Now that I’ve gone through the story and made quite a few changes, it’s time to look at the story

…

Jack had heard there were moments where, in a split second, your whole life flashed before your eyes.  His life up to that moment did, and what he saw he didn’t like.

But nor was he very happy about the fact he was nearly out the door before the policewoman on the other side crashed into him and sent both of them sprawling to the floor, and back into the path of danger.

That was about the same fraction of a second he heard the gun go off, twice, or so he thought and knew he was a dead man, waiting for the bullet.  A life-defining fraction of a second.

Another fraction of a second passed as the policewoman tried to unravel the mess they’d become, and in that moment in time he felt a tugging at his sleeve and then, as if in slow motion, the sound of the glass door disintegrating behind him.

What may have been milliseconds in reality seemed like half a lifetime in his mind.  That he was still alive at the end of it was, he thought, a sign.

…

© Charles Heath 2016-2024

A discussion with the Princess

…

I had the Princess put in one of the VIP guests’ rooms, quarters that were about four times the size of a junior officer’s room.

It was self-sufficient.

She had asked for an assistant which by her tone told me she really wanted a servant, a request I turned down because in our culture we did not believe in having servants.  We had long since removed subservience, though pockets of it still existed, labelled as something more palatable.

Instead, I assigned one of the medical staff as an assistant with strict instructions that firstly she was not there to take orders, secondly, she didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to and thirdly to observe, and by any means possible within reason, find out more about their physiology and thought processes.

I called ahead of the visit to ensure it was convenient.  We had spoken briefly, but I had told her I would need to speak more comprehensively at a later time.  Like the other alien, she had a considerable comprehension of us and our language.

It just reinforced how insignificant we were in the universe, contrary to a lot of thinking back home who believed we were the centre of that same universe.

It was going to be a jolt to a lot of people back yo to realise we were not a superior race of beings.

Nurse Jolene Richardson was just leaving when I arrived at the door. 

“Everything going alright,” I asked.

“As well as it can.  It’s still quite difficult to wrap my head around the fact there are other people, other than us, though I have to say I never believed we were the only people in the universe.”

“I’m not sure what I believed, but that’s what we’re out here for.  You are one of the privileged few.  So far.  Done for now?”

“Time for a break.  She is very polite, but I get the impression she is lost.  If I was to make a guess, going home might be more stressful due to how long she had been away.  She wouldn’t tell me, but I suspect there might be some difficulties.”

“Thanks.”

Jolene continued on her way and I stepped into the room and the door closed behind me.

The princess was on the far side of the room, sitting comfortably on a settee, now dressed in a borrowed uniform, reading from a computer tablet.  Ancient technology to them perhaps.

“Captain.”  I waited until she looked up.

“Princess.”

“I’d rather you called me Elizabeth.  It’s not my real name, but it is an earth representation of it. Please sit.”  She waved at a chair opposite her, and I sat.  “You have questions?”

“I have an interest in where we are going, and what I might find there.  So far, we’ve met with hostility, but that, I fear, was due to some of my fellow humans doing the wrong thing, and, to a certain extent, our own lack of knowledge of local customs and protocols.  I hope to avoid that when we get to your home world.  As with the person we dealt with on the other world, you seem to know a little about us.”

“We know a lot about every world within our sphere of space travel simply because we have to.  Not all species are peaceful.  Your people, for instance, have spent centuries going to war with each other, and even now, still cannot put a combined mission together for a common cause.  That does not speak highly of your people.”

“We’ve come a long way in the last 50 years, but, as you say, not quite far enough. This mission’s parameters are to present a united front of many different people from our world.  The other ship belongs to a more avaricious group whose ideals are not the same as ours.  Unfortunately, I suspect these same traits are in your own people too.”

“We have, to use a word of yours, factions too.  We are not immune to internal struggles for leadership, and division of wealth, no matter how enlightened we become.”

And that might mean they have a little human in them.  In fact, I had always suspected that the human genome would be present in other galaxies like this, even if the people looked vastly different to us. 

In talking to the Astro physicists and anthropologists some of whom we had on board, they quite literally couldn’t predict what we might find, but the notion some of the people would be like us had been discussed.

So had the subject of robotics and the fact we might find very lifelike robots or androids.  In any case, it seemed we were predicting that the lifeforms would be far more advanced than us, and at no time have we considered they would be more primitive.

“In that, I guess we are not unlike.  But one question I have, are you like the others, a consciousness in a manufactured body?”

“I am not.  But we have developed a means of preserving our outer shells.  For instance, I am roughly 280 of your earth years old, though, in my own world, I am very young.  Our elders are roughly 1,000 of your earth years, and some of whom have transferred their consciousness mind to a more sustainable body.”

“How did you end up on the planet we rescued you from?”

“Hundreds of your years ago we were at war, not only with M but half a dozen others.  I was on a communications and transit outpost with a dozen other families when an enemy ship came, killed all the adult people and kidnapped me and twenty other children, taking us back to their world to be sold.  I have been gone a long time and I’m unsure if anyone related to me will still be very alive.”

“You see a princess.”

“A long time ago.  I went home once and it was a place I didn’t recognise.  My world had Bern conquered several times over time, and very few of my people were still alive then.  I suspect there are fewer now.”

“Then this will hardly be much of a homecoming for you.”

“But I will be home, such as it is.  I might have to beg your indulgence for a short time until I get settled.  You might also take the opportunity to talk to other new people.”

Well, I wasn’t thinking of dumping her and running, but I had to wonder if the current leadership might be equally hostile to us as the others. 

“I hope so.  I can see you’re tired.  We’ll pick this up later.”

“As you wish.”

…

© Charles Heath 2021-2022

As we now know Bill realizes that he had been captured and interrogated by someone, ostensibly Chinese, but not exactly from the Viet Kong

I’ve been pondering how Bill ends up in the hands of the Chinese, well, I know how he does, and this needs to be put down.

Some pieces of the puzzle are coming together.

”’

Davenport arrived at the airstrip where I was waiting in a makeshift building, with windows, easy chairs, a self-serve bar, and best of all air conditioning.  Waiting for the chopper that was bringing in my replacement from Singapore airport.

He didn’t normally come to see us off so I thought it either odd or just a change of heart.  He had brought the shiny Cadillac, an ostentatious piece of Americana that never failed to capture the local’s imagination.

Davenport was, I soon discovered, a man who liked to impress upon the world how great America was.  I hadn’t the heart to tell him it failed on me.

He had crisp fatigues on and looked as though he had just stepped out of the shower, very clean, very cool, and very refreshed.  The car’s air-conditioning would have helped.  We all got that first ride from the strip to the camp in that car, and it was memorable, to say the least.

The driver stayed in the car, engine running, as he stepped into the lounge.  “Chandler.”

“Sir.”  No snapping to attention, neither of us was in uniform.

“There’s been a change of plans.”

“Sir.”  This didn’t sound very good.

“Your replacement is not coming.  Some trouble on the plane over.  Can’t spare a man so you will have to fill in.  I’m sorry.”

I went to say that I’d done my rotation, but the look on his face told me it would fall on deaf ears, so instead, I shrugged, let the driver, who had appeared out of the car as if on cue, collect my case, and followed Davenport out to the car.

It was definitely cooler in the car.  Davenport slid in the other side, the driver closing his door, then got in himself.  I had to close my own.  We headed back towards the camp slowly.

“We need 6 men for this op, Bill.  I’ll find some way of making this up to you.”

I shrugged.  “If you say so.”

I’d been looking forward to getting out of the jungle and getting back to civilization, as well as Ellen, who had been waiting patiently for the last six months.  She would not be very happy when I finally got to tell her.

“Oh, but the way, I took the liberty of calling your wife and apologizing on your behalf and said you’d probably be another week at the most.  She didn’t seem to mind.  She sounds like a nice lady.”

“She is.  She has to put up with me.”

“Yes.  We all have that problem.”

I listened to the hum of the air conditioning, the only other sound inside the car.  Usually, Davenport had a symphony playing over the radio, but not today.  He seemed different, more aloof, but, then, after the altercation, I had with him recently, we hadn’t spoken much after that.  Not unless we had to.

“The job isn’t difficult,” he said when we were nearing the compound.  “Another prison camp, and this time the intel is solid.  Buggers were careless and we’ve got some pictures.  The only problem is getting there.  It’s going to be a bit of a hike.”

Another of his understatements.  I could remember the last ‘bit of a hike’.  “When do we leave?”

“First light tomorrow.  Chopper to the drop zone then a day’s march to the camp.  RV at the drop zone from day 4 till you get there.”

“Who’s in charge?”  I’d run the last operation so I was hoping it would carry forward.

“If you’d been staying instead of being a last-minute replacement, it would have been you.  Instead, we had to bring in a couple of specialists who have been on the ground here quite some time.  They know the terrain and the people.”

New guys.  I hated new guys.  Especially those who purport to have experience on the ground.  Invariably they didn’t and I’d had words with Davenport more than once about it, especially when we had such a high attrition rate.  I believed it was only a miracle that I had lasted this long, and I was now tempting providence this time around.

“I hope they are better than the last two.”

“They are.  I picked them myself.  At least you will be there to keep them on the straight and narrow.

Which was exactly what I didn’t want.

Damn.

Back at the compound, I dragged myself back to my old quarters, hoping they hadn’t given away my billet just yet.  It was a hut if you could call it that, which had seen better days, but it kept the rain out.

I shared it with another soldier, or ex, I didn’t really know, and he was not the sort of man you asked, and even less talkative than most.  I knew his name was Barry McDougall, that he was Scottish, he didn’t wear a kilt and had killed men with his bare hands, one in a barroom fight.

Allegedly.

I was not surprised.  He was six feet six inches tall, all muscle, and always surly, and unlike many of the English that had come and gone, didn’t complain about the heat.

I dumped my bag on the locker at the end of the bed and sat in one of the two well worn easy chairs.  Barry was in the other, reading.

He lowered the paper and looked at me.  “Back, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Miss the chopper?”

“No.”

“Beer’s cold.”

“Thanks.”

I got up and went to the fridge.  One of the perks of the job.  An endless supply of cold beer.

“Get me one too.”

I did and passed it to him, the sat down again.  He took the beer and went back to his paper.

“Seen the new guys,” I asked.

A voice from behind the paper, “Yes.”

“Any good?”

“No.”

“Another fun run in the jungle then?”

“Looks like it.”

We drank in silence.  What more could be said?

There is more but I have to let the words jumble around in my head while I sleep.  More on this tomorrow!

…

© Charles Heath 2018-2023

This case has everything, red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.

See below for an excerpt from the book…

Coming soon!

An excerpt from the book:

When Harry took the time to consider his position, a rather uncomfortable position at that, he concluded that he was somehow involved in another case that meant very little to him.

Not that it wasn’t important in some way he was yet to determine, it was just that his curiosity had got the better of him, and it had led to this: sitting in a chair, securely bound, waiting for someone one of his captors had called Doug.

It was not the name that worried him so much, it was the evil laugh that had come after the name was spoken.

Doug what? Doug the ‘destroyer’, Doug the ‘dangerous’, Doug the ‘deadly’; there was any number of sinister connotations, and perhaps that was the point of the laugh, to make it more frightening than it was.

But there was no doubt about one thing in his mind right then: he’d made a mistake. A very big. and costly, mistake. Just how big the cost, no doubt he would soon find out.

His mother, and his grandmother, the wisest person he had ever known, had once told him never to eavesdrop.

At the time he couldn’t help himself and instead of minding his own business, listening to a one-sided conversation which ended with a time and a place. The very nature of the person receiving the call was, at the very least, sinister, and, because of the cryptic conversation, there appeared to be, or at least to Harry, criminal activity involved.

For several days he had wrestled with the thought of whether he should go. Stay on the fringe, keep out of sight, observe and report to the police if it was a crime. Instead, he had willingly gone down the rabbit hole.

Now, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, several heat lamps hanging over his head, he was perspiring, and if perspiration could be used as a measure of fear, then Harry’s fear was at the highest level.

Another runnel of sweat rolled into his left eye, and, having his hands tied, literally, it made it impossible to clear it. The burning sensation momentarily took his mind off his predicament. He cursed and then shook his head trying to prevent a re-occurrence. It was to no avail.

Let the stinging sensation be a reminder of what was right and what was wrong.

It was obvious that it was the right place and the right time, but in considering his current perilous situation, it definitely was the wrong place to be, at the worst possible time.

It was meant to be his escape, an escape from the generations of lawyers, what were to Harry, dry, dusty men who had been in business since George Washington said to the first Walthenson to step foot on American soil, ‘Why don’t you become a lawyer?” when asked what he could do for the great man.

Or so it was handed down as lore, though Harry didn’t think Washington meant it literally, the Walthenson’s, then as now, were not shy of taking advice.

Except, of course, when it came to Harry.

He was, Harry’s father was prone to saying, the exception to every rule. Harry guessed his father was referring to the fact his son wanted to be a Private Detective rather than a dry, dusty lawyer. Just the clothes were enough to turn Harry off the profession.

So, with a little of the money Harry inherited from one of his aunts, he leased an office in Gramercy Park and had it renovated to look like the Sam Spade detective agency, you know the one, Spade and Archer, and The Maltese Falcon.

There’s a movie and a book by Dashiell Hammett if you’re interested.

So, there it was, painted on the opaque glass inset of the front door, ‘Harold Walthenson, Private Detective’.

There was enough money to hire an assistant, and it took a week before the right person came along, or, more to the point, didn’t just see his business plan as something sinister. Ellen, a tall cool woman in a long black dress, or so the words of a song in his head told him, fitted in perfectly.

She’d seen the movie, but she said with a grin, Harry was no Humphrey Bogart.

Of course not, he said, he didn’t smoke.

Three months on the job, and it had been a few calls, no ‘real’ cases, nothing but missing animals, and other miscellaneous items. What he really wanted was a missing person. Or perhaps a beguiling, sophisticated woman who was as deadly as she was charming, looking for an errant husband, perhaps one that she had already ‘dispatched’.

Or for a tall, dark and handsome foreigner who spoke in riddles and in heavily accented English, a spy, or perhaps an assassin, in town to take out the mayor. The man was such an imbecile Harry had considered doing it himself.

Now, in a back room of a disused warehouse, that wishful thinking might be just about to come to a very abrupt end, with none of the romanticized trappings of the business befalling him. No beguiling women, no sinister criminals, no stupid policemen.

Just a nasty little man whose only concern was how quickly or how slowly Harry’s end was going to be.

…

© Charles Heath 2019-2024