Chapter 3

Interlude: Pat and Brad

The doorbell chimed its warning and Patricia slowly made her way to the front of the house to answer it. Fucking debt collectors, she thought tiredly. Haven't they figured out you can't get blood from a stone? We already live in government housing. What the hell else do they think they can take away from us? One more month, Harold, just one more God-damned month!

Patricia's husband had died almost eight years before in the last month of the war leaving behind his young wife, two daughters and a third that had been conceived just weeks before his ill-fated return to duty. The death benefit had lasted a few years with her thriftiness and her position in cosmetics sales for a local beauty spa plus the ever-decreasing survivor's pension kept them more or less fed but just barely and there were those emergencies that always seemed to happen ... It meant they could never get ahead and were in fact slowly slipping into desperation. The apartment they could keep; it was guaranteed but if they started to attach her meager pay ... At least they would have a roof to starve under.

"Look," she said resigned to a halfhour or more verbal fisticuffs with a bill collector who was after all just doing his job. "We don't have anything to give you. I'm sorry but there just isn't..." She stopped abruptly when she saw who was standing in the doorway. Actually she had no idea who the handsome young man was but she was fairly sure no bill collector would be calling carrying a very large box. A very heavy box also she surmised from his bulging forearm and bicep muscles and there were quite a few of both of them.

"Mrs. Patricia Henderson?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered slowly.

"You are — were — the wife of Lance Corporal Harold Henderson, ma'am?" he grunted.

"Yes," she answered again now more curious than resigned.

"Great," he huffed. "Ma'am, do you mind if I put this down? This sucker is heavy!"

"Sure, put it down wherever you want," she said. "It's yours after all."

"Actually it's not, ma'am, it's yours," he said with a grin.

"Mine? But I didn't order anything," she stated and then added ruefully, "I doubt anyone would give me the credit to buy a bag of air let alone anything else. I hope you don't expect to get paid for whatever it is you're pushing because if it cost a nickel to fly around the world I haven't got enough to get out of sight."

"No, ma'am," he reassured her. "This is a gift from the VBS. It doesn't cost you anything. Mostly food and a few toiletries and such. Not much, I'm afraid, but we're just getting started."

"The VBS?" she asked puzzled. "Who the hell are they and by the way who the hell are you?"

"Oops, sorry," he muttered sheepishly. He set the box down at his feet with a grunt and fished a card out of his shirt pocket. "I'm new at this and still forget." The card was a plain white business card the likes of which she hadn't seen for years since most contact information is transmitted com-to-com. It read simply in bold script, Veterans Benevolent Society, Bradley Miller, Field Representative.

"I take it you're Bradley Miller?" she asked staring at the card.

"Yep," he said, the grin still plastered on his face. Reaching into a back pants pocket he pulled out a wallet and flipped it open. He extracted another card and passed it to her. This time she recognized it as a standard Government Issue service identification card issued to all present or past service members. Harold had had one just like it. They were supposed to be impossible to forge.

"Can be faked," he said as if reading her mind. "But it'd cost a hell of a lot more than I'd be willing to pay.

"Okay," she said handing the card back to him. "I believe you are you. That still doesn't tell me what you're doing here or what's in the box. Oh what the hell, come on in. No sense trying to talk with you standing out there." She opened the door wider and stepped back giving him room to enter.

"Thank you, ma'am," he said stooping down to lift the box with another groan. He carried it in and glanced at her questioningly silently asking where she wanted him to set it down.

"Oh, on the table I guess," she answered, waving towards the rickety table that came with the apartment. He looked at the table, arched his brows and then down at the box.

"I don't think that's going to hold it, ma'am," he finally said. "Do you mind if I just set it down on the floor?"

"No, go right ahead," she said as he put it down and straightened up. "And could you stop with all the 'ma'ams'? You make me feel even older than I already do. Now, can you please tell me what is going on here?"

"Sure can, ma- Mrs. Henderson," he said as he pulled up one of the chairs next to the box and sat down. He wasn't even looking up at her when suddenly there was a huge knife in his hand with its blade springing out and clicking into position. Patricia gasped when she saw it and took a step backwards.

"Oops, sorry about that," he said sheepishly. "I keep forgetting people can get kind of nervous around knives." With three deft movements he sliced the tape holding the lid together, the reinforced tape parting like magic as the blade whispered over it. When he was done the knife disappeared like it had never been there. Patricia had no idea where it went.

"It's just a tool to me," he continued as he pressed the lid back and reached in to pull out an armload of stuff which he deposited on the table. "Never really even considered it a weapon although I suppose it sure could be. I never liked knife fighting personally. Always figured if someone was close enough to stick it in they were too damn close for my liking. Sorry about the language. Got to work on that too, I suppose."

"What is all this?" Patricia asked, he curiosity over what he was piling on the table overcoming her momentary fear of the man and his knife.

"Well," he said picking up a tube that looked like an old style toothpaste tube. "This is a field-ration or fi-rat for short. There are other names for it but I wouldn't say them in the presence of a lady. It's got all the nutrition needed to sustain your average combat soldier in the field for one day. You and your youngest could probably get by with half a tube a day but eat as much as you want; we got plenty. Make sure you drink plenty of water though; it kind of expands in your stomach. You might want to try to get your oldest two to eat a whole one every day though; kids like them need a lot more calories then us lazy butt-sitting oldsters. Just use what you want and recap it; doesn't even need refrigeration."

"My husband used to talk about these," she said idly picking one up to look at it. "He said they taste like sawdust."

"Oh, he got the good ones then," Bradley laughed. "Seriously, they taste like crap but they'll keep you alive forever. I'm not saying you have to eat them exclusively but none of you have to go hungry ever again. There are a few other things in here: some teeth cleaners, field towels and some, ah," he blushed and looked everywhere except at her then added quickly, "some female things some of the wives packed." Patricia leaned over and looked in the box and then up at Bradley with a grin.

"A big strong man like you afraid of a few paper pads?" she teased.

"Not afraid, just embarrassed," he admitted. She knew she could tease him some more, but right then there were other things she wanted to know.

"This is wonderful," she said as she felt tears in her eyes. "But why? Why are you giving this to us? We can't pay you for it. I can try but to be honest I'll probably never be able to."

"It's already been paid for," he said as he looked straight at her his voice hardening with every word he spoke. "Your husband paid the price for this and much more eight years ago."

"But..." she started before he interrupted her as he continued.

"You saw the card, right? You probably haven't heard of us before since we've just started but the VBS is a group of us vets who have gotten together to help out those of us that need help. The American people's memories seem to be even shorter now than they have been in the past and we vets seem to be getting the pointy end of the stick. Cutting benefits, reducing pensions ... the whole ball of wax. We know the survivor's pension you've been getting is getting smaller and smaller every year and it won't be long until it's not just tiny, it'll be nothing. There's not much we can do about that for now, but we can help ourselves out as much as possible."

"But I'm not a veteran!" she blurted before he could stop her.

"You yourself didn't fight in the sand or the jungle," he replied. "But your husband did. That makes you one of us for as long as you want to be. You need something, just ask we'll see what we can do."

"But how can you afford to do all this," she waved her hands at the box helplessly.

"Well, I'm not going to say we have all the money in the world," he answered. "But we have plenty to do this little bit now. Doesn't take all that much, to be honest. The fi-rats — shoot the government has whole warehouses filled to overflowing with them, all excess to their needs. They sell it through consignment brokers but there hasn't been a real big demand up till now. The government won't let them trash it but otherwise doesn't seem to care how much they sell it for. We pick it up for literally pennies a kilo and they're glad to get rid of it. Buying at a slow steady pace keeps the price down, but don't worry, there's more than enough for everybody."

"This says you're a field representative. What does that mean?" she asked as she looked at his card again.

"It means I'm here to help you," he said. "I've got another four families pretty much like yours and it's my job to help you with whatever we can. I'll be coming by with supplies like these every week but if there's something you need before that don't hesitate to call me. I can't guarantee we can solve all your problems but we can sure give it a shot."

"You're like a case worker," she stated. She remembered seeing one of those once when she applied for the apartment but not since. She'd heard you could get an appointment with one if you wanted to wait two years. She hadn't even bothered. "But you're not with the government?"

"Well, Uncle Sammy pays my military pension," he grins. "So I guess you could say the government is paying me to do a job they should have been doing right along."

"So this VBS doesn't pay you?"

"Not like that," he admitted. "Never asked, to tell the truth. I do get cash every now and then if there's something I need to get that we don't stock but I find I don't need it that often."

"I don't understand," she said shaking her head.

"You don't have to, Mrs. Henderson," he said standing to take his leave. "Let's just work on getting you back on your feet and then work on understanding."

"Is there something I can do to help?" she asked as she also stood.

"Maybe sometime," he answered after a thoughtful pause. "Like I said some of the wives come in to help pack for us and I'm sure they'd be glad for the help now and then. But the important thing is to get you and the girls up and running again. There'll be plenty of time to help out later."

"You seem to know a lot about us for being a complete stranger," she said. Ordinarily she might have felt threatened with someone showing up out of the blue knowing so much about their personal life but for some reason with Bradley Miller it didn't. For absolutely no reason she could put her finger on she trusted him.

"Just public files, Mrs. Henderson," he answered. "We won't invade your privacy, I promise."

"That's another thing, Mr. Miller," Patricia huffed. "I'm not old enough to be a ma'am no matter that I may look it and I haven't been Mrs. Henderson for eight years. I loved my husband but he's dead. Please just call me Patricia, or Pat."

"Sure thing, Pat," he grinned. "And you don't look old and you know it. You're one of the prettiest women I've met and look younger than me although I happen to know you are just a tiny bit older. Mind if I as a personal question? Don't answer it is you don't want to. In fact you can tell me to go fu- lose myself if you want. But why haven't you remarried? Like I said, you're very, very pretty; I'm sure you have plenty of guys coming to call on you."

"Well, that is a very personal question," she laughed. "And thank you for the undeserved compliment. I suppose I have had a few dates but all they really wanted to do was go to bed and once they found out I have three little bundles of joy they usually didn't even want to do that."

"Stupid," he muttered shaking his head.

"Well, what about you? What does your wife think about you visiting all these lonely, desperate widows everyday?" she teased.

"No wife," he grinned. "And no steady right now either. Haven't seemed to settle down long enough over the past few years. But someday maybe."

"As for all you lovely widows," he continued. "The captain made it perfectly clear that if he caught me taking advantage of any of you just because you might feel gratitude for what we're doing he'd nail my ba- hide to the wall and use it for target practice."

"Well we certainly wouldn't want your — hide — nailed to the wall would we?" she asked with a giggle. "The captain?"

"Captain Mayhem, Pat," he nodded also grinning. "Hopefully you'll get to meet him soon. A real interesting guy; a legend in the service and about the nicest person you'd like to meet for all his reputation."

"Reputation?"

"Hmm, not sure I should tell you until you've had a chance to meet him," Brad said after a pause. "Let's just say he's not the type of person you want to have mad at you. He and his team were in the Special Forces if that means anything to you and they were very good; very, very good."

"I think I will do my best not to get this Captain Mayhem mad at me then," Patricia answered with raised eyebrows."

"I think I can say with personal certainty that you would not be able to make him angry," Brad assured her. "Now if you have anybody messing with you, that might do it. He's a widower himself you see and feels kind of protective when it comes to dependents and children."

"I wish he were here now," she muttered mostly to herself.

"Oh? And why is that?" Brad asked his smile disappearing completely.

"Nothing, nothing really," she said trying to shrug it off but relented under his withering stare. "Well, there are these guys downstairs. They haven't done anything to me except a few comments here and there but Charlene..."

"Charlene's your oldest, right?" he asked thoughtfully rubbing his chin. "About fourteen if I remember. They been giving her some trouble?"

"Nothing I suppose ... Nothing we can do anything about anyway," she said clasping her hands tightly as she looked down at them. Then suddenly it gushed out, "They tell her they're going to make her their whore! They surround her and touch her and..." Suddenly Patricia broke down and started crying. "The police say they can't do anything until they actually do something but by then..."

"Its okay, Patricia," he said soothingly as he wrapped his arms around her as she began to cry in earnest. It felt good to have strong arms wrapped around her and the years of frustration, desperation and helplessness flowed out with the tears soaking into his shirt as she buried her face in the crook of his neck.

"There, there," he whispered as he gently stroked her hair. "It'll be all right, I promise." She clung to him desperately and he winced as her nails dug into the skin under the fabric. Finally she cried herself out and he released her immediately as she gently pushed herself back.

"I'm sorry," she sniffed. "I feel like such a fool."

"Crying doesn't make you a fool," he said gently. "Sometimes holding it in does."

"But I got your shirt all wet," she sniffed again straightening his collar. "It such a girly thing to do."

"Well, you are a girl," he laughed. "I wouldn't worry about it. I dry out just fine. Now do you have the names and which apartments these brave boys happen to live in?"

"But there are four of them," she stammered with concern. "You shouldn't confront them. I'm afraid of what they would do to..." you, is what she almost said. All of a sudden she didn't want to think about Bradley confronting those thugs; she didn't want him hurt.

"Won't be me," he sighed as if with regret. "The captain doesn't want us field reps getting involved in things like this. But don't worry. I have a feeling I know who he'll send and believe me after they're done explaining the facts of life you won't have any more problems. But if you do, call me immediately. Anytime. Do you understand?" She nodded.

"Will I see these gentlemen?" she asked. "How will I know them if I do."

"If they're the ones I'm thinking about you'll know them," he grinned. "Just think big: really, really big."

"Okay," she said in a small voice.

"You all right now?" She nodded again. "Then I'll be going. You have some things to put away unless you need help with that." She shook her head.

"That reminds me," he said as he turned back after taking a step towards the door. "You thought I was someone else when you answered the door. Do you mind if I ask who?" She told him about the bill collectors and how they had been hounding her.

"I don't know what to do," she said in exasperation. "I owe the money and I want to pay but I can't. I don't have it."

"Get me a list of who you owe, how much and for what," he said. He didn't tell her that with a word or two to the right person back at the office he could have the information, probably quicker than she could write it down. "We'll talk to them about a repayment schedule and get the vultures off your back."

"I've tried that," she said frustrated. "They wouldn't even talk to me."

"They'll talk to us," he said casually. "Let me take care of it. That's what I'm here for.

"And Patricia," he said reaching out to gently grasp her shoulders, "you're not alone anymore. It took us awhile to get our shi- act together and wake up but we're here now and we're not going to go away. If you need us — me — for anything, call."

As she closed the door it suddenly felt like the crushing weight she'd been carrying on her shoulders for over eight years was gone and she skipped back to the kitchen table to dig into her magical box like a child on Christmas morning.

- Daniel-

"It's moving along much more smoothly than I had thought it would," Carla Medford admitted with a stylishly raised eyebrow as she looked over at me. "I wish it were so easy everywhere."

"We got lucky if you want to blame it on anything," I said with a shrug. "We have a lot of good people here who were just waiting for something or someone to give them a little direction. They want to help but haven't known how until now. We also have a higher number of vets around here, which makes it easier to find the few we can use. Some of you don't have that advantage."

"Partly true," Bill Maker nodded as he peered over his steepled fingers. "But let's be honest: Carla and I haven't been able to make the same progress as the three of you and I think we all know why."

"And why is that, Col. Maker?" Medford asked coolly as she took a drag on her cigarette.

"We don't run in the same circles as the others, Carla dear," he answered sweetly with a slight grin. "To put it bluntly we associate with the upper levels of society and don't have the same connections that Daniel, Shara or Jim have."

"You make me sound like a snob," Medford answered with a frown.

"Carla," he said patiently, "if we lie to ourselves this is doomed to failure and you know that as well as I do. I understand this isn't combat," he paused and then chuckled, "although I see some of Daniel's people have been into a bit of the roughhousing here and there. But even though it's not combat and failure doesn't automatically mean death it's still not something we want to happen."

"Let's be realistic," he continued spreading his hand almost pleadingly. "Where do you and I spend our time? At the club, the downtown restaurants, vacations in Europe. It's the lifestyle we enjoy and I don't apologize for that; but where would you and I meet and get to know the sergeants, the seamen, the privates, the ones who are really the ground forces in this campaign?

"Take this Bradley Miller, for example," he said picking one report out of a stack of similar ones. "Corporal, U.S. Army Ranger; three years combat experience and in less than three weeks already doing one hell of a job as one of Mayhem's field reps. Would you be able to find a Bradley Miller in Sarasota? I haven't been able to in St. Pete. Mayhem found and recruited him in two days. Ask yourself why. Why? You know why. It's because he lives here," he spread his arms as if to encompass the whole of Bennie's. "He lives among them every day. If he didn't know Mr. Miller already he knew someone who did or someone who knew someone who did. We don't have the same contacts.

"Don't bite off the head of the messenger, Carla," Maker grinned. "The contacts we have, the people we know will be important and I'll get to that in a moment; but for this particular aspect of the battle they are useless."

"There is some truth to what you say," she frowned and stubbed out her smoke in the butt-kit.

"You know it's true," he nodded. "You and I have always been on the back end of the fighting: the planning, logistics, and intelligence. We worked at putting the people who could get the job done in the places they needed to be and then letting them do what they do best." I happen to know his soothing platitudes weren't exactly accurate. He'd been a divisional commander and while I don't doubt he never spent a whole lot of time in the trenches so to speak I do know he was intimately involved in repulsing an attack on his HQ by Saudi jihadists that left him wounded three times. The engagement report indicated he was a pretty fair shot with a standard rifle despite what his slightly pudgy frame might lead you to believe.