Writers
Savage Investigations
The Final (okay, might never be really final) Chapter Two of Savage Investigations, The Novel: AfterMatth
8 years
Hi Kids!
Here it is, Chapter Two, AfterMatth, of Savage Investigations, the novel I started back in February of 2005. I know I spelled AfterMatth wrong but it’s a play on words, using that poetic license us writers have the right to use:
Aftermath Matt, AfterMatth, get it? Of course you do.
Less than a month (actually 21 days) after I finished the final, final (really final) Chapter One.
At this rate, I should have those 5 chapters ready for sale (at 99 cents, a steal) on amazon and at www,larntz.com easily by Christmas.
Dominique is going over it as I type, so any minute now, I will copy that sucker into this post and you can read it for FREE. That’s right, I said FREE. I read that the one thing that gets everybody’s attention is the word “FREE!” With an exclamation point, even more so. FREE!
We found a couple of corrections, so there’s that never gonna be the final, final, blah, blah, blah…
Here it is!
Probably ought to get serious now. This is solemn stuff…
TWO
AfterMatth
Savage watched with horror as the large monitor went blank. The voice monitor and biometric displays flat-lined. The other monitors displayed the fireball erupting out the top of the blast shield and the smoking hole in the ground where the two kids stood. The blast shield was still erect but covered with bloody fragments of Matt’s body armor and bits of Giovanna’s clothing.
Matt and Giovanna were dead because the primer charge detonated.
Savage sat dumbstruck, wracked with guilt, staring at the blank monitor and the flat line that seconds ago was a beating heart.
He wondered for the first time if the bomb suit would have protected Matt from the smaller charge, a question that would haunt him for the rest of his days.
“My God,” he thought to himself, “did I just kill those kids?”
“Chief?” came the voice from his headset. It was Master Sergeant Orrin Mickelson, Savage’s choice to be the onsite commander.
“I don’t know Johnny, he’s not responding.”
In the background, Savage heard Johnny say, “C’mon Mick, he’s gotta be there.”
“Chief! Are you there? Do you copy?” Mickelson half-shouted into his mic.
Savage snapped out of it.
“I’m here, Mick,” Savage said, unscrambling his thought processes.
“Gather up all the crime scene evidence you can, you know the drill. Set everything up in Hangar 243, it’s empty,” Savage added.
A light on the secure desk phone started to flash.
“Hold on, the secure line is ringing.”
He picked up the receiver.
“Savage. This is a secure line.”
“Savage, do you know who this is?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And why I’m calling?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve called in the cleanup crew and your people can’t be there when they show up. Clear them out immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, and Savage, sorry about your man.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The line went dead.
“Mick, you need to evacuate the site. Leave everything and get back to the base. You know what I’m saying, right?”
“Uh, yeah, we copy.”
“And Mick, Team Building at my place after you get back. Let yourselves in. I’ll be there as soon as I finish up here.”
After an op, Savage and his boys always went back to Savage’s villa to unwind and compare notes. They called it a “Team Building Exercise”. It was especially important when they lost a member of the team.
Savage completed the most painful Operations Report he had ever filed and left the command center.
He made his way home to his villa, Northwest of Sorrento.
Walking through the gate and up to the house, he looked through the window at the men assembled in his living room. The same men, minus one, who just a few hours ago were laughing and celebrating the missing teammate they were here to mourn.
MSgt Mickelson met him at the door with a cup of black coffee.
“I know how close you and Matt were. You okay, Chief?” Mickelson asked.
“Not really, Mick. Sorry I flaked on you, but this hit me pretty hard.”
“No, it’s all good, Chief. You came back pretty quick, considering.”
“I guess you got the call, huh, Chief?” MSgt John Johnston, the team logistician, asked.
“Yeah Johnny, he called so you guys had to bug out,” Savage said.
“So what the heck happened?” asked TSgt Billy Ray Simon, the team weapons expert.
“I reviewed the footage. The primary charge went off before Matt could cut the leg of the ballast resistor,” Savage offered. “I don’t think there was anything he could have done.”
“Yeah, I heard him say something about the crappy soldering job,” Mickelson said.
Staring at nothing in particular, Johnston said, “Makes you think about how quick life can be snuffed out and how unfair it is to a guy like Matt, who may be the nicest guy I’ve ever known.”
“Yeah, but that’s EOD. Walking on the edge of destruction. You’re right Johnny, it’s not fair, but neither is life,” Simon mused.
A cloud of solemnity hung over the rest of the gathering as they swapped stories and memories of Matt, and some even managed a few weak smiles.
It was near dawn when the last man left and Savage fell into a fitful sleep at about four-thirty.
He was rousted out of bed at six a.m. by the phone.
“Savage,” he said into the phone, his voice clouded by sleep.
“Chief, this is Captain Armstrong. Colonel Harding requests that you report this morning at o-eight-hundred.”
“Yes sir,” he said, shaking the cobwebs from his consciousness. “I’ll be there.”
He dragged himself into the shower.
He arrived at the outer office of Colonel Richard Harding, the installation commander, and Savage’s direct superior.
“Go right in, Chief,” Armstrong said without looking up from his desk. He wanted to express his condolences, but said nothing because he knew what was waiting on the other side of Harding’s door.
“Thank you, sir,” Savage said as he passed the adjutant’s desk.
Harding’s door, which to Savage’s recollection had always been open, was closed. Savage stopped in front of it for a moment to compose himself.
He stood at full attention and rapped once on the door.
“Enter!” came the brusque reply from the inner office.
Savage took a deep breath and let it out slowly before he twisted the door handle and entered.
He noticed that the two chairs that were always set at 45 degree angles to each other across from Harding’s desk were gone. They had been replaced by a lone straight backed chair, placed four feet away from the front and center of Harding’s desk. In addition, there was a video camera set up on a tripod and an operator a few feet to the side and behind Harding’s desk to record the interview. This was not to be a social visit.
Savage snapped to attention in front of Harding’s desk at 0759 with a sharp salute and a curt, “Sergeant Savage reporting as ordered, SIR!”
“Sit down, Savage,” Colonel Richard Harding said from behind his huge cherry wood desk. As the military installation commander, Harding was responsible for everything that happened with respect to the U.S. military under his command.
“All right then. Let’s get this started,” Harding said. The anger in his voice was palpable. “Mitchell, start recording,” he said to the video technician. The flashing red light on the front of the camera went constant.
“Savage, since this is an official inquiry, you have the right to counsel in your defense. Do you wish to have counsel present?” he asked. The tone of his voice was all business.
Savage sat at attention in the chair across from the colonel’s desk. “No, sir, it won’t be necessary.”
“Let the record show that Sergeant Savage has waived his right to counsel,” he said to the camera.
Harding’s anger flashed in his eyes. He knew Matt and was fond of him, since Matt had often taken the colonel to task on the racquet ball court.
This incident was indefensible.
“Your report on the fiasco that went down last night. The Italian government wants someone to answer for that girl’s death.
“What the hell were you thinking, allowing Swanson to go in without the bomb suit?”
“Sir, as I stated in my report, Sergeant Swanson suggested there wasn’t time to suit up, and in my opinion, the situation warranted the breach of regulations.
“Considering the outcome, the bomb suit would not have been much protection, anyway.”
“All right, I’m willing to overlook that for now, but you and I both know Swanson cut the wrong wire. It’s an obvious mistake, yet there’s nothing in your report that says so. It also states that you want to give him the Air Force Cross? Why?”
“Permission to speak freely, sir?”
Savage was a Chief Master Sergeant and had achieved as much rank as possible in the enlisted ranks as an E-9. He had five years more time in service than the colonel, and at age 43, was a year older, but Harding was an O-6 and military protocol dictated that enlisted always defer to an officer.
Since they were in uniform and Harding had summoned Savage to report, all military protocols had to be followed. They had become close friends over the years Harding had been the Base Commander. Had they been out of uniform, on the golf course, at the gym, or at the club together, they would have been on a first name basis. “Permission to speak freely” took them off the record.
“Of course,” Harding said, and then to the camera operator. “Pause the recording, Mitchell.”
The red light on the camera pulsed again.
Savage rose from the chair and walked up to the desk. He leaned across the desk on his hands, his face a foot away from Harding’s.
“Rich, I don’t believe it was a mistake. You know—knew—Matt. He wasn’t at fault. I think he is—was—the best EOD guy in the business, with more citations for bravery and excellence than almost anyone I know. He was a professional and died in the commission of his duty. That’s why I’m pushing for the Air Force Cross. If we say he made a mistake, he won’t get it. I can’t let that happen. The only conclusion I can come up with is shoddy wiring, because he never got the chance to make that final cut. Thank God, he managed to disable the vest before it blew.
Harding held up a DVD.
“This is a copy of the events as they happened, recorded from the Ops Center console you were sitting at,” he said, sliding the DVD into the computer on his desk. He used the mouse to activate the video display. The monitor came to life and showed a split screen display of each of the monitors that Savage had seen last night. Harding clicked the mouse again and the displays froze.
“Swanson’s reputation is not the issue here,” Harding said. “Hell, I recommended him for most of those citations. The fact is, somebody is going to get hung out to dry on this. If not Swanson, as the OPCOM, it’ll be you.”
“So be it. I’m responsible. I made the call to go without the bomb suit. I was the one in charge.”
“Drake, be reasonable. Matt’s death was tragic, but he’s dead and you throwing yourself on this sword isn’t going to bring him back.”
“Rich, can I show you something?”
Harding slid his chair away from the desk as Savage walked around behind it and took control of the computer. He sped up the recording to the point just before Matt was about to cut the wire.
“Now watch this,” Savage said. “See how the wires are all the same color? There’s no way for a lay person to tell which wire he was about to cut. In fact, he wasn’t going to cut a wire, but the negative leg of the ballast resistor. Look at those cold-soldered joints. He even said something about the substandard construction job. I don’t think he ever got a chance to make that cut.”
He pressed a key and the static display came to life. His voice came from the computer speakers.
“Matt, if you don’t think you can do it, leave it alone. You’ve disabled the majority of the bomb. We can make her comfortable and bring in somebody else. She’s relatively safe now.”
“Aw shucks, and leave this pretty little girl wired to explode? I couldn’t do that, Chief. Nothing I can’t handle. It’s a matter of pride, y’know? We’ve come this far, you gotta let me finish it.”
He heard his own voice again, “All right, but be careful.”
“Okay, one last thing, and we’ll all go home. Don’t you just love happy endings? Me too.
“Just cut this leg of the ballast resistor, and we can all go home—“
The larger of the displays, Matt’s point of view, showed the open jaws of the wire cutters about to make the final cut.
The larger screen went blank and the other three displayed the event that was now burned into Savage’s psyche. His stomach clenched.
Savage held up his finger.
“There! Did you see it?”
“See what?” Harding said, confused.
“The jaws of the wire snips never closed on the leg of that resistor. Did you see it?”
“I don’t know. Play it again.”
Savage reversed and played the scene again frame by frame, freezing the image at the instant before Matt’s helmet camera screen went blank, clearly showing the open jaws of the wire cutters hovering over the resistor before the other displays showed the explosion.
Savage asked, “Do you see it?”
“I do,” Harding admitted.
“Exactly!” Savage exclaimed. “This is proof that he never got the chance to cut the wire. The thing went off before he could disarm it! It may have been on a timer, or it could have been bad wiring. You can see how sloppy those connections are. Or maybe a remote detonation, but for whatever reason, Matt never had the chance to cut that wire!”
Harding looked thoughtful.
“You might be right, Drake, but she was the Italian Minister of Finance’s daughter. The Italians are still going to want someone’s head for this.”
“Give them mine. We can’t let them have Matt’s,” Savage said. “He doesn’t deserve to go out that way.
“Rich, Matt died trying to save that girl’s life and I can’t, in good conscience, let his death go unrewarded. The least we can do is give his brother the satisfaction of knowing his little brother died a hero.”
Harding stared into Savage’s eyes as he pondered destroying his career.
“Okay, I’m convinced, but we both know what the bureaucrats are going to say happened. He was nervous because she was a diplomat’s daughter and he choked,” Harding insisted.
“I don’t think so. Not once you show them this. He didn’t seem nervous to me. I didn’t hear it in his voice. Matt Swanson’s been part of my team for five years, Rich. His voice monitor showed normal right up until he went for that final cut. You can see it on the biometric display. His heart rate and respiration were perfectly normal.
“You’ve known Matt Swanson almost as long as I have. Did he sound nervous or afraid to you?”
Harding shook his head.
“You and I know better, but the bureaucrats don’t know him. They’re still going to say he caved under the pressure,” Harding protested.
“I believe he knew what he was doing,” Savage said, “and the primer charge went off prematurely. He said it was a poorly rigged device.
“Imagine what would have happened if he hadn’t first disabled the main charge. Instead of a big hole in front of the gate, we would have lost the whole building, half of the block around it, and my team. For that, he is a hero.
“It was an accident. It wasn’t Matt Swanson’s fault. I want him to get the Air Force Cross for gallantry in action. He really deserves the Medal of Honor. I can’t let his memory be tainted on my watch!”
Harding broke in, “Even though we have visual proof that he never cut the wire, videos can be edited, and the Italian government can say the video was tampered with.”
“Then it’s our job to convince them otherwise!”
Savage realized he had balled up his fists. Harding noticed, too.
“Look, Drake, somebody is going down for this and I don’t want it to be you,” Harding pleaded. “You’ve had a long and distinguished career. I heard you tell him to leave it alone. He was being insubordinate.”
Savage nodded at Mitchell, who looked at Harding. Harding nodded his consent. The camera’s recording light glowed red again.
“Sir, with all due respect,” Savage said, regaining control and switching back to military protocol to make his point, “neither of us were there, but we have proof that he did not make a mistake. The video record clearly shows that he never had the chance to cut the wire that would have disarmed the device. You can see on the video that the jaws of his wire cutters were open and hovering over the detonation device at the time of the explosion. Sergeant Swanson was the best EOD specialist I’ve ever known. He would not make a rookie mistake like this. Everything was going fine until the bomb went off. I could hear it in his voice. He was not nervous or hesitant. He also said that it wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle. Consider what would have happened if he hadn’t first disabled the main charge, the vest of explosives. Instead of a big hole in front of the gate, we would have lost the whole building, half of the block around it, and my team. For that, he is a hero.
“Sergeant Swanson gave his life while trying to save the life of another, an innocent, terrified, young girl. That’s what I want the record to state.”
He paused for effect.
“The fact is,” he went on, “I was at fault. I used poor judgment, and as a result, two young people are dead and we are on the verge of an international incident. If the Italian government needs someone to blame, let them blame me. As you said, Colonel Harding, I was the OPCOM. I could have ordered Sergeant Swanson to stand down, but I didn’t. Court Martial me. Give me an Article 15. Force me to retire. Just don’t let my mishandling of the situation stain the honor of a brave young man who gave his life in the service of his country.”
One of the rights and responsibilities of a high-level position in the military such as installation commander is the ability to perform both field promotions and demotions in the form of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, Article 15, Non-Judicial Punishment. Savage’s solution would be the perfect way out of this mess and they both knew it.
The colonel thought for a moment, weighing all the factors. This was already a political hornet’s nest, and could very well become an international incident, unless he could find a scapegoat to give to the Italian authorities. The Black Ops crew had already covered everything up, so a thorough and public joint investigation was going to be out of the question.
On the record, Savage had just offered his own neck for the chopping block and Harding needed to decide whether or not to drop the axe and sever his career.
Given Savage’s spotless record, Harding didn’t want him to be drummed out of the military, but he respected Savage enough to accede to his wishes.
“All right, Chief. If that’s the way you want it. Effective immediately, you are out-processing for retirement, and you are hereby demoted to the rank of E-8.
“End recording, Mitchell,” the colonel said to the camera operator. The red light went out.
“I hope it’s enough to satisfy the girl’s father,” Harding added.
“So do I,” Savage agreed.
One of the less glamorous aspects of being a diplomat was the knowledge that something might happen to a loved one, which is why they are so well guarded around the clock. A covert investigation, which Savage would have been an integral part of, would reveal exactly what happened to the girl’s security people. He knew that since he was no longer privy to such information he would never know the truth because due to the classified nature of the incident, none of the personnel involved in the investigation would be able to reveal any details to Savage as a civilian.
The official story for the media was that a suicide car bomb blew up at the gate of the embassy. The Black Ops cleanup crew, whose job it was to rewrite history and cover up what actually happened, gathered all the evidence, hosed down the site, and brought in a car loaded with explosives with a cadaver behind the wheel. They blew it up at the front gate, taking down the gate and a section of fence, right after Savage’s crew left. An hour later, it was all over the major wire services and television.
The world media all carried the same story.
He heard the news while in the Outprocessing Office at the Military Personnel Flight that afternoon.
“Our top story, Crimson Jihad, a new terrorist group, is claiming responsibility for the suicide bombing of the United States Embassy in Naples last night in retaliation for American air bases and military presence in the Middle East. Fortunately, due to the late hour of the attack, other than the driver, there were no casualties.”
“We are Crimson Jihad. We will no longer tolerate the Capitalist American Invasion. Death to the American pig-dogs who would desecrate our sacred holy lands with their machines of war and destruction. This is our first message. There will be others.” droned the monotone English translation dubbed over the frantic Farsi shouting on the tape.
“Crimson Jihad, eh?” Savage thought to himself. “Probably an Army Captain who’s an Arab translator. And why, with all the modern technology and advances in audio in the world, does it sound like it was recorded in a cave?”
He wasn’t wrong. The voice of Crimson Jihad was a Farsi translating U.S. Army Lieutenant from Kansas, recorded on a cheap cassette recorder, his mouth too close to the microphone, and he was in a bathroom stall. The tape was sent to the embassy and released to the media. The attack would be viewed as another skirmish in the war on terrorism.
Nothing was ever reported in the world news about the abduction and subsequent death of Giovanna Francelli, or the brave young man who lost his life attempting to rescue her. Neither government wanted anybody getting ideas about kidnapping the daughters of diplomats. Only a handful of people knew the truth about what had occurred. Giovanna’s death was explained away as a riding accident.
“In other news,” the Armed Forces Network newscaster solemnly reported, “Giovanna Francelli, age 15, the daughter of Finance Minister, Armando Francelli, died yesterday in a tragic accident when the horse she was riding threw her, sending her over the side of a mountain path to the rocks below, to her death. And now, here’s the weather…” the newscaster said, decidedly more upbeat.
The true nature of Giovanna’s death and the heroic young man who died while trying to save her would be forever shrouded in secrecy. Savage hoped the official Italian investigation might reveal what happened to Giovanna’s security detail, but he would never know.
He was fed up anyway.
“23 years in the military, 18 of it in black ops. I’ve lost enough close friends, and had enough of death, subterfuge, and lies,” he thought with acrimony in his heart. The world and tragically, Matt’s brother, must never know the true circumstances of the bravery and selflessness for which his little brother had given his life.
While he was outprocessing, Savage signed his retirement papers. Harding taking one of his stripes meant he would be retiring as a Senior Master Sergeant, but he would still receive the full retirement pay of a Chief, and “CMSGT / E9” would be displayed in the “PAY GRADE” field on his retiree blue ID card, and he would be receiving more than $3,000 a month for the rest of his life, but that brought little comfort at the moment.
Someone else would have to watch over his boys now. Maybe Harding would promote Mick to Senior Master Sergeant. He was ready.
They all came over to his place for Savage’s final team building exercise. It was a somber farewell gathering, unlike the one they had held for Matt just last night.
“Y’know, they say that those EOD boys just do the job for the crazy thrill of cheating Death every time they go out, but not Matt. He was one the most level headed guys I’ve ever known. No crazy in that boy, that’s for sure,” said TSgt Simon.
“Yeah, I’ve seen him talk guys down off the edge of crazy when they’d been drinking too much, and avoid incidents with the cops,” MSgt Mickelson said.
“And you couldn’t find a nicer, more genuine person, always ready to help out or pitch in,” said TSgt Johnston.
Savage raised his glass for the last time to toast Matt Swanson with the team.
“We are all better men just for having known him. To Matt.”
“To Matt,” the team said as one.
“And here’s to you, Chief. We hate that you’re going, but we know you’ll land on your feet,” said TSgt Anthony “Dollar” Bill, the team heavy equipment specialist.
“Thanks, guys. I’m really going to miss you, too. I have every confidence that you will all go on to greatness in your own ways. If you ever need a reference, let me know. I can lie as good as the next man,” he laughed. “Seriously though, I’ll send you my details when I get where I’m going, and please, keep in touch.”
Savage knew he’d miss the life and the camaraderie that exists nowhere else except the military, but now it was time to move on.
Though unprecedented in his experience, Colonel Harding granted Savage’s final request to take the physical Air Force Cross medal to Albuquerque and personally give his condolences to Matt’s brother, Albuquerque Police Department Detective Sergeant Luke Swanson.
His exit from the military turned out to be a whirlwind affair. The paperwork that normally took up to six weeks was pushed through channels in a few hours.
A transoceanic flight later, Savage had his final out-processing appointment stateside at Dover Air Force Base, Delaware. Later that afternoon, he would be officially retired and no longer part of the military.
He had a flight to Albuquerque scheduled for 0845 the next morning.
With a little more than forty thousand dollars in his 401K, his future was, for the first time in a very long time, uncertain.
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Okay, here you have it.
Now on to Chapter 3!
Do let me know what you think by replying to the post on facebook or send me an email to chuck@larntz.com or chucklarntz@gmail.com.
Thanks for reading, and for your support.
To be continued…
Meet Drake Savage
8 years
Hi Kids!
Thanks for joining us.
Today we’re having a “True Confessions” kind of thing goin’ on.
Let me explain:
Ever since I started writing Savage Investigations, my technique for editing is to jump in and start changing stuff and then saving the changed version as whatever day it is when I’m editing. That way the original is still intact, just in case I decide later, “Oh, what a fool I was to change that! Bring it back!” It’s still there, so no worries, even when it kinda sucks or is less than what I really wanted to say. The seed of the idea is still there…
What comes next is the very (or darn near) first draft of Chapter One from way back in the oughts, 2005, to be exact, back when the world was new and so was I…
I read it over last night and realized how far I have come as a writer in 11 years, and thought I would share it with you, warts and all.
Be warned: It’s quite warty, and horribly adjective and cliche-ridden! But hey, I hadn’t read Stephen King’s brilliant On Writing yet and was just starting out, y’know?
I found this early draft quite amusing, and then I realized that this is pretty close to the version of my manuscript that I showed my friend, David Lloyd (Google him), when we first met that July, during Jake’s and my first International Comic Con in San Diego. He was so very kind and offered no criticism, aside from the fact he didn’t like the name, “Drake Savage”. He said “Drake” was too uncommon and folks might not be able to relate to the character, and suggested “Joe” or Frank”, or another more common, and more relatable name, so I set out to justify Drake’s name by having him be an abandoned baby in the wee ours in the lobby of the Drake Hotel in Chicago, and then adopted by Frank Savage, the Night Manager at The Drake and his wife, Lydia, who wanted a baby so bad, but was alas, barren back in 1973, when fertility was a mystery. It appeared that Frank and Lydia would be child barren until the night that Drake’s homeless, unwed mother, left him in a basket on a table in the lobby of The Drake Hotel, with a note pinned to the blanket saying something to the effect of “Please give my baby a better life than I could.”
Back in `07, more or less, I wrote the first eight pages of a comic script called, “Meet Drake Savage” as the first in a series of introductory comics to all the major characters in the Savage Investigations universe. I have a vague outline of how to finish the comic with Frank and Lydia adopting Drake, and the hotel chain owner, Conrad Hilton himself, seeing the P.R. nightmare as a wonderful marketing opportunity, making little Drake the mascot of the hotel, putting Frank and Lydia up permanently in one of the lesser suites, rent free, and a bunch of other stuff that I can’t remember right now (but I know I have it written down in here somewhere…), ending in their tragic death in an elevated train accident, throwing nine-year-old Drake into the Social Services Child Welfare system, resulting in a criminal incarceration at age 17, forced to join the military or go to jail. Drake, being the clever kid he was, chose The U.S. Air Force, where he blossomed into the heroic terrorist investigator that actually brings him to Albuquerque, to become Drake Savage, Private Eye, and owner of Savage Investigations.
Whew! That’s a real House That Jack Built, huh? Hope now that you know the whole story, you’ll still buy the books, or at least, keep it to yourself. Mum’s the word, eh?
Now here’s another little known fact about Drake Savage, and the main reason I wanted to keep the name. He was a character that I created back in the late 80’s or early 90’s as a costume for a party: Drake Savage, International Man of Mystery and Billionaire Philanthropist.
This guy:
So, without further adieu, let me embarrass myself and bare my practically virgin, creative soul for your reading pleasure and amusement. Please, be gentle, and I hope you’ll still respect me in the morning…
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ONE
The sign on the door says “Savage Investigations.” While it may sound like he’s an anthropologist, he’s not. He’s a P.I. A private investigator, a gumshoe, a shamus. Even in the 21st century there’s a place for guys like him. People still need other people followed. Husbands want to know if their wives are being faithful. Corporations need to know if their intellectual property is safe, and people like the guy standing in front of his desk, need to know why somebody shot two .45 caliber slugs into his house in the middle of the night, just inches away from his sleeping son’s head.
When he came into the office, a wave of tension washed in with him. He stood nervously in front of Savage’s desk, his face worn and haggard from too many sleepless nights. His shoulders were slumped, as if he were carrying the weight of the world on his back. His gray-green eyes brimmed over with worry and concern as if they might just overflow with tears at any moment. He timidly offered his hand to Savage, who rose to greet the potential client, hand outstretched.
“John Moore,” he identified himself. “As I said on the phone, I got your number from the back page of the Alibi. I didn’t think you’d be open on a Sunday morning, though.”
“We never close,” Savage chuckled. You never know when a new client might come along and since he lived in the back room of office, he was always there. It looked like the ad on the back of the Albuquerque local free newspaper, “The Alibi”, had paid off.
“Please, have a seat, Mr. Moore,” Savage said.
“Please, call me John.
“The police said it was gang violence. While my wife and I were cleaning up the shattered glass in the street—they shot through the windows of our van at the house, taking out the front and rear windows. A little while later, a thug, not from the neighborhood, wearing an expensive leather coat, baggy black pants, long hair pulled back in a ponytail, came strolling down the street. He gave us a hard look as he went by. I could have sworn he was smiling, as if he was checking out the handiwork of his boys.”
“Do you agree with the police, John?” Savage asked.
“I’m not sure. I suppose I do. They know more than we do about this sort of thing. Our lives have been changed by this and all I really want is peace of mind that it won’t happen again.”
“Well, John, these are strange times we are living in. I’ve heard that most gangs don’t hit the same house twice, though,” Savage said, just missing the mark of being reassuring.
Savage could almost see the tears welling up in his eyes as he recalled the event.
“The police officer on the scene told me to contact him at this number.” He produced the business card of an officer Manuel Martinez with the case number, dated over a month ago, and a contact phone number. “But when I called a few days later to get a status on the case, he wasn’t there and they told me that it would take weeks to process the evidence anyway.”
“What kind of evidence did they turn up?”
“They found three .45 caliber shell casings in the street in front of my house and the two slugs they dug out of the exterior wall of our son Johnny’s bedroom. Just another foot higher and they would have hit him. He’s afraid to go to sleep. I’m just not sure that anything is being done to find these guys, Mr. Savage.”
“John, the cold, hard fact is, nobody died. With the increasing crime rate and the recent police budget cuts handed down by city hall, the cops in this town are very busy. Before you hire me, why not see how their investigation goes?
“And you can call me Drake.”
“That’s just it, Drake. It’s been five weeks. I’m afraid nothing is being done and I’m tired of waiting. We’re willing to pay your fee. Jennifer and I have some money saved up and the peace of mind will be worth whatever the cost.”
Savage could tell by the frayed hems on the sleeves of his faded yellow polo shirt, old jeans, and worn sneakers—you can really tell a lot about a man by his shoes–that he was not a rich man. Savage felt bad for the guy. His happy, safe, suburban world had been turned upside down in a matter of a few seconds and now he no longer knew which way was up. So he could continue sleeping at night, Savage would have to give him a break on his usual fee.
As if reading Savage’s mind, he asked, “What do you charge?”
“Well, I usually get five hundred a day, plus expenses, but in your case I’ll knock it down to one fifty, and I’ll eat the expenses, within reason.”
“I appreciate that, Drake. We aren’t rich.” He confessed.
“What do you do for a living, John? Is there anybody who might have a vendetta against you?”
“I’m an IT support tech at the base and Jennifer, my wife, is a database programming analyst. It’s not like we’ve been approached by any nefarious types to sell government information or anything like that.”
Savage could see that he wasn’t flush with cash and he liked him. He figured Moore to be the kind of guy that coached his son’s soccer team.
“Look John,” Savage said, “I think I might be able to help. I know a couple of guys on both sides of the law. I’ll ask around.
“Why don’t we give it a few days? Let me see what I can dig up. If it is a gang related thing, I don’t think anything else will happen. Like I said before, gangs, like lightning, don’t usually strike twice in the same place. The other thing is, gang related crime is practically impossible to track down. Too many frightened witnesses and nobody wants to come forward. Which reminds me, were there any witnesses?”
“My neighbor across the street said he heard something, but by the time he got out of bed and looked out the window, they were gone, only taillights fading up the street. He couldn’t even make out the model of the car, and when I got up, I couldn’t see over the next-door neighbor’s hedge, so we never even saw it. Almost everybody on our half of the block heard the gunshots but nobody saw anything,” he said, frustration filling his voice.
“Hmm, that’s not much to go on, but I’d like to interview your neighbors. They might remember something helpful. I know some techniques that are designed to jog a witness’ memory. Don’t worry, I won’t strong-arm anybody. I have a friend who’s a cop and he does all the strong-arming.” Savage chuckled.
Moore smiled for the first time since Savage had met him.
“I’m sure they all want to help. We are a very tight knit little community. We watch out for each other.”
“That’s good,” Savage said. “There’s not enough good will in the world anymore. Everybody seems to be just out for themselves. It’s sad.”
“Yes,” Moore said, shaking his head. “There just don’t seem to be good neighbors anymore–except on our block. I’m sure they’ll do anything they can.”
Savage had enough information to launch an investigation now.
“I’ve got your number, John,” Savage said. “I’ll be in touch.
Savage escorted Moore to the door. They sealed the deal with a firm handshake and he said goodbye. His step was definitely lighter than when he walked in. Savage liked making people feel better.
After Moore left, Savage went to the window to check out what kind of car he drove. You can also tell a lot about a man by the kind of car he drives. He peered through a slit in the blinds and saw him get into a six-year-old, forest green, Honda Passport with a red, white, and blue PLAYSOCCER bumper sticker on the back window. Savage was right. He wasn’t rich.
He sat down at his desk and began to formulate a plan, but since he always thought better behind a good, strong cup of java, it was time to visit Mabel’s for a bit of inspiration in the form of a double shot latte’. Back in the forties, a shamus worked best fueled by strong black coffee by day and whiskey by night. Savage didn’t have much of a taste for whiskey, but he did appreciate a good cup of joe. He developed a love for the coffee bean while he was stationed in Italy, defending America as a Special Forces grunt in the Air Force.
He’d seen some pretty hellish things in his day, usually being first on the scene to investigate the aftermath of terrorist bombings and the like, but his military life paved the way for his present life and it taught him how to survive. He really did hate the nightmares, though. Sometimes he’d wake up in a cold sweat at three in the morning because of the horrors he’d seen.
The shrinks at the VA threw drugs at him, but since he didn’t want to be a drug-addled zombie, he decided to take care of it himself. Sink or swim, and fortunately, he was a pretty fair swimmer. The nightmares weren’t quite as frequent now.
He locked up the office, went down the elevator, and strolled up the street to Mabel’s.
Mabel is a piece of work. She became a single mother after her husband was shot and killed during a robbery 20 years ago. She raised their four kids on her own, working two and three jobs. The family was poor but she raised them right. Her children went to school with clean clothes and clean faces. They knew the value of an education, too. All four went to college on scholarships. Her oldest, Martin, became a doctor. Next in line was Rosa, a lawyer. Then came Russell, now a successful architect. Finally there was Julia, an environmental scientist. Mabel’s kids pitched in and bought her the diner and the building that houses it. They pay the bills. Mabel wants for nothing but she earned it.
Sometimes Rosa hires him to do some work and Mabel’s kids appreciate the fact that Savage keeps an eye on her. He always eats for free.
Mabel was there, sitting at a table reading the Albuquerque Journal. He wondered if she ever slept. It might have something to do with the fact that she lived upstairs, but she seemed to always be there, watching over her café, even when he’s been there at eleven at night. If the doors were open, she was there until they closed.
She looked up from her paper, “Hi, Baby!” she called sweetly. She always calls him “Baby.” She is the only one that can get away with that. It’s an affectionate term she reserves for those who are special in her life, and he feels honored to be counted among them.
Savage smiled and nodded to Tony, behind the coffee bar.
Tony smiled back and Savage knew that in just minutes he’d be enjoying the best latte’ in the world.
Tony Antonio makes the best espresso you ever had. His real name, Ermenegildo di Baldassare Antonio, was a mighty big name for a little Italian guy. It was too hard to pronounce so when he came to America, he shortened it to Tony. He’s old school Italian, from a little town in southern Italy where his family has run a five-star restaurant for generations. His was a big family, and while all of his brothers and sisters became award-winning chefs, Tony concentrated on the perfect cup of espresso. Just the right mix of his own blend of coffee beans, not too strong, not too bitter, but with a bite. A taste that lingers in your mouth long after it’s passed your lips but isn’t overpowering. Sam Spade, Dashiell Hammett’s gumshoe, would have loved Tony’s espresso mixed with a shot of rye.
Savage’s usual table was in the back corner. He always sits with his back to the wall and a clear view of the door—more of that military commando training. After all, that’s how they got Wild Bill Hickok.
Tony brought over the steaming cup of latte’, prepared just the way he knew Savage liked it, a thin layer of foam covering the top. He stood there like a wine steward with a $1500 bottle of wine, awaiting the confirmation of what he already knew. Still, the steward needs the assurance of the connoisseur’s delight with the first sip, carefully reading the patron’s face and then delighting in the gleam of the eye that registers satisfaction.
“Perfect, as always,” Savage gave his assent. Another satisfied customer. Tony smiled, and then went back to the coffee bar.
A few seconds later, Mabel materialized to take his order. It was really just a formality—she already knew what he wanted. Even if she didn’t know the customer, she never used an order pad. She knew every single order in the place, who got what, and everything special about the order. She is one sharp lady.
“The usual?” she asked. Since it wasn’t noon yet, she knew he’d want breakfast.
“Yep,” Savage replied. His usual breakfast was three eggs up atop a pile of hashed browns with a side of bacon and wheat toast.
“Billy!” she yelled.
“Yes, dear?” came a voice from the kitchen.
“Drake’s usual!”
“Coming right up, Drake!” came Billy’s cheery reply.
“Thanks, Billy!” Savage called out.
Billy is Mabel’s cook. Formerly Chef Wilhelm Schach, of a high-class, four-star restaurant in L.A. named Schach Therapy. The restaurant was a huge success and he got caught in the tidal wave of excess that generally accompanies great success, namely cocaine. He seemed to have it under control, or so he thought.
Unfortunately, his business partner was in league with the mob and started skimming money from the take. Soon Wilhelm didn’t have the money to pay the bills and his restaurant failed. He went bankrupt. Suddenly without an income, he started selling drugs for the mafia. Just to get some money together to open up another place, he told himself, but most of his profits went up his nose.
He got caught in a DEA sting operation and was given a choice, a minimum of ten years hard time in Folsom or a reduced sentence for cooperating with the feds. Witness Protection allowed him to do his time in the Santa Fe penitentiary and moved him to Albuquerque when he got out.
He went into Mabel’s to get his first meal as a free man. She could tell he was troubled and inquired as to the nature of his dilemma. He took a chance and told her the whole story. She hired him immediately, as long as he stayed clean. 18 months in prison had cleaned him out physically, but he knew it would only take one episode and he’d be right back where he was when he got popped in the first place.
He’s been cooking for Mabel for five years. She pays him just double minimum wage and she lets him live rent-free in an apartment upstairs next to hers so she can keep an eye on him. She’s stingy with his paycheck because she doesn’t want him to be tempted to fall back into his old ways. The way she sees it, if he can’t afford it, he can’t buy it. Billy’s fine with that. As a recovering addict, he needs all the help he can get.
He has no desire to live life in the fast lane again anyway. He is content to work for Mabel, the greatest boss (and mother hen) in the world.
She gets the best cuisine money can buy. He is a magician in the kitchen and even though it’s American fare, it’s prepared by a four-star chef, making Mabel’s the Best American Restaurant in Albuquerque, as voted by the Alibi, the local free newspaper’s, readers poll, five years in a row.
And of course, Tony’s espresso has been voted as the “Best Cup of Joe” in town.
“You working?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he filled her in on John Moore’s dilemma. Ordinarily, he would never betray a client’s confidence, but there was no one to overhear the conversation and besides, it was Mabel. He had often solved cases just by talking them out with Mabel. Probably ought to give her a consulting fee, but she wouldn’t take it.
“Why would anybody do something like that? Destroy the sanctity of a family’s home?” she rolled her eyes.
“The police said it was a gang thing and you know, all bets are off when it comes to gang violence.
“I stopped trying to figure it out a long time ago, Mabel. The only thing that gets me through the night is the goodness that is left in the world. It still offsets the evil, thank God.”
“Well, I hope you help those poor folks find peace, Baby. If anyone can, it’s you.”
“Thanks, Mabel.”
She disappeared to get his breakfast.
As he sat sipping his latte’, he decided to call Detective Luke Swanson.
He had been stationed with Matt, Luke’s little brother, in Italy. Even though he had 20 years on the kid, there was something about him that Savage liked. He wasn’t like the others on Savage’s squad. There was something special about Matt. He had a truly unselfish attitude and genuine love of helping people in need. Usually after an op, Savage and his boys would go out and blow off some steam. Matt always joined in the fun, but stayed off to the side, watching their backs, preferring club soda to alcohol. Being the only sober one, he’d step in if there was trouble. He was always the designated driver, too. A valuable member of the team.
He excelled in explosives training at the academy and he became the squad explosive ordinance disposal, or EOD, expert.
All Matt really wanted was to come back to Albuquerque when his hitch was up and be a good cop like his big brother. Unfortunately, a terrorist’s bomb cut that dream short.
An Italian diplomat’s daughter had been kidnapped. Since it was such a high-profile op, Savage was ordered to stay behind and coordinate.
The team got the word that she was sitting on the steps of the American Embassy, wired with enough C-4 to blow up a city block. Matt, being the EOD expert, was assigned to disable the bomb.
He was equipped with a helmet camera and headset so Savage could see everything that Matt saw. The girl was still wearing her school uniform. The navy blue jacket was mostly obscured by the vest of explosives. Terror flashed in the girl’s dark eyes. He could almost smell the fear through the monitor.
“Parlate inglese?” Matt asked in a soothing voice.
The poor girl was trembling with fear.
“A little,” she whispered, afraid she might detonate the bomb.
“Good. Now I’m just gonna get this thing off you and then you can go home and see your Madre e Padre, okay?”
Some of the fear faded from her eyes as she thought of her parents. She nodded slowly.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’ve done this a thousand times,” Matt said.
The confidence in his voice made her relax a little more.
“Okay, Matt,” Savage said into his microphone. “So far, textbook. How are you feeling?”
“Everything’s fine, Chief.”
“Boys, get the blast shield set up and get everybody out of that building.”
The rest of the team went to work and set up the blast shield. They got all the civilians out and everyone withdrew to a safe distance.
Matt kept his eyes on the girl. Her face was twisted with fear.
“What’s your name?” Matt asked, already knowing the answer. It was in the briefing, but it made the girl think of something other than the situation.
“Giovanna. It means God is gracious.”
“He certainly is,” Matt agreed.
“Here we go. Now hold very still, Giovanna, and we’ll see what we can do about this,” he worked quickly and confidently.
Matt managed to disable most of the C-4, tossing it into the explosion-proof bin next to the blast shield.
“Chief, you gettin’ all this?” Matt said into his headset. “This is a strange one. Never seen anything wired quite like this. They didn’t do a very good job. Just look at this wiring. Amateurs, y’know?”
“Matt, if you don’t think you can do it, leave it alone. The majority of the bomb has been disabled. We can bring in another expert. She’s relatively safe now,” Savage cautioned.
“Aw shucks, Chief, and leave this pretty thing wired to explode? There ain’t nothing to it. Looks like I just gotta cut this—“
Savage was deafened by the roar of the explosion for a split second until Matt’s headset and camera were incinerated by the blast. His monitor went blank.
END OF CHAPTER ONE
To Be Continued…
Savage the Comic, Issue #1: Goodbyes (almost…)
112 years
Hello friends,
Well, this marks a momentous occasion. The cover, inside cover, back cover, and inside back cover to Savage Investigations the Comic, Issue #1: “Goodbyes” is ready for print. Dominique Jones and I, well, her mainly, finished it tonight. And here they are, coming soon to a comic shop (assuming you live in Albuquerque) near you–at least as soon as we figure out how we’re gonna get it printed. Here they are. Lemme know what you think, please. Written by me and Nathan Hendricksen did the artwork.
Cover Issue1: Goodbyes
- Inside Cover: Goodbyes
- Back Inside Cover: Goodbyes
- Back Cover: Goodbyes
Links to Goodbyes, a Savage Investigations Comic for String, Published by 7000 BC
014 years
Goodbyes
Written by Chuck Larntz
Illustrated by Nathan Hendricksen
Matt Swanson is saying his goodbyes at his farewell dinner with the members of his crack Special Forces team, led by Chief Master Sergeant Drake Savage. The end of Matt’s enlistment in the Air Force as a bomb disposal tech is only days away. Savage, Matt’s close friend and mentor, is raising a toast to Matt’s new life when the call comes for the team’s services. The Italian Finance Minister’s daughter has been kidnapped and she’s standing at the gate of the American Embassy in Naples, Italy, harnessed with a bomb containing enough C-4 to blow up the embassy and the surrounding area. Matt’s final job on active duty will be to disarm the bomb and save the girl, one last time…
For more on Savage Investigations, Chuck’s novel and now comic series, stay tuned to our Web site updates!
Listed below are the links to the Savage Investigations Comic titled “Goodbyes” (Part 1) for String, Published by 7000 BC, for Free Comic Book Day coming up in May, 2011!
View Online Movie at this link:
JPG Files (right-click and choose Save As):
Photoshop Files (right-click and choose Save As)
PDF Document (horribly large for printing, right click and save)
Savage Investigations: Prologue
014 years
by admin
in Savage Investigations
Here it is, kids! As promised on twitter, the rewrite (okay, the re-re-rewrite). I’ve also been thinking about the wisdom of getting so darned excited, I just kinda go off and post things prematurely. I’m gonna work on that, but I’m still gonna get excited! Deal with it…
New! Improved! Now with more dialogue and less expostion! It’ll be easier to make it into a comic that way…
June 15, 2003
It began on a normal day like any other. Ahmed Akbar was a brilliant young man, going off to the school where he was the youngest teacher on staff. He slung the worn messenger bag that contained his lunch and the test results from his students over his shoulder. He kissed his wife, Sanaa, on the cheek and their infant son, Raheem, on the top of his head and went to the front door of their modest two room house on the outskirts of the Iraqi city of Al-Awja.
The door wouldn’t open.
Since the bombings and the American invasion, the door frame had shifted.
Too proud to leave his house by the back door, it had been the same comical story every morning for months now because Ahmed felt it was, “too insignificant a thing to bother with.”
“Ahmed, I swear, you must fix that door,” Sanaa laughed. “It embarrasses me to have to tell our friends to go around back to enter our house.”
“Sanaa, my love, we are lucky to even have a door after what has happened around here,” he reminded her but then added, “I will fix it on our next day of rest. I promise.”
She looked down at the infant in her arms. “Do you hear that, Raheem? Your father will fix the door on Friday. He promised. We will see.”
Ahmed pushed up hard on the latch and to the left and the door opened. “See? I told you I could open the door,” he smiled. “Friday,” he promised and left the house, slamming the door behind him to close it. It shook the china on the shelves and the baby started to cry.
Later that morning, a squad of American contract soldiers were patrolling the neighborhood. This had become a common sight and there didn’t seem to be any cause for alarm.
They came to Ahmed’s house.
Sanaa was sitting in her chair and reading with Raheem asleep in her lap.
The soldiers knocked on the door with their rifle butts and Raheem woke up crying. Sanaa got up to answer the door but she couldn’t open it.
The soldiers, hearing the baby crying on the other side, knocked louder and demanded that it be opened.
Sanaa tried to open the door again but couldn’t with Raheem in her arms.
“I can’t get it open. Please go around to the back!” she cried in her native tongue, which the Americans could not understand.
“You hear that? Sounds like a baby’s crying,” said the squad leader. “We got reports of insurgents in the area and it looks like somebody doesn’t want us to come in. Kick down the door!”
Two men kicked in the door on its hinges, knocking Sanaa backwards. Raheem fell out of her arms and she struck her head on the corner of a table, killing her instantly. Raheem’s neck was broken in the fall and Ahmed Akbar’s little family lay lifeless on the floor.
“Now what?” exclaimed one of the American contractors.
“Well, she seems to be the only one home. No terrorist insurgents here,” said the squad leader. “Let’s get the hell outta here!”
“Yeah,” said one of the men, “the corporation’s not payin’ me enough to get involved in a murder investigation, even if was an accident!”
Rather than trying to offer assistance, they left Sanaa and Raheem on the floor where they lay and ran.
A few blocks away, the leader said, “Okay, that never happened. Am I clear?”
The rest of the squad agreed and nothing more was said or done about it.
After school, Ahmed came home and, seeing the door open, ran inside and discovered that life as he knew it was over. He screamed as he sat on the floor in the pool of his wife’s blood, holding his lifeless family in his arms until the neighbors came.
“Murdered at the hands of the American infidels!” he said quietly at the funeral. “I hate the Western dogs that brought war to my peaceful world. I will strike back!” he hissed between his teeth.
After he said his final goodbyes to his little family, his wife’s uncle approached him.
“I know of a man who can help you to avenge the death of my brother’s daughter and grandson. If you wish, I can have him contact you. Not now, but when your head and your heart are clearer.”
Ahmed looked at the man through enraged eyes and said, “Please. I cannot let this travesty go unpunished.”
A few days later he was visited by a man from a secret organization that was so secret, it had no name, nor seemingly any members that knew about each other. He recruited Ahmed to join the fight, and told him he would be able to get his revenge against the capitalist mongrels that were ruining the world with their vile arrogance, spreading hatred wherever they went. The mild mannered schoolteacher was transformed into a terrible angel whose only mission was to avenge the death of his family.
His handler, known to him only as Kadin, met with him at his house and told Ahmed of their plan for him.
“Right now, there is a young American that we are grooming for a position in the American government. He will start out as a junior banking executive. In a short time, he will get involved in local politics. From there, with our influence, he will become mayor of his city and then governor of his state. From there, he might become a Senator, a Congressman, or even President of the United States,” Kadin told him.
“But what has that do with me?” Ahmed asked. He was becoming a bit perturbed. “How does this American fairy tale have anything to do with me?”
Kadin smiled. “Because, my young friend, that young man I just spoke of?”
“Yes,” Ahmed’s impatience was growing.
Kadin clapped his hands together and exclaimed with delight, “That young man will be you!”
Ahmed’s mouth dropped open. “What? How?”
“We know you are the same blood type, and you possess the correct bone structure and body type. You wear the same size clothing, and even your shoe size is the same as the American. That is why we chose you for this mission. The physical changes you will undertake will be only to your eyes and minor facial features, along with a slight modification to your voice box so you will have his voice.”
Kadin took a photo, an 8 X 10, full face head shot of the American from a folder. He handed it to Ahmed.
“Do you see how alike you already are?”
Ahmed looked at the photo. He did look a great deal like the person in the photo.
Kadin pulled out another photo. It was of Ahmed.
“Put them side by side, my young friend.”
Ahmed held one picture in each hand and brought them together.
“The similarity is astounding. We could be brothers!” he exclaimed.
“Do you see? Now imagine all those things I told you about, happening to you. Can you now see your place in our jihad, impatient one?”
“I think so,” said Ahmed, still a bit dazed at the concept. “Tell me more, Kadin.”
“Once the operations are concluded, and while you are recovering, we will teach you to speak flawless English with intense speech therapy. Your body will be trained to move the way the American does and you will learn all of his mannerisms and other physical traits that make the American unique.
“When your transformation is complete, you will fool even the most sophisticated facial recognition systems. You will become the American.
“The American has no idea that right now he is being monitored and videotaped, even as he sleeps, so that you will be able to study his every movement and facial expression until, with the help of our team of experts, you, Ahmed, will be able to walk and talk and move through the world exactly like him.
“You will replace the American.”
“But how can you just replace a person?”
Kadin placed his hand on Ahmed’s shoulder and said, “It will be easier than you think. The less you know, the better, until the time comes. We have done this before, many times. Do not worry yourself, my young friend.”
Ahmed thought about this.
“And when the time is right, you and others like you will strike a powerful blow to cripple the infidel American machine from the inside. We cannot fail!”
“When do we begin?” Ahmed asked.
“Would right now be too soon?”
“Oh,” Ahmed was taken aback. This was all so sudden. “No, right now would be fine. Can I just be alone for a few moments to say goodbye to the memories of my family?”
“Of course. I will wait for you in the car. Take your time. Come out when you have made your peace and are ready to begin your glorious journey. Bring nothing with you. We will provide everything you need,” Kadin said, and he slipped out the back door.
Ahmed went into the bedroom and picked up Sanaa and Raheem’s pillows and held them to his face. He breathed in the scent of his family one last time. He took his favorite family picture from its frame, folded it, and put it in his wallet.
He heard Kadin start up the car and pull it around front.
He struggled with the front door for the final time and stood in the doorway to his little house, angry tears in his eyes as he remembered the joy and laughter that had once filled this home. Walking out for the last time, he slammed the door.
He heard the sound of breaking china as he stalked away to begin his new life.
So what do you think?
Anyone?
(the sound of crickets, wind blowing…)
Meet Ahmed Akbar
014 years
Ahmed Akbar is a character in Savage Investigations, the novel I’ve been writing for 500 years (or so it seems).
This is his origin story…
Ahmed Akbar awoke early that morning. Today would begin the most important day of his young life.
It all began on a normal day like any other. Ahmed was a brilliant young man, going off to the school where he was the youngest teacher on staff. He slung the worn messenger bag over his shoulder that contained his lunch and the test results from his students. He kissed his wife, Sanaa, on the cheek and their infant son, Raheem, on the top of his head and went to the front door of their modest two room house on the outskirts of the Iraqi city of Al-Awja.
The door wouldn’t open.
Since the bombings and the American invasion, the door frame had shifted.
Too proud to leave his house by the back door, it had been the same comical story every morning for months now because Ahmed felt it was, “too insignificant a thing to bother with.”
“Ahmed, I swear, you must fix that door,” Sanaa laughed. “It embarrasses me to have to tell our friends to go around back to enter our house.”
“Sanaa, my love, we are lucky to even have a door after what has happened around here,” he reminded her but then added, “I will fix it on our next national day of rest. I promise.”
She looked down at Raheem in her arms. “Do you hear that, Raheem? Your father will fix the door on Friday. He promised. We will see.”
Ahmed pushed up hard on the latch and to the left and the door opened.
“See? I told you I could open the door,” he smiled. “Friday,” he promised and left the house, slamming the door behind him to close it. It shook the china on the shelves and the baby started to cry.
Later that morning, a squad of American contract soldiers were patrolling the neighborhood. This had become a common sight and there didn’t seem to be any cause for alarm.
They came to Ahmed’s house.
Sanaa was sitting in her chair and reading with Raheem asleep in her lap.
The soldiers knocked on the door with their rifle butts and Raheem woke up crying.
Sanaa got up to answer the door but she couldn’t get the door open.
The soldiers, hearing the baby crying on the other side, knocked louder and demanded that it be opened.
Sanaa tried to open the door but couldn’t with Raheem in her arms.
“I can’t get it open. Please go around to the back!” she cried in her native tongue, which the Americans could not understand.
“You hear that? Sounds like a baby’s crying,” said the leader of the squad. “We got reports of insurgents in the area and it looks like somebody doesn’t want us to come in. Kick down the door!”
Two men kicked in the door, knocking Sanaa backwards. She dropped the baby and struck her head on the corner of a table, killing her instantly. Raheem died in the fall and Ahmed Akbar’s little family lay lifeless on the floor.
“Now what?” exclaimed one of the American contractors.
“Well, she seems to be the only one home. No terrorist insurgents here,” said the leader. “Let’s get the hell outta here!”
“Yeah,” said one of the men, “the corporation’s not payin’ me enough to get involved in a murder investigation, even if was an accident!”
Rather than trying to offer assistance, they left Sanaa and Raheem on the floor where they lay and ran.
A few blocks away, the leader said, “Okay, that never happened. Am I clear?”
The rest of the squad agreed and nothing more was said or done about it.
After school, Ahmed came home and seeing the door open, ran inside and found that life as he knew it was over.
He screamed as he sat on the floor in the pool of his wife’s blood, holding his lifeless family in his arms until the neighbors came.
“Murdered at the hands of the American infidels!” he said quietly at the funeral. “I hate the Western dogs that brought war to my peaceful world. I will strike back!” he hissed between his teeth.
After he said his final goodbyes to his little family, his wife’s uncle approached him.
“I know of a man who can help you to avenge the death of my brother’s daughter and grandson. If you wish, I can have him contact you. Not now, but when your head and your heart are clearer.”
Ahmed looked at the man through enraged eyes and said, “Please. I cannot let this travesty go unpunished.”
A week later he was visited by a man from a secret organization that was so secret, it had no name, nor seemingly any members that knew about each other. He recruited Ahmed to join the fight, and told him he would be able to get his revenge against the capitalist mongrels that were ruining the world with vile arrogance, spreading hatred wherever they went. The mild mannered schoolteacher was transformed into a terrible angel whose only mission was to avenge the death of his family.
His handler, known to him only as Kadin, the confidant, had told Ahmed to go to a clinic on the other side of town to see a doctor for the tests and then he would be spirited away to begin the transformation. He had an eight-thirty appointment. He already knew that he had the right blood type, AB positive, and the correct bone structure, so the physical alterations Ahmed was about to undertake would only be changes to his eyes and other facial features, along with a slight modification to his voice box so he would sound like his doppelganger. Kadin told him the entire transformation would take six weeks and when he looked in the mirror afterwards he would no longer see himself staring back. He would see the American he was going to replace.
After the operations, during the recovery and orientation period, he would learn to speak flawless English and undergo intense speech therapy. His body would be trained to move the way the American did and to affect all the mannerisms and other physical traits that until now were the American’s alone. His physical size and body type, even his shoe size, was already a perfect match. Once the transformation was complete, if they were to stand side by side, they would appear to be the same person.
Unbeknownst to the American, he was continually being monitored and videotaped so that Ahmed could study the American’s every movement and facial expression until, with the help of a team of coaches, Ahmed would be able to walk and talk and move through the world exactly like him.
He stood in the doorway to his little house, tears in his eyes as he remembered the joy and laughter that had echoed off the walls. Walking out for the last time, he slammed the door.
He heard the sound of breaking china as he stalked away to begin his new life.
What do you think? Feel free to let me know…
Thanks,
Be Well,
Chuck