Here is a cut from the book around pg 20 on.... being you asked for it: Taken from deep Cover Shallow Graves soon to be released. CHAPTER My second court ordered appointment with Doctor Yancey was for 1100 hours or 11A.M if your own civilian time. I had to show up for this meeting this time, or I might have to go to jail. Harry Ledbetter, my attorney, advised me that I had better show up for this appointment this time or he couldn’t help me anymore with my legal problems with the court. He told me the Judge was really pissed off because I had missed a few sessions, which she had ordered, with Dr. Yancey. I could see this whole thing, a simple thing, was turning into a big mess, a total misunderstanding. Yes. I wished I had never tied that ‘smart-ass’ kid—that ‘snot nosed’ juvenile delinquent— to that damn oak tree. I didn’t mean to leave him there in the rain— with that lightening and all. I just forget about him— fell asleep on the couch—Anyway, that sudden storm, and all that reported approaching tornado stuff, was a freaky thing that day. It wasn’t my fault that Billy Nelson stole my American flag. That’s what started all this crap with the cops, the court, the Judge, and the doctor, in the first place. From my point of view it was all a miss understanding. In a way it was really an accident, not his stealing my flag, but my forgetting about him tied to the oak tree in the rain. So, I forgot about him and he got a little wet. Big Deal. He should have never stole my American Flag and burned it. And too, he should have never desecrated my POW flag either. Those two flags meant a lot to my friends and me. They were sacred. I pushed the thought aside. At the moment, it was just too irritating for me to think about. (Transition to driving to Denver) I drove past the avalanche slide, slowly. It was safe for now, but rough. In a few weeks, if not days, it would be too dangerous to cross at this point. I would have to drive another three miles of treacherous driving, around the mountain to a safer crossing at Wolf Creek to avoid dangerous avalanches. Safely down the mountain, I turned my old blue Chevy truck onto the main highway and headed east down the foothills toward Denver, fifty-five miles away. Today was going to be difficult day with Doctor Yancey; I had to focus on past events and put them in proper perspective, and too, I had to control my emotions. I didn’t want to ramble and stutter, shout or scream, or confuse the doctor like I had last time. However, one nagging question kept bothering me. How could I tell Doctor Yancey about my past without having to lie to him? How could I tell him about that one particular day in Dallas when we failed our mission? How does a person tell a doctor, or anyone, about that dreadful day in Texas when President Kennedy was executed and America witnessed the beginning of its first coup’de’ta’? How could I tell Yancey that I watched helpless as the man’s head suddenly exploded into a thousand pieces right before me? How do you tell someone you saw that? How do you tell anyone about that day? It doesn’t make sense. Why? I had tried a few times before to tell what we, Sergio and I, had seen, but to no avail. Most I tried to tell would attempt to change the embarrassing subject to other mundane matters and others never returned calls after being told only a few details about that day in Dallas. Most thought the Dallas story and the story behind that day was nothing more than made up and the story of a, “sick man and his dreams”. I’ve asked a thousand times. How do you co-mingle two different worlds in order for some to see the truth? Is it possible? How do I tell Doctor Yancey about Castro’s revolution, and those American ‘shady’ politicians that I had secretly flown in and out of Havana for the CIA —Do I talk dare talk about those Mafia contacts that I had known all to well? I’m sure all that stuff is still classified. How do you tell someone, anyone, about that day and the failed Dallas mission? Would Yancey believe me? Would he accept the reason a secret Pentagon military crew was sent to Dallas? Would Doctor Yancey believe my stories or think they too were only speculations? Was he capable of understanding, interrupting my visions, and disjointed dreams? Could he comprehend those visions or would he be like all the others and think they were nothing more than fabrications of perhaps an overactive imagination? I wondered. I feared Dr. Yancey would see my memories and visions like all the others..,nothing more than just another ’sick man’s dreams. My thoughts were back in time, back in Cuba and Havana before Castro’s famous 1959 New Years day ride into the jubilant city of Havana. I recalled the days of Cuban dictator Batista, and the ‘open house’ atmosphere of the mafia ran casinos for those who were connected. I remembered the revolution and recalled Cuba after dictator Batista had fled the island, only hours before Castro’s ‘rag-tag’ army rode into Havana. I can still see Fidel proudly riding tall atop a WWII, American Sherman tank that his men had captured from Batistas Army. I remember those, secret midnight, charter flights from Miami to Havana, and Havana back to Miami. I remember the difficultly in getting our government officials and their mafia counter-parts, ‘sobered- up’ and off the island and back to Miami, undetected – getting them back safely to the USA was sometimes a real challenge. I was a young man then, flying the Havana to Miami, ‘Rooster Hop’ on a ‘retainer’ contract for the CIA. It was a real adventure for a young man barely twenty-three years old. I remember the day I crashed the CIA’s Cessna airplane in Cuba’s mountains after running out of gas. That’s when I first saw her, my future lover and best friend, Cristina. I was lost in a Cuban cane field with a load of guns from Miami when the rebels found me. They took the guns and me to their jungle mountain hide-a-way where I later had coffee with them in the mountains. Carlos gave me a sweat stained, ‘olive green’ fatigue field hat, “..the symbol of the 26th of July revolution..”, he told me. “ it’ll keep the bugs from nesting in your hair, until we can get you out of here”. Later that evening, I was honored to met Fidel Castro, who I immediately admired. And then she, Cristina, appeared from the shadows behind the campfire. My heart skipped a beat. Our eyes met and that was it. I fell in love with the, ‘Lady Saboteur’ and from that moment on, until now she has always been in my memory. A young short stocky built, rough looking Cuban, about my age, one of Castro’s rebels from the beginning of the revolution, Sergio, who later became my best friend and was with me in Dallas that day was selected by Carlos, one of Castro’s field commanders, to guide me on the safe trails out of Cuba’s jungle mountains to the beach, and hopefully safety. Sergio took charge without hesitation and got me safely to the beach where the Miami, Texaco PBY flying boat was waiting to take me back to Miami. Sergio and I became good friends after that Cuban sortie, and we stayed in touch for many years and both kept the secret about that miserable day in Dallas and the mission’s failure to ourselves. Sergio and I remained good friends until the day he died in 2001 of throat cancer. I remembered most all of America’s historical past and had worked some of the covert operations in order to keep America safe from foreign aggression during the Cold War with Russia. I remembered the Bay of Pigs, the Cuban Missile Crises, and the Kennedy assassination. I recalled the days before Sputnik and men walking on the moon—before the ‘Death Squads’ of El Salvador and Guatemala, the atrocities of Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos; before they took the American spotlight away from Civil Rights. Although most of those events crowded within my memories happened over fifty years ago, in my mind today there is no timeframe. My memories are visions of yesteryear, being replayed today in real time. In some cases they raced backwards over fifty plus years. I told the doctor how I had lied about my age, in 1954, forged my birth certificate, and joined the US Army at 15 years old and was stationed at Fort Bliss Texas and how that was the beginning of my covert career in behalf of the CIA, Pentagon, and US Government. Soon a thousand other memories crowed my conscious mind as I drove down Colorado’s Front Range Mountains to Denver for my second appointment with doctor Yancey. I was suddenly back with her again in Cuba, walking, talking, and dreaming with her. We were together again, at the jungle hut—the place of our first encounter. I had told Yancey during my previous visit about Cristina. Why I remembered her so vividly. I told him how Cristina and I had met in Cuba in 1957. I even told Doctor Yancey how she had obtained the name, ‘ The Lady Saboteur’. He was not impressed. Although many decades had past my memories of her seemed like yesterday. Those past memories were still vividly alive today. I was in another world when I thought about Cristina. Those memories of her are still etched deeply within my mind. *** I recalled our first encounter at the jungle hut, and my desire to have her as my lover. In those memories I could still see her seated cross-legged on the dirt floor of the hut, humming a fiery Latin song, rhythmically swaying her slender body to its Cuban beat. With each labored breath her firm breasts heaved. Her dark eyes, flashed. Her breathing was passionate, almost alarming. Her hands, without missing a beat to the music, rhythmically continued their task. Silently I secreted myself in the shadows of the darkened doorway and listened to her music. I watched her sensuous body sway to the Latin beat. I could still see her like it was yesterday. I could feel her touch and hear her laughing at life’s comical twist and turns. I could feel her warm breath, and see her vibrant smile. She was so full of life and I wondered what it would be like to make love to her. However, for now that thought would have to be my secret. I shook my head, clearing that warm vision from my mind, but knowing it would always be locked within my memories. Reluctantly, I brought myself back to reality and continued to watch from the darkened doorway as she cut and striped the wires and attached them to the dynamite. I surmised she had done this before. I watched from the shadows as she sorted and attached the wires. ‘One-two-three-cut’. Strip. One-two-three-cut. Splice. Then she connected them. I could tell she knew her stuff. It all happened in one continues motion. Nonchalantly and repetitiously she went about her task—unaware she was being watched. Soon the dynamite was primed and ready to blow. Unseen, I suddenly approached her from the shadows, but she sensed my approach. Startled, she quickly rose and turned toward me, raging fire flashing from her dark eyes. In one swift, clean motion she had pulled an unseen knife from her tight pants and grunting, screaming loudly, she charged wildly toward me—she suddenly stopped her charge, her knife inches from my throat. “Shouldn’t sneak up on a person like that. You might get hurt.” She smiled, winked at me, and then slipped the knife back into its unknown location, somewhere in those tight pants. The young lady lifted the loaded satchel of dynamite onto her back and quickly left the hut—disappearing into the jungle. I tried to follow but she was gone leaving behind no trace or sound, just the lingering scent of her tantalizing fragrance drifting here and there among the trees and brush. A tropical bird, flushed from the vine-tangled path, screeching its alarm loudly, quickly flew away, disappearing into an approaching dawn. For a minute I thought it was her, my new friend, my future lover, the lady saboteur, but I was so wrong. Cristina was active in Havana’s underground, the M-26-7. She fought bravely side by side with the resistance and the students at the University of Havana. My memories of her, ‘the Lady Saboteur’, were sweet, pure, and refreshing. *** However, I could not easily expel from my mind another memory, a bad, bad, memory — the memory of Marquesto and his treachery. That one cowardly act many years ago on Marquesto’s part had cost many in the resistance and the M-26-7, their lives. It was a painful memory that crowded my consciousness and caused me so much pain when I gave thought to Marquesto and his deceit. However, like a whirlwind from Satan’s darkest corner, suddenly Marquesto came racing back into my life, back into my memories. He approached, riding high and arrogantly upon his pale white horse, laughing and taunting me with old memories of Cristina. He pointed toward me, laughed and said. “YOU—YOUR MINE!” and then he was gone. (...end of sample writings from Deep Cover Shallow Graves...) .
Posted on: Tue, 07 Oct 2014 12:26:22 +0000
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