The Stickmen by Edward Lee Read Free Book Online Page A

the jeep like a quick skiff, swerving
around obstacles of rock and cattle skulls. “The 1022nd SPs have
already secured the site but…it’s a big site, sir.”
    “They always are,” Swenson said more to
himself.
    “What’s that, sir?”
    “Nothing.” Swenson eyed the desert. “Thank
God it cracked up here and not downtown Las Vegas or Reno.” Mother of God, he thought. Can you imagine?
    The jeep buffeted over more sandy hillocks.
Cacti stood out all around them, like sentinels. Soon, though, the
sentinels would be just as green but heavily armed. From beneath
the seat, he pulled out a roll of black duct tape. He peeled off a
piece and placed it over the embroidered name-tag over his left
breast pocket, then handed another piece to Hancock.
    “Cover that nametag, son. The SOPs don’t
change just because we’re on government land.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    A short time later, the jeep ground to a
halt. Swenson slowly got out, looking ahead at the edge of the
bluff. Security police milled about several commo trucks.
    “I need—”
    “The retrieval units are already being
choppered in from Edwards, sir,” Hancock said.
    “Good. Use the star-net band and radio 1st
Air Transport. I want them right behind the retrieval teams.”
    “Yes sir.”
    Hancock briskly departed for the commo
truck, leaving Swenson to stand alone looking out at the edge of
the bluff.
    He didn’t sweat in the great blaze of sun;
instead it seemed to dry him out like a twig, like something
drained of all moisture. Yes, Swenson was young for his rank, but
right now he felt ancient, enfeebled.
    Another one, came the repeating
thought.
    “Would you like to take a look,
General?”
    The voice caught him off guard. A security
sergeant had approached, was offering a pair of binoculars. The
sergeant didn’t salute because he was armed. Slung to his shoulder
was one of the new Stoner assault rifles which everyone was saying
would win the Vietnam war.
    “Thank you, Sergeant.” He took the
binoculars. “Carry on.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Swenson walked to the edge of the bluffed,
brought the binoculars to his eyes, and looked down…
    God in heaven, he thought.
     
    ««—»»
     
    “God in heaven,” he croaked, just as he had
thirty-eight years ago on that sun-swept desert bluff. General
Swenson was seventy-one years old now, and dying. The disease had
confined him to the convalescent bed surrounded by flanks of
beeping cardiac monitors and medicine cabinets. The was an armed
guard in the house round the clock, as well as an orderly from
Walter Reed. He hated to think how many tax dollars were being
spent simply to have his inevitable death properly overseen.
    It was the e-lex print-out that had caused
the sudden memory jag, taking Swenson’s mind back to that horridly
hot day thirty-eight years ago. He been right about much that day:
John F. Kennedy had sanctioned the overthrow and assassination of
the president of South Vietnam only to be assassinated himself
three weeks later. Heroin continued to flow into the country along
with newer, worse evils, and the Soviets had tried to arm Cuba with
nuclear missiles which had brought the world to within twenty-four
hours of World War III.
    The heart monitors continued to beep behind
him, and so did the drip-monitor on the overhead I.V. bag.
Swenson’s eyes—an old man’s eyes now—glanced back at the tulle-thin
sheet of printer paper that the guard had brought in to him only
moments ago.
    The sheet seemed too thin, too insubstantial
to carry so grievous a message, a message, nevertheless, that only
he and a few others in the world could fully understand.
    The e-lex read:
     
    052899 - 0613 HRS
    DE: FBI HQ CNTRL PROSS
    TO: RELEVANT AD OR DEPUTY SECTION
CHIEF/STATUS: FYI
     
    SUBJECT: W/M 34 YO, URSLIG, JACK, H.
(DECEASED)
     
    READ: VSP VIOLENT CRIMES UNIT REPORTS THAT
SUBJECT WAS FOUND
    MURDERED IN HIS RESTON, VA, HOME THREE
NIGHTS AGO AT 11:39 PM.
     
    COD: SMALL CALIBER GUNSHOT WOUND TO THE
HEAD.