Chapter 1

I smiled as I heard her complaining. She had been accosted by a homeless man, wanting a few dollars for bus fare, and she felt so bad she had given him a five, only to see him go into a Seven Eleven and buy a pack of cigarettes. He came out tapping the pack, looked up, saw her, gave a sheepish grin, and walked down the street.

“Well, damn, Jen, what did you expect?,” I asked, tired of her telling the story for the fifth time. “These guys are hustlers, mostly veterans of years of street living. They know how to work people, especially young, gullible women. Most times, anything you give them goes up in smoke, in their arm, or into a bottle. You really think you’re helping?”

She gave me that stubborn look I’d come to know. “Yes, I think I’m helping. I have to believe that there’s good in people. If I didn’t, my world would be a little too grim.”

“Like mine, you mean? I’m older than you, honey, seen more of the worst side of life than I hope you ever do in your lifetime. One thing I’ve learned is that people will sink to the lowest level very easily. Anything could trigger it. PTSD(I had a little knowledge of that), divorce, death of a loved one, bad accident, loss of employment, any traumatic event, the list is pretty long. You want to help these people? Give them directions to the nearest shelter or soup kitchen. If they’re vets, send them to the closest VA center. The ones that actually want help will take you up on it, the ones that don’t, well they just don’t.”

Jen was a recent college graduate, working at the entry level at our station, the lowest of the low. She was twenty-three, fresh faced, still viewing the world through innocent lenses. Middle class background, from a loving home, parents still together, with a lot of brothers and sisters. She wanted to make it in the broadcast world, become a star on national television. I didn’t want to be the one to burst her bubble, but it took a lot of very hard work and more than a little luck to rise to the top, and a pragmatism she didn’t have. The ones I had worked with, and there had been more than a few, were cast iron bitches who would cut the throat of anyone they viewed as a threat or obstacle on their way to the top. There were a few exceptions, and those didn’t usually last long.

Me? I was a cameraman/producer. My training came from my Uncle. I was part of the green machine for six years, doing two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan. I wasn’t a rear echelon soldier, my job was to go out into the field, film everything as it happened, for training purposes and to cover their ass. It took a long time to learn to go into combat with a camera instead of a rifle, and I got a reputation of hanging in until the last round was fired.

The group I was with got into a pretty hot firefight three months before I was to rotate out of Iraq. It was a clever ambush, we were outgunned and outnumbered and it was really iffy for awhile. I filmed until it got too hot, then picked up an M4. I was completely out of rounds by the time help arrived, and was hand to hand with a pretty determined enemy. He shot me, not a major wound, before pulling his knife. A tactical mistake, his AK actually had a bayonet. He did manage to cut me long and deep, three times from my chest to just above my groin, before I clubbed him to death with the butt of my weapon. I refused to leave the field until I retrieved my camera. I got a purple heart, a bronze star, a trip to Ramstein for treatment, and was shipped home for a year.

Then they sent me to Afghanistan, with a plum assignment. I was attached to a Colonel, to film progress being made rebuilding schools and hospitals. My commander was a pretty no nonsense type a guy, and when he found that for every dollar in aid our government gave them for these projects, only about twenty cents actually went to building and repair, he was pretty pissed. The rest was taken as fees by the government and local tribal leaders. When he filed a report, the powers that be in the country ordered him to cease and desist.

Chapter 2 »