Note: This story is non-erotic. It is also dedicated to Ben and his son and all the others who have written me as a result of my stories: Esther Story and Red, White and Blue Halloween. Most of all it is dedicated to the real live men, women and families who keep us safe and free. Goddess bless and keep you all!
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CHAPTER ONE
Master Sergeant Michael Thomas O'Malley scuffed the toe of his boot in the dry, beige sand. At his feet sat the puke green duffle bag that contained pretty much his whole life. Not much to show for over four decades upon the face of the earth. But then again, Sergeant Mike as his friends called him was starting over. After over two decades in the US Marine Corps, he was hanging up his uniform and beginning a new life as a civilian.
Mike checked the time once more on his Blackberry. "That damned cab should have been here by now," he cursed.
It had taken far longer to complete the paperwork that would signal the end to the only life that he had ever known. The manila envelope that held his honorable discharge papers was tucked safely into the duffle bag along with a couple of pairs of jeans, some sweat pants and a few t-shirts. After more than his share of tours of duty, Mike had learned to pack light. And this new life was no exception.
Mike turned and looked once more at the large red and gold sign that boasted 'Welcome to Marine Corps Base Camp Pendleton.' How many times had he seen this sign? How often had he overlooked it? How many of his friends and colleagues would never have this chance to say a proper goodbye to this place?
Mike shook his head. 'Enough of that shit, old boy,' he thought. But increasingly over the past couple of years, he had felt his age. Many of the men and women that had served with him in Afghanistan had not even been born when he first saw this sign. Like them, he had been nothing more than a kid himself that day. He smiled at the memory of the bus that had picked him up from the Greyhound station that hot August day in nineteen-eighty-nine.
This August day was just as hot; hotter maybe. Despite the late afternoon breeze that was beginning to stir off of the Pacific Ocean less than a mile from this place, sweat beaded and ran down the sides of his face. This place was not the stagnant dry heat of the desert, where Mike had spent much of past decade. There were no smells of pungent meat cooking upon open fires, human waste or gun powder. But they seemed stuck in his nostrils and mind, even after two weeks back in this place.
Mike jump at the sound of the car horn. "Hey buddy, you the one that called a taxi?" the brown faced man called from the yellow checkered car.
He nodded and bent to pick up the bag. Racing over to the vehicle, Mike opened the door and threw it on the floor board. Folding his six foot four inch frame into the back seat, he gave the man the address that he had stored in his Blackberry for almost a year now.
"That the motorcycle place on the Pacific Coast Highway?" the driver asked in his accented English that Mike was almost certain originated from the South East region of Pakistan.
"Yeah, that's the one."
"You going to buy one of those things?" the man queried.
"Bought," Mike replied with a smile. "I'm going to pick it up now."
"Why you want one of those things? They dangerous." The man offered by way of conversation. "You should get a nice solid car. An American model like this Ford. If you get in accident, they keep you safe."
Mike wanted to argue that safety was just an illusion. That cars or guns or any other machine could never really protect the frail human body from the dangers of life that lurked around every corner. But instead, he simply turned and looked out the rearview mirror as Camp Pendleton as a way of life disappeared forever.
His hand came up to touch his brow as he saluted the place that had been his home for so long, the only real home he had ever known. His salute meant for the men and women that had entered those gates; too many of whom had never returned.
Mike was quiet for most of the drive, answering the cabbies questions with only yes or no until the man finally gave up trying to make conversation and focused upon the crowded Southern California freeway at rush hour.
Mike checked the time again on his Blackberry. It was after five already. They would never make it in time. He punched a number into speed dial and waited as the phone rang.
"So-Cal Cycles," answered the voice.
"Yes, this is Sergeant," he began but caught himself. "This is Mike O'Malley. I am supposed to pick up my bike today. It's a customized Road King. I'm running a bit late. So I wanted to let you know that I will pick it up first thing tomorrow morning."
"Hold on one minute, Sergeant O'Malley. Please."
Mike frowned at this change of plans. He knew he could ring up a couple of his buddies and have a nice couch for the night. But he had wanted to make it to East LA tonight. Stop in and pay his respects to the Hernandez's before the funeral tomorrow. With this change, he would barely have time to pick up the bike, travel the short distance to Los Angeles and change before the service at thirteen-hundred tomorrow.
He sighed as a rock anthem played through his phone. He supposed there was nothing to be done about it. But still, he hated to let his men down like this.
The music stopped and a gruff voice came on the phone. "Sergeant O'Malley. Come on over as soon as you can. We'll keep the shop open 'til you get here. Just come around to the side door and I'll have my son let you in," said the new voice.
"Thank you, sir," replied Mike. He wanted to argue that it was not necessary; that he did want to keep them. But the need to make it to East LA outweighed politeness at the moment.
"No problem, Sergeant," as the line went dead.
Mike sighed with relief at this turn of luck. It might not seem important, but keeping to his schedule meant that he would have the chance to speak with Manny's parents before just showing up at the funeral. The last thing he wanted was for his presence to cause the family any distress now.
Corporal Manuel Hernandez was the last of the men under his command to die while serving their country. Except that was not quite accurate for Manny, who was not a United States citizen. The young man had been brought into this country as a toddler when his parents came illegally.
His two younger sisters were citizens by birth and his parents had been lucky enough to get their status normalized when Manny was a senior in high school. That new immigration status allowed the young man to fulfill his lifelong dream of becoming a Marine.
A couple of months ago, Manny had begun the special process for military personnel that would make him a citizen. He had smiled broadly the day that he showed Mike and his other friends the sealed envelope that contained the completed papers.
But Manny did not to live to take the oath that would make this country his own. He had been killed when the patrol they were on was ambushed by insurgents. Giving his life for a country that was the only home he could ever remember, but did not claim him as its own.
Mike fumbled with his phone, pulling up photographs of friends and colleagues until he came to the one he was looking for, the ever smiling Manny stared back at him. The kid had been a riot, always laughing and joking about everything.
Staring out the window, Mike wondered how many of the people in the cars around him cared or even understood this war that he and his friends had spent almost a decade fighting. The 'war on terror' might have seemed glorious and justified after September eleventh, but now it rarely made the news.
Damned meaningless elections of politicians, who did not know shit about how the world really worked and cared even less, the world's economy, civil wars in the Middle East, hell, even that dumb celebrity girl who married and divorced in the space of a breathe made more headlines than the men and women that were still giving their lives to keep America safe. America and the world might have moved on, but it was a hard thing for him to do.
Mike watched as the driver exited the freeway. He checked the time on his Blackberry. It was after five-thirty, which meant it would be almost six before he picked up his motorcycle. He had no idea how long that would take either. He assumed it would not be a quick in and out though. He had organized all the paperwork into an envelope tucked inside his jacket pocket. Driver's license, proof of insurance and the printed bill of sale were all ready to go. Hopefully, that would move things along nicely.
Of course, one good thing about a motorcycle in Southern California was its ability to weave in and out of the traffic jams that were hallmark of this region. Given the time, he could well expect another two to three hours of bumper to bumper cars as people fought just to get home from work. Interstate Five would be the worst. Stop-and-go almost all the way from here to East Los Angeles.
Smog, heat rising off the concrete, and horns screeching at one another was not how Mike wanted to enjoy the first ride on his new bike. Pacific Coast Highway would be a better option. Even if it did take slightly longer to make the trip. He could enjoy the sun setting over the ocean, smell the ocean air and hear the waves hitting the sand. A much better option, he thought.
"Hey, mister. This is it," hailed the taxi driver.
Mike smiled at the white washed façade with its large front display window. Chrome glinted in the glass from half a dozen new motorcycles on display there. He smiled as he counted out the fare and added a generous tip. Handing the money to the driver, Mike opened the door and grabbed his bag.
As the cab drove off, Mike stood for a moment staring at a vintage Ironhead sportster. It was painted red, white and blue. He could almost picture Nicholson astride it, clad in leather and with that snarky grin that had made him famous. Mike remembered another motorcycle. One that had begun his passion for Harleys.
He was in eighth grade, a brash man-child, abandoned to the tender care of another foster family. This one was decent enough. There was plenty of food, clean clothes and no beatings. For a kid of thirteen, it seemed the best he could hope for. In an attempt to fit in, Mike had fallen in with a rough crowd at school. They were not a gang exactly, just a half dozen young boys with too much anger and not enough adult supervision.
That day they were on their way home from school when they saw it. Bright red and silver chrome with yellow flames on its fuel tank. They had all stopped on the sidewalk. Just staring at it like people from Beacon Hill might stare at the Museum of Fine Art. To them this was art. Fast, loud and powerful.
