Jason's Journal

"Coach"

Coach (first draft)

“My friends it was hard for us when we were young: we suffered youth itself like a serious sickness.” - Friedrich Nietzsche

I walked right under the noses of the New York City customs gorillas without even breaking a sweat. Coach would have been proud of me; he was proud of me, I knew. I lived for his approval.

I will not fail you.

I was coming up through the ranks quickly. Just look at me: penetrating a foreign nation, alone, and unaided – how far I had come, and in so little time. They’d taught me enough tradecraft to get by: fabricating bombs and IDs, picking locks and pockets; whatever was called for.

I raised my hand and a yellow cab swung over to the curb just like in the American movies. Neat-o.

“Where are you going?” asked the turbaned driver.

“Jersey side of the Verazano,” was my carefully rehearsed answer. As we drove I thumbed through my wallet. I marveled at the United States dollar with its finely-rendered artwork. They must be difficult to counterfeit.

“What’s your name, sir?” he asked.

I pretended not to hear him. The view streaming by my window perplexed me – this was not the America I was expecting. Instead of beaches and coffee shops and mansions all I saw was cemeteries, trailer parks and gas stations. The roads were the most fascinating thing of all. They were huge, rivers of concrete so wide they seemed to follow the curvature of the earth.

“Where are you from?” The driver would not be ignored.

“Just drive,” I said, and not too nicely. He shut his mouth and drove, occasionally glancing at me warily in the mirror.

And then I was seized by a longing to talk to somebody, to confess what I was doing, what I had gone through to reach this day. Coach and the others had warned me not to talk unnecessarily, but I imagined what I would say to the man sitting in front of me on this beautiful sunny day, hurtling through a doomed city.

My name is Kasy, I would begin. From Romania. As far as I can tell, I am the son of a prostitute, probably conceived in Odessa, perhaps fathered by a mafia boss. We all have our fantasies. I have no memory of my mother, only the string of bleak institutes that substituted for parents. Eventually I was sent to the institute (where all the most promising unwanted children in Eastern Europe wind up), and, by the grace of God, made good my escape into the nearby town.

All I ever wanted was to belong to something, something great. With the man from Bucharest came my chance for greatness.

I first met him when I was fifteen years old; at the time I was just another gamin running the streets of Miercuria-Ciuc. He was the most well dressed man I had seen in a long time. I had just marked him and was moving casually towards him when he looked me in the eye and called me by name, which surprised me considering only my fellow gamin and the police knew that piece of information. I was turning to run away when he told me to wait, and he waved some money at me. Ah, a militia recruiter. The next thing I knew, he was talking about my escape from the nearby institute. I turned again to flee but he grabbed my shoulder and offered me a deal. Would I like to make a lot of money while freeing my friends from the institute? Of course I would; what was left for me in life but to continue selling amphetamines to tourists and truck drivers? The notion of “helping my friends” was laughable. I had no friends back in that subterranean hellhole, where the strong preyed on the weak, and the weak became strong or died trying.

I knew that the institute was a sham, in fact, without bribes to the local authorities, the place would not have existed. This so-called institute was a clandestine enterprise in slavery, supplied by orphans from all over Eastern Europe. Everybody knows that the crime barons of the world like their women fair-skinned, and the terror networks prize their blonde-haired and blue-eyed spies above all.

It seemed someone had taken notice of the institute and decided to shut it down. Giunyet – that was the man’s name – paid me well to lead the foreigners to the institute’s secret location in the mountains. First there was Red, the bear-like oaf from Denmark. What was he, some kind of closet communist, with a name like Red? I suppose it was an allusion to his streaming red hair and beard. How witty of him. He never mentioned the United States but I could tell he had spent some time there – the sneering pride that can only be found in the guttural speech of Americans dripped from his every word.

Red came alone to Miercuria-Ciuc when the leaves were changing colors. He was dressed in the manner of a peasant, his worldly possessions stuffed into a simple pack. I have to admit it was a convincing disguise, if his aim was to blend in, though it must have galled the American in him to be seen in public. I guided him into the Carpathians (I toyed with the idea of killing him on more than one occasion), and at last arrived at the valley wherein lay the institute and so many evil memories.

At his request I left him there at the gates of hell. He was a fool to come to the institute alone, and in broad daylight; he would be captured and sold off or put to death. Back in town I waited for the next group: three Americans who would come during the winter, according to Giunyet.

My street friends were mystified at my sudden change. Money can do that to you. No longer did I stand in freezing alleys and parking lots, soliciting foreigners. No more did I frequent the black metal clubs or the shelters. I had money now, more than I’d ever had, and it must be protected. Nobody could be trusted. I cut myself off from the rest of humanity just as surely as if I had been back in the institute.

For three months I languished in a sumptuous hotel, enjoying room service and the attentions befitting my new status. One day there was a knock at the door. I opened it angrily. “Not today, Olga,” I began, then stepped back as three men poured into the room, shaking snow from their clothes and tossing their enormous backpacks onto my finely carpeted floor. That was when I met Coach, the leader of the group and the first to present himself to me.

“Kasy, I presume?” he said, offering his hand. I shook it, wordless. His hand was like saddle leather, which I scarcely noticed at the time. The first thing about Coach that hit you was his presence. It was overwhelming, seeming to press me against the wall. He was like some mythical being sprung into modern existence: his eyes burned with the opium fires and yet bore the calculated sanity of a mathematician or a surgeon; his movements were powerful yet graceful – always a perfect harmony of force and motion; but there was something else, a palpable glamour about him that blurred my vision and made words stick in my throat. The more I came to know Coach, the more I could not help but worship him. In the civilized world he could have been a dictator; in the third world, a god. In my mind he was the father I had always dreamed of.

“I’m Coach,” he said, loosening my hand. I looked down at the snow melting on his boots, unable to meet his frightful gaze, and mumbled something trite. The other two men, much younger, were less intimidating. There was Doc, a stoic-looking chap who was habitually quiet, yet asserted encyclopedic knowledge on the rare occasions he felt the need to speak. I was to learn that Doc was Coach’s finest protégé, and I watched him closely, seeking to emulate him.

The other man they called Fuelpump, whose constant banter and lightheartedness seemed out of place compared to his somber companions. He always said the wrong things, and each faux pas was met by incisive ridicule from Coach. To Fuelpump’s credit, he made an effort to speak Romanian, practicing with me during quiet interludes. But no matter what diversion occupied me, my eyes hardly ever left Coach’s face. I would win his approval, whatever the cost.
They stayed the night in my room, sprawling all over my floor, spreading their belongings around like a gypsy encampment. Taking over the institute by force was their objective, but neither their motivation nor their means was revealed to me. I was to be their guide through the mountains, as I had guided Red. I smiled inwardly, thinking of ways I could prove myself during such a task.

Through the course of their discussions I gathered that Giunyet would be involved in the affair at some later stage, along with a certain janitor; both seemed to play crucial roles. We stayed up late, planning everything and making discrete phone calls. Finally I yawned and announced that I was going to bed. The others hardly noticed; the ballistics of 39 millimeter bullets versus 54 millimeters was currently under hot debate, and Doc seemed far from exhausting his knowledge of the topic.

Lying in my bed, my eyes slitted so that I could just make out the three figures crouched on my floor, I started making snoring noises. Very softly at first, gradually louder for proper effect. They bought the act, for the discussion turned to me.

“I don’t trust him,” Doc was saying. He had his medical kit before him, taking stock of its contents.

“So?” Coach said. “He’s just the guide.”

Just the guide? I would show him.

“The fact that Red is still alive proves he’s clean,” Fuelpump chimed in.

“Shhh!” hissed Coach, glancing in my direction. “We can only assume he’s alive, my fledgling prodigy.”

“It’s been a month since he’s got a message out,” said Doc, peering at a tiny glass bottle containing clear liquid.

“What’s that one?” asked Fuelpump, happy to change the subject.

“Anectine.”

“Oh. Sorry I asked.”

Doc stood up and stretched. “A paralytic. I’m hitting the sack.” He rolled out his sleeping bag and crawled inside it.

Before long Doc was sound asleep, leaving Coach and Fuelpump (and I) awake.

“Tell me again how you came to be called Fuelpump,” Coach said, always eager to torment him.

“It was that helicopter in the Sudan,” Fuelpump said ruefully. “It’s not my fault someone switched the signs between the aviation fuel and the diesel.”

Coach leaned back a little, chuckling.

“Pretty dumb, huh?”

Coach waved dismissively. “Think nothing of it. I once ruined a twenty-million dollar tank under similar circumstances.”

Fuelpump looked relieved and permitted himself a chuckle of his own. Doc stirred in his sleep.

Coach smiled one of his rare smiles. “Do you consider yourself a patriot?” His voice was low.

Fuelpump looked surprised. “Well, of course. Why?”

“Why did you leave the Navy?”

“Hey, that was a great gig, but there’s just no money in it, you know?”

“Yes, that’s true. Would you say that your employment with PSI is therefore motivated by monetary reasons?”

“Well, serving my country’s interests is important, but-”

“But the money is good, yes?”

“Hell, yeah.”

Coach scrutinized Fuelpump for a moment. “Right. Good night, then.”

“Good night.”

The next day brought a host of visitors to the hotel: an outdoor clothing supplier, a pharmacist, an electronics salesman, and a mysterious visitor who left with Coach on some errand. I tried my best to assist however I could. I helped Fuelpump test a complex-looking radio. I labeled and packed medical paraphernalia for Doc. When they found out I knew how to sharpen knives the three of them turned all their knives over to me for servicing. I made sure Coach’s were extra-sharp.

That evening Coach returned with some bags of groceries, and we set about loading our packs with food for the hike into the mountains. My own pack was brand new, bought specially for the expedition. Bedtime came early; we were setting out early the next morning and needed all the rest we could get. Lying in bed, my mind fading into oblivion, I thought, what about guns? Won’t they need guns to storm the castle?

Coach shook me awake at three in the morning. My first instinct was to groan at the injustice of the hour, but I remembered my vow to prove myself. I hopped out of bed as energetically as I could. Coach and the others were already dressed, their packs packed; the gypsy sprawl had miraculously vanished from my room. Chagrined at being the last one ready, I rushed to throw on my new winter apparel.

“Take your time,” Coach said. “We’re not leaving for another thirty minutes.”

“Okay,” I said, pulling on my socks. The three of them stood in a tight circle, drinking coffee and talking in hushed tones. When I was finally ready we hefted our packs and left the hotel without fanfare.

By the time the early sun alpenglow touched the white landscape, Miercuria-Ciuc was far behind us. We trudged uphill through the snow, my snowshoes like little rafts that kept me from sinking into the powder. Only the tops of the tallest evergreens protruded through the blanket of whiteness. Whenever we stopped to rest Coach took out his binoculars and surveyed the land in all directions, especially the direction from which we came. Doc incessantly asked us about our feet and he always made me drink water, even though everything was cold and I didn’t really feel like it. Fuelpump constantly ate, and during our breaks he would pass out handfuls of little cinnamon candies that were pleasant to suck on.

For a while Fuelpump stomped along next to me, asking me about life in Romania. He seemed unaffected by the rigors of the trek, while it was everything I could do to keep a decent pace going without gasping like a fish.

“What’s PSI?” I asked abruptly.

“Problem Solvers, Inc,” he said. “Why?”

“Just curious.”

“We could use a kid like you. Someone with some European street smarts.”

Kid? When would the abuse end?

“What is it exactly you guys do?” I asked, the words coming in bursts of two or
three. “I mean, besides knocking over orphanages?”

He laughed. “Whatever governments are unwilling or unable to do. PSI make terrorist organizations and drug cartels disappear. Stopping slave trading, punishing genocide, whatever needs fixing.”

“Who decides your missions?”

“We have analysts who comb the world news for potential jobs. We plan the jobs and then we get certain philanthropists to bankroll us.”

“What’s a philanthropist?”

“Someone with a lot of money and a guilty conscious.”

“Oh.”

“The ones with kids tend to be our biggest supporters.”

“Why is that?”

“I dunno. I guess people with children feel like they have a bigger stake in the world of tomorrow.”

“What do you think of this mission?”

“Kid, I’m just here for the money. I leave the ideology to the philosophers and politicians.”

Kid.

We were only a few kilometers from the institute when we met Giunyet. He came from the east on a roaring snowmobile, pulling a sled.

“Coach!” he exclaimed, stopping the machine in front of us and leaping off.

“Hello, Giunyet,” Coach said. “I believe you already know Doc and Kasy here. This is Fuelpump, one of our new guys.” Giunyet greeted all of us in turn, then led us back to the sled. He pulled off the tarp, revealing an assortment of rifles and machine guns. My eyes popped out at the sight. Coach looked at me appraisingly (when did he not?) and I put on my best sagely expression.

“Ever shot a gun before?” he asked.

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Really?”

“No,” I admitted, and I could have died of shame right there.

“Don’t worry, we’ll bring you up to speed while we’re sighting these in.” He reached down and picked up a long rifle made of golden wood and iron with an enormous black scope. “The SVD Dragunov,” he proclaimed, holding it out to me for inspection. I took it gingerly, expecting it to explode in my hands at any instant.

Fuelpump laughed. “Jesus, Kasy, you look like a virgin holding her first -”

“Shut up!” roared Coach. His voice echoed off the glittering slopes around us. “We’ve got three shooters going up against a hundred-man compound. We may need a little extra firepower, so don’t discourage him.”

Yeah.

Fuelpump said nothing. He picked up a machine gun and started taking it apart, checking out the guts of the thing. Doc set about wiping off the frost that had accumulated on the ammunition. Coach pulled out a map and placed it on the ground in our midst.

“Listen up, here’s the plan: tonight we’ll set up in a perimeter around the objective. Everybody will have a Dragunov and a PKM and all the ammo you can carry. Range is close so we won’t need spotters. If the janitor is still alive in there he’ll give us the signal at zero-nine hundred tomorrow. Giunyet will pull the plug on the place at zero-nine ten, after that bang anything that comes outside. Any questions?”

No one did, except me, but I was too scared to open my mouth.

“We have the rest of the day to prepare the guns, then we’ll move into position when it gets dark. Kasy, come with me, Fuelpump, get those targets ready.” I followed Coach obediently, thrilled to receive one-on-one attention from him.

I will not fail you. Silently. Over and over, like a mantra.

Coach was teaching me how to adjust my rifle scope when Fuelpump approached us.

“Where do you want the targets, boss?”

“Over there,” Coach said, pointing to a ridgeline about 500 meters away. “Do you have your radio with you?” Fuelpump broke squelch on his walkie-talkie, smiled, and set off for the ridge.

“Once the Dragunov is ready for firing,” Coach said, “you can load it.” He loaded his and took aim towards the ridge that Fuelpump was trudging towards.

“Didn’t you say not to aim it at people you don’t want to shoot?” I asked, fearful of questioning him.

“That’s right, Kasy, but I’m not aiming at Fuelpump. I’m about four mils to his left.”

A few minutes later Fuelpump’s voice came over the radio, startling me. “How’s this?” he asked. I put my eye to my scope so that I could see him. I was sure not to put crosshairs on him, even though my weapon was unloaded.

“Just beautiful,” Coach said into his radio. “Stake the target down right there.”

“Roger that,” Fuelpump said.

“Hey, do you remember our conversation from the other night?” Coach asked, still on the radio.

“Which one, boss?”

“The one about patriotism.”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“I just want to know where your loyalties are, Fuelpump.”

A pause, then: “To PSI. And to you. Why?”

“Now that’s flattering, you’re loyal to little old me. What is it about the company that inspires loyalty? I’m curious to know.”

Fuelpump laughed over the radio, his synthesized snorts sounding robotic. “They sign my paycheck, how’s that?”

“So one company is as good as any other, right?”

“Depends on the pay.”

“Well, here’s a question, bright boy, would you be willing to do similar work for three times the pay?”

“Hell, yeah, Coach. You got something in mind?”

“The other team, that’s what.”

“What other team?”

“The other guys. The bad guys.”

“The bad guys.” Fuelpump’s voice was flat.

“I’m talking about Al-Abraaj.” There it was. I barely stifled a gasp.

Fuelpump laughed nervously. “What is this, a test?”

“Not a test; a hypothetical question. Because they would do anything to get guys like us on their side.”

“Damn right they would.”

“So?”

“So, what?”

“Are you in or out?”

“You said that was a hypothetical question.”

“It was. But this one isn’t.”

Silence. Fuelpump stood in the snow, squinting at Coach and I over the intervening space. Sweat ran down the crack of my back.

“It’s your choice. You can join me and the others I’ve recruited, or I can drop you where you stand, so I won’t have to bother doing it later on when PSI sends you to assassinate me.”

“Doc! Get you ass up here!” Fuelpump’s voice was tinged with alarm.

Coach chuckled. “Nice try. Doc and Giunyet are still down at the snowmobile, and I took the batteries out of their radios.”

“You can go to hell.”

“World’s goin’ to hell anyway,” Coach said. “Where have you been? Take this opportunity while you can, my boy. Join me.”

“No.”

Coach touched off a round, and the report was like an explosion inside my head.

Coach chuckled again. “Just a warning shot,” he said on the air.

“Hold on,” Fuelpump said, sounding alarmed. “How will you explain to them where I am?”

“I’ll say you took up your position on the perimeter early.”

“And when I don’t show up after the hit?”

“I’ll send Kasy out to look for you. The rest of us will have to hightail it out of country ASAP after the hit goes down.”

“And when Kasy finds my body?”

I will not fail you.

“I’ll hide it,” I broke in on my radio. Coach and I smiled at each other in understanding. Then I noticed that the knife I had so painstakingly sharpened was glittering in his free hand. I realized that if my answer had been any different I would now be dead. My admiration for him grew even deeper. He resheathed the knife, put his eye to the rifle’s scope and fired once more.

“Take care of that, Kasy. I’ll contact you next week.”

“Yes, sir.”

It turned out that Red, who was playing the part of janitor in the institute, had already taken the liberty of killing every guard in the damn place, and none of us even got to fire a shot. I would not underestimate Red again; not when we eventually went after him and Doc and the others in PSI who were too locked into their stupid code of morality to follow Coach down the road to glory and riches.

Now I was in Jersey City, fishing around in the smelly seawater with my hands for the “package” that had been placed during the previous night. The stream of joggers and bicyclists on the sidewalk behind me was never-ending, but I could not be bothered with them. I had to trust my luck that no one would call the cops on me while I was involved with the critical stage of my task.

I will not fail you.

At last I found the warhead in the water, warm with radioactive decay. I heaved it into the trunk of the car they’d left for me under the Verazano Bridge. I still had the whole evening ahead of me, so I allowed myself a moment to admire the city skyline, awash with gold from the setting sun. It was going to be quite a night in the Big Apple.

Posted by jason at October 22, 2004 11:42 PM