I Am Automaton

Chapter 2

Peter was sitting in Molly Apone’s kitchen sipping lemonade. Her two girls were running around in the back yard playing, undeterred by the unrelenting heat of the summer sun.

Molly was looking towards the back screen door, lost in some private reverie. “I can’t believe Mya’s going to be starting the fourth grade this year.”

“And Courtney’s starting second?”

Molly nodded.

Peter sipped his lemonade. Molly made the best. It wasn’t overly saccharine like store bought and man did it kill a good thirst.

He had been to their house on base on many an occasion, where they had worn out Delroy’s eight-foot, regulation pool table.

“What’re you making?”

There was a savory aroma filling the kitchen. “Oh, I was just making some pecan pie,” Molly said absent-mindedly, “for after dinner.”

Molly’s dinners were the stuff of legend. They were all in for a treat. Delroy…where was…

All of a sudden, the girls’ laughter turned to screams from the backyard. Peter stood up in alarm, but Molly remained seated. She was crying, mascara running down her face. She began to tear at her clothes violently.

“Molly, the girls…”

However, she would not stop. She tore at her dress and then her hair, screaming bloody murder. Peter did not understand.

He crossed the kitchen and flung the screen door open. A strange man cornered the girls. Peter crossed the yard quickly. “Hey, you! What do you think you’re doing?”

The man did not turn around. He only continued to advance on the girls slowly. They were holding each other and screaming.

Peter descended the old wooden steps and crossed the backyard yelling at the man. “Hey! Get away from those girls!”

But the man never turned around.

Peter put a hand on the man’s shoulder and whirled him around. “Hey…” He was stunned by what he saw. It was Delroy.

However, it didn’t look like Delroy. The man was practically grey in color, his skin ashen. His eyes were dead, but wild with some kind of feral hunger.

Peter didn’t notice it before, but Delroy’s clothes were disheveled and ragged. He smelled of bile and looked like a hobo.

Recognizing his friend, Peter’s demeanor quickly softened. “Delroy, what are you doing? You’re scaring the girls.”

Only Delroy did not answer. He grabbed Peter by the shoulders and began to pull him close, as if to intimate some kind of secret, something that would explain all of this. His grip was like a vice.

The stench was overwhelming. It was a sweet, sickly, rancid stench, and it was coming off his friend. Peter’s viscera contracted as the aroma of pecan pie was chased out of his nostrils. He wanted to retch.

However, as Delroy pulled Peter close, his mouth began to open, revealing stained teeth. Peter twisted and pulled away from Delroy and out of his grasp. “Delroy, what happened to you?”

Delroy lurched forward, arms extended, reaching for Peter. His mouth still hung open. Molly was screaming hysterically from the steps outside the kitchen, pulling at her hair. “You let him die, Peter! I trusted you. You promised to take care of him. I trusted you!”

Peter was caught between his friend and his wife. What the hell was going on? The daughters were now taunting Peter. “You let our daddy die. You let daddy our die. Hi-ho the dairy-o, you let our daddy die.”

Peter had been Delroy’s commanding officer for the past five years. In that time, they had become friends. They had seen some action in Iraq, but they had always looked out for one another.

“I did my best. There was nothing I could do.”

“I trusted you, Peter.”

“Molly, we were taken prisoner. There was nothing I could do.”

“…hi-ho the dairy-o, you let our daddy die!”

“Girls, I didn’t want your daddy to die.”

“Ashes, ashes, NOW YOU FALL DOWN!”

Delroy lunged forward and grabbed Peter, falling on top of him. “Delroy, I’m so sorry.” Delroy opened his mouth.

“As I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep…”

“I’m so sorry, buddy.”

“And if I die before I wake, I pray my dad your brains to take.”

Peter closed his eyes as he felt jagged teeth clamp down on his nose, sending blood rushing back down into his throat. He gasped for air…

***

Peter woke sitting straight up, his eyes overwhelmed with the whitewash of his surroundings. He heard the blips of monitors nearby. He was in a hospital.

It was just a dream. Where was Lucita? How did he get here? Was he still in Mexico? He knew he was back in the States when he saw a nurse enter the room with Major Lewis.

“How are you, son?”

It was such a big question. His body ached, and he was a bit disoriented. It took a moment to review in his mind all that had happened.

“The whole squad was wiped out.”

His own voice sounded strange to him.

“I know, son.”

“Those bastards knew we were coming. How did they know we were coming?” His question was more of a demand, and to a Major no less.

Major Lewis was a forgiving man, given the circumstances, but his tolerance had its limits.

“I don’t know how they knew.”

“Well, now all my men are dead because you don’t know.”

“You’re lucky to be alive.”

Peter was filled with rage, not at anything Major Lewis was saying, but at the notion of being the lone survivor. Why did he deserve to live? To carry around the guilt of the loss of his squad? He would’ve given his life for his men.

Mostly Peter was angry at himself for feeling relieved about being alive. The relief made him feel worse than anything.

“Funny, sir. I don’t feel lucky.”

Did Molly Apone feel relieved? What about the families of the other men? Did they get to feel relieved? He did not feel lucky at all.

Major Lewis paused, choosing his next words carefully. “You should be out in a week. There’ll be some physical therapy afterwards, but nothing you can’t handle.”

And…That was it? Peter was waiting, as it was a pregnant remark. But Major Lewis only stared at him. Was he really going to make him ask?

Peter was so worked up that he took the bait. “And?”

Major Lewis revealed nothing, all poker face. “And what?”

“And what then? After I finish my physical therapy?”

Major Lewis smiled. “We have something for you, a new assignment.”

“Oh, no. You’re not putting me on some rubber gun squad. I want at those Navajas.”

“I figured as much. This new assignment will be in that vein, but I cannot discuss it at the moment. It’s, frankly, above your pay grade.”

Was this man kidding? Above his pay grade?

“Sir,” Peter was doing his best to restrain his outrage, “with all due respect, you should…no, you owe it to me to keep me in this fight. They need to pay for what they’ve done.”

Major Lewis looked Peter right in the eye. “Work hard on getting better, son. We need a man as tough as you in this program. If you complete your therapy and are up to the challenge, I’ll have to see about promoting you…”

“Sir, I…”

“…to First Lieutenant.”

Peter was speechless. That was certainly another pay grade. He had been hoping to make First Lieutenant, just not this quickly.

Stunned, he did not know what to say. “Thank you, sir. I won’t disappoint you.”

“I’m sure you won’t. Rest up, Sergeant. You’re going to need it.”

Then the Major turned and began to leave the room, but he paused halfway to the doorway. “I’m sure you’ll want to tell some loved ones that you are okay. Remember that our activities in Mexico are classified.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

Then Major Lewis left the room.

He would tell his parents that he was all right. He would tell them that he was injured in a training exercise at Fort Bliss, so they wouldn’t worry too much.

The world was a crazy place. The United States was spread thin. There was a war on terror in Afghanistan, Iraq, Iran, Egypt, Pakistan, Greece, and South America. Iran had successfully developed nukes. North Korea was rattling its saber, as it periodically did, near the border.

Then there was the war on drugs. Every American knew there was a war on drugs, but most didn’t know what that meant. Most Americans probably thought it meant patrolling the border, which was a joke, and enforcement within our own borders.

Your average American had no knowledge of the efforts in Mexico itself, with the cooperation of the Mexican government, of course. Drugs needed to be stopped before they crossed our borders.

There were sectors of the Mexican government that were in league with the cartels and gangs. The handful of politicians that wanted them routed out wanted…no, needed the help of the United States. As far as the press knew, Special Forces had gone south of the border to help train the Mexican government’s military to fight the war on drugs on their end.

Of course, when those that were trained defected to the other side, the press went nuts over the story. They spared no ink in tearing the administration a new one for botching the training objective.

They preferred nation building to outright war and occupation, but they never hesitated to criticize when it failed. The only example of truly successful American nation building was in Japan after World War II.

However, despite the public’s dissatisfaction with how the government was handling the war on drugs, they would certainly be critical of military operations in Mexico involving hunting down the cartels.

The liberal press would accuse the administration of being warmongers. The Tea Party and Libertarians would tout a noninterventionist standpoint. The Republicans would only be interested in occupation to profit off Mexico’s natural resources and reconstruction.

So the operations in Mexico were hush-hush. What the citizenry didn’t know wouldn’t hurt it, and that was for its own good.

College kids and yuppies saw the drug problem as a harmless joint on Friday nights or an occasional line of coke in the executive bathroom at work. No one saw all of the death that surrounded the drug trade.

It also involved one of our borders, and therefore was a matter of national security—especially since what had evolved into the Order for International Liberation (a global terrorist organization) had taken to providing security for the cartels in running the drugs across the border.

Peter wondered about the new program that Major Lewis was referring to. He thought he knew about all of the operations going on in Mexico. This program must’ve been something brand spanking new, cutting edge even. He was looking forward to getting back in on the action.

First thing’s first. He picked up the phone in his room and dialed his parents.

“Hi, Mom…yeah, I’m okay…there was an accident…no I’m fine. It was a training exercise on the airfield…”

***

Major Lewis was looking in his right desk drawer when there was a tone at his door.

“Enter.”

Captain Fiona London entered the room, closed the door behind her, and strode up to the Major’s desk. She removed her headgear and saluted smartly. “Captain London reporting.”

“Have a seat, Captain.”

She took a seat in one of the two chairs in front of his desk. He continued to rummage through files on his Cybernetic Digital Organizer Clipboard, while she sat there feeling somewhat awkward.

Fiona was a young captain and was in the army to help pay off graduate school. Psychologists entered the army at the rank of captain and usually worked their way up from there. As noncombatants, after passing muster at Basic Training, they served as medical staff.

“Oh, here it is.” Major Lewis turned his Cybernetic Digital Organizer Clipboard to face Captain London. It was Peter’s personnel file.

“Sergeant Peter Birdsall. A tough young man. Shows a lot of promise. But his squad took a nasty turn in Mexico with one of the major drug cartels, the Navajas.”

Captain London reached forward and took the clipboard.

“Captain, I want you to assess Sergeant Birdsall.”

She looked up from the file. “PTSD? Acute Stress Syndrome? The usual?”

“No. I know he won’t have any of that.”

Now she was curious. “Oh? So what should I be looking for?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard of the ID Program?”

Her eyes grew wide. “Yes, I have, sir. It’s…operational?”

“Almost. We need a leader. Someone to learn the ropes and train a platoon in the methods.”

“I see.”

“This Sergeant Birdsall is one tough bastard. His whole squad in Tijuana was wiped out in front of him, and he almost bought it himself, but somehow he made it out. He’s smart, quick, and resourceful. He can take a hell of a lot of pain, too.”

“It sounds like you’ve already made your own assessment, Major.”

“Well, this program is not for the weak or psychologically ill-equipped. It takes a strong constitution and an extraordinary ability to deal with loss.”

“So you’re asking me to assess if a man, who had his whole squad murdered in front of him and somehow survived to tell the tale, has an extraordinary ability to deal with loss?”

Major Lewis smiled. This man will be filled with piss and vinegar, and driven by thoughts of revenge, but I’m not sure if he’s ready for the ID’s…methods. I need to know that he’ll keep a level head. If he can’t then it would be…”

“Dangerous.”

“Yes, Captain. That would be putting it mildly.”

“Does he know he’s going to be meeting with me yet?”

“No, and he won’t be pleased, but that’s a small matter. I’ll just dangle the carrot of the new program in front of him. He’ll do it. The rest is up to your ability to get inside his head.”

“So he’s aware of the ID Program?”

“No. Not yet. Not until he’s ready. You’ll tell me if he is.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, of course, all of this is confidential, and you’ll report only to me. Is that clear, Captain London?”

“Yes, sir.”

Major Lewis flashed a warm smile at her. “I knew you were the right person for the job.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“If we can get this program off the ground and run successful pilot tests in Mexico, the implications for unconventional warfare will be quite profound.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Dismissed, Captain.”

***

Peter was sore from his physical therapy session and was irritable. He was in no mood to see a shrink.

He detested army shrinks. They could not possibly understand what a real soldier went through. They were noncombatants and never saw any action.

He winced as he walked down the corridor to her office. Captain Fiona London. She sounded to him like an actress or model, or a WASP who enlisted in the army to piss off daddy.

He pressed the blue button for the retinal scan. A beam scanned his eye, and a tone signaled the confirmation of his identity.

“Enter,” he heard from inside.

He stepped into the room, closed the door behind him, and saluted the captain at her desk.

“That won’t be necessary, Sergeant.”

She gestured for him to sit down in the chair in front of her desk.

As he sat, he took in her office. It was different from the other officers’ offices. It wasn’t minimally decorated with that Spartan sensibility so characteristic of the army.

No, Captain London apparently was going for homey, but only as much as the military would permit. There were curtains on the window, even a valence. Impressionistic paintings hung on the walls, probably by famous painters, not that he would know the difference.

Then it dawned on him. It was his parents’ living room from his childhood. Nice touch. Just enough to make him feel at home.

He sized up his new therapist. Captain London obviously had some sophistication to go with her fancy degrees, and she was not terrible to look at either.

“So, Sergeant Birdsall…may I call you Peter?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I think that we can dispense with the formalities. I think that it is important that you feel comfortable in here.”

“Well, I’ve never been to a…shrink before.”

“That’s okay. I think you’ll find I’m the least painful army doctor.”

There was something very easy-going about her demeanor. Peter felt that it was almost as if she was flirting with him, but there was no flirtatious body language. She was being folksy.

“Let’s see.” She was poking the touch screen of her Cybernetic Digital Organizer. “Sergeant Peter Birdsall. Age 24, 6’4”, 220 pounds. Texas native. Played high school football. Hobbies include hunting, fishing, and camping. Good all-American boy.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She put down the Cybernetic Digital Organizer and looked him right in the eye. “So, Peter, I see from your file that you had experienced the loss of your squad in Tijuana.”

Boy, she didn’t mince words.

“Yes.”

“And Corporal Delroy Apone was a friend.”

Peter swallowed hard. “Yes, that’s correct.”

“I’m very sorry to hear about that.”

“Thank you.”

Captain London paused briefly, deciding which route to go with the session. She wanted him to open up, but she didn’t want to be too direct and shut him down. “If you don’t mind me asking, how on earth did you manage to get out?”

“I believe it’s all in the file.”

“Yes, in the file it states that you fought off your captors with hands bound and fled to the city where someone had apparently taken you in.”

Lucita. He never saw her again, was never able to thank her. “Yes, that’s correct.”

“Well, Peter, you are very lucky to still be with us.”

He hated that everyone said that to him. “I don’t feel lucky.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I walked my men into an obvious ambush. I saw my men gunned down…no, executed in front of me. And now I get to live with that the rest of my life.”

“Peter, I’m not going to bullshit you. You were squad commander. You were responsible for those men. Now, I can say that it wasn’t your fault that the Navajas knew you were coming. But that wouldn’t change what happened or how you feel about it.”

Peter began to tense his hands and clench his jaw. “No, it wouldn’t.”

“In fact, it would probably just piss you off.”

“Yes, it would.”

“And it would be equally ridiculous to remind you that as a soldier in the United States Army, there is the distinct statistical probability that any of your squad will or will not make it back from any given mission.”

He was now gripping the arms of his chair. “Yes, it would.”

“And why would that be ridiculous, Peter?”

“Because it wouldn’t help me fix anything.”

“It wouldn’t bring back your friend, Delroy.”

His eyes were welling up. She could see the sadness of loss and heat of vengeance in his glare.

“So what do I do, Doc? What can I do?”

She now leaned forward, meeting the intensity of his eyes with determination in hers. “What would you like to do?”

Peter was now visibly attempting to control his feelings. “Permission to speak freely.”

“Peter, you can say anything you want in here.”

“I know you report to Major Lewis, so I want him to hear this.”

She nodded in encouragement.

“I want to kill the bastards. I want to hunt every single one of them down. I want to burn their entire drug running operation to the ground. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

She paused thoughtfully, letting his words hang out in the air. It was important to let his own words register with him.

“You’re not ready yet.”

The digital curtains and paintings glitched.

“I know; I have to complete my physical therapy.”

“I wasn’t referring to your physical recuperation.”

“Oh, here it comes. So I’m not psychologically ready.”

She leaned back in her chair, her voice now softer but firm. “Peter, you’re very angry and looking for revenge, and you haven’t dealt with the loss yet.”

Peter was growing tired of the psychobabble. “And…”

“And that would make you dangerous. Dangerous to any soldiers we would put in your charge, particularly for the program that Major Lewis has in mind for you.”

“Yeah, no one’s exactly told me what this program is actually about. How do I know that I even want to be a part of it?”

“For the exact reasons that you have just elaborated. You want revenge, but in time, I’d like to modify that motive a bit. Eventually, you can come to the conclusion that it is important that your men…your friend, Delroy Apone…didn’t die for nothing.”

Peter nodded in agreement.

“Right now your vengeance makes you reckless, impulsive. You would run into any fight to exact your revenge. But it has to be about more than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that it has to become more than about you and your guilt and making yourself feel better.”

He stood up out of his chair, shaking. The paintings distorted momentarily. “How dare you imply that I’m being selfish.”

She stood and met his gaze. “So far, all I’ve heard about is how you feel. How sad you are. How angry you are. How you miss your friend.”

“What the hell else am I supposed to say?”

“It’s not all what you say, Peter. What are you going to do? Are you going to deal with your loss and move on so that you can do the right thing for your men and your country?”

Peter slowly lowered himself into his seat. He had never thought of it that way before. She was right. He couldn’t just return to Mexico, guns blazing, shooting up the place.

His men in Tijuana deserved more, and if he were to return, the new soldiers in his charge would deserve more too. They deserved a CO who would have a clear head and show good judgment.

“And…how do I go about doing this?”

Captain London sat down and smiled. “You’ve already begun. That’s what you’re here for, Peter. You can’t do this alone.”

Peter nodded silently.

“Peter, the Chinese have a saying: ‘In every crisis there is danger and opportunity.’ The danger is that you’re too traumatized by what happened in Tijuana and you’ll wash out, but there’s an opportunity. Deal with you grief, your guilt, and your loss and return to Mexico wiser from experience.”

She hesitated, choosing her next words cautiously. “And this new program is like nothing anyone’s ever seen before. It needs competent leadership. It needs you, Peter.”

“I understand.”

She sized him up for a moment, registering his sincerity, but she wondered if he had the will. They would both find out soon enough.

“I think that’s enough for today, Peter. We’ll meet again next week. We have a lot of work to do.”

“Yes, I suppose we do.”

“By the way—standard question—I don’t have to worry about you hurting yourself or anyone else, do I?”

“Just the Navajas.”

“Good. See you next week.”

He stood and saluted, and she dismissed him. He left and the digital curtains and paintings from his youth switched off. After he left her office, she sighed heavily and opened his file. Before she registered her session note, she dialed Major Lewis.

“Hello, Major.”

“Did you see Sergeant Birdsall?”

“Yes, we just concluded our first session.”

“So, what do you think? Is he ready?”

She paused. “No, he’s not ready yet, sir.”

“How long?”

“I’m not sure how long, if ever.”

“You’ll keep me abreast of his progress?” It was an order more than a question.

“Of course, Major.”

“It is important that he get back on the horse. If not, he’ll wash out.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Good day, Captain.”

She hung up the phone and stared into thin air, lost in her thoughts for a moment. Rehabilitation of Sergeant Birdsall was certainly possible. Soldiers in combat situations had to deal with trauma and loss all of the time.

Part of her worried about what she was preparing him for. Sending this man into the ID Program was like sending a snowball careening into hell. If he wanted back in, he would get it. However, at what cost to him?

She had to follow orders. Besides, he wouldn’t be compelled to join the program. He could always be reassigned, but she saw that look in his eyes. He would not give up. He would not quit. She was a good enough judge of character to know that he would pursue this to the end.

She picked up her pen, began to compose her analysis, and she registered her first session note with Sergeant Peter Birdsall.

***

The next few months, Peter faithfully attended his physical therapy sessions, and his perseverance paid off. His injuries were minimal given the situation, and he progressed rapidly.

His psychotherapy with Captain London was also going well. She had a practice of cutting through the garbage and addressing things head on, and he respected that.

They had discussed his relationships with each of his men, his guilt, and his anger. He was beginning to find some closure about what had happened in Tijuana.

She had taught him how to compartmentalize his feelings and memories about what had transpired. She taught him the Buddhist philosophy towards loss—that in death people gave back that which never belonged to them in the first place.

She talked about entanglements, and how worrying about loss would cause a self-fulfilling prophecy in combat. He learned to let go of worry about dying and focus on staying alive.

Captain London had his file open in front of her on her desk. He was shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Well, Doc…what do you think?”

“Well, Peter, you’ve made significant strides in our sessions together. You managed your grief; you confronted your guilt…”

“And…”

“And, I’ll be recommending you for the ID Program.”

Peter jumped up so quickly that he startled her. He shook her hand enthusiastically. “Thanks, Doc. I really appreciate it. I won’t let you down.”

“You worked hard, Peter. Of course, my recommendations are only recommendations. Major Lewis will read them and make a final decision.”

Peter suddenly felt awkward. “Well, Doc, I guess this is it.”

He was confused by the consequent expression on her face. If he wasn’t mistaken, it was…amusement.

She chortled, “Oh, no, Peter. This isn’t goodbye.”

Peter stood there, some of the wind obviously taken out of his sails.

“I-I don’t understand.”

“Peter, if Major Lewis approves you for the ID Program, you’ll definitely need to be continuing sessions on an on-going basis. I’ll need to evaluate your on-going mental status and fitness for duty.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“Major Lewis will explain everything to you. In the meantime, you’re due for some R&R. I recommended some leave time, and if Major Lewis approves it, I suggest you take it.”

He was not sure what to make of any of this. “Yes, ma’am. And thank you.”

Peter left her office a new man, although he was unsure of what was in store for him, but he was grateful to Captain London and what she did for him.

In the days that followed, he anxiously awaited Major Lewis’ response. He was lying in his bunk when his com unit beeped…he had a message.

He touched the screen. It was from Major Lewis. Excited, he opened the message. It was the approval of the leave time. That was it. No mention of the ID Program or Captain London’s recommendation.

He was disappointed, but no news was no news, not bad news. He decided that he would go out, raise some hell, and worry about the ID Program, whatever it was, when he returned.

He had the ominous feeling that he was going to get what he asked for, but he was not exactly sure if he wanted it.