit, but the company has made vast improvements to it.” He pointed out three warehouses, a dock operation, small residencies, and a restaurant and cantina. The central building was the Catholic Church in the center of town, stark whitewashed against the drab yellow haphazard urban sprawl. Atchison brought Saunders to it and they went inside.

“The townspeople pray here for deliverance.”

“And you? Do you pray for forgiveness perhaps?” Saunders didn’t look at Atchison, but was impressed at the interior of the church, it’s reverent silence hanging in the bare wooden rafters, oiled and brown against its whitewashed walls and ceiling.

“I have nothing to be ashamed of Richelieu. I knew you were a Huguenot.” Atchison sneered the last part.

To the left of the altar was a small alcove for remembering the dead where a cascade of lit candles sat in front of a large statue of the Madonna and Child.

“Is that the Grotto?” Saunders pointed toward it.

“You’ve heard of it? Not many make their way to the Grotto. It’s a pilgrimage of sorts. But, no, that’s not it.” Atchison walked outside of the church and onto the stone steps, colored red by the dust. He shaded his eyes from the afternoon sun pointed with the swagger stick to the distant elevations beyond mist-enshrouded treetops. “It’s up there. But you can get just as much out of praying down here and save yourself the trip. Not that any of it matters.”

Saunders looked in the direction Atchison indicated, then his eyes focused on the barrio squalor of the town. “Tell me again how your presence coincides with United Fruit? It strikes me the true cost of United Fruit ventures equates to poverty, exploitation, and cruelty. All for the dollar and U.S. government supported financial speculations that keep countries poor and corrupt, so they’ll ‘require’ U.S. assistance.”

Atchison sighed. He squared with Saunders and frowned. “Our purpose is to protect American interests. United Fruit is an American company. American companies provide for the world. We’re doing good on the behalf of international relations. See?” He bounced his eyebrows once for weight.

Saunders scribbled a few notes in his pocket notebook. “I’m sure my country’s investors will view it the same way.” He closed the book, slid it into the breast pocket of his jacket and gave it a small pat.

“You drink, Micheal?”

“Oui.”

They moseyed across the dirty road to a cantina. Inside sat several patrons either starting to drink or in the process of drowning their sorrows. A raven-haired, beautiful olive-skin woman stood behind the bar, red lips pouting sensuality. She eyed Saunders but quickly turned to Atchison.

“Hola, Señor Lieutenant!” She smiled, but Saunders detected a melancholy in her tone. She and Atchison were a “thing” but not because she enjoyed Atchison’s company. It was a one-sided relationship for Atchison, and she was in it for what she could gain. It occurred to Saunders she and he had being mercenaries in common.

“This is the lovely Rosa. Dos cervézas, por favor, Rosa.” Atchison snapped his fingers to hold up two digits with fore and middle fingers. She glowered at him as she popped two caps on amber beer bottles. They were room temperature, but it beat nothing, and there was certainly no draft beer.

“Au chantée, madàme.” Saunders took her hand and kissed the back of it in an exaggerated greeting he hoped wasn’t too ostentatious. She blushed through her olive skin and shook a cigarette from a package of American Chesterfield cigarettes.

Atchison’s face developed a pink hue and the corner of his upper lip twitched, further confirming Saunders’s suspicions and the Lieutenant steered Saunders away to a table. Rosa passed a subdued wink to Saunders and returned to serving other patrons.

“How do I arrange a trip to the grotto?” Saunders asked. He sipped his beer, a South American copy of a German pilsner.

Atchison pointed to a young man of about sixteen seated at a table, three empty bottles in front of him while he sipped a fourth. “That lad over there can take you.”

Saunders eyed him. “Recommendations for lodging?”

“There are rooms above the cantina. Ask Rosa and she’ll—”

Two gunshots echoed outside, startling everyone in the bar. Atchison sprang to his feet, unfastening the holster for his M1917 Colt revolver. “That’s my cue,” he said tucking his swagger stick into the back of his belt before striding out the door. “Enjoy the pistos.”

People returned to their drinks, the gunfire a regular part of the town’s tapestry.

9.

“Excuse moi, mon ami?” Saunders tapped the young man on the back, setting his beer on the table and offering the remainder of Atchison’s to the lad.

The kid shrugged. “No habla, Fancais.”

“Ah. You know enough French to answer, no? Would it be better in English?” Saunders delivered fluently.

The youngster’s face registered his surprise. “Si! Englese muy bueno!”

“Good. I’m looking for a guide to the Grotto of Lordes.”

The young man gave Saunders a once over, impressed with his English. “To the Grotto of Lordes? Si, I can take you, but I’m going to tell you now, Señor, it is a challenge to get there. To even say your prayers takes physical courage. Besides, it isn’t a place of miracles, and some people come away sadder than when they started. Why do you want to go?”

“I’m looking for something.”

“Si, isn’t everyone?” He downed his remaining beer and took up Atchison’s old one.

Saunders didn’t reply.

“Can you ride a horse?” The young man continued.

“Yes, I’m experienced with horses.”

“Good. It will take a day to get to the Grotto and back, but we must leave at first light. Follow me.”

“Hang on. What’s your name?” Saunders asked.

“Emil.” He stopped.

“I’m Micheal.”

They shook hands. “How much?”

“Five hundred.”

Saunders snorted. “Mon Dieu! Outrageous.”

“How else will you get there?”

“I’m sure someone can tell me.”

“Only I have made it to the Grotto, and anyone else will be a gamble.”

“Two fifty. Half up front.”

“Today.”

“Tomorrow morning.

“Done. Now come,” Emil motioned.

Saunders traced behind Emil as they wove through the crowded streets and down an alley to a small barn and paddock where four horses stood in the shade with sleepy eyes, their tails swishing flies from their backs.

“Meet me here tomorrow morning before dawn. I will have Bandito saddled for you.” Emil pointed to a bay gelding.

Saunders estimated the horse stood 15.3 hands, 16 at a stretch. It was athletic, skinny, but didn’t appear malnourished. Saunders approached the horse and looked it over. The animal stood without interest or engagement. Saunders knew looks could be deceiving with horses, having learned the hard way during his cavalry training at Fort Reily, Kansas, before heading overseas in 1917.

Saunders nodded. “Mañana,” and walked back to the bar where Rosa greeted him with a smile.

End Part 5. Tune in next week for another installment!

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My father died twenty-six years ago. He would have turned 84 last Wednesday. I don’t think of him that often, but this time of year it’s inevitable. He taught me the significance of Memorial Day and every year we would sojourn to Arlington Cemetery and then downtown to the Vietnam Memorial. It was generally quiet and somber. He didn’t say much as he visited old friends and silently asked what war was for and if there was any value in it. I recall it rained a lot.

He was rejecting Protestant who eventually became a Buddhist by way of Unitarian Universalism. One needn’t wonder why I grew up spiritually restless, at times confused. He was proud of his military career and then dedicated his life to being ethical humanist who promoted peace, love, and joy. A deep thinker, you can read more about some of his work here.

Like him, I grew up not knowing who I was, uncomfortable with becoming something or someone without guided definitions to ensure I was doing so correctly. Not adverse to risk, but afraid of doing things wrong. Further, like him, I am plagued with a considerable sense of detachment from people around me because I’ve never fit in anywhere, constantly question my worth, and have never felt I was good at anything. Like him, I loathe clothes shopping.

For those who enjoy a writer’s vulnerability, there you go.

I find I sit like him. Ponder life as he might. All with an incessant sweet tooth tied to a burgeoning middle-age waist line. I remove my glasses and rub my eyes. I rest my elbow on my knee, my chin on my hand, and recognize I have more in common with him than I know.

I wonder what my father would think of how things developed in the intervening years.

As my own state of Virginia continues building its staggering 600-plus data centers without any civic discussion or debate, our country hurtles along with AI and its attendant bullshit being shoved down our collective throats. My father would be saddened to witness humanity being debased as vast swaths of beautiful countryside are permanently removed from our landscape.

Artificial Intelligence (the name says it all) is our supposed savior. These data centers, some larger than Manhattan, are environmentally damaging and allegedly emit more heat than an atom bomb.

For those who deny climate change, with data centers the world is about to get hotter regardless. For those who believe, this is one more man-made contribution to our demise. I can’t see any benefit to having these and also know tech corporations don’t care. We can’t have it both ways, and someone is getting rich, which in America is all that matters.

My dad would be shocked at the gaudiness of our White House. I viewed it first-hand this week as the front lawn of the people’s house is being turned into a spectacle for a UFC fight along with the destroyed East Wing, all in the name of hubris.

He’d marvel that our Secretary of Defense, a ghoulish, misogynistic, war monger and racist, continues to claim victory in an unending war of choice which to date has cost an unknown (read: hidden) number of casualties and the American taxpayer $29 Billion US. Lord knows what could be done with all that money.

He’d be disgusted that Ken Paxton, a convicted child rapist, is running for a Senate seat in Texas.

He once told me assholes were put on the earth to keep things interesting.

My father and I share the same sense of humor. He’d see the irony in these men without integrity or concern for a legitimate reputation being horrible people and then going into politics. I’d laugh with him, and further opine that being a politician is an all-else-fails option. It certainly pays better than being an author and as a fellow writer he knew there was no money in this venture.

He believed we’re all searching for a sense of belonging. Having a sense of place. That if you get pulled into the awfulness of the world and people you won’t see the good around you. That’s a hard thing to do and makes finding your spot yet more difficult. But it’s worth the journey, if only to honor the sacrifice of those killed in war whose lives were taken from them so that we could live our own.

As I continue along the mourning path, the world remains a curious place. I’m not sure my father would be impressed, but he’d be plenty interested. I would have loved to discuss the future with him over a bowl of Ramen, one of his favorite meals.

But I’m glad he didn’t live to see this.

For his sake.

Thanks so much for sticking with me!

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Miami, Florida. May 1927.

“You must be Saunders. James Broadside.”

He wore a linen suit and finely woven straw fedora, shirt open at the neck. Of average height and build, sun bronzed skin, he was unremarkable, the kind of man who could blend in anywhere. Saunders had no choice but to trust him, though his sensitivities were heightened due to his affability.

He extended his hand to Saunders who noticed callouses on the knuckles. Yet more peculiarities. “Good to meet you, Broadside.”

“Follow me and we’ll get you settled. Do you have any immediate requirements? Drink? Toilet? A girl?” Broadside laughed at the final question.

Saunders mused, “No. I’m fine.”

“Just trying to get ahead of requirements.” Broadside stepped off with Saunders behind him. They arrived outside of the train terminal to a waiting car. A large man sat in the front seat reading a paper as they approached, but Saunders noted the driver’s eyes kept careful watch over the folded corner. He probably hadn’t changed pages since he put it up to his face.

Broadside opened the door and Saunders got in the back, Broadside sliding into the front next to the big driver. Miami was bustling with people moving about, but the driver dropped the paper, honked the horn and slid away from the curb, the people in front of him be damned as he sped away to their next stop.

The car wove through clogged streets and if Saunders had any hope of memorizing the route it was dashed by each block and building being of the same construction and the sea of pastel colors. Saunders spent most of the 20-minute ride looking out the window, taking in the rhythm of a new city, and occasionally scrutinizing the driver, of whom he could only see his back.

The big man’s head had three ripples of fat on the back of it, the head and neck being a continuous mass to a tight, white-collared shirt that strained to keep everything inside. Beads of sweat sat atop the driver’s bald dome like small raindrops on a hot roof. Otherwise, they drove in silence and arrived at a non-descript pastel building. Broadside exited the car and motioned for Saunders to follow. The driver idled once they were inside the building.

Ascending the stairs, Saunders heard the wooden steps creak underfoot as Broadside stepped onto the landing and turned to unlock a door. It swung open into a comfortably furnished apartment. The French door windows were open; a breeze jostled the light linen curtains.

“These are your accommodations.”

Saunders surveyed the room. “Complete with bathroom? How modern.”

“Funny.” Broadside sat in a rattan chair opposite a table and couch. Saunders moved to the couch when Broadside pointed to it.

“Mr. Donahue said you’d have a list?”

“Here.” Saunders handed Broadside a list of items for the trip.

Broadside eyed it and nodded slowly until he reached the bottom and his eyes opened. “Bush jacket…sewing kit…Two M1911’s? Fifty rounds of ammunition and associated magazines? Double shoulder holsters? What’re you gonna’ to do down there, rob the Bank of Buenos Aires?!”

“Can you get them?”

“I can acquire everything on the list, the pistolas will take some time, a few days. That’ll work fine while we create your paperwork.”

“Do I gotta’ stay here?”

“You can go anywhere you want. The restaurants and nightlife are what you’d expect.” Broadside stood. “Just be wary of the señoritas. They’re generally whores, and work for someone unsavory.”

Saunders stood with him.

“I’ll be back later this afternoon. Be ready to have a picture taken and sign some of your documents.”

“I got nothing else planned.”

Broadside chuckled once, then shut the door softly behind him.

Saunders explored his part of Miami, sitting at a café, drinking strong Cuban coffee, and taking in the sights of a bustling town. He decided one place in the world was much the same as another, except Miami was cloaked in a sultry veil trying to be something more than it was. Like a bordello that had been spritzed with expensive perfume to class it up.

Every person was struggling to exist against the backdrop of their dreams, some fresh and inspiring, others shattered and useless. Most wouldn’t achieve them, but those who did remained an inspiration. This city was a place one could disappear or become invisible, but that wasn’t unlike Paris, or St. Petersburg, or Vienna. The countries differed but the human landscape remained similar, and that provided Saunders an edge because people didn’t change.

For the second time during the undertaking Saunders evaluated the job against his own misgivings. Once again, he’d work in a distressed part of the world, capitalizing on chaos on behalf of someone else to achieve—what? Their desires? Provide for their closure? Saunders supposed he could separate himself from the ethical tendrils of his work and just view it as temporary, that he wasn’t compromising on his own code, but something about this excursion gnawed at him. He packed the Petersen and lit it, his mind churning through thoughts as people scurried about oblivious to his ruminations or even their own futures. Small flakes of pipe tobacco fell onto the green linen tablecloth, and he lightly brushed them aside.

Pretty women passed in each direction, some so stunning to make Saunders gawk if he wasn’t careful. He thought about the women he’d known in his life, how none could keep up with him, or that’s what he told himself. The good thing about whores is that you always knew where you stood and allowed him to keep real relationships at a distance. Mere transactions to satiate his sexual predilections. It was easier that way, despite sometimes feeling lonely. That was another item he kept to himself. He wasn’t looking for love in any case.

Then he again considered Donahue. Self-important, insecure, arrogant. Not the kind of company Saunders wanted to keep. He was sure Donahue viewed him the same way. Saunders was a tool, a specific one, but an implement to achieve a goal. He’d be discarded when Donahue got what he wanted and no longer had use for him.

Behind that was Cory Liquorice. Self-serving and conceited yet kept Saunders on a short list. Odd that he’d found Saunders so quickly to summon him to Donahue’s in Boston. Knowing both men unsettled Saunders. They complimented each other so well and he determined he’d be grateful when he was finished with this job. He hoped they’d be as happy to see him leave as he would to go, more Donahue than Liquorice whom Saunders doubted he’d ever see again.

Saunders spotted Broadside crossing the street to meet him.

“Ready for your snaps?” Broadside smiled.

“Only if it’s a closeup.”

They returned to Saunders’s apartment and Broadside produced a sheaf of paperwork for Saunders to sign. The quality of the forgeries impressed him. “I only hope my signature looks European enough.”

“French, more specifically.” Broadside winked, “Monsieur Richelieu.”

Saunders nodded in agreement ensuring each of his signatures looked alike.

“I’ll return tomorrow with your documentation and the items from your list. It was easier to score the pistols than I thought. I’ll also have your ticket for your next leg. The boat departs tomorrow evening.”

Again, Saunders was impressed. “Very efficient operation you got here, Broadside.”

“In and out.” Broadside closed the document wallet. “Enjoy your night. I recommend the little Cuban joint on the corner. Just follow the music.” He jabbed in the direction with his thumb.

“I’ll keep it in mind, thanks.”

Broadside opened the door and his footfalls faded as he descended the stairs. Through the apartment’s French door windows Saunders peeked through the curtains and watched Broadside get into the car with the same driver as before and they drove away.

Saunders heard the music and strolled down the street towards it, and, he hoped, an evening with the Cuban equivalent of Mary. The girls had to make money, too.

The following morning, Broadside summarized the plan.

“You’ll arrive in Buenos Aries and pass customs quickly. You don’t have anything to declare, but keep the pistolas under wraps, hey? Go to American Express and cable Mr. Donahue that you made it. Don’t need to worry about a confirmation message. From there you’ll board a train which’ll take you out of the city and parallel the Rio Uruguay to a dock at Belén. Then you’ll take a United Fruit boat for the ride on the Rio Cerrito upriver to the town. Should take you a couple of days. When you arrive in town, go to the police station and check in.”

“Are they expecting me?” Saunders asked, his voice now carrying a French accent.

“No, but you’ll be an unfamiliar face and immediately stand out with that accent. Don’t go wandering around in that town without the authorities knowing who you are.”

Broadside extended his hand once again and gripped Saunders’s. “Good luck, whatever you’re doing.”

“Bon chance, you mean?”

Broadside released his handshake and turned away from Saunders to walk down the dock as Saunders ascended the gangplank to board the ship.

Broadside never looked back.

The voyage from Miami to Buenos Aries took ten days with a stopover in Grenada to onload crates of dark rum. Saunders traveled in the small first-class area of the steamship, a few rungs higher than a tramp steamer, but its primary cargo was goods vice people, and he passed the time reading and playing cards in the evening, taking some of the other patrons for money. The trip was otherwise uneventful.

Saunders arrived in Buenos Aries and whisked through customs and into the city without any fanfare. His passport card was stamped by a disinterested police officer who gave the documents a cursory glance. Of course, Broadside’s people manufactured a compelling set of credentials complete with visa stamps from other areas of the world and appropriate folds, frays, and fading for a seasoned traveler.

Saunders went to American Express and sent the cable to Donahue as instructed.

“Arrived BA. Stop. 8. Stop.”

He then withdrew some local currency and followed the train schedule Broadside provided him and bought a ticket. The train ride, a no-frills conveyance compared to his earlier vessels, took a day and stopped at the large river port town of Belén. Catching a boat to Cerrito from Belén in Argentina and into Uruguay was easy since every boat seemed to either come or go on behalf of United Fruit. The further inland he traveled, the less people cared about who he was. If there was a border check point, Saunders never saw it.

Saunders was unsure how far outside of Cerrito they were when he smelled something unmistakable. Dead human bodies.

Cerrito was a small town appropriated by United Fruit as a base of operations and the relationship was impermeant and transactional. Once the company finished its harvesting it would have no further use of the land or the people. The town reeked of desperation with an undercurrent of life being lived cheaply. Death was a part of the fabric and the town’s stench increased as he got closer. Upon arrival, it was clear the bodies were not fresh, just that the smell impregnated the landscape intermingled with forlorn desperation.

He stepped onto the dock and gained his bearings. The scent of death was confirmed when he saw the bodies of two men under canvas ponchos bloating in the hot sun. Disinterested people passed these as if they were castoff pieces of wood.

White clouds pocked the blue sky pocked, the air dense and hazy. Nearly every building was painted a rusty yellow, the roofs red ceramic manufactured with ubiquitous ruddy dirt and clay. United Fruit must have gotten a volume discount on the wall covering.

End Part 4. Tune in next week for another installment!

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