Dory Maust & Dan Kelly
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M-60 Reloaded Excerpt from Part 1:
At two o’clock in the morning, the black sky held a double edge sword for the SEAL team as their boat glided through still waters
toward a thick jungle hiding their enemy. The full moon was both friend and foe as its illumination clearly exposed the intruders
on the canal; yet it also offered them splintered glimpses of light once they were in the jaws of the dense and sharp foliage on
shore; foliage besieged by Agent Orange. Seven Navy Commandos and a Kit Carson Scout felt the hull of the Light SEAL Support
Craft, LSSC, slide to a stop on the muddy bank, and they disembarked in stealth mode. Two Special Boat Squadron sailors
remained to back the boat quietly away from the bank, and spinning the vessel 180 degrees, they vanished silently into the night.
Some of the SEALs left to execute that night’s operation wore tennis shoes. Some wore moccasins and others tread lightly in
bare feet. None wore jungle boots. Guided by his sixth sense, Animal, the point man, began methodically scouring the jungle for
booby traps while Woods, the Team Leader, Joshua and the others moved closely behind him. Camouflaged in tiger-striped
fatigues and face paint, they gave the illusion of foliage ghosts, the mystical part of the dense forestry that moved in ancient
folklore. One with the thicket and trees engulfing them, their trek had to be slow, appearing like a mirage in the desert.
Did that bush just rustle, or am I imagining it?
Seemingly their legs and feet never moved, leaving nothing disturbed as they continued in their pursuit of the enemy.
Lying dangerously close to their vulnerable ankles and calves, a pit viper felt the vibration of their motion and turned its head
quickly to investigate the intrusion. Smaller jungle creatures and insects grew somewhat quieter as Animal slowly glided on.
Even the snake lost its opportunity to strike and retreated, albeit still wary.
Yet it did not end there. NVA and VC combinations began erupting from all sides, and Woods broke the radio silence to call for
help.
“Iron Hat, Scorpion One! Scramble Seawolves!”
They were all below the flight deck, playing cards, listening to rock music, smoking and drinking colas when the scramble bells
rang loud over the P.A. system.
“Scramble the helos! Scramble the helos! Scramble the helos!”
“Here we go,” Robert mumbled. He dropped his cards and ran for the ladder leading up to the flight deck - and his M-60.
M-60 Reloaded Excerpt from Part 2
1988
New Mexico
Claire approached Rob in the privacy of their den with two cups of hot herbal tea. Extending one she could not resist a chuckle.
“Here you go, Swift.”
He laughed in kind and accepted the mug of steaming brew. “Thanks. Well it was the first thing that popped into my head. I
couldn’t give them my real nickname.”
They were both dressed in pajamas, and she nestled beside him on a warm colored sofa accented with an Aztec design. The
blend of burnt orange, cream and turquoise was reminiscent of the desert where they believed at least one deceased H.E.H.
member was buried. Lord only knew how many other victims kept Clown company in the oasis.
“We need to talk.” Her voice was soft, compassionate.
“One of my better suits,” He teased. “Not.”
“Gender roles are best saved for the operation, Robby. This weekend has brought to mind some genuine concerns.”
Carefully he tested the heat of the tea and nodded in agreement. “For me too.”
“Okay then you go first.”
“No thanks. If you hit the nail on the head then that means less talking for me.”
Sighing, she set her mug on the glass coffee table and rested her head on the back of the couch. “All right. There’s a part of you
and them which overlaps in reality.”
“Yeah, Vietnam.”
“I’m worried that might interfere with your…” Claire closed her eyes and silently cursed the situation. “Abilities.”
“Excuse me?” Rob scoffed and turned to look at her.
“This isn’t easy, Robby,” She countered, facing him. “I’m split fifty-fifty, half psych and half wife just like you’re split with them: half
vet and half Fed. They clash sometimes and that’s what I’m trying to get at here. The more you get closer to them the more part of
them becomes your war buddies. You might hate what they’re into now but Robby you may have to shoot to kill, and if you do you
have to be able to do it without a second thought.”
“I know that, Claire.” His tone indicated a modest level of resentment, be it from her lecture or from the thought itself.
“Okay.” Backing away from that topic she rerouted to another. “What happens when, if, you do get close to Bill and he gives you
the ultimate test of loyalty?”
“Which would be?”
“Murdering an innocent black man. I don’t recall any briefings with Bristol, Rutgers or anyone for that matter on this point. And
believe you me it will happen.”
“That’s not my job.” Rob was pensive. “Somehow I have to make this point clear and up front. I’m not infantry; I’m finance and
transportation. I’m feeling that the killing fields in this are the same as they are in any war. Bill was a Green Beret; he knows that. I
do what I’m hired to do, nothing more and nothing less.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
“I’ll talk to Ricardo about it tomorrow, okay?”
She relented, recognizing that she had hit the chord she was trying to strike. “Okay. It isn’t my goal here to upset you honey, but
these are real concerns.”
“I know.” His voice softened and he briefly closed his eyes. “I know.”
“All right number three is Chicago. If he truly was Ninth Infantry over there you’re going to have to explain that Super Heats patch.
No one called you on it today because they probably don’t know any better. Bill will and Chicago will.”
He shrugged and ignored his tea. “What’s to explain? I met those guys in 1969 and we stayed friends. When I got my first Harley
with the electronic gear shift so I could ride they gave me a patch. By then they weren’t VF-701 anymore; they were VF-202.”
Watching his defensiveness she sighed. “I sincerely hope this attitude is stemming from the fact that you feel safe directing it at
me and it won’t show up with Bill. Robby, all I am doing is posing situations they’ll impose. That’s a when; it isn’t an if.”
Disgruntled, he got to his feet. “I don’t like my abilities or background put in question.”
“Too bad.” She surprised him with an edge. “They will be, and if you go in there half-cocked and defensive you’re wasting
everyone’s time. The John Wayne act was cute but Fish isn’t Bill. Do you have any idea what type of tattoos those guys have?”
“The ink kind.”
“You know what? That isn’t funny.” Suddenly she was on her feet as well, in their first heated argument since accepting the
mission. “Fish has several and the first one I noticed was 311. The eleventh letter in the alphabet is K and times 11 it’s KKK. Dog
had 4/20 which is Hitler’s birthday so enough said on that one. Walrus had 88 which breaks down to Hiel Hitler. They all had
Blood Drops and Hammerskins; Dog had spider webs on his elbows which means jail time and/or killing a minority and they all
had two lightning strikes which you have to earn with a kill. You have none!” Frustrated, she placed a palm to her forehead and
sighed. “We have poser written all over us.”
“Don’t think for a second I don’t know that.” Rob’s voice was low and agitated. “You don’t put your colors on and take them off
when you feel like it. But I’ll be damned if I brand myself KKK just to get in the door!”
Suddenly Claire’s eyes grew wide with a new revelation. “You couldn’t anyway. My God how did this get past me when I see it
every day?”
“What?”
“You’re an amputee. We just tell them you can’t have tattoos because of blood clotting issues.”
“I don’t have blood clotting issues.”
Placing both hands on her hips she snickered. “So lie.”
#
Fear: A feeling of agitation and anxiety caused by the presence or imminence of danger.
"A thousand fearful images and dire suggestions glance along the mind when it is moody and discontented with itself.
Command them to stand and show themselves, and you presently assert the power of reason over imagination."
~ Sir Walter Scott.
Robert and Claire London were afraid. Vietnam had been reconstructed in a surfeit of nightmares, most poignantly death. If the
truth be revealed Claire wanted to slip Rob a few Valium pills and pack their bags for Dallas. Rob wanted to help her bundle her
belongings and remain on his own. Neither wish was granted. In routine life a psychiatrist and a super-action-hero-wannabe
needed each other; she needed him for a level of fantasy and he needed her for a dose of reality. Rarely did both characters have
to work together in reason and imagination alike. It was, for all intents and purposes, a test of wills on both sides of the hedge.
In the end, for self preservation, they agreed on their respective roles, give or take a few degrees. Claire would be the brains;
Robert would be the brawn. It worked.
#
The Cactus Bar. Remotely located on a desolate highway skirting the desert, the home of Hang Em High was rarely approached
by anyone outside of the club, including law enforcement. Deputy Sheriff Amos T. Rawlings had been brash enough to serve a
warrant there in 1981; no one had seen him since. Well, perhaps Clown finally did, not to mention the dissident Arab. In any
event, an invitation was required, unless you were Bill, and once it was issued only Divine intervention would save the poor soul
who declined or missed the meeting. Hapless? Usually. But for Robert London that had yet to be decided. This was it: the big
show with Bill Callahan on a Thursday night.
The scene was set with low riding clouds as Rob maneuvered the straight and narrow path to the bar on his Harley. This time the
sound of screaming pipes took a back seat to the thoughts running through his brain. Claire was not among them; he could not
afford for her to be there in mind or body. His wits were neatly arranged in a row, each supported by Plan B, C and even D. A
cartography of mental strike forces, Rob intuitively knew he had to convert his resentment from the NVA to any and all minorities
for the sake of surviving this test, if only temporary.
“I can do this.”
His words were lost in the wind as he pushed his Softail forward at eighty miles per hour.
“I have to do this.”
Joshua was compartmentally dumped in a closet with Claire, the strategic cognitive move she had taught him. For the next few
hours Robert London was nothing more than a wealthy, angry bigot who was experienced in killing men, women – and children.
Let us not forget the South American contacts.
Bill’s Jeep was in the front lot, cornered by a few motorcycles. The Budweiser sign in the window was not illuminated; in fact the
place looked dead. Rob ignored the damp feel of his gloved palms as he turned off his bike and dismounted. With one quick
thrust of his right foot he dropped the kickstand and let his lady come to an easy rest on the gravel. There was no loud noise
reverberating from within, not even music. It was deathly quiet. Keenly in tune with the Colt .45’s pressed against his chest; his
hand did not linger on the doorknob of the entrance. Rob was direct as he crossed the threshold and he produced a beguiling
smile in the face of the KKK.
“Swift!” Fish grinned and rose from a table to greet him. “Did you find us okay?”
“Hell yeah.” Shrugging out of his gloves, he slipped them into a coat pocket. “Turn right on the highway and drive straight for
miles.” He laughed then. “Easy enough.”
Bill was seated without the company of Adam or Maverick. It was just him and the Hang Em High boys. He was chewing on a
straw, kicked back in his chair, and his first order of business was the typecast stare down. Raking in Rob’s appearance from
head to toe, he fought hard to find something amiss. Nothing – so far.
“You can put your pieces on the table over there, Seawolf.” He said, motioning toward the far corner of the room. “And that Kaybar.”
Rob hid his surprise well and merely nodded. “Okay. You must be Bill.”
“The one and only.”
Compromising, Rob pulled both guns from their holsters and then the sleeved knife from inside of one black leather boot.
“Check him, Dog.” Bill’s eyes were unmoving.
Uncomfortable, Dog obeyed. “Sorry man,” He whispered to Rob.
“No problem.”
Satisfied, Bill finally moved from his chair and slowly walked toward the bar. “What’s your poison, Seawolf?”
“You can call me –”
“Swift?” Bill laughed and it was genuine. “They don’t know a damn person by that call sign, London.” He reached for a glass. “But
they do know you. Is Kentucky Gentleman okay?”
“That works.” Rob suddenly knew the feeling of a roped steer.
“Good. Have a seat at my table.”
It was apparent that the bikers were nervous, but Rob did well to maintain an outward display of confidence. He took the chair
opposite Bill’s and waited. Bill was methodical, not in a hurry and not too slow. He finally reclaimed his seat with two glasses and
a bottle of bourbon whiskey, his blue eyes icy with tenacity.
“Do you know why you’re here, Seawolf?” He asked, filling both beakers with alcohol.
Damn this fucker is testing my nerves. “I know you’re about to tell me.”
“You saved Chicago’s ass on the Bassac and you took out a fucking gook Colonel in Saigon. But…” Slowly he slid the drink
across the table, his eyes on Rob’s. “That was twenty years ago, give or take. I need to know who you are now.” Leaning back in
his chair, he smiled. “Drink up.”
On cue, Rob slammed the bourbon in one take. “Ever wake up and have the feeling it’s gonna be a really bad day?”
Authors:
Dory Maust
Daniel Kelly
At two o’clock in the morning, the black sky held a double edge sword for the SEAL team as their boat glided through still waters
toward a thick jungle hiding their enemy. The full moon was both friend and foe as its illumination clearly exposed the intruders
on the canal; yet it also offered them splintered glimpses of light once they were in the jaws of the dense and sharp foliage on
shore; foliage besieged by Agent Orange. Seven Navy Commandos and a Kit Carson Scout felt the hull of the Light SEAL Support
Craft, LSSC, slide to a stop on the muddy bank, and they disembarked in stealth mode. Two Special Boat Squadron sailors
remained to back the boat quietly away from the bank, and spinning the vessel 180 degrees, they vanished silently into the night.
Some of the SEALs left to execute that night’s operation wore tennis shoes. Some wore moccasins and others tread lightly in
bare feet. None wore jungle boots. Guided by his sixth sense, Animal, the point man, began methodically scouring the jungle for
booby traps while Woods, the Team Leader, Joshua and the others moved closely behind him. Camouflaged in tiger-striped
fatigues and face paint, they gave the illusion of foliage ghosts, the mystical part of the dense forestry that moved in ancient
folklore. One with the thicket and trees engulfing them, their trek had to be slow, appearing like a mirage in the desert.
Did that bush just rustle, or am I imagining it?
Seemingly their legs and feet never moved, leaving nothing disturbed as they continued in their pursuit of the enemy.
Lying dangerously close to their vulnerable ankles and calves, a pit viper felt the vibration of their motion and turned its head
quickly to investigate the intrusion. Smaller jungle creatures and insects grew somewhat quieter as Animal slowly glided on.
Even the snake lost its opportunity to strike and retreated, albeit still wary.
Yet it did not end there. NVA and VC combinations began erupting from all sides, and Woods broke the radio silence to call for
help.
“Iron Hat, Scorpion One! Scramble Seawolves!”
They were all below the flight deck, playing cards, listening to rock music, smoking and drinking colas when the scramble bells
rang loud over the P.A. system.
“Scramble the helos! Scramble the helos! Scramble the helos!”
“Here we go,” Robert mumbled. He dropped his cards and ran for the ladder leading up to the flight deck - and his M-60.
M-60 Reloaded Excerpt from Part 2
1988
New Mexico
Claire approached Rob in the privacy of their den with two cups of hot herbal tea. Extending one she could not resist a chuckle.
“Here you go, Swift.”
He laughed in kind and accepted the mug of steaming brew. “Thanks. Well it was the first thing that popped into my head. I
couldn’t give them my real nickname.”
They were both dressed in pajamas, and she nestled beside him on a warm colored sofa accented with an Aztec design. The
blend of burnt orange, cream and turquoise was reminiscent of the desert where they believed at least one deceased H.E.H.
member was buried. Lord only knew how many other victims kept Clown company in the oasis.
“We need to talk.” Her voice was soft, compassionate.
“One of my better suits,” He teased. “Not.”
“Gender roles are best saved for the operation, Robby. This weekend has brought to mind some genuine concerns.”
Carefully he tested the heat of the tea and nodded in agreement. “For me too.”
“Okay then you go first.”
“No thanks. If you hit the nail on the head then that means less talking for me.”
Sighing, she set her mug on the glass coffee table and rested her head on the back of the couch. “All right. There’s a part of you
and them which overlaps in reality.”
“Yeah, Vietnam.”
“I’m worried that might interfere with your…” Claire closed her eyes and silently cursed the situation. “Abilities.”
“Excuse me?” Rob scoffed and turned to look at her.
“This isn’t easy, Robby,” She countered, facing him. “I’m split fifty-fifty, half psych and half wife just like you’re split with them: half
vet and half Fed. They clash sometimes and that’s what I’m trying to get at here. The more you get closer to them the more part of
them becomes your war buddies. You might hate what they’re into now but Robby you may have to shoot to kill, and if you do you
have to be able to do it without a second thought.”
“I know that, Claire.” His tone indicated a modest level of resentment, be it from her lecture or from the thought itself.
“Okay.” Backing away from that topic she rerouted to another. “What happens when, if, you do get close to Bill and he gives you
the ultimate test of loyalty?”
“Which would be?”
“Murdering an innocent black man. I don’t recall any briefings with Bristol, Rutgers or anyone for that matter on this point. And
believe you me it will happen.”
“That’s not my job.” Rob was pensive. “Somehow I have to make this point clear and up front. I’m not infantry; I’m finance and
transportation. I’m feeling that the killing fields in this are the same as they are in any war. Bill was a Green Beret; he knows that. I
do what I’m hired to do, nothing more and nothing less.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
“I’ll talk to Ricardo about it tomorrow, okay?”
She relented, recognizing that she had hit the chord she was trying to strike. “Okay. It isn’t my goal here to upset you honey, but
these are real concerns.”
“I know.” His voice softened and he briefly closed his eyes. “I know.”
“All right number three is Chicago. If he truly was Ninth Infantry over there you’re going to have to explain that Super Heats patch.
No one called you on it today because they probably don’t know any better. Bill will and Chicago will.”
He shrugged and ignored his tea. “What’s to explain? I met those guys in 1969 and we stayed friends. When I got my first Harley
with the electronic gear shift so I could ride they gave me a patch. By then they weren’t VF-701 anymore; they were VF-202.”
Watching his defensiveness she sighed. “I sincerely hope this attitude is stemming from the fact that you feel safe directing it at
me and it won’t show up with Bill. Robby, all I am doing is posing situations they’ll impose. That’s a when; it isn’t an if.”
Disgruntled, he got to his feet. “I don’t like my abilities or background put in question.”
“Too bad.” She surprised him with an edge. “They will be, and if you go in there half-cocked and defensive you’re wasting
everyone’s time. The John Wayne act was cute but Fish isn’t Bill. Do you have any idea what type of tattoos those guys have?”
“The ink kind.”
“You know what? That isn’t funny.” Suddenly she was on her feet as well, in their first heated argument since accepting the
mission. “Fish has several and the first one I noticed was 311. The eleventh letter in the alphabet is K and times 11 it’s KKK. Dog
had 4/20 which is Hitler’s birthday so enough said on that one. Walrus had 88 which breaks down to Hiel Hitler. They all had
Blood Drops and Hammerskins; Dog had spider webs on his elbows which means jail time and/or killing a minority and they all
had two lightning strikes which you have to earn with a kill. You have none!” Frustrated, she placed a palm to her forehead and
sighed. “We have poser written all over us.”
“Don’t think for a second I don’t know that.” Rob’s voice was low and agitated. “You don’t put your colors on and take them off
when you feel like it. But I’ll be damned if I brand myself KKK just to get in the door!”
Suddenly Claire’s eyes grew wide with a new revelation. “You couldn’t anyway. My God how did this get past me when I see it
every day?”
“What?”
“You’re an amputee. We just tell them you can’t have tattoos because of blood clotting issues.”
“I don’t have blood clotting issues.”
Placing both hands on her hips she snickered. “So lie.”
#
Fear: A feeling of agitation and anxiety caused by the presence or imminence of danger.
"A thousand fearful images and dire suggestions glance along the mind when it is moody and discontented with itself.
Command them to stand and show themselves, and you presently assert the power of reason over imagination."
~ Sir Walter Scott.
Robert and Claire London were afraid. Vietnam had been reconstructed in a surfeit of nightmares, most poignantly death. If the
truth be revealed Claire wanted to slip Rob a few Valium pills and pack their bags for Dallas. Rob wanted to help her bundle her
belongings and remain on his own. Neither wish was granted. In routine life a psychiatrist and a super-action-hero-wannabe
needed each other; she needed him for a level of fantasy and he needed her for a dose of reality. Rarely did both characters have
to work together in reason and imagination alike. It was, for all intents and purposes, a test of wills on both sides of the hedge.
In the end, for self preservation, they agreed on their respective roles, give or take a few degrees. Claire would be the brains;
Robert would be the brawn. It worked.
#
The Cactus Bar. Remotely located on a desolate highway skirting the desert, the home of Hang Em High was rarely approached
by anyone outside of the club, including law enforcement. Deputy Sheriff Amos T. Rawlings had been brash enough to serve a
warrant there in 1981; no one had seen him since. Well, perhaps Clown finally did, not to mention the dissident Arab. In any
event, an invitation was required, unless you were Bill, and once it was issued only Divine intervention would save the poor soul
who declined or missed the meeting. Hapless? Usually. But for Robert London that had yet to be decided. This was it: the big
show with Bill Callahan on a Thursday night.
The scene was set with low riding clouds as Rob maneuvered the straight and narrow path to the bar on his Harley. This time the
sound of screaming pipes took a back seat to the thoughts running through his brain. Claire was not among them; he could not
afford for her to be there in mind or body. His wits were neatly arranged in a row, each supported by Plan B, C and even D. A
cartography of mental strike forces, Rob intuitively knew he had to convert his resentment from the NVA to any and all minorities
for the sake of surviving this test, if only temporary.
“I can do this.”
His words were lost in the wind as he pushed his Softail forward at eighty miles per hour.
“I have to do this.”
Joshua was compartmentally dumped in a closet with Claire, the strategic cognitive move she had taught him. For the next few
hours Robert London was nothing more than a wealthy, angry bigot who was experienced in killing men, women – and children.
Let us not forget the South American contacts.
Bill’s Jeep was in the front lot, cornered by a few motorcycles. The Budweiser sign in the window was not illuminated; in fact the
place looked dead. Rob ignored the damp feel of his gloved palms as he turned off his bike and dismounted. With one quick
thrust of his right foot he dropped the kickstand and let his lady come to an easy rest on the gravel. There was no loud noise
reverberating from within, not even music. It was deathly quiet. Keenly in tune with the Colt .45’s pressed against his chest; his
hand did not linger on the doorknob of the entrance. Rob was direct as he crossed the threshold and he produced a beguiling
smile in the face of the KKK.
“Swift!” Fish grinned and rose from a table to greet him. “Did you find us okay?”
“Hell yeah.” Shrugging out of his gloves, he slipped them into a coat pocket. “Turn right on the highway and drive straight for
miles.” He laughed then. “Easy enough.”
Bill was seated without the company of Adam or Maverick. It was just him and the Hang Em High boys. He was chewing on a
straw, kicked back in his chair, and his first order of business was the typecast stare down. Raking in Rob’s appearance from
head to toe, he fought hard to find something amiss. Nothing – so far.
“You can put your pieces on the table over there, Seawolf.” He said, motioning toward the far corner of the room. “And that Kaybar.”
Rob hid his surprise well and merely nodded. “Okay. You must be Bill.”
“The one and only.”
Compromising, Rob pulled both guns from their holsters and then the sleeved knife from inside of one black leather boot.
“Check him, Dog.” Bill’s eyes were unmoving.
Uncomfortable, Dog obeyed. “Sorry man,” He whispered to Rob.
“No problem.”
Satisfied, Bill finally moved from his chair and slowly walked toward the bar. “What’s your poison, Seawolf?”
“You can call me –”
“Swift?” Bill laughed and it was genuine. “They don’t know a damn person by that call sign, London.” He reached for a glass. “But
they do know you. Is Kentucky Gentleman okay?”
“That works.” Rob suddenly knew the feeling of a roped steer.
“Good. Have a seat at my table.”
It was apparent that the bikers were nervous, but Rob did well to maintain an outward display of confidence. He took the chair
opposite Bill’s and waited. Bill was methodical, not in a hurry and not too slow. He finally reclaimed his seat with two glasses and
a bottle of bourbon whiskey, his blue eyes icy with tenacity.
“Do you know why you’re here, Seawolf?” He asked, filling both beakers with alcohol.
Damn this fucker is testing my nerves. “I know you’re about to tell me.”
“You saved Chicago’s ass on the Bassac and you took out a fucking gook Colonel in Saigon. But…” Slowly he slid the drink
across the table, his eyes on Rob’s. “That was twenty years ago, give or take. I need to know who you are now.” Leaning back in
his chair, he smiled. “Drink up.”
On cue, Rob slammed the bourbon in one take. “Ever wake up and have the feeling it’s gonna be a really bad day?”
Authors:
Dory Maust
Daniel Kelly
| © 2007- 2010 Dory Maust, All Rights Reserved |
Release date TBA.