Nomad Ch 04

Okay, I get it. I will probably burn in hell for the delays. Sue Me.

With that said, I apologize for the delays. My typing skills are hindered by age and physical disabilities. I will try to be more diligent, but I cannot guarantee it. All previous chapter disclaimers are in effect. This is solely my own work. I created the basic story from whole cloth, but I did include as much historical accuracy as I could.

Killer Kane did exist and the facts around the existence of those brave men who pioneered the art of unconventional warfare within the ranks of the USMC deserves to be told. As an old Gunny once said, "The Corps. Is entrenched in tradition...except when it comes to doing our job."

If you can't figure out what that job is, you sincerely need to reassess your world view. Every freedom we now enjoy was purchased at the cost of the blood and the lives of those who gave everything for US.

August, 1972 (Dallas, TX.)

Case waited quietly at the Trailways bus station for his bus to be called. The last two weeks were a blur, and for the first time since he enlisted in the Marine Corps, he was considering his future.

He had made a few friends in Dallas, and they had shown him the city as well as introduced him to others. Not being confined to the base, the nights were raucous and enjoyable. Unfortunately, the days were dull and typical of all military installations. Endless hours of

'hurry up and wait'

seemed to be the rule as he was out-processed at the Naval Air Station and finally handed a copy of his DD-214, along with a list of contact numbers for the VA as well as various other organizations dedicated to helping service members adjust to civilian life.

Dave mentioned a friend of his near Texarkana who might be willing to hire Case, if he was interested. Not having any other prospects, and knowing Dallas was not a place he would want to call home, he nodded and accepted the card with the friend's phone number.

As he boarded the bus, he felt empty. It was a feeling that had been haunting him more and more over the past few months. It was as though he was missing a piece of himself. This thought made him snort with amusement as he considered how close he had come to losing more than a few pieces of himself back in 'Nam. He also couldn't help but notice the worried looks nearby passengers expressed at his bemused outburst.

As the trip passed, while he hardly spoke a word to the other passengers, his eyes continuously tracked around the interior before looking outside through both side windows. Despite his being seated, he never seemed to relax, nor did he nap. Before long, everyone around him began to feel an invisible tension that seemed to emanate from the short, slender man with the cold, hard eyes.

It took several hours for the bus to reach New Boston, Texas. There was an inaudible sigh from his closest neighbors when he stood, pulled down his hand grip and moved toward the exit. After waiting patiently without speaking, he nodded slightly to the driver who had retrieved his sea bag, then hoisted it onto his shoulder and walked into the small station building.

The interior was only slightly cooler as the single window-mounted air conditioning unit struggled to keep up with the oppressive heat. He crossed the room to a pay phone and opened the attached phone book. Upon finding the number he was looking for, he inserted a coin into the slot, listened for the dial tone, then began dialing, as the phone made a whirring noise to punctuate each number on the rotary dial.

"Hey Jeff, it;s Casey. I'm at the Trailways station off 30." He listened for a few seconds, then replied. "Outstanding!"

He hung up and walked to a soft drink machine, bought a Coke, and stepped back outside to squat under the building's awning. He watched the world go by for 10 minutes before a battered pick-up driven by a dark brown man with a straw cowboy hat and a pony tail pulled in. Case finished his drink and put the bottle in a wooden rack by the door before picking up his bags and throwing them into the truck bed, then climbed into the cab.

"Shit buddy", said the driver. "we all figured you was gone for good." The driver was in his mid to late 20's, and his dark and chiseled features were definitely Native American. He wore a faded western cut shirt, dusty Wrangler jeans and well-worn cowboy boots. His hands on the wheel were scarred and calloused from physical labor, and his face showed some weathering, as well.

"Tell me about it. I did, too!" was the ironic reply. "I sure never planned to come back, you can bet your ass on THAT."

"So what happened? I heard you was gonna stay in till they shipped you back wrapped in a flag....or maybe a strait jacket."

They both laughed at that.

"Hell Jeff, they busted me up a bit and finally decided I was no longer worth their investment. I guess a year's worth of medical bills made 'em decide to cut their losses."

"Shit man. That really sucks."

Jeff Gaylord had known Case since they had been caught breaking windows on the old Martin Sign building outside De Kalb in the 4

th

grade. It had started with the pair goofing around and skipping rocks off a small stock pond near the building. Jeff being the stronger, he could throw farther, but Case had an uncanny knack for skipping stones. He goaded the larger boy into a series of dares whereby he knew himself to have the advantage. It culminated in a shootout against the high windows of the old warehouse.

Although Case had been the instigator, he had managed to get away clean while Jeff paid the piper. For a long time afterward, Case had felt deeply ashamed that his friend suffered for Case's own actions, and his feelings on the incident grew until it formed a foundational pillar in the young man's moral compass. Though he never put it in those words, he followed the maxim of never leaving a comrade behind. Case became fiercely loyal to those whom he felt worthy of his respect. The fact that Jeff never mentioned Case's part in the act cemented their friendship and the pair soon forged a bond over the incident. Where Jeff was tall, athletic, and handsome, Case was almost the polar opposite.

The pair became inseparable friends over the next five years, until Jeff's parents were killed in a car wreck during their Freshman year in High School. Jeff was sent to Tulsa, Oklahoma to stay with an abusive Uncle on the Reservation. The abuse was secondary to the culture shock, and Jeff repeatedly ran away, always ending up back in Texas. This ended when the uncle finally gave up on him. Jeff then became a ward of the State for his last two years of high school.

By the time he turned 18, Case was off in the Marine Corps, slogging through the tropical paradise of Southeast Asia. They wrote to each other, occasionally, but neither was good at it. Jeff was drafted in '67 and served three years in the Army. Remarkably, the closest he ever came to Vietnam was an eight month posting in Okinawa with the signal corps.

When the pair managed to get together during R&R in 1969. Case told his friend that he had found a home in the Marine Corps and was gonna be a lifer. Jeff countered by wishing him luck, but voicing his own firm resolve to take his benefits and enroll in college or a trade school as soon as his hitch was over.

Both were surprised at the rapid changes life threw at them. Case became cynical at the politics of the war, and Jeff found and married a local girl who both had known since Junior High School. Her pregnancy had precipitated a hurried wedding, and instead of college, Jeff was now driving a bob-tail dump truck for an asphalt paving company, owned by his wife's uncle.

Case just nodded and allowed Jeff's conversation to roll while he stared out the windshield before changing the subject. "So you and Karin, huh?"

His old friend almost blushed. "Yeah man."

"Good. I always liked Karin."

By this time they'd pulled up to a small wooden house, with a worn facade and a hardscrabble lawn made up of equal parts dirt, weeds, grass, and automotive debris.

As they exited the truck, Case asked, "You ever buy that Rocket 3?"

This question brought a snort of laughter from his friend who was halfway to the front door, but pivoted toward the detached garage.

"Hell Case, I needed cash with the kid 'n all, but I do have something ya might like."

He opened the big door and pointed out a tarp covering something in the corner. Pulling back the sheet of blue polyethylene he revealed a beast. It had only one cylinder, but was huge. The chrome and yellow gas tank bore the large BSA logo.

"What the fuck is it?"

"It's a 441 Victor. Huge compression ratio and a hill-climbing dirt trailing sumbitch." Jeff spoke proudly.

"What's the toggle on the handlebar?"

"Compression release. If you try to kick start this mother it will break your leg. You have to hold down the release and kick it through twice, then pop the release on the third kick to fire it up. If you don't time it right, this sucker'll bounce you over the handlebars like a wannabe bull rider at his first rodeo."

"DAYUM!" Case smiled and ran his hands along the motorcycle's lines as he examined it in detail. "Where'd ya find it?"

"There's a place called Chuck's Choppers in Texarkana, he took it in trade and I picked it up last month."

"No shit? That's funny, a guy I met in Dallas told me to look in there about a job."

September 29, 1980 (Houston, Texas)

Jared Pascoe was not, by nature, a patient man. It was something he had been forced to learn over years in law enforcement. Patience was a necessity in his line of work. Through sheer force of will he had managed to add it to the tools of his trade. His time as a Dallas police officer, Texas DPS trooper, and Texas Ranger had taught him the value of it. Because of this, he forced himself to apply it to his investigation.

Perros Locos MC

was targeted (along with several other gangs) as part of an ongoing FBI investigation into racketeering, drug running and distribution, prostitution, and arms trafficking. Despite a veritable avalanche of circumstantial evidence, the most damning was not even admissible in a court of law. There were several reasons for this.

For one reason, it was almost impossible to get the members of the organization to testify against other bikers, regardless of their affiliation. Even clubs that were killing each other on the streets refused to testify against each other. Bikers were true social outcasts, and proud of it. The strength of their brotherhood made motorcycle clubs very closely knit and they tended to prefer their own rules to those of the greater society at large. As a general rule, they avoided outsiders, and the conflicts between them and citizens were usually rare, violent, and brief.

Another difficulty was that it was practically impossible to identify, and account for. all the members of any club due to the fact that they tended to drift between chapters in other cities and states quite often. Indeed, most clubs had several runs every year that might involve hundreds of bikers from several chapters, as well as affiliated clubs, commingling and engaging with each other, as well as all the people who made up the fringe elements (prospects, old ladies, hangers-on, friends, dealers, business associates, etc.) of each organization.

The only way to identify members was to pull them over and/or arrest them. This helped in accounting for most of the hard-core members, but new recruits and outside relationships made it hard to accurately account for the actual membership numbers, let alone keeping tabs on the members' activities and locations.

On a personal level, Ranger Pascoe was more than a little upset about the rise of

Perros Locos

over the last few years. Their merger with three other clubs under their name was a bit of a coup for "Torque" Kincaide. Within ten years of joining a fairly small-time motorcycle club in Houston, he now was President of the founding chapter of a club with chapters in Chicago, Cincinnati and Texarkana. While not on the level of more well-known clubs, they were

definitely

no longer small-time.

It was easy to assume that the recent attacks on

PLMC

members was due to their meteoric rise in membership. Any criminal enterprise that grows that far and that fast is bound to step on a few toes. So it was quite possible that this was the beginnings of a gang war between them and one of the larger clubs, but for some reason, it felt more...personal...to Pascoe.

He pored over the data spread out upon his desk, hoping that something would click.