The Rampage of Ryan O'Hara (9 page)

Inez offered her hand and politely acknowledged Sal. “
Con mucho gusto
”

“It’s my honor, señora,” Sal replied.

Orlando offered Sal a seat. The big man looked around the cold apartment for a minute before speaking. He could see that Pablo’s concern for the well-being of his parents had merit. It was a wonder that the frail couple had survived in such a damp and unhealthy environment.

“I’m sorry, señor, but we don’t have anything to offer you. May I get you a glass of water?” Inez looked embarrassed. The proud Latina never thought she’d be in a position of not being able to offer food and drink to a guest.

“I’m fine, señora, but I think I can help you with something that may enable you to offer me a cup of
coffee the next time I visit you. I will definitely be visiting you from time to time.”

The couple looked puzzled as Sal continued, “I have a reputation for taking care of my employees even when they don’t work for me any longer. Pablo was a good employee and I can see that his predicament has put a horrendous hardship on the two of you. So to be brief and to the point, I am here to let you know that, from now on, you will have enough sustenance to enable you to live the dignified life that you deserve.

“Pablo has told me about your kindness to others. He is full of remorse about the difficulties that his choices in life have caused you and asked if I could help make your life a little easier.”

Orlando interrupted, “I don’t understand, Señor Sal. What did my son do for you that would make you want to help us like this?”

“Nothing special, señor. He was just a messenger in the business that I had at the time, but he was a good worker and we became friends. Why don’t we just leave it at that? You can rest assured that, as a friend of Pablo, my reasons for helping you are sincere.”

Sal spent about an hour in the flat with the Mendoras. He liked them. They were proud and decent people of good character. It was hard to convince them that they should accept his help, but by the time he got up to leave, he had called the landlord, who agreed to cancel the eviction pending an immediate deposit and agreement by Sal to pay the couple’s rent. Sal also gave them a thousand dollars for food and assured them that they would have their utilities back on by the following day.

As he mounted his Harley and rode away from the flat on Twenty-Fourth Street, he felt good. It wasn’t often that he could actually accomplish something positive. “Yeah,” he thought, “Jack Oldham would be proud.”

R
yan pulled off the interstate into the little town of Santa Nella, where he’d stopped in the past when driving from northern to southern California. It was just after eight in the morning and he figured it was as good a time as any to get something to eat. He’d driven about a hundred and twenty miles since leaving San Francisco and still had several hours to go before he’d reach Barstow. There was no way in hell he was going to continue on without fortifying himself with food and caffeine.

After gassing up, he stopped at a coffee shop and ordered country-fried steak and eggs. He savored a cup
of hot coffee as he waited for his breakfast. Removing the cell phone from his pocket, he dialed and waited.

The voice on the other end of the phone was gruff. “First Sergeant Washington speaking.”

“Good morning, Mr. President,” Ryan responded.

Theodore Roosevelt Washington, known as Rosie to his friends, laughed and replied, “Well, I’ll be damned. Where the hell you been, you little mick? I thought you done dropped off the planet.”

“No such luck, brother. I’ve been hanging loose for a while. Got banged up a bit on my last outing and have been taking a little time off. I’ve been up in San Fran visiting the homestead and renewing old acquaintances and thought I might drop in on you before I head east.”

“Hell yeah, man, I’d love to see you, and I know my woman would too. You can stay at our place and she’ll stuff you full of some good home cookin’.”

“Sounds good, ole buddy. You give Monique a hug for me and tell her I’m looking forward to some of her corn bread.”

“When do you expect to roll in?” asked Rosie.

Ryan thought for a moment. “Oh, I don’t know. Probably about four or five o’clock. I’m going to take my time and most likely stop again for lunch. I figure I’ll get a motel room tonight and come out to your place tomorrow.”

“No, you won’t. Y’all call me when ya get here. You’ll be stayin’ with us tonight. I don’t care what time it is,” Rosie countered.

“Okay, my brother, will do. See you later.”

“Bye.”

Ryan finished his breakfast, ordered some steaming hot split pea soup, paid his bill, and left the restaurant.

As he pulled onto the southbound interstate, he turned on the radio to a country-western station. The whiny sounds annoyed him. He longed for the days when Johnny Cash, Merle Haggard, Buck Owens, Tammy Wynette, and Loretta Lynn were the kings and queens of country.

Ryan’s gloom increased as he drove south. Much of the farmland along the highway was barren. A wasteland of dead trees and empty fields lay where citrus and almond orchards had once stood. Productive no longer, this fertile land lay fallow, condemned by a federal court decision declaring the diversion of Sacramento and San Joaquin river waters into the Central Valley harmful to a three-inch smelt on the endangered-species list. The decrease in water from the delta had brought economic ruin, bankruptcies, and large-scale unemployment to the area and reduced its farm production by a third.

Signs erected along the highway that read “Congress Created Dustbowl” reflected the frustration of the economically disenfranchised—people fed up with activist judges and elected representatives who were unwilling to go to bat for them. Yeah, the liberal politicians, activist judges, and their allies in the environmental movement had done a wonderful job of screwing up the lives of those they claimed to champion. Just ask any Mexican-American farm worker standing in an unemployment line or using food stamps how he or she felt about not being able to make a living anymore because their employers had been driven to ruin, unable to irrigate their crops.

Ryan turned on to State Highway 58 and headed toward Bakersfield, passing more farmland and a few oil wells. He wondered if most Americans knew that, in addition to supplying 8 percent of the nation’s produce, the state produced 10 percent of the country’s domestic oil. He asked himself how long it might take for the Feds to put a moratorium on drilling for the additional one hundred million barrels that still lay beneath the surface. Hell, they’d already begun the process of ruining the farming industry, why stop there? They might as well destroy the other big producer of dollars and totally bankrupt the state while they’re at it. Yeah, shut down oil production and condemn the state to total economic collapse. Leave it to Uncle Sam. If there’s a way to louse things up, he’ll surely find it.

Ryan stopped in Bakersfield to gas up and decided to grab a sandwich from the station convenience store rather than waste additional time trying to find a suitable restaurant. He didn’t want to be any later than necessary, since Rosie would be waiting for him.

Leaving Bakersfield, he headed out toward the Tehachapi Mountains and a scenic drive that offered a pleasing contrast to the monotony of Interstate 5. He enjoyed the trip over the rugged mountains and through the pass and looked forward to seeing his old friend—a man he considered his brother.

Passing the rail yards of the Burlington Northern and Santa Fe, Ryan entered the burg of Barstow, California, population 21,000. Founded in the 1800s, it had grown to prominence as a transportation hub for prospectors traveling and transporting their goods to and from the silver mines in Daggett and Calico. Still a
major railhead, it also played host to the Union Pacific, which, like Burlington Northern, was an integral part of container commerce throughout the country.

In addition to the thriving railroad industry, the military was an important part of the economy in the city. Many of its residents were employed at the two nearby military bases—the Marine Corps Logistical Base at Yermo and the Army’s Fort Irwin. Thirty-seven miles northeast of town, Fort Irwin is the Army’s premier training facility for preparing troops for overseas deployment into combat zones.

There were no gas stations between Barstow and Fort Irwin, so Ryan filled up again before heading out of town.

Forty minutes later, he was at the main gate. He showed is ID and was waved through. After stopping by the PX to pick up some candy and liquor for his hosts, he dialed Rosie, who gave him directions to his residence at the new housing development known as Cracker Jack Flats.

Rosie was waiting for Ryan when he pulled up in front of the pleasant ranch-style home in a community neatly landscaped with desert flora and cacti. The two men shook hands and hugged before entering the house, where Monique was busy preparing one of her famous southern dishes. She dropped what she was doing and embraced Ryan as if she were his long-lost sister. “You come on in here and sit down and tell us all about what you been up to,” she said as she led him into the kitchen.

Ryan handed Monique the box of See’s Candy he’d brought for her before giving the bottle of Jack Daniel’s
to Rosie, who, without batting an eye, told his wife, “Ryan and I are gonna sit out back on the deck and sip a little whiskey until dinner. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

The stillness of the desert and the red sky of a disappearing sun made for a pleasant setting after the long drive. The two old friends enjoyed their drinks and talked.

“So what’ve you been up to, ole buddy? You said you got banged up. How’d it happen?” asked Rosie.

“It’s really not much of a story. I was part of an ODA in Sadr City during the surge in ‘08. We were training the Iraqi Special Operation forces and the group I was with got ambushed. The Humvee next to mine got hit by an IED that killed the driver and wounded the others. Then the bastards started shooting at us from a mosque and an apartment building nearby. They blew the shit out of our vehicle. My crew and the crew of a trailing Iraqi Army vehicle behind us were left to fend for ourselves and fight our way out of the ambush.

“I was laying down some heavy cover fire on the mosque and apartment building as my team members and an Iraqi from the trailing vehicle extricated the wounded from the Humvee. We managed to rescue them, and as we limped out of the area, I was hit by shrapnel from an RPG. The damned thing missed our ride but exploded several yards away and blew back on me. Took some pieces in the shoulder and side and had to be relieved on the gun by my medic.

“Miraculously, we were able to fight our way out of the kill zone without sustaining further casualties. We
linked up with the rest of the convoy and they were able to get us back into the wire at FOB Loyalty. I was evacuated to Germany and then to Walter Reed, where I spent three months before returning to Fort Campbell. I stayed there an additional two months in the post hospital. I’m on extended convalescent leave now and taking advantage of the time to meander around and enjoy the sites of this great country that I almost bought the farm fighting for.”

“Shit brutha, you tryin’ to break some record for Purple Hearts? You gotta cut this crap before you get yourself put out of commission for good. Ever thought about transferrin’ out here? I could pull some strings and get you a nice plush job like I got. You been in the hopper long enough. It’s time for you to put your funky ass out to pasture before you get it blown off,” Rosie exclaimed, obviously worried that one day his friend would run out of luck.

“Believe me, Rosie, I’m not trying to break any records. It’s not like I enjoy absorbing bullets and flying metal, but I still have some things to do before I throw in the towel.”

Rosie looked concerned as he listened to his friend. They’d endured a lot together. A day never passed when he didn’t think about that terrible time in 2001 when they’d barely survived on a barren valley floor near Mazar-i-Sharif, Afghanistan. They’d been on a mission with some Northern Alliance fighters and had been hit hard by Taliban and al-Qaeda insurgents. The Alliance fighters had fought bravely but had been cut down, one by one, by the guerrilla snipers and insurgents firing RPGs from above.

Rosie had been knocked out of the fight with wounds to his chest, arms, and legs. Ryan, although wounded in the thigh, had been able to call in an air strike with the remaining undamaged radio. As a sortie of A-10 Wart Hogs brought havoc on the high ground, concealing the insurgents, a Chinook landed and extricated the two wounded soldiers.

Ryan had watched as the medics on board the chopper worked on his friend. It was touch and go all the way back to the base camp, but they were able to stabilize him long enough to get him to the surgical tent, where Special Forces doctors went to work and were finally able to get him past the danger point.

Ryan spent a couple of months on the mend, but Rosie languished through a long recovery and rehabilitation at Walter Reed. Although partially disabled, he was allowed to remain in the army and continue his career. His expertise and skills were much too valuable for the army to discard and he was now comfortably secure in his job as the NCO in charge of the small arms and demo ranges at this desert training facility in the Mojave.

“You boys ready to eat, or are you gonna sit out there jawin’ till midnight?” Monique feigned annoyance and then laughed as she announced, “Dinna is served.”

Ryan followed Rosie into the kitchen, where a feast fit for kings awaited them. He couldn’t remember the last time his eyes had beheld such a spread. Pork roast, yams, black-eyed peas, collards, and a tray of steaming hot corn bread was just the kind of meal he’d been looking forward to. As usual, Monique had come through. She always did.

Rosie was a lucky man. He’d met Monique at a church function in his hometown of Moultrie, Georgia. He hadn’t made the mistake Ryan had when he chose to marry a woman he’d met at a cheap Fayetteville bar while going through the Special Forces Qualification Course. Loneliness is a killer and people use poor judgment when they act on it.