The Victim and I Pt. 01

A NOTE TO YOU WONDERFUL READERS from this humble storyteller wannabe. First, thank each and every one of you have read my stories, especially those who took the time to write and leave comments. Each was and is greatly appreciated. I think I can see a difference between what I have just redone and published and those I first submitted. Yes, as so many of you have told me, I need a good editor or proof reader, but as yet, none have bothered to respond to my emails, so we both must suffer my mistakes. Fear not, though, as it stands right now, this two-chapter story will be the last of my submissions, at least for the foreseeable future, for try as I might, I cannot seem to find a viable topic to write about. It has been this way for a while and as I hate redundancy there will not be any sequels tossed out there. Again, thank you readers. You have no idea how much I appreciate you all.

Now, for those that asked: I grew up a country kid in Northern Oklahoma. I married young and dropped out of college at the start of the Vietnam war and joined the army, spending 6 ½ years on active duty, serving two tours in Vietnam. The first one in the Central Highlands with attached duty to almost every combat group in existence in that area being slightly wounded and lightly decorated. In my 3rd year, after 8 months of intense and specialized training I was in a much different field. My second tour was in a supervisory communications position and so highly classified that I think even the name of my clearance was classified. I became disgruntled and maladjusted like so many of us did and decided to get out. I did try several times to go back to college but could not stand the regimen, so I entered the heavy industrial construction trade and eventually worked my way up to became a successful industrial construction manager, working all over the world. My wife traveled with me...we were a family.

My wonderful and loving wife passed away suddenly after 49 ½ years together. These stories are the result of me not knowing what to do with my newly found free time, as I had suddenly lost interest in all the fun things my wife and I always did together. I miss them, but not nearly as much as I miss her.

I do hope you enjoy this story. It just sort of took its own path and wrote itself I think. If another doesn't soon..., so once more, thanks. I have certainly enjoyed the ride. I wish it could continue, or resume someday. WF06 March 2017

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It was the middle of winter and colder than Hell outside. The defroster and windshield wipers on my all-wheel drive SUV were having trouble keeping up as it was snowing like crazy out there. It could be classified as almost total whiteout blizzard conditions. No matter, as I had to keep going as there was no place safe to stop until I got to the cabin, if I could make it there at all, that is. I was heading to the mountain cabin I had inherited from my grandfather a couple of years earlier, willed to me when he passed away. The property was slightly over a full section at 720 acres. It was comprised of the slope beginning at and facing the road and small year-round stream at the bottom of the valley, extending up to and slightly over the summit. A small mountain and nothing at all like the majestic mountains you see in photos of the Rockies. The lower half of the property was likely tillable, but grandfather was not a farmer so the land lay fallow. He had bought the farm, as he called it, as his sanctuary and escape from people.

Let me explain a little about both my grandfather and myself. Grandfather had been an agent for the old CIA, stationed in Europe, during the cold war days before retiring and buying his farm, here in a rural and sparsely populated part of the state. This was his hideaway, a sanctuary from his imagined pursuers from the old Soviet Block. Yes, he was as paranoid as he could be. Of course, that condition was almost second nature for those with his background, I would assume.

Even though my grandfather was a recluse that tried to avoid contact with people, especially strangers, he took great pride in his little home and creature comforts. The home was a medium sized log cabin of about 1600 square feet. It had two bedrooms, a large bathroom with both a tub and a shower, a very nice kitchen-dining room combination, a comfortable living room, and of course the much-needed laundry room. There was an office for all his computer and electronics gear in what had been originally planned as either a pantry or a small third bedroom.

The only other structure of note, besides a woodshed for firewood and kindling storage, was a barn that he had had built to look like most any other old and weathered barn found in the area. However, the weathered look was a disguise for an extremely secure building with a few specialty features. One was a couple of well-hidden, but easily accessible safes at each end of the barn. A couple of loaded .40 caliber automatics, a buckshot filled shotgun, and a stack of cash was kept in each, in case any emergency should ever pop up. None ever did, but he was prepared anyhow.

Another feature was an equally well hidden switch that could open and close a trap door built into the wood and dirt floor of one of the barn's stalls. This trap door, when opened, would allow access to a well-lit underground vault where weapons of various types were stored. There were assorted automatic pistols, shotguns, and a few rifles hanging on the walls, with shelves filled with ammunition just below them. Other areas of the vault housed various items designed for warfare. Some were legal for civilians to own, mainly purchased through military surplus outlets; others, not so much. In fact, a multitude of national and international laws specifically prohibited anyone but the military to have them in their possession.

I have no idea where or how grandfather acquired the 8 claymore mines he had hidden in various, but logical defensive spots around the farm's lower regions. He could make entry onto the farm unpleasant and downright unhealthy for intruders, should he set them off. The master controls for these were located behind the false back in one of the cabinets in the cabin's kitchen.

I had added a couple of items to the small arsenal that I had somehow forgotten to turn in when I was released from active duty with the army and placed into the reserves. These had somehow been overlooked and forgotten about by everyone it seems. Nothing real drastic or outlandish. That is if you don't call M72 LAWS light anti-tank weapons and replacement claymores drastic and outlandish. I don't, but that's just me. I had managed to acquire and stash 6 LAWS and 4 replacement claymores in the underground vault.

With my own money, I had purchased, from different untraceable sources, several more unregistered automatic pistols, all .40 calibers and 4 12 gauge shotguns, 2 riot type with pistol grips and a telescoping stock and 2 regular styles. I had also bought and stored 3 scoped rifles for possible long range action. Two were .308 Remington 700 BDLs equipped with 4 x 12 power range finder scopes. The other rifle was a reasonably hard to find and expensive Savage .338 Lapua Magnum, also fitted with a 4 x 12 range finder sniper scope with low light capabilities. Almost as good as a Barrett but up to $7000 cheaper, as a Barrett and other weapons of their quality could run almost $10,000 each. The Savage Arms rifle was a lot cheaper, but would not last as long. Not that that fact mattered. Their bullets were not cheap, either.

This caliber is faster and way more powerful than a 7mm magnum. While it is used by a few big game hunters for its flat trajectory, ultra-long range, and knock down power, it had been designed for and was used primarily by snipers in Afghanistan and Iraq. More and more police SWAT team snipers were switching to this round from the traditional .308 or .300 magnum sizes every day due to its knockdown power and accuracy. Anyone or anything hit with one of these rounds stays hit. Those around the target were normally shocked when one of their group seemed to take flight suddenly. A real attention getter. It also made those nearby scatter and take cover. In Afghanistan, a British sniper recorded the longest ever kill at just over 2700 yards. Impressive? Hell, yes, it is. Scary, too, if you thought you might ever be a target.

Each weapon was regularly cleaned and oiled, including the magazines. I always wear latex gloves when handling my guns as fingerprint can cause rust or tarnish. The rifle scope sightings were also rechecked each time they were cleaned. All this just to make sure and to be prepared, Grandfather always told me.

If asked, I knew absolutely nothing about any illegal weapons. Never saw any as I did not go out into the fields where they were hidden much. Where did they come from? Of course, I had checked the dates on everything to make sure each was old enough to give plausibility to any story I told about Grandfather and his paranoia.

I also had a pretty sophisticated listening and surveillance system available to me with the flick of a switch. Cameras, motion detectors, infrared sensors, and microphones were very well hidden in various strategic places around the property. The solar powered wireless feeds went to the computer bank in the cabin. No, I was not planning to go to war but if one ever came my way, I wanted to be ready, and I really wanted any such war to go my way. Being somewhat paranoid was a way of survival and life for anyone that has ever worked special ops for any time at all. As the Boy Scouts motto says, "Be prepared!" I intended to do just that if the need ever arose, but I sure hoped it never did.

My father had died in the first Gulf War when I was very young, so I was the only heir to what my grandfather had accumulated during his 74 years on earth, mainly this cabin and the 720 acres it sat near the center of. Some things I had instructed his lawyer to donate to a good charity, figuring they needed it much worse than I did. Let me explain a few other things if I may.

My name is James Cameron Burns, and yes, I am of Scottish decent but that was a long way back in time. After my father's death, my mother and I lived a simple but fairly good life; albeit without many of the luxuries most young people tend to own. I don't remember money ever being a real problem, but there never seemed to be any extra either. We made do and had lots of love for both family and friends. I think we were happy most of the time. I tried to work all the part time jobs I could to help my mother with the household expenses, but she resisted a lot saying that I should try to enjoy my youth as I only got to enjoy and experience being young once. She refused to ever consider remarriage or even dating as she said she was still married to my father and was just waiting to join him for eternity. How is that for love? I wished I could find someone to love me even half that much.

I did very well all through school and maintained a 3.8 GPA, which was good but not good enough to get a good full ride scholarship from a good university and there was no way my mother could afford to send me to college so the day after graduation I enlisted in the US Army thinking about the educational and home buying benefits I could get later, after I got out. My plan was to get an advanced degree in computer engineering, with the ultimate goal of heading my own successful software company. It was a plan that was firmly entrenched in my brain and was going to happen. I knew this for a fact, for it was more than just a goal for me.

The day after I signed the enlistment papers I reported to the recruiting office for an induction physical, which I passed, of course, and then we boarded a bus to the airport for the first leg of our trip to Fort Polk, Louisiana for basic training. Advanced Infantry Training (AIT) for some of us would follow there, while others were sent elsewhere for other specialty schools.

The first thing we did once we were at the reception station was to get our first GI haircut and then receive our brand new uniforms. Next comes a whole series of general intelligence and aptitude tests of all sorts, covering most every area of military interest. The higher you score, the more tests you have to take and then if you score high enough in any certain area you are brought in for a series of films and indoctrinations as they try to get you to sign up for the more dangerous and volunteer areas of need. This includes Officer Candidate School, helicopter pilot training, Special Forces Training, airborne school, Ranger Training, and a few others.

I was swayed by the extra money that I would be making if I was accepted and successfully completed my training so I applied for OCS and then Special Forces Training. This meant that if I was successful in both I would be in very demanding schools for something over two years and then have to serve for at least another 4 years or so on active duty to fulfill my obligation to the army.

Lo and behold, after another whole series of tests and interviews I was accepted to both schools, meaning I would be a barely 19-year-old second lieutenant when I started my Special Forces training. This would more than likely mean I would be picked on constantly due to my young age and lack of real world experience to see if I could handle the pressure. Of course, most of the other recruits would also be young so maybe it would not be too bad. It would just be the extra responsibility placed on me by being an officer and would be in a leadership position after completion of my training, quite often planning the missions for my team.

Officer Candidate School was fast paced, rough, and filled with lots of unnecessary BS as they try to separate the wheat from the chaff, so to speak, as there is no room for bad officers in combat. Nowhere else either for that matter, but certainly not in combat situations. So many candidates thought they were better than others and should be entitled to a lofty and easy position in the military without earning it due to their family wealth, status, or political influence. Some of this type managed to slip by and get commissioned, but several seemed to be the victim of "training accidents."

I completed my OCS training and after being commissioned as a newly minted second lieutenant in the US Army, I went home for a two week leave with my mother before starting my Special Forces Training at Fort Bragg, North Carolina.

At least I would not have to spend a Hell Week in the cold waters of the pacific like trainee Navy SEALS had to. However, we had a dry land version that was just as bad mentally and physically and then before we were finally finished, we got to spend some quality time at Eglin Air Force Base in Florida and play around with cottonmouths, rattlesnakes and all the alligators you would ever want to meet while in the swamp training area of the program. I kind of liked the mountain and winter training portions but would never admit it out loud to anyone. One quickly learned to never volunteer information to anyone.

After graduation from Special Forces training, I went home on leave once more to visit my mother prior to going overseas to Afghanistan, where I knew my new-found love for the mountains would be put to the test. Boy, would it ever.

While I was at home, my mother told me that she had been promoted again at work and that with me away from home she did not need the money I had been sending her. In fact, she had been investing what I had sent her for over a year in an account in my name at a brokerage firm she trusted. She gave me the information and as I did not owe a dime to anyone in the world decided to have 90% of my pay sent to that account meaning I would have a nice nest egg very quickly. One that would help set me up in my business when I graduated college in a few years.

Things went well in Afghanistan that year, although it was pretty rough at times. Rank is made pretty quickly during wartime and I had been promoted to first lieutenant shortly after arriving in country and that promotion and pay raise added to what was going into my investment account. I also knew that my advancements in rank were going to quickly come to a halt without a degree of some sort. It didn't really matter as I was planning to get out of the army at the first opportunity to continue my dream path. To help with my degree, I signed up for every class I could take on line, given the circumstances of my situation and surroundings. I had no plan to make the army my career as I already had a career path in mind and I fully intended to follow through with that plan. The army was just a means to the ends I had planned.

When my first deployment was over, I went home for a short leave then went to the Special Forces Command in Germany where I was assigned to an intelligence unit. We 'visited' all over Europe, doing things I cannot write about here, for close to two hears prior to returning to Afghanistan to serve out the remainder of my obligation to Uncle Sam.

During my second deployment to Afghanistan, my team and I was involved in a couple of situations that got lots of unwanted publicity in the media. One involved the rescue and evacuation of the surviving staff members of an international hospital that was trying to help women and children in some of the remote villages. This aid effort seemed to anger the Taliban greatly so they attacked the hospital, killing several doctors and nurses, and taking the others hostage for ransom. It fell to my team to execute a rescue and remove the Taliban threat. This was done, but not without costs to us. Dear costs.

As it happened, there had a been a CNN news crew at the hospital doing a segment on the charity and humanitarian work the staff there were doing and the difference the hospital made in the lives of the local villagers. The Taliban crazies decided to let the CNN team live and then use their film for propaganda, to show the world how mighty and brave they were by killing the innocent doctors and nurses. The CNN team had filmed the whole thing from the attack to the rescue and it wound up being broadcast worldwide after a little editing by the military, much to the chagrin of CNN. It brought my team some notoriety and publicity we did not need or want. It also brought some medals for us.

The second thing was the rescue of the daughter of an Italian diplomat that was visiting the country for her government. In a raid on her compound, she was captured and taken hostage by the Taliban along with her whole entourage. Again my team was given the task of making the rescue. This one was easy as there was only about 25 Taliban involved and they were pretty relaxed thinking they had a few days of rest before anyone might come after them. They actually only had a few hours and we did come and did rescue the daughter and it did get lots of publicity thanks to the Italian government and the Italian press and media. We got more medals and decorations, some from the Italian army and government, and more publicity.

When my 4-year obligation to the army had been satisfied, I accepted a change to the active reserves with the rank of captain for one year, assigned to a local unit to give them some valuable training based on my experience while on active duty. I was also supposed to aid in the training of the university's Army ROTC cadets. These tasks allowed me to return home and enroll in college as a part time student and resume my quest for my bachelor's and master's degrees and the start of my career path. Helping teach the ROTC cadets gave me free tuition for my chosen classes.

Mom was so glad to have me home again that she threw a party inviting half the town it seemed. Of course, it was only a handful of her close friends and almost all of those invited showed up and everyone seemed to have a good time. I had almost forgotten those that I had known over the past 6 years of training and service. We had a good time getting reacquainted.