The Rampage of Ryan O'Hara (12 page)

At the barracks, Ryan walked in and identified himself to the duty NCO who was manning the orderly room. “Morning, Staff Sergeant. Name’s Master Sergeant Ryan O’Hara. I’m looking for Sergeant Major Adams. Is he around?”

“Yes, he is, Master Sergeant. I’ll page him. By the way, I’m Everett Tuttle.”

“Pleased to meet you, Tuttle,” Ryan said as he shook the staff sergeant’s hand.

Tuttle picked up the phone and dialed. “Sergeant Major, there’s a Master Sergeant O’Hara here to see you.”

There was a momentary pause and then Tuttle stated, “Uh, I don’t know if I should address him in that manner, Sergeant Major. It may not sit well, if you know what I mean. Yes, I know what you’re saying. You are a sergeant major, but I’m only a staff sergeant and he’s a master sergeant and I…Yes, Sergeant Major, I’ll tell him…Yes, in those exact words. Roger that.”

Ryan looked amused. Staff Sergeant Tuttle, whose face had turned crimson, was obviously uncomfortable about something that Crawfish, who was an abrasive and unmerciful rib artist, had said to him.

“I’m sorry, Master Sergeant, but the sergeant major wants me to tell you, uh…to uh…”

“Spit it out, Tuttle. Nothing he says will surprise me,” Ryan interjected.

“He told me to tell you to get your sawed-off, slimy, green, Guinness-drinking, Harp ass down to the team room before he comes up here and orders me to stomp you into the ground,” the staff sergeant replied.

Ryan feigned anger and stared into the eyes of the young staff sergeant. “Okay, then. I think I’ll just stick around here and wait for that fuck-stick bitch to come so he can order you and me to go to fist city. Waddaya think of that, big sarge?”

Ryan was surprised when Tuttle got up from the desk. His face had changed from the crimson of unease to the red of anger. He obviously didn’t like being challenged by this intruder who had invaded his orderly room, causing him to be set up by the sergeant major, who, like Ryan, enjoyed employing this type of rough humor on unsuspecting subordinates.

As he approached Ryan, Crawfish appeared in the door. “Stand down, Tuttle. It’s okay. Ya gotta learn to relax and enjoy a little humor and not always be ready to scalp a bastard.”

Ryan grinned and said, “Always tryin’ to start shit, aren’t you, fucktard?”

“Yup, and you’re damned lucky I got down here in time to save you from this Injun ’cause on top of being a boxer, he’s Apache. He would have whooped yo grappling ass and then hung it upside down from the roof of the barracks as buzzard bait.” Crawfish laughed, his jab intended to denigrate Ryan’s wrestling background.

Ryan grinned, gave Crawfish a slap on the back of the head, and said to Tuttle, “I like your mettle, Staff Sergeant. Glad this asshole showed up in time to prevent me from having to extend my convalescent leave.”

Tuttle shook his head and chuckled as he returned to his desk, somewhat embarrassed at losing his cool but none the worse for wear.

Crawfish grabbed Ryan and led him out of the orderly room. “Come on, slugger, I want you to meet some of the guys before we shove off. Say, how about coming down to Phillips DZ with me? I’m not going up in the bird today, just observing landings from the ground.”

“I think I’ll take a rain check on that, Craw,” answered Ryan. “I’ve been on the road for a few days now. But if I can hang out in the team room and grab a little shut-eye, maybe we can hit the strip tonight and have a few brews.”

“Well, I’ll be go-to-hell and a big boohoo. Haven’t we turned into quite the lily?” Crawfish mocked. “Since when did a little sleep deprivation prevent you from going out to the DZ to watch a jump?”

“Gettin’ old, Craw. No excuses and nothin’ to prove. Just need some downtime before I press on.”

“No problem. You can use one of the racks. And if you get thirsty, I have a stash of sour mash under the sink. Help yourself,” Crawfish said.

After entering the team room and making introductions, Crawfish gave his team the order to saddle up. A few minutes later, Ryan was by himself and ready to go to work. As soon as he was sure that Crawfish and the rest of the team were out of the area, Ryan prepared to make his bomb.

He took the components from his carry bag, laid them on the table, and did a quick inventory. As he prepared to assemble the device, he saw a box of saline IV bags. Knowing that the addition of a water-based compound to the bomb would magnify the blast, Ryan decided to add the saline for extra effect.

Retrieving an ammo can he’d brought from Irwin, he used a drill to open two holes near the base of the can. The holes would serve as portals to accommodate the time fuse, which would connect the C-4 inside to the M-81 igniters on the outside. With the drilling complete, Ryan placed the saline bag on top of some nails
he’d spread along the bottom of the can and cut a piece of cardboard, which he laid on top of the saline.

Grabbing the two 5.56 mm blasting caps, Ryan fed two strands of time fuse into each of the rounds and carefully molded the two blocks of C-4 into a single block around them. Laying the molded block on top of the cardboard base, he covered it with the remaining nails and fed the rest of the cord through the holes in the can to facilitate attaching the initiating devises. Using hydrogel, he sealed the charge.

Finally, because he didn’t want to risk an accidental discharge prior to arriving and setting up the device, he taped the ends of the exposed chord, leaving off the M-81 ignition devices. He would attach these later, just prior to employing the device. Ryan locked the bomb in his carry bag and placed it in the trunk of his car.

Alone and with time to kill, Ryan located the bottle of sour mash that Crawfish had told him about and poured a double shot. He downed it in one gulp and retreated to one of the bunks for a nap, which seemed to end before it even started.

Ryan had slept for the better part of the afternoon but thought he’d just fallen off when the team room door burst open to the loud voices of the men returning from the HALO jump. They came in and started putting away their gear.

“Hey, cherry, did you get enough beauty sleep?” Crawfish asked as he appeared next to the bunk.

Ryan sat up and put his feet on the deck. “Yeah, Craw. Good as new and rarin’ to go.”

“Good. Shower up and get into some civvies. We’ll go out and grab a steak and then throw down some drinks.
A few of the boys want to tag along, so we’ll make an evening of it. We won’t stay late. I’m sure you want to get on the road early. Tomorrow’s a training day so we’ll be back by 2100. You can camp out here tonight if you want.”

“Excellent,” Ryan replied.

An hour later, they were on the strip outside the base at Smokey’s Down Range Grill. A steak dinner and several pitchers of beer later, Ryan, Crawfish, and the other four operators called it a night.

Ryan got up with the troops at 0430 and thanked his friend for the hospitality. As he passed the orderly room, he stuck his head in and saw Tuttle, who was busy looking over some paperwork. “Hey, Injun, see you around. Next time you better have your tomahawk ready ’cause I’m a comin’ in for the kill.”

Tuttle laughed as he waved Ryan off. “Anything you say, Master Sergeant. Stay safe.”

T
he other patrons in the coffee shop were annoyed. Gilbert Hayward had arrived at the establishment with three similarly attired, filthy street urchins who, like him, were spaced-out and unkempt. The smell of incense drifting from their corner booth was unpleasant and the shop soon emptied, as it often did when Gilbert and his followers showed up.

Although Sedona’s residents and most of its tourists shunned him, this small group of transients, dropouts, and losers always gravitated to Gilbert whenever he left his cabin and ventured into town. Having no meaningful purpose in life, Gilbert’s followers augmented their government SSI checks by selling street art and Marxist
pamphlets to anyone charitable enough to waste their money. Living rent-free in a couple of broken-down recreational vehicles on the outskirts of town, they were able to pool their funds, feed themselves, and still have enough money left over for the dope they needed in order to cope with their miserable lives.

On this particular day, Gilbert discussed the progress of his upcoming book and, as always, peppered the conversation with rationalizations for his destructive past. “I was a freedom fighter. My only desire was to unlock the chains of slavery binding the poor and release them from the yoke of the rich masters who were stealing the fruits of their labors,” he explained to his derelict disciples, who, because they were failures, were all too happy to listen to a tale that blamed the ills of the world on those who were successful.

Gilbert discussed the recent demise of his fellow revolutionaries Bill and Brenda Delgadillo, making them out to be noble freedom fighters. He suggested they’d been martyred for the betterment of mankind, completely brushing over any mention of the many victims who had left the earth prematurely at their murderous hands. “I don’t know who did this to my comrades, but I fear they may only be the first of many on a list of people’s advocates targeted for death by the rich and powerful,” he emphasized to his listeners, who were just high enough not to catch the paranoid turn that the conversation was taking.

Having lingered too long over several free refills, the group was finally asked to leave. After all, management was in business to make a profit, and the presence of riffraff on the premises was bad for the bottom line.

After exiting the shop and complaining to each other about the treatment they’d been subjected to by the reviled capitalist owners, the group promised to meet again the following week for another session.

R
yan pulled into Sedona in the early afternoon. After checking into a moderately priced hotel, he set about exploring the area. He found it pleasant. Nestled in the middle of some of Arizona’s most picturesque country, the popular vacation destination is surrounded by red sandstone formations and complemented by groves of pine, sycamore, and oak.

Replete with accommodations catering to both the rich and not so rich, Sedona is famous for the luxury hotels, spas, bed-and-breakfasts, restaurants, and golf course that have grown around it, making the town a
favorite retreat for people wanting to escape the stresses of everyday life.

After walking along the main street for a while, Ryan decided to take a ride to the outskirts of town. He wasn’t much interested in Native American art and jewelry, which seemed to be the main enterprise, preferring to take in some of the scenery that made the place famous.

He headed back to the hotel and got in his car to drive out to the Chapel of the Holy Cross. He’d heard about this iconic structure and decided it would be wise to take advantage of what might be the only opportunity he would ever have to visit it.

When the chapel came into view, he knew he’d made the right decision. He couldn’t think of a time when he’d seen a man-made structure that fit in so compatibly with the natural environment. Built near the top and into the side of two red rock cliffs, it towered gracefully with a large cross forming the facade from top to bottom.

Ryan parked his car and went into the chapel, which served as a tourist attraction, historical monument, and parish for local Catholics. He lit a candle and sat alone with his thoughts, looking through the window that framed the cross. He marveled at the beauty of the distant cliffs and valley below. The peacefulness of the moment was accentuated by the giant shadow of the cross cast upon the interior by the sun setting in the western sky.

Ryan enjoyed the spiritual calm of the chapel. Perhaps years ago, before the family tragedy, he’d experienced something similar. But if he did, he couldn’t remember.

His serenity was eventually interrupted by the gentle announcement that the chapel was about to close. Ryan regretted having to leave. He was relaxed and content in the environment of his long-lost Catholic faith and could have spent hours there enjoying the divinity that surrounded him.

On his way back into Sedona, Ryan decided to get a bite to eat at a country-western barbecue restaurant he’d seen earlier in the day. A good rack of ribs and a couple of ice-cold beers would help him relax before going back to the hotel and planning the next day’s activity, which was to locate Gilbert Hayward’s cabin in the woods.

After a leisurely dinner, Ryan retired to the bar for a nightcap. There was a band playing old hits and he lingered a little longer than planned because he found the little blonde vocalist cute. She was singing classic songs from the past, and if he didn’t know better, he’d have thought he was listening to Tanya Tucker or Crystal Gayle. Yeah, she was that good.

It was still early when he got back to the hotel so he didn’t turn in right away. Instead, he began thumbing through the different tourist brochures he found on the table in his room. One in particular caught his interest. It advertised hot air balloon rides. He picked up the phone and called in a reservation for the sunrise flight and was told a car would pick him up early the next morning.

I
t was still dark when the driver arrived to take Ryan out to the field where the balloon was being prepared for the first tour of the day. After a few basic safety instructions, Ryan and two other passengers—a couple of newlyweds—boarded the gondola and were soon aloft and drifting through the sky above Sedona. The rising sun cast auras of light around the golden spires and domes along the floor of the valley.

Totally consumed by the majesty of the natural wonder unfolding before his eyes, Ryan barely heard the names of Cathedral, Bell, and Coffee Pot rocks or the other landmarks pointed out by the guide. This
enchanted land was truly a natural treasure and Ryan hoped it would remain forever in its present state, uncontaminated by man.

Descending to the valley floor an hour and a half later, the guide pointed to a herd of deer scurrying through the trees away from a cougar basking on a nearby rock.