Chapter 1

Medina County, Tx

O’Brien had adjudged that his 10km run to not have been just good, but to have been fucking glorious. He legs had healed, only scars remained, and the headaches were significantly diminished. Heading inside to shower, he decided he was ready for another attempt at returning ‘home’.

Joint Recruiting Office, San Antonio, Tx

The young man was dressed in his charlie uniform for weekly report to the San Antonio Joint facility/recruiting station. He was prepared to beg. O’Brien’s requrement to return had become a fundamental physical need. He craved the company of his platoon, and the purposeful scheduling, training, and day-to-day demands of Marine Corps life.

Master Sergeant Talkins stiffened when he saw O’Brien enter. Talkins had more than a professional respect for the young staff sergeant; he had developed a personal admiration for the Marine. O’Brien’s firm request exited his mouth in more of a pleading voice.

“Top, please, schedule me for a medical exam and ask the captain to request orders”.

MSgt Talkins looked down at the papers on his desk without focusing, exhaled slowly, then stood up to face the younger man.

“Son, you are supposed to be at home and be recovering for at least 120 days. I saw you running this morning. It looked good. But you know that you need more than running a PFT to go back. There are counselors at the Air Force base that have been scheduled for you. See these people a few times to get their sign-off and we will be able to get the captain to approve the request for orders.”

The young man looked as though he had been slapped and slumped into the chair in front of Top Talkin’s desk. He looked down, and exhaled slowly to regain composure.

“I do not need to be here any more, I need to get back to Pendleton.”

O’Brien recovered his bearing, abruptly standing and returning to parade rest.

“Master Sergeant, I am physically and mentally ready now, and my unit will need me soon. Is there any reason I can’t talk to my first sergeant?”

The older man looked directly into the eyes of the younger man. He hoped to see into his soul, he wanted to be able to discern his very core - but nothing was revealed, as the younger man was only showing the typical shroud of stoicism.

“Staff Sergeant, do talk to your first sergeant, but go to Wilford Hall and talk to their people.”

Looking around the younger man, the master sergeant yelled to his clerk.

“Corporal Hanks, get me that med appointment print-out”.

The master sergeant took the form from his clerk and handed the paper to the younger man,

“Be there tomorrow or the captain will NJP your ass.”

Looking at the paper, the younger Marine stiffened.

“Aye, master sergeant, will be there at 1300 tomorrow.”

O’Brien Ranch, Medina County, Tx

Another early morning run followed by a light work-out on a weight set in his ad-hoc gym left him feeling more determined and ready to go back to his unit.

A pause at the front porch was an interim cool-down stop. He was planning a simple schedule of a shower and a short set of a few chores, then onto the Air Force base to see the ‘quacks’. A metallic noise interrupted his thoughts. Stepping down and walking over to look around the side of the barn, O’Brien noticed Jim removing a tool box from his truck. Walking rapidly with ghostly silent glide, O’Brien approached the mid-aged, rough-hewn man to speak with a growl.

“Put the god-dammed tools back”.

Jim dropped the box, spun around and looked menacingly but replied with an uncertain demeanor.

“Fuck you, I need stuff. You have more than you need.”

That was ‘it’ for the young Staff Sergeant. And ‘just fucking it’ was enough for the two decades of Jim’s cowardly shit. O’Brien’s internal fires flared and rapidly burned to a white hot. Stepping forward and turning to his side, he sharply thrust his elbow in Jim’s side, causing him to bend over from the sharp rib pain. The Marine immediately followed with a fist to the back of Jim’s neck at the base of his head. Jim fell to the ground, his nervous system overridden with pain and shock from the power and energy of the impacts. Jim’s next awareness was that of being roughly dragged by his left foot towards the workshop behind the barn while his head and upper body plowed through the gravel driveway.

O’Brien pulled Jim up and shoved him into the back of an alcove of shelves that were arranged in a ‘U’ shape. Jim had recovered enough to start cussing and flailing. His rants were abruptly ended by a powerful impact to his solar plexus. Jim, again, could only double over in response to the shock and pain.

Jim had no defense to offer while his hands were tied above his head. Leather strips from the tack box secured Jim’s wrist. A rope was attached to the leather strips and was thrown over the beam that crossed over the alcove of shelving. The force that pulled the rope taut was followed by a pop from Jim’s shoulders and a long scream of pain while O’Brien removed, ripping and tearing and slicing, most of Jim’s clothes.

“You are a worthless piece of shit. All the times you beat me and beat mom. All the money you stole from mom. All the stuff you stole from me and hocked to feed your gambling and alcohol habits. It is time for you to pay it back.”

Standing back after removing Jim’s belt, Jim’s young punisher stepped forward to be directly in his face.

“If you survive the next few days, I will consider this to be a down payment for your debts”.

Jim shook his head in disbelief, “you can’t do this, you just can’t...”

The young man continued, ignoring Jim’s pleas, “ ... and if you do not survive, I will follow you into hell to extract payback for eternity”.

Jim’s attempts to reason with the Marine continued until the intense pain from a sudden strikes of the thick leather belt on Jim’s lower abdomen stopped any attempts at verbal statements, to be replaced with screams and incoherent pleading.

After being powerfully whipped over the length of his upper body for 15 minutes, Jim was fading. O’Brien evaluated Jim’s lack of further response, considering the retribution and punishment session to be complete. The Marine’s burning anger, though, had not faded. Extracting more leather straps from the tack bin, O’Brien then loosed the rope from the beam. He picked Jim up like a half-full sack of potatoes as he was roughly thrown over the punisher’s shoulder, transported outside, dumped abruptly, then hog-tied and shoved into the back of the storage shed.

After a quick shower and breakfast and stopping by the storage shed, he returned to the house and retrieved his uniform. Starting to pull off his ribbons, O’Brien reconsidered when he realized that did not want to look like a shit-bird with holes on his charlie shirt. After putting on his uniform, he started walking to his truck to make the mandatory medical appointment.

Stepping outside, he saw the sheriff’s cruiser driving up the long limestone gravel and caliche access road, so he quickly returned to the shed. Jim blinked when the door opened and exposed him to the bright sun rays. His interlude was abruptly and severely ended upon receiving a quick kick to his upper side, immediately followed by another kick to his stomach. Again disabled by pain, Jim was easily handled. A small burlap bag was stuffed into his mouth followed by a wrap of duct tape around his head. His punisher threw him on the ground, wiped the dust from his dress corfam shoes, then shut the shed’s door behind him.

The sheriff’s car pulled up between the barn and the house while O’Brien approached from behind the barn. The sheriff’s lieutenant noted how controlled and that he was without expression, that his mannerisms and confident gait were much more different than the boy he had met over twenty years past, and different than the 17 year old boy that he had driven to the recruiting station for his first induction interviews and tests. The mid-aged law enforcement officer noted the young man’s stiff persona, but concluded the trade-offs were reasonable because at least the Marines had trained him to talk in complete sentences.

The Sheriff’s Lieutenant commenced his informational spiel once near the young man.

“Well, we have some good news and some bad news. Jim’s ambulance-chaser lawyer motions were all rejected and Judge Henry granted all of the filings that Bob did for you, and forwarded the court orders to the county clerk. But with the mess of the Anderson ranch and now the three properties affected by the Hendrickson death, the bad news is that the county clerk’s office will probably not get to any writs, transfers, or even the quit claim on your mother’s original 300 acres until next month.”

The young man looked at the sheriff’s lieutenant, but he said nothing and had no reaction and no acknowledgment, so the sheriff’s officer continued.

“Well, you want me to go ahead and file for you as proxy now or wait for the transfers to complete?”

O’Brien looked away, and replied with no discernible emotion.

“Nope, will not need proxy, because you and Mr. Watkins are on record as the agents for my power of attorney for all of my property, so as soon the transfers occur, you will have control ... so moot point”.

After O’Brien turned to leave, he paused and faced Officer Jenkins.

“I am expecting to receive orders soon. I plan on returning as soon as I have them...”, a short pause, then “and right now I have to go to the Air Force base to see the medical people again for a checkup.””

The young man mounted his truck and left before the sheriff’s lieutenant could engineer any further conversation.

The law enforcement officer shook his head as he watched the Marine drive away and decided to see what the young man had been able to re-claim from Jim’s neglect. The front and back and east side of the house had been re-painted, and the rotted siding sections had been replaced. Walking behind the house, he noted that the barn exterior had been repaired and re-painted. He further noted the main barn doors and loft were now intact, and the stalls were clean. Walking around the barn he saw that the fencing around the corral and holding pens were all as new.

Scanning to the tree line and back, he further noted that the weeds and other growth over the adjacent 30 acres had been plowed under. Following the tree line back to the other, far corral, he saw the restored clearing. Walking back to the house, he was surprised to see a new roof on the house. The senior law enforcement officer surmised that his boy has been busy and had accomplished much more than running and working out.

Joint Air Base Lackland, Tx

The young staff sergeant did not like the base. He felt a disquiet and insecurity with Air Force installations. With a shrug of resignation he drove in as the gate guard waved him through without an ID check. Finding the medical facility was easy - he noted that one thing the Air Force did well was to put signs everywhere.

Almost ten minutes early, he signed in at the ‘head-case’ front desk. Not knowing what pay grade three stripes meant for the air force, he did not say anything to the medical clerk. The clerk instructed the Marine to remain in the waiting area of the lobby until called. Seeing the medical clerk respond with a big-eyed second glance after looking at his ribbon rack, O’Brien lamented that he had not the time to find another charlie shirt. Seeking an isolated seat, he pulled out his phone and randomly read various MCOs, equipment manuals, and some old MCIs that he had transferred to PDFs. Being the stuff of O’Brien’s world, reading it provided a sense of security, a sense of normalcy; all of which he wrapped around himself as a protective layer from an unknown humanity.

His name was called. Noting 23 minutes had elapsed - the Marine thought that was not too bad for a bunch of snowflakes in uniform. the medical clerk led him down sterile fluorescent-lit passage-ways and to a small nondescript room with a government-issue gray metal desk and three matching metal chairs

“Major Erickson will be in a few. She is your case doctor. Please sit.”

The Marine went to the chair the most further from the desk, rotated it towards the window, and raised the blinds.

“Usually the major wants the blinds down.”

The Marine’s eyes pierced into the air force clerk’s eyes, said nothing, then turned to the window to raise the blinds to all such openings along the bulkhead. The clerk felt dismissed by his non-verbal command presence as she quickly exited the room and closed the door.

A short blonde Air Force major entered the room and paused to note that her patient was standing and staring out the window. She placed a document case and some files on the desk. As she looked at his ribbons, providing some manner of real-life connection to what she had read in his ‘sanitized’ SRB copy, begrudgingly provided to the hospital staff by the Department of Navy. Noticing the raised blinds, the physician asked the Marine to please sit.

O’Brien sat at the chair he had previously arranged, facing the near window. The physician frowned, removed a notepad from her document case and sat at the desk to write some preliminary notes. The Marine looked at his watch and noted seven minutes had elapsed from his insertion into the room, until the doctor’s arrival. O’Brien determined that was an acceptable delay for a bunch of uniformed fairies. Looking just above her, duly noted, small tits, he noted the ribbon for a bronze star with a ‘V’. O’Brien concluded that he would have to be careful, as this woman may have actually been in some serious shit.

“Sergeant, please turn the chair to face me”.

The tone was not demanding or commanding, but it did have the tone of certainty that Marines expected of officers. He immediately stood to rotate the chair and sat, with an “aye aye, ma’am”.

“What have you been doing on convalescence leave to prepare for the PEB?”

O’Brien thought that her directness and getting to the point was good.

“Running every morning, working out with some light weights and working on my mother’s ranch. The Staff NOIC at the recruiting office said no orders will be scheduled until this is done.”

The staff sergeant did not waiver or look away; and the major tried to not like his look of a determined challenge. She certainly respected the grit of Army rangers and Marines, above all others she had worked on. But she knew that grit and guts by itself is not, in itself, a determining factor of mental health. She was driven to find the buried demon that her medical mind was certain was there. The major’s certitude about O’Brien had formed after reading the various attending physicians’ notes, and prior to any formal examination of the Marine...

The Marine continued, “And I am going to talk to my first sergeant about orders”.

“You are less than half-way through your allocated recovery time. Why are you contacting your unit?””

“That is correct, ma’am. But these would probably be considered PCS orders, so would need to verify with both my unit and HQMC before a return to duty authorized. And this shit can be complicated because the OIC of the local Marines at the Joint station and recruiting office is my reporting senior; so too many moving parts with too many people involved.”

“This is true...” The major leaned forward and offered the Marine a file folder, “but let’s discuss this.”

The folder contained several pages of an excerpt, apparently copied from his medical files, where a navy doctor had recommended follow-up counseling.

O’Brien read the first two paragraphs of the first page and returned the folder to the desk top.

“Have previously seen this stuff, that is why I am here, ma’am.”

A short pause after realizing that he was not correctly playing the game, then “Do I think there is some PTSD? - of course because I do not see how any of us in the platoon could not be affected. Are we all handling it? - I believe most are, but a few are having problems. Am I handling it? Do I have PTSD? I dunno, depends on what you people consider a ‘disorder’. But I do think about my men all the time and think about what could have been done differently that would have resulted in less bad shit happening.”

“Is there anything - smells, sounds, images - that cause you to stop what you are doing and think about the ‘bad shit’?”

The major paused, looking at his ribbon rack again with the sudden realization that the star on his purple heart ribbon is freaking silver, “and who else have you discussed this with?”

“Nothing in particular I have noticed. Talked to a navy doctor for a month or so. Talked a bit about it with some of my people while racked up in the hospital, but nothing to say to anyone else because of opsec and mission classification. And am not certain what I can say to the major.”

“That is true, but consider this a ‘preliminary’ discussion. I’ve already had some discussions with my boss, and we have determined that specific operational methods do not need to be discussed. But I have been promised clear guidance by Friday, which is when we will schedule your next appointment.”

The major engineered a short pause to evaluate any response by the Marine.

“Back to your thoughts when you think about events that went ‘bad’, What do you feel? Any physical response and emotions just prior to the memory and just after your mind re-plays a bad memory?”

It was not lost to O’Brien the manner in which the medical officer had engineered the seemingly simplistic and open-end questions.

“Do not know, ma’am. Only a brief period of confusion when waking up from bad dreams. I am not aware of what causes me to think about this stuff ... and afterwards, sometimes I get mad when I realize I could have done something better and different, or am just sad over who we lost. Physically - I work it out, literally. Wake up from bad dream - go running; then go dig some more fence-post holes.”

“You said ‘mad’? Tell me about the anger or any feeling of helplessness?”

She leaned forward to receive his answer. The marine realized her body language signaled that the answer would be important shit.

“Mostly just pissed off at myself for some of my stupid decisions. But it really hurts that some of my actions contributed to my unit’s losses...”, then taking the time to put his head in his hands, “and it would really help if myself and the other platoon sergeants and section chiefs could get together with the first sergeant and talk about what and how we fucked up...”

The major wrote some notes, glanced over at the last section of O’Brien’s file containing the PCL and TSQ, then looked up to see the marine had immediately returned to that controlled look and disciplined persona. She needed to interview others in his unit, but realized that temporal and distance issues were not going to allow other interviews. She wondered if there was someone local to talk to, that would provide diagnostic support for her to go after his inner demon.

She continued exploratory (and to her reasoning) inconsequential questions. As the session continued, the marine’s answers became more terse. The staff sergeant did not offer to expound. She followed his lead and looked out the window at the people wandering around the building.

“Okay, this is enough for an intro session. See Torres at the front desk to get a print-out for Friday’s appointment.”

The young man immediately stood, “Aye, ma’am. Will see the major on Friday”, then abruptly left the room leaving her to stare at the open door.

On the way out to the front desk, O’Brien was both surprised and disgusted with himself that he had matched the shrink’s level of manipulation and deception. It had previously never occurred to O’Brien to exercise such unethical and manipulative behavior.

“Colonel, even the copy of his Navy Cross citation that we have is almost 50% redacted. I am doing surgery while blind-folded. His level of control is that of a sociopath and may well be that of a psychopath...” Digging through her files, “and why can’t we see his service record? And did you know that he has six freaking purple hearts? Remember, you’re the one that sent me to Afghanistan for six months to watch the rangers. And you are certainly not ignorant of the fact that this is a ‘known quantity’ for me.”

“Doctor Erickson...”, he only addressed her as ‘doctor’ when he was making a point, “ ... no command is going to pay for TDY, or whatever Marines do for detached duty, to send people from his unit at Camp Pendleton to chat with you, and we certainly cannot compel his civilian acquaintances, even if local, to come in for a cup of coffee.”

He leaned back. “Major, you must remain cognizant that this is the future of a highly-decorated career Marine. A marine that is, by all accounts, respected and revered by both his subordinates and superiors, a man that apparently has never had a speeding ticket, and that is obviously not stupid and certainly not ignorant ... his GT scores are among the highest I’ve ever seen”.

The colonel stood up and sat in the empty chair next to his favorite psychiatrist.

“Major, many combat veterans, are by medical definition, with the exception of not being narcissistic, truly sociopaths. We made them that. We order them to build a big sand pile, dump a truck-load of shit on it, tell them to roll around in it, then get upset when they walk away from the sand pile dirty and smelling of shit.”

The major, not intending to besmirch her boss, smiled with her reply.

“Well colonel, I don’t think that’s a mixed metaphor, and at least its not another poor analogy...”

The major averted her vision to look out the window at the flag, furling in the light breeze, in the quadrangle center, “Yes, we do make them sociopaths, but this may well be something else. Is it nature or something early in life is what makes someone a psychopath. And I need to know about his preadolescenct period.”

“Finally, I am a step ahead of you. Talked to the senior NCO at the recruiting station or whatever Marine unit that is his report. He said that there are two prominent members of the community that are listed as a power of attorney and as proxy and that they are also listed as his next of kin.”

He returned to his desk, opened the email client and printed out some messages.

“The contact information are in these messages. Talk to them, but be careful.”

“Thank you, sir. This is something to start with...”

O’Brien Ranch, north of Hondo, Tx

The marine started ditching his charlies the second he exited the truck. Back into work civies, he pulled out his tool box, surveilled the area and stamped to the shed.

Jim was laying on his side, as he was hog-tied. O’Brien cut the duct tape and pulled it off his face and neck. The ripping removal of the duct tape and Jim’s resultant scream was rewarded with O’Brien’s immediate kick to his lower abdomen. The desired effect was his immediate silence and the end result was successful.

Jim was yanked up to a wobbly standing position then shoved out the shed door towards the barn. O’Brien shoved Jim to the side of the barn where the main horizontal beam met the bulkhead. A rope was thrown over the beam and one end tied to a short horizontal stanchion with an iron ring. The other end was threaded around the leather strips that bound his hands and then tied off. The Marin hoisted Jim up to where, if he extended his toes, could just touch the deck.

O’Brien closed the barn doors and slid the sideways passage cover closed that went to the paddocks. Searching under the workbench, he found the propane torch he had used for soldering copper pipe fittings. With a robotically impassive expression, the torch was lit and the flame adjusted while he walked towards Jim.

Jim was close to panic. “Now look, kid. We have had our disagreements about running the place, and I may have made some mis ... ahhhhh NOOOOOOO!”

The heavy smell of burnt flesh quickly filled the barn - nauseating, almost sweet, and putrid. Jim stopped screaming and seemed to be close to passing out, so the propane torch was extinguished and part of a bucket of water was tossed on his head. The young man waited for Jim to recover where the indicator of recovery would be a certain level of pleading and begging.

When Jim’s moaning returned to somewhat coherent speech, O’Brien re-lit the torch. The flame applications now had more controlled placements and were carefully time-delimited. The resulting smell, while not quite as pervasive as after the first application, still managed to again fill the barn with that same stench. The flame applications modulated the screams and pleadings. When the pleadings were no longer coherent, the torch was again extinguished.

As Jim’s suspension rope was loosed from the stanchion ring, he dropped to the deck with a satisfying dull thud. O’Brien gripped Jim’s ankle to savagely drag him to the side of the barn, then dragged a large and heavy adirondack chair, that he had recently built, to the same location. The chair was dragged to the large-harness tack box that was attached to a vertical beam. After a short search under the bench and through his toolbox, the marine re-emerged with an electric driver and some large lag bolts, which were used to attach the wood chair to the barn bulkhead and beam via the tack box.

O’Brien picked up and slammed Jim into the chair. Securement via waist, wrist, and ankle leather straps made Jim’s placement in the large wooden chair, more or less, permanent.

Waking again, Jim was ordered to drink water, or rather, he was forced to receive the remaining water in the bucket with his head held back. O’Brien dumped the water into a drowning and sputtering Jim until he thought that enough of it had been consumed. A gag was re-applied with more duct tape. As an after-thought O’Brien thrust a quick punch to Jim’s solar plexus, then opened the main circuit breaker to the barn and left Jim in darkness, pain, humiliation, and fully terrorized.

O’Brien, satisfied with the last ‘session’, returned to his ranch maintenance. Looking at the field and corrals, he decided he needed to dig a better drain and sump before the fall and winter rains. O’Brien pulled the cover to the PTO on the old International Harvester tractor to attach the backhoe.

O’Brien proceeded to rapidly and expertly dig a 10meter x 10meter ditch of about 3 meter depth at the edge of the unused corral. A ramp into the ditch was roughed out followed by digging a 1.5 x 2.5 meter trench in the middle of the ditch. After attaching a front-end loader, he covered the trench with a metal road plate then dumped a layer of gravel to form the base of the ditch. Then some backhoe work to trench a drainage ditch to the treeline. After mixing a concreted mortar, he towed the three cinder block pallets, originally intended for a workshop expansion, to be re-purposed to line the sides of the ditch. Enough mix was prepared to put in a two-meter cinder block wall in a ‘U’ shape along the sides of the ditch. Not much illumination remained for working, so after all was secured, he had a light supper and cleaned up.

After another good 10km early morning run, O’Brien filled a water bucket, opened the barn, and closed the barn’s main power breaker.

“This may be the first time you woke sober for almost fuckin forever, asshole.”

The young man ripped the duct tape off Jim and pulled out the mass of cloth jammed into his mouth.

“Its watering time for the animals. Open up and drink now, asshole.”

The Marine starting pouring water into Jim’s mouth as he held his head back. The Marine enjoyed the desperation of Jim attempts to drink while avoiding suffucation from drowning as he choked on the stream of water.

“I’m gonna fuck you up even worse today. And you’d best start thinking, because I’m gonna ask you why I am fucking you up. No good answer means you are gonna get fucked up more until you find the correct answer.”

Jim was both panicked and confused - he had no clue what could be considered the correct answer. A brief salient thought flashed in Jim’s mind - he wondered if the war had made him crazy. As Jim was, among many other less-than-admirable qualities, a narcissist, it never occurred to his limited mind that he may had contributed to Sean O’Brien’s mental condition.

“Now listen you worthless drunk thief, why is this happening?”

Jim, still confused and panicked, could only gasp a choking reply.

“Hell, boy, I don’t know. You’re pissed ‘cause your mamma died or something?”

The young man grew a wide evil grin.

“Wrong answer, ass-wipe ... Time for me to fuck you up.”

The Marine pulled a large wooden mallet from beneath the work bench, but shielded it from Jim’s view. From Jim’s left side, the young man suddenly turned and pounded the mallet head onto the back of Jim’s bound hand. Metacarpals broke, tendons were crushed, nerve fibers were torn, and his left hand was permanently damaged. But the immediate affect was a sudden and unexpected nervous system over-load from all manner and form of pain. O’Brien stepped back to observe how Jim handled the sudden onslaught. The Marine was both disgusted and amused by Jim.