Unspeakable, p.3
Unspeakable, page 3
The man’s grip was very, very strong and firm.
Jerry met him eye-to-eye. Returned his grip with an equal pressure. Smiled back.
“Jerry Prince, this here is Monsieur Hugo Goulet.” The Texas twang that had disappeared sometime between drilling teeth and delivering marching orders to an LT now scrubbing a host of filthy tiger cages, was back. “Commandant Goulet runs the camp here and we all answer to him. And now Commandant Goulet, it is surely my pleasure to present to you the highly anticipated addition to our team, Jerry Prince. As you know he will act as my new Officer in Charge of Long Range Security and we will see how quickly he rises from there. At any rate, we are fortunate to have someone of his abilities and aptitudes, and I anticipate the two of you will enjoy a good, long, and profitable relationship here at The Killing School.”
Jerry watched Goulet arch an eyebrow, ever so slightly. It had a strange kind of hypnotic effect. Or maybe it was just that he’d never met anyone, woman or man, whose features were so perfectly stunning it was hard to look at them at the same time you couldn’t help but stare.
“Please, Doctor,” replied Goulet in a voice to match his almost otherworldly looks as he released his grip but not the eye contact. “Won’t you join us as I was just sampling my newest arrival of absinthe?”
“Well, pardner,” drawled the Doc, “I would love nothing better than spending what’s left of the day enjoying the absinthe and discussing that most interesting obscure Marquis de Sade book you have uncovered but...I have a surgery. I need steady nerves there and concentration, so I’ll leave the two of you together and make amends when we next meet.”
From his peripheral vision Jerry saw Miles wave his hat like the Cisco Kid, heard him call, “Happy Trails!” as he sauntered down the path they had arrived on.
“Absinthe?” politely inquired his host.
Jerry had never cared for the pale green, licorice infused libation, hated it actually.
“Sounds great,” he replied.
CHAPTER 3
It was officially Jerry’s Day #2 at The Killing School, now TKS for short. He had never kept track of the days the way Army draftees did, counting down from 365 and a Wake-Up to when they returned home, lucky enough not to be sent back sooner in a body bag. He, however, had never had a real home to return to. But when he had awoken in his nice room again with a bacon omelet and coffee waiting on the veranda, there was something different from all of his other mornings before: A sense of acceptance. Support. Purpose.
The Commandant, who had insisted he call him Hugo, had a lot to do with that.
And, he supposed, so did Miles, who was stepping into the additional role of Professor as of today. Besides more TKS Orientation Miles would be administering some tests in furthering his hypothesis that he, Jerry Prince, could indeed become the prototype of the Future Elite Modern Warrior.
Miles had even granted him his own new nickname: FEW.
Jerry could only hope their breakfasts together would bear the same distinction.
“So, pardner, how did your visit go with Commandant Goulet after I left yesterday? More juice?”
Before Jerry could answer, another round of freshly squeezed OJ was in his glass.
“Commandant Goulet is a very impressive individual,” Jerry took a sip of the juice, leaving it at that.
“He’s even more impressive than he looks, and he is quite something to behold, isn’t he?”
“He probably doesn’t have any trouble picking up the ladies.”
Miles guffawed. “Aw, c’mon now, Old Hoss! It was downright unnerving, wasn’t it? Always a lot of fun to see anyone encounter him for the first time. Including you.”
It was true. The Commandant was not simply handsome. He was without doubt the most beautiful human being Jerry had ever encountered. Like Greek god statue beautiful. He himself was tall, athletic, smart and in most circumstances outside of a pool party at Rock Hudson’s house, would be considered the best-looking guy in any room. But, The Commandant was on another magnitude. If you could make a thoroughbred out of Gregory Peck, Cary Grant and Rock Hudson this would be the dazzling result. Perfect skin, perfect hair, perfect face, perfect physique, a remarkable voice, but… something more.
“Okay, I’ll admit that I was a bit taken aback at first.” It was a reluctant admission, but he was curious about that something more. “And then you add in that he’s charming, sophisticated, a great conversationalist and really deep thinker and—better stop there before I start sounding like a fag, but… There’s something else about him that goes beyond all that.”
“Gestalt.”
“Gestalt?”
“It means the whole forms more than the sum of its parts. The Commandant is a rare creation of nature—a lot like you that way. Not quite mortal. Watch him and learn, Jerry. He has weaponized this aspect of himself and can exploit it ruthlessly.” Miles leaned in. “I actually helped him hone that a bit.” He put a fraction of an inch between thumb and forefinger. “Not much but sometimes that little extra can be what puts you over the top.”
“Little extra…what?” My, professor, what big pupils you have.
“Focus. Training your mind. I’ve got all sorts of exercises for us to work on with that. And…” Suddenly he blinked and out came the Ray-Bans. “There are other assists for us to discuss. Later. Now the day’s a’waistin’ and we have work to do, so chow down, Old Hoss!”
Jerry wished he’d quit calling him that.
Nonetheless, he dug into his bacon omelet and tried not to think of how he could take out the doc if he got too grating. And no, he wasn’t going to think about disappearing over the flower-wrapped fence after arrowing his combat knife—that Miles had given back to him, had to remember that—and planting it straight into the sniper’s heart.
There was only one sniper. A surreptitious glance had informed him the others had not been summoned this second morning.
Jerry wondered if there would come a time that he lost count of the days he was here, or if he would keep count like some people did their blessings. Imagining such things was dangerous, and how well he did know that, because he had lived a life of disappointment and disappointment made him angry and when he got angry, he had a tendency to take it out on those who didn’t necessarily deserve it.
Maybe Miles would work with him on that, too.
Jerry woke up on Day #3 feeling pretty confident about how orientation and the tests had gone, so he wasn’t prepared to see Miles eating breakfast alone without the anticipated morning beverages and a nice bacon omelet waiting.
For him.
Was the honeymoon over already? Had he screwed something up? Were they planning to get rid of him despite all the promises that had been made?
Sucker.
That’s when Miles raised his solo glass of OJ in a salute and announced, “Seems you have an invitation from none other than Commandant Goulet to join him for breakfast. While I’m sure you’d much rather share coffee and conversation with me, he is the commanding officer, so buenos días and adios! Oh, and Jerry? Outstanding work yesterday. Congratulations on both achievements.”
“Both?”
“Such invitations from Commandant Goulet are even more rare than exceeding my expectations, which were already quite high. Enjoy your breakfast.”
Jerry gave him a cursory salute and practiced grin, then turned his back before Miles could see the melting to something closer to actual emotion. It made him feel kind of queasy, because unless he got angry, his emotions ran quite cool, untouched by most anything so called “normal people” were affected by. Things like death, pain, love. But this weird sensation inside was akin to a rubber band stretched taut, with an alien ray of waking hope on one end, the black abyss that was home on the other—only for their comingling to snap him in the direction of another veranda where it turned out absinthe wasn’t half bad in the right company.
Such a disconcerting start to this fine tropical morning as he made his way to his summons, still some coolness in the air. A slight breeze moved the palm leaves overhead; the heat and humidity of the Delta would arrive soon. But in the moment was a stillness as the wheels in Jerry’s brain replayed everything over and over while he wondered if the whole grand deal he’d been offered was a special delivery from Hell—given to him just so it could be taken back—and that’s where he really was, not in a waking dream.
Jerry palmed the combat knife in his black silk trousers.
In a flash, blood beaded across his forearm. Huh. Must not be dead after all.
The black silk tunic matching his pants was part of the fine wardrobe he’d been given. Unlike his arm, he hesitated before slicing off a strip from the tunic’s bottom to efficiently bind the wound.
Physical pain rarely bothered him, could even be pleasant since it made him feel some sensation… sometimes. No wonder a part of him had wondered why his once foster mom had screamed bloody murder when he took an axe to her to commit just that.
The axe was bound to fall on him, too. Every day that went by that he bought into this extravagant fantasy brought him that much closer to the whole charade falling apart. He had to remember that. Story of his life.
Stopping in the shade near a cluster of gardenia bushes with wide, white fragrant blooms, he took in the inviting veranda, with whirling, cooling rattan fans above a table covered with a sun-flowered tablecloth, set for two. His host hailed him.
“Mon ami! Please, come join me.”
The too-good-to-be-true moment extended from another firm handshake, to a seat at the finely dressed table, to the aroma of fresh coffee. "South American style,” explained his host while the houseboy poured heated milk simultaneously with the dark, rich fragrant brew.
“Delicious.”
“Grown in the Highlands at my farm,” said Hugo while Jerry sipped his coffee and prepared for the usual bullshit briefing to put him in his place since that would be more of the usual than whatever crazy shit was going on around here. But no, as the other man turned his otherworldly gaze full upon him, as if seeing him for what he had the capacity to become, not for what he was, Hugo said simply, “Jerry, you have some aptitude for warring.”
Given his military credentials—if you left out the part about doing his own guys to get his fix—his warring aptitude spoke for itself.
“Uh… thanks?” Since that didn’t sound respectful enough, he followed up with, “I mean, thank you, sir.”
Silence. A gesture and the houseboy disappeared.
Then, “I have read over your file and reports from Dr. Miles. You have had your, let us say, `problems.’”
Jerry did not like squirming but under the man’s incisive gaze and anticipating what was probably coming, he did squirm. The combat knife in his trousers, he glanced at the silver gracing the table, just in case.
“Non, non,” came Hugo’s firm warning. “Do not entertain such thoughts. Not with me. I can easily kill you first but that is not my desire. You are too valuable to this grand enterprise to lose. Particularly once you and I strike our own grand bargain.”
“A bargain?”
“Oui,” he confirmed. “I wish to be your mentor, and you, my protégé. But this cannot happen without the right soil in which to plant our true beginnings, from which the rest will grow.”
“What kind of soil?”
“The kind you have not had before, Jerry. We have no trust, do we? Between us there is no trust. So, we cannot put down our guard. Yes?”
Yes. No. He didn’t know how to answer him beyond an honest, “You are correct. There is no trust.”
“Then we must correct this.” Hugo left the table and lifted from the veranda a young lychee tree in a bright blue pot. He sat it in the middle of the table, right in front of Jerry. “This is for you…and for me. We must find a place that is good for it in the garden and we will dig and plant it. We will both be responsible for it. It needs light, water, food to survive, and to thrive it needs care. Then it grows and thrives and flowers and bears fruit.”
“You mean that you want us to plant this thing, so we can…grow and thrive and flower together?”
“Exactement. You will bring the plant. I will meet you with a shovel.” Hugo pointed to a perfectly groomed expanse of yard, punctuated by the exquisite old fountain, swimming koi, and surrounded by artful gardens resembling flowered leis around a floating island of verdant green.
It was surprisingly relaxed and yet almost ritualistic the way they met, him with the plant, Hugo with a shovel, as they roamed about the grounds until Jerry abruptly stopped, deliberately gave his back to the nearest garden where a perfect planting space kept company with a profusion of other plants.
“How about here?” he asked, standing in the middle of the pristine lawn.
“Splendid.”
And as Hugo handed Jerry the shovel, while Jerry handed over the plant, his new mentor, The Commandant of ISIC, explained, “Jerry, mon ami, this tree is our trust. We plant it together. It will grow between us, fresh and new, uncrowded by what has already been planted in our pasts. When we do what we say we will do, then the other can believe in the other. It is something that grows like a plant because trust is a living thing between all people, friends, lovers, family, not words.”
No other words were spoken as they put the small lychee tree into the ground together, heaped the fresh turned earth upon it, and Hugo said something in French that sounded like a blessing before clapping Jerry on the shoulder and pronouncing, “So, let us go back for some breakfast, more coffee, and discuss goals before we plan your first mission.”
CHAPTER 4
One week bled into two, then three, and before Jerry knew it, he had been in Paradise for a full month. Paradise mostly being time with Hugo, who was teaching him all sorts of things about language, the world, gardening, strategies, the fine art of assassination vs crude killing.
While he would never put time spent with Hugo in the same category as that with Miles, he had to admit that Professor Miles was an excellent lecturer. And boy, did he like to lecture once he got into The Zone. Which was always, no matter what was on tap for the day.
Take history, for example:
“We, at The Killing School, are even more secret than the Phoenix dark ops program. The Phoenix Program is buried under layers of bureaucracy above us called CORDS. It all goes back a long way but let’s say 1963 when CIA station chief Peer DeSilva realized that the Vietcong were way ahead of him in terms of torture and murder. DeSilva took on this challenge in a big way. He centralized the intelligence operation under Saigon’s Central Intelligence Organization at the National Interrogation Center and started hands-on training of the Vietnamese. He knew how to organize, this DeSilva. In just a year he had a Provincial Interrogation Centre in every province. He imported CIA experts who had worked on Russian defectors. They had advanced techniques over the old school methods of rape, electric shock, hanging and beating. While those are still favored for the terrorism effect, when the goal is simply extracting information, suffice it to say that new is better. Now, Jerry, be sure you’re taking good notes because there will be a quiz on this.”
Scribble, scribble. Scribbling as fast as possible, until—he laid down his pen.
“I learn better by listening.”
“I see, an auditory learner. Then forget the pen, and if you’d rather, we can test verbally, though I have seen some of your earlier writings and they are quite remarkable.”
Jerry knew those were his journal writings from the Madigan General lock down ward documenting his childhood, his first kill, all his secret thoughts. It made him feel exposed, vulnerable. He did not like that.
“Now, Jerry…”
If he had to hear “Now, Jerry” One. More. Time…
“C’mon, pardner. I can see those hot wheels rolling, rolling, rolling! Remember what we practiced? How you take a breath when you feel some agitation coming on…”
Shit. This was always so hard. Making that choice to let all that Red Color of hot rage come through—or he could go with Blue Color, the cool color. He would choose… “Blue,” he breathed, followed by seven deep blue, cool, cleansing breaths, all the while doing the tapping of thumb to middle finger, and there went the red going down and away while the blue filled him with calm, cool clarity, and direction. It worked for rage, for anxiety too. Allowing him to “get centered.” He could do this now in all sorts of stressful situations because the key was perseverance and he had a gift for that on top of lots of practice.
“Very good, Jerry. Now, by 1965 William Colby assembled all these new techniques into the Counter Terror program whose aim was to create various teams of operatives that could use assassination, abuses, kidnappings, intimidation and torture against the Viet Cong leadership. And, of course, against absolutely any one that the Americans deemed a threat to their puppet government. Anyone. It expanded hugely just a couple of years ago, in 1967, when our esteemed Ambassador, Phillip Jordan, who by the way is a very dear friend of The Commandant’s, started moving dark moneys into it and helped create CORDS. You gotta love our USA acronyms…Civil Operations and Rural Development Support, sounds like we are all just simply helping farmers have a better life, doesn’t it? Ha-ha, fooled them! CORDS took a stick and beat all hell out of the Vietcong’s lower tech interrogation techniques—but you already knew that and sorry to bore you. The main point, Jerry, is that the real battle for mind control is right here and WE are the true core that is being counted on to win that war. With you, as an intrinsic part of our team, we WILL perfect our ability to bend, shape, and extract whatever we need from a brain. Any brain. And that, my friend, is a weapon more powerful and far reaching than any nuclear bomb in the world.”
Jerry aced the test. He aced them all. And as the months sped by, he learned how much he did not know, and he learned how much there was to learn. He realized he was IGNORANT and emotionally unintelligent. But emotional intelligence could be learned, and he had a high capacity for learning beyond the physical feats and tests of endurance that had always come so easily when he’d been a prized asset to the military.
