Nomad Ch. 02

Author's Note

This is a slow serial. I apologize that it is not being posted daily, but just this chapter has taken hours to write, read, rewrite, and reread. I appreciate the positive comments I have received, and hope those of you who tag along will enjoy the ride.

All characters, plot devices, names, locations and events are written by me and taken from my own knowledge of events that took place over 50 years ago.

Many of the people, places and events are real, and can be found by any historian that cares to take the time. I referenced my work from actual events, while shielding characters that do not need or want either of us invading their privacy and/or insulting the memory of their loved ones.

With the recent events in Afghanistan, I am doubly concerned that must protect and safeguard the memory of all those who have bravely served their country in a war that the vast majority of humanity will never understand or condone.

While I certainly cannot argue with the feelings of the latter, I cannot abide those of the former. The sacrifices of the soldier are easily understood for any true historian, and that sentiment remains true regardless of the righteousness of his cause.

I will never judge those who stand in harms way to defend their loved ones, but we all must hold to account the people who placed them there.

I will never apologize for my feelings in this regard, and to those who have given their all for me and mine, regardless of their branch of service, I offer my sincere thanks.

As always, these words are mine. This story is a work of fiction and I do not give anyone the permission, either directly or implied, to reproduce them without my express consent.

April, 1967 (Hiep Duc Valley, South of Da Nang, Republic of Vietnam)

Antenna Valley Pass was a hot, sweltering, humid and airless extension of Hell on earth. The tall grass and poor visibility made it a dangerous and unforgiving environment. The VC and NVA were moving weapons and personnel through the valley and intelligence suggested that it was a build up for an assault on the air base at Da Nang.

It was the year of Killer Kane, a time that would help define Marine Long-Range Reconnaissance Patrol (LRRP) operations for years to come. Case's team, along with members of team Countersign were planning to interdict enemy forces moving through the pass. The members of both Force Recon teams at Camp Reasoner were practically interchangeable. They also operated independently, but In this instance, he was advancing cautiously with a team of 8 Marines from both units.

Before the death of Captain Barnes, LRRP teams in I Corps were almost always used as observers. They would enter an area where there was the high probability that the enemy was moving combinations of men, guns, and food. They would set up Observation Posts (OP) and call for artillery or air strikes on observed enemies. Occasionally, they would set up an ambush or a snatch and grab in order to capture a hapless enemy combatant for the purpose of interrogation.

All that was changing. Killer Kane's members had decided it was time to take the war to the enemy. Their mission was no longer passive. Now, they were truly hunting down their enemies.

A lot has been romanticized about the deeds performed by these men, and others like them. The enemy soon learned to fear them. They were supremely skilled and could move with both stealth and swiftness which constantly confounded their enemies. They adapted to the conditions of the battlefield and were uncanny in their ability to improvise.

Quite often, these heroes performed deeds that were every bit as amazing as the feats dramatized in books, songs, and movies. Most of the time, however, they spent their time squatting motionless for hours while waging their war as much against the elements, as the enemy.

Leeches, insects, snakes, and the ever-changing weather took an enormous toll on both men and equipment alike, grinding down the body and spirit of these foolish interlopers who dared to wander into "Charlie's" jungle home. Hours of tedium and boredom would creep by, interspersed with moments of adrenaline-pumping action.

Vietnam brought about a new kind of warfare, and 1^st Reconnaissance Company, USMC were slowly adapting and evolving as they began to master the skills they needed to excel at it. By the end of the year, LCpl. Francis Casey "Hard-Case" Hardin would become a battle-tested killer of men.

Walking point, Case examined the area ahead and froze. A rivulet of sweat trickled down the back of his neck as the Marines spaced out behind him reacted instantly, moving off the trail to either side and fading to nothing. Case gently eased to his left, cross-stepping in slow motion to avoid sound and any sudden movement that might catch the eye. It was almost a full minute before the voices which his subconscious had heard became loud enough for him to realize what had caught his attention.

A pair of VC in black pajamas walked casually down the trail where he had stood only minutes ago. Both were carrying knapsacks and weapons. The first held a French MAS-49 rifle that looked older than he was. The other held a Czechoslovakian Vz. 58 assault rifle that looked like it had seen heavy use. They seemed to be speaking casually as they wandered blithely down the trail, oblivious to the stealthy Marines only a few meters away, and equally ignorant of the proximity of their latest brush with death.

After waiting and observing for 30 minutes, the team decided to move off the trail and find a Harbor spot for the night. They also established a good OP overlooking several of the busiest trails through the pass, and began to consider possible ambush sites interdicting those sections of the trail for their use over the next few days. Months of living and breathing within the jungles of SE Asia had reinforced their grim recognition that "Charlie" no longer ruled the jungle. It was now "Killer Kane's" home, and they would prove to be inhospitable hosts.

Three days later, the team reached the LZ and returned to the base camp. All tactical aspects of the mission were deemed a rousing success and the fact that there were no casualties only reinforced that feeling. It took several weeks for the Battalion command to become aware of the most recent changes in tactical doctrine being practiced by their long-range recon patrol (LRRP) teams. However, since the tactics were so successful, it was deemed expedient to refrain from any complaints to the men operating in the field. In fact, as the accolades began to rain down from on high, the new tactical doctrine would eventually become common practice for LRRP teams within the Marine Corps.

September 26, 1980 (Houston, TX)

The Hog Pen was a biker bar, which is to say it was a dive. Most average people avoided it, although some misguided fools might occasionally attempt to ingratiate themselves with those who frequented it, and (usually) would live to regret it. Despite its being a dive, or maybe because it was a dive, there were strictly enforced codes of conduct and dress, as well as a firm set of social and cultural proprieties.

Visitors were expected to ride Hogs (Harley-Davidson motorcycles). Most European motorcycles were tolerated (as long as they were large street machines), but frowned upon by the patch-wearing club members who considered themselves real outlaw bikers. All the club members wore a 1% er patch somewhere on his vest. This patch proclaimed that the wearer was a true outlaw, as they were deemed by the AMA (American Motorcycle Association) to be the one percent of motorcyclists who gave the rest a bad name.

Anyone else wearing a vest within the confines of the bar was...officially discouraged. They would quickly find themselves the punch-line in a bad joke that they could not understand. By the time they escaped (hopefully unscathed) they would forever divest themselves of any misplaced notions about the brotherhood of those who embrace the freedom of the open road. The reason is simple, really. A cut (vest) was earned not bought.

The cut told the world that they were unique. They were "the people your momma warned you about". They were misfits who carved out their own place without the patronage of anyone. They operated in their own world outside the rules of a society that they perceived as being every bit as confining and restrictive as a strait-jacket.

Most cuts (short for cut-off) were fashioned from a denim, or leather jacket with the sleeves removed, like a vest. Each cut had an assortment of patches that denoted who and what the wearer was. On the back of the cut was their club's insignia (patch), awarded to them when they were accepted as brothers by a unanimous vote of the other club chapter members. A semi-circular piece (called a rocker) above the club's patch proclaimed the name of the club. Another rocker below the club's patch told the chapter, or territory that belonged to them.

The more territory the club claimed, the more they had to risk to hold on to it. A club might claim a city or town within a state, and other clubs that claimed the same city as their home may willingly allow it. Other clubs might claim an entire state, but allow other clubs to operate in cities within that state. These loose friendships and shared territories were reinforced by partying together and making long bike trips (runs) to various parties at locations hosted by other clubs.

These social connections are called affiliations.

For example, it is not unusual to go to a large annual gathering sponsored by one club, and find dozens of other clubs represented. It is also not unusual for small clubs to have agreements with larger clubs to protect their interests and keep a rival club from swallowing them.

When a group of bikers decide to form an MC (Motorcycle Club) and fly a patch in a town where another exists, there has to be a mutual agreement allowing it. Without this agreement, the clubs usually go to war. If a war takes place, the losing side has their patches pulled and displayed upside down on the clubhouse wall of the victors (a symbolic heads on pikes, as it were) to deter others from daring to challenge their eminence.

Most statewide organizations don't really care about smaller clubs claiming a city or town in their state, unless they are aligned with another club in that city who asks for their support. Then they come down on the upstarts like the Hammer of God.

While this may all sound totally childish and/or barbaric to many in society, it is accepted as the way of the world for the 1% of outlaw bikers who live it. This might explain why many of the patches worn at a major National Motorcycle Club's annual party might represent clubs with as few as 6-10 members. The fact is, while they may have the occasional falling out over business dealings (drugs, trafficking, guns, etc.), most of the large clubs try to avoid alienating these smaller clubs. There are many reasons for this, but primarily it is to avoid making enemies of people who are not a threat to their organization. After all is said and done, what impact can a club with 7 members have on a national club with more than a hundred brothers?

So, to get back to the story....

The patrons of The Hog Pen were intolerant of anyone that was not white enough to qualify for Hitler's master race. In fact, many wore Nazi and/or KKK memorabilia on their cut-offs, as well as having them tattooed to their bodies and/or bikes. In fact, it is not unusual to see a wannabe on a smaller bike, or even (God forbid) a Japanese rice-burner stumble outside to see his ride defaced and lying in the street, and while there were several Black or Mexican motorcycle clubs in the larger cities of Texas, they rarely mixed with the white 1% ers without some mayhem ensuing.

The bar building itself stood alone, with a small parking area in front, empty lots on either side, and a few scrub trees behind. The interior was a large rectangle with a bar in one back corner and a storeroom in the other. A small hallway went between the storeroom and a small office/anteroom behind the bar, which had a couple of dirty mattresses on the floor, where the occasional gang-bang might take place (on a good night), or where a patron who was too drunk to ride (on a bad night) could sleep it off. The door at the end of the hallway led outside to a small bathroom attached to the back wall, which held a single urinal and a toilet stall with no door.

As the four outlaws entered the bar they scanned the room. There were a couple of wannabe bikers, who had arrived in a cage (car), shooting pool and desperately trying to fit in, while the majority of the occupants ignored them, while drinking their beer. There were also a few other club patches on display, but since The Hog Pen was neutral territory, the chances of any serious problems were minimal. Besides, PLMC had a good relationship with all the local clubs.

Grabbing a corner table and splitting a pitcher of beer, the four got right down to cases.

"What the fuck, man..can ya believe this shit?", asked Rondo.

"Which part?", replied D.D.

"Who the fuck would start pulling patches, man? That is some crazy fucked up shit."

"Why?"

Shoe and Buddy just sat silently drinking their beer as their two brothers did all the talking. This was a regular reaction for them. Rondo was a talker, brash and mercurial. He was tall and lanky, but could go from cheerful and friendly to deadly and cold in the blink of an eye. D.D. was his opposite. He was quiet and steady, but a perfect foil for his unpredictable brother. Both of them had patched in together, and were among the most respected members of the chapter.

D. D.'s words were low and measured, "Torque said we need to look at who we may have pissed off. While that might be a pretty long list, it gives us a place to start."

"Okay," said Rondo, "how about...."

By the time the four bikers were into their fourth pitcher. They had picked apart several ideas, but none seemed promising. Most of them were straights who may have crossed an individual patch holder over a woman, a drug deal, or some minor transgression. None of these seemed promising. Shoe brought up a local night club owner who had called the cops and filed assault charges on one of their brothers.

Apparently, Frenchy had gotten drunk and belligerent over something stupid, as Frenchy had a tendency to do. He then did a toe-dance on the bouncer's face when the poor slob had tried to calm the drunk biker down. Luckily, Mitch (the chapter VP) and Schultz (Sgt-At-Arms) had visited the club owner at his suburban home and convinced him that the bouncer, while he may have still been in the hospital, was currently the only employee and/or family member the owner had in that particular hospital.

The charges against Frenchy were soon dropped, and the bouncer was eventually released from the hospital almost completely recovered from his injuries.

So, while it was possible that the bouncer was involved, that idea was quickly dismissed when Buddy pointed out that the bouncer could barely walk and was still going through serious physical therapy.

Despite those facts, Rondo decided they should still mention it to the VP in case Torque decided whether someone should look into it.

By this time they had almost exhausted the possibilities, as well as the latest pitcher, when Buddy again spoke up. "Hey...what was the name of that weak-ass bunch of wannabes we took out for the Road-Runners last year?"

"Texarkana?", asked Rondo.

"Yeah...Texarkana. Wasn't a couple of their guys veterans?"

"I think so, but there were only like six or seven members.", said Shoe. "'B'sides, they all be dead"

"Dinky Dau" said D.D.

They all turned to look at him.

"Right" laughed Rondo, "Dinky Dau. What kinda fuckin' name is that?"

"It's a bastardized Vietnamese term. It means crazy", replied D. D.

"Yeah? Where you learn that shit?" asked Rondo

"In another world, bro."

"Oh yeah? Well that name sure fits with whoever is killing our brothers. Ya think they're a possible link?" asked Shoe.

"It would fit....except they're all dead. Besides, they were a bunch of fuckin' pussies." exclaimed Rondo.

"Maybe one of them survived. Maybe one was in prison. Maybe one of them had friends or family." emphasized Shoe. "Anyway, Torque said anyone."

"I guess.", replied Rondo, "At least we can mention it to Torque or Mitch."

Rondo got up and headed to the shitter while the others finished off the beer. Five minutes later, they found him kneeling in the lone stall, as if he were worshiping at the porcelain throne. His face was in the toilet bowl and his patch was gone. The only sign of violence was a small slit on his lower back just above the hip.