onethreethirteen – Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Susan Madison had awaken in the middle of the night to the sounds of her ailing mother crying out for help.

Her mother, who’d changed her diapers when she was a baby now needed Susan to change hers. 

Her mother, Susan reminded herself as she stirred from sleep for what might have been the fourth or fifth time so far that night, had taught her how to recite her ABCs, had sang old McDonald to her on rainy in-door play days, had helped her select the perfect shade of coral – not pink lipstick, and all the other things that only a mother can teach a daughter, lay dying a slow agonizing death of ovarian cancer in the downstairs guest room.

Susan, an unflinching pragmatist, blamed the cancer that was killing her darling wonderful mother – not on God or on fate – but on her father and his years of wanton unfaithfulness.

For the entire length of her mother’s marriage, her father had cheated.  His job, as First Officer on the USS Taft, had kept him away from home for long stretches at a time.    And during those times, there were other women. 

What irked her more than anything else, was that her mother had forgiven him.  She had bought into his male chauvinistic excuse of ‘his needs’ as the reason for his cheating. The only time she heard mention of her mother’s needs was when they were arguing.  Her mother’s needs, Susan noted, were always pushed down, belittled, and scuttled.    

She  could remember lying across her bed upstairs, listening to the arguments going on downstairs.  “A man has needs, he’d scream at her mother.  “Do you want me to quit my job, Miranda?  Is that what you want?  I’ll do it.  You just say the word, and I’ll do it.  But that will mean moving out of this house you say you love so much, and moving in with either my folks or your parents. I know I don’t want to live with mine.  Do you want to move back to Illinois and live with your mom and dad?  Is that what you want Miranda?

She was only a young girl during the argument years.  And when you’re young, your father is your father.  Nothing more.  Now as a grown woman with a husband of her own, she wondered why her mother had put up with her father’s philandering.  How had she stood the touch of his hands on her body knowing that those same hands had touched other women the same way they were touching her now.  Where was her dignity?

Yet her mother had never said a disparaging word against her father until the day of his funeral.  And then it had all come pouring out.

She remembered it clearly.  It was seared onto the retina of her memory.  Her mother had been sitting, somewhat forlornly, in the green velvet chair by the window in the front room.  She was wearing a simple black dress, sheer black hose and simple black flats.  She’d insisted on not wearing a widow’s veil.  Her only accessory a white lace handkerchief kept at the ready for any stray tears that might fall from those emotionless eyes.

As evening neared, the sun cast a long light filled rectangle across the dark pine wood floors that her father had installed in the room a few years back.  People milled about the room offering their condolences and helping themselves to food from the overburden dining room table.   She remembered she’d been in conversation with the Reverend Holloway when she’d noticed Mrs. Nora Smith approach the chair where her mother sat head bowed and looking older than her sixty years.   Her mother, who seemed, to Susan, lost and unaware of her surroundings had suddenly and dramatically, at Mrs. Smith offer of sympathy, raised her head in wild eyed alarm.  “Was it you?, her mother screamed.  It must have been you.  I know you slept with my Ralph.  And I heard you had the cancer.  Did he catch the cancer from you?   If only he’d worn the condom when he was screwing bitches like you.  Then he’d be alive and so would I.” 

If she closed her eyes, she could still see the look of abject horror on Mrs. Smith face.   The poor woman looked like a trapped animal.  Worse was that wrenching look of guilt that had passed between Mrs. Smith and her husband.  The somewhat hushed tones of the room had turned to absolute silence.  “Nooooo!” screamed Mrs. Smith  — more to the room full of her neighbors, friends, and associates than in response to her mother — before bolting from the room.   “No you didn’t sleep with my husband, you bitch.  Or no you didn’t give him the cancer.”

About a month later, Susan came to understand the full ramifications of her mother’s off candor remarks.

Her mother had called explaining to her that for a long time now, she had not been feeling well but had chalked it up to the stress of caring for Ralph during the final stages of his illness.  As it turned out, the achy joints, fatigue, and lower abdominal cramping were a bit more serious than she’d thought.  The diagnosis was stage four cervical cancer that had metastasized to her bones.

“Oh, mom, no!  Are you sure?  Did you get a second opinion?”

“Yes, of course I did, Susan.  I wouldn‘t have called you, unless I was sure.  The diagnosis came from the same doctor who treated your father’s illness.” 

“Mom, how can that be?  Daddy’s doctors were from the Veterans Hospital.”  “I spent a lot of time there, Susan, when your father was ill.  Dr. Tulnous said that if I ever needed anything – anything at all, all I had to do was ask.  Six months ago, I was feeling so weak and not myself that I made an appointment with Dr. Tulanous, hoping he’d give me a prescription for some sleeping pills. I was absolutely sure he was going to tell me what I already knew, that I was tired and needed to get more rest.  Maybe he’d prescribe some vitamins along with the sleeping pills.  But, because of your father’s testicular cancer, Dr. Tulanous insisted that I have a full workup.  When the diagnosis came back stage four cervical cancer that had metastasized to the bone, I couldn’t believe it either.   I kept telling Dr. Tulanous that I was not feeling that sick.  I was not sick enough to have stage four cancer.  Dr. Tulanous, himself, made an appointment for me with an oncology specialist at John Hopkins.  The morning of your father’s funeral they’d called confirming Dr. Tulanous’ diagnosis.  “Mom, you’ve known all this time?”   “Susan, you’d been through so much with your father’s death.  I couldn’t bear to heap my illness upon you too.  I’m calling you now, because the doctors say I’m nearing the end.  I don’t want to be alone.  Susan, darling, can you come?” 

“Of course, I’ll come Mom.”

For convenience, her mother had taken up residence in the downstairs guestroom. 

Rather than put her things in the living room where most people sat while visiting her mother, she had situated herself – rather uncomfortably – in the nearby dining room. 

During Jim’s last visit, the two of them had moved the dining room furniture into the garage and the contents of her old bedroom into the vacated room.  Her wonderful, patient, understanding, and faithful Jim had installed a set of temporary curtain which afforded her some privacy. 

She padded barefoot and only half aware of her surroundings into the kitchen to get a bowl of ice chips before going to her mother’s side.  These late night calls for help were usually because of thirst brought on the excessive amount of drugs needed in order to dull her pain. 

Susan slipped into the semi-darkness of her mother’s sick room without reaching for the light switch.  The room had a sickly sweet smell of dying roses, which surprised most people.

Susan eased herself down onto the bed next to her mother and cradled her mother’s grayed silver head in the crook of her left arm.  With her right hand, she caressed her mother’s parched lips with one of the wet moist ice chips.  The same heavy rose smell that permeated the room escaped from her mother’s mouth.  It was the smell of Morphine. 

She fed her mother ice chips until her parched lips refused to suck anymore.  Gently, she laid her mother’s head back down onto one of Aunt Sadie’s hand embroidered pillows and searched through a stack of CD’s her Danny had burned and placed conveniently near the bed for long nights like this when the Morphine was not enough to ease either of their pain. 

She found her mother’s favorite, Johnny Mathis, and placed it in the waiting CD player.   The slow melodic sound of Johnny Mathis’ voice filled the room.  “Chances are ‘cause I wear a silly grin the moment you come into view.  Chances are you think that I’m in love with you.”

Her mother had told her a thousand times about how she had met the man of her dreams and the man she’d marry one faithful night at a YMCA dance.   And that Chances Are by Johnny Mathis was the first song they’d danced to. 

Susan sat in the semi-darkened Morphine scented room letting the tears flow quietly down her face knowing that her mother was somewhere back in 1972 at North side Chicago YMCA dancing with a tall dark handsome stranger who would someday become her husband and killer.

 To hear Susan’s mother’s favorite song, click on the link below.

http://www.johnnymathis.com/

 

 

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onethreethirteen – Chapter 8

Chapter 8

BEFORE THE DOOR OF THE OLD B-52 bomber was locked and closed securely, the pilot was off and racing down the runway.

“Welcome aboard Colonel Sir,” yelled the young second lieutenant who’d risked a life threatening fall, dragging Madison the rest of the way into the plane. “Tell the pilot, well done,” screamed Madison, trying to be heard over the B-52’s engines. “Personally, I didn’t think we’d make it. I had visions of some airman scraping bits and pieces of my ass up off the runway.” “No problem sir, laughed second lieutenant Louis Lobell. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Sir, we’re pretty damn good at this sort of thing. You might say it’s our specialty — picking up stranded pilots while under heavy gunfire. Took our training in Mogadishu and Afghanistan, Colonel Sir.” Madison nodded his acknowledgement.

Kept from the general public, an especially from the media, was the severity of the air strikes against coalition forces.

The younger former President Bush had decided that he did not want another media disaster like Vietnam on his hands and had successfully blocked much of the information coming out of the area.

Damn shame, thought Madison, full blown News coverage might have kept things from getting to their current stage of events.   

The media, he figured, with their skill for uncovering secrets, might have discovered much sooner exactly who it was we’ve been fighting for so many years.  Few people, if any one, ever asked how a primitive Afghanistan had managed to withstand such modern day forces as the United States and Brittan for as so long as they had.   

Madison took a moment to compose himself before inquiring of the young second lieutenant.  “I believe you have orders for me?”  “Yes, Sir.” The young airman snapped a salute and thrust forward a white envelope bearing the White House logo on the front and the Presidential seal on the back.  “From the President, Sir.  To be opened once we were airborne.”  “Thank you, Officer Lobell, Madison stated after a quick glance at the name placard on the young man’s uniform.”

Madison, himself a veteran of the Gulf war, and a volunteer during the Twin-Towers and Pentagon disasters, and had been a Diplomatic attaché during the Disarmament treaties in Beirut where a suicide bomber had blown himself up, killing fifteen of the diplomats in attendance, sensed that whatever was in this envelope, was not going to be a little light reading, but something more along the lines of Stephen King.

He settled down onto the floor of the stripped down bomber and pealed back the blue and gold Presidential seal that secured the envelope.

Colonel Madison,

As you no doubt know our current situation is dire. Peace Talks hit an uncompromisable wall two days ago and neither of the countries currently engaging us in battle were willing to return to the Peace Table.

America and Great Britain — along with our current allies France, and Germany — will defend our countries no matter what the cost. Defeat is unimaginable.

Your orders, therefore Colonel Madison, are to get yourself to the CINCNORAD bunker and take charge of our western operations.

Should you get word that the Presidency of the United States of America has fallen you are authorized to use the codes that have been entrusted to you.

May God keep in the difficult days ahead.  Enclosed is a briefing of our situation.

President Santiago Garcia.

A shiver ran through Madison as he began reading, slowly, making sure he understood every word.

Korea, China, Indonesia, Pakistan, Afghanistan, The United Arab Emirate, Saudi Arabia, Iran, Iraq, Palestine, Egypt,  The Ukraine, Russia, Libya, and The Sudan, had all stopped warring amongst themselves and had somehow gathered together – secretively – and plotted to wage war against the United States and Great Britain.

At twenty-one hundred hours, the eastern sector of NORRAD had received a frantic call from London’s Prime Minister Nelson requesting air support for the RAF which, as you know, was passed along to Lt. Colonel Billy Hamilton. 

What was not passed along in that request was that what had begun as a minor skirmish outside of NATO Headquarters in Northwood, between London Police and a mob of unruly foreign dissidents and students had escalated into mortal combat.

The rioting had lasted through-out the night with sporadic episodes of fighting.  However, towards the early morning hours, things took a dramatic turn when molotov cocktails were hurled at unarmed police officers.  As the officers began retreating to a safety zone, some members of the rioters opened fire on them using semi-automatic weapons. 

The use of deadly weapons and the increasing size of the angry crowd had prompted a call for help to the British Armed Forces Headquarters facility located in nearby Eastbury, Hertfordshire.  The soldiers had encountered strong resistance from para-military forces.

While the British Army was engaged putting down the riot, the invaders struck hard. The Permanent Joint Headquarters, Commander in Chief Fleet, The NATO Regional Command, and the Command Component Maritime ware all bombed.

As of twenty three hundred hours the squadron of fighters finally sent to England’s aide from Texas had encountered heavy fire from what the pilots reported were Iranian and Iraqi jets.

In the Americas, the battleship Alabama, trolling the Atlantic, was waging a running battle with several Chinese nuclear subs.

Russian troops were crossing the border and invading American bases in the Alaska and Canada.

Indonesian troops were attacking our bases in Hawaii and Guam.

Saudi troops were storming American bases, in the Middle East.  Bases that they themselves had helped build.  

Pakistan had launched a full-scale nuclear attack against India.

China, Korea, and Russia had simultaneously launched warheads against, Washington, D.C., Chicago, Tampa, Seattle, Rome, N.Y., and The Four Corners area — close and around the location of NORAD, where he was headed.

The world, as he knew it, Madison thought, was at war. For the first time that night, he was actually scared.

The maps back at Andrews Central Command  had reporting accurate information after all.   He wondered how Lucinda was doing with the task he’d assigned her.  She and her ‘go to’ guy had gotten him on this bomber.

Shaking off the grim fear that had overtaken him, he began calculating. This must have taken quite a bit of long term planning, he thought. His mind went back to the Disarmament Treaty. All those smiling faces, dignified handshakes, and photo opportunities had been fake. All the while, those bastards were secretly planning this.

And the US, being the bleeding heart dupes that we are, had given those bastards the money — in the name of peace — which they’d probably used to carry out this evil plan. Anger surged through him. He began pounding on the boxes of ammunition that surrounded him. Young second lieutenant Lobell, standing in the cockpit doorway shot him a questioning look. He had to restrain himself, he thought. He was a commanding officer. He had to look the part, act the part, talk the part, and walk the part. “Shit!” he thought, he hadn’t planned on any of this. Never in a million years did he think things would get this bad.  Never imagined he’d have to use the codes given him.  No.  He hadn’t raced down that damn runway for God and country.  No!  He was only doing what he needed to do to get closer to them.  Getting to NORAD would get him closer to Susan and Dan.

“We’ve got company,” came a scream from the cockpit.

Second Lieutenant Louis Lobell raced towards the back of the plane and tossed Madison a parachute. “They’re locking on!,” came a second scream.

Second Lieutenant Lobell helped Madison into the parachute and snapped him a salute before yelling, “Good luck sir!”  He then strapped himself to the safety harness before popping the bomber’s door.  “The chute’s black. Wait thirty seconds before pulling the pin.” And with that, he shoved Madison out.

As Madison floated down towards earth he  looked up, through the black silk of the parachute, and watched as the bomber did a one eighty and flew directly into the path of the pursuing mig.  Both planes became a fiery ball of blood and metal.

He’d have to make his own way to NORAD.   

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