Revealing Revelations (6 page)

He looks up at the ceiling. “Are you sure?” Bazz asks. He walks over to a map of the Middle East and points to Iraq. “In January 2001 only a small fraction of oil was coming from Iraq. In March of that same year, it was decided by presidential cabinet that Iraq was believed to be a destabilizing influence to international oil markets. Six months later, the well orchestrated events of September eleventh took place to concentrate a focus on the wrongfully accused to have Americas support through pain and tragedy to go to Middle Eastern countries to control oil under the opuses of war.” He explains in a passionate voice. “Do you know how much oil was reported to have come out of Iraq in 2007?” he asked me.

I remained silent with interest as to where he may be headed with this theory. “One hundred-fifteen billion barrels. That’s a significant donation from a warring country if I might add,” Bazz says, dropping his arm from the map to his side.

“So let me ask you, how did they regulate oil between Iraq to wherever they keep it?” I ask Bazz.

“Remember, Shane, in your first tour to Iraq how you had to drive tactically from Kuwait to Iraq?”

Shane nods up and down. It’s amazing to see the notoriously outspoken Sgt. Shannahan so silent and serious after such an entertaining brawl outside as if nothing just happened a few minutes ago. I haven’t seen him this quiet since we had honor guard together. “But nowadays they fly you in and out, saying it’s more convenient for the soldiers. Since when has making anything easier for the lower enlisted ever been a factor?” he laughs in irony briefly. “You pack equipment into con-ex’s and mill vans, that later gets sent to Kuwait by civilian driven trucks and from there are stacked on boats and shipped to America. All the while you pay it no mind, you’re just happy to make it from Iraq to Kuwait by Blackhawk, to Scotland by way of C-17. Then back stateside by commercial planes. So maybe, just maybe, they’re moving them right under your nose.”

I scratch the back of my head and let the bristles of hair go through my hand. I’ve heard this theory before but never with any supporting detail. “So let’s say I believe you, what’s the reason for the evil crimes of deception behind the consumption of oil?”

“The love of money is the root of all evil,” Bazz answered back.

“Spoken like a true minister,” Shane says, finally breaking his silence, making his previous wrestling partner shoot a grin back at him.

“So, where do we fall in at, what’s our part?” I ask the two.

“WE, compile information and present it to the public and other influential media prospects. Our mission is to expose governmental plans of conspiracy. It’s the least we can do for respect of every fallen soldier and civilian alike that was victim of greed and other ill intentions. I think it’s safe to say we all lost plenty of friends in this war and all have the same pain,” Shane explained.

I understood him clearly, but I always felt my pain was greater than everyone else’s.

“So you’re telling me we’re kind of like the guys who put out information about conspiracy theories in movies and news articles?” I ask.

“No, what I’m saying to Thomas, is we are the primary and only source that supplies those movies and news articles. This room is what Shane and I both call the Tower Of Command.”

“T.O.C,” I said already being familiar with the term.

“Yes,” he said. “This isn’t my room but the owner’s, who chooses not to have any dealings with our cause. He allows us to set up here without any question as long as we pay him consistently of course,” Bazz says.

“Tommy, you came wanting the truth and answers. We supplied them, now I’m asking you to join us,” Shane said.

“And if I don’t?” I ask facetiously.

He reaches underneath the table and says to me, “Seeing as how you already know too much, Thomas, a negative response will force me to squeeze the trigger on this modified M-16 attached to the bottom of the table. Meaning I’d be putting three 5.56 rounds right through you.”

I hesitate for a few seconds, then instantly duck down to look under the table for this M-16 he spoke of. I see an empty pair of reddish white pudgy hands. “You’re not supposed to actually look, Thomas.”

I smile and say, “Shane, I always trusted you and I’ve always followed you, why would I stop now, Sarge?” I ask rhetorically. I walk over to him and shake his hand. “Besides,” I continued on. “I’m no stranger to working for free,” I say with a grin.

Bazz turns to me. “We’re focused on our cause, Thomas, but I assure you, we make more money from giving our information out than the Army pays us.”

“How’d you think I just got that new Dodge Nitro, baby? Shane says throwing it in my face. We all smile at each other.

“Well, then show me around,” I said.

<><><> 

The night went fast but it was no blur. They explained to me how they have connections at every active duty military post in the U.S. and most of the other regions of the world, and how to interpret hidden messages and agendas of what the government says. Like what they’ve been saying for years about how they’re bringing thirty-thousand troops home, just means their tour was over and thirty-five thousand more was in route to replace them. How the twin towers were crumbled due to well placed demolition explosives and not a plane toppling it. That night came and went as well. For the next three months they showed me how to interpret the hidden truths…

How anytime the government makes a public announcement they’re just giving an excuse of an effect before the cause if the cause is even made public. How to acquire top secret information, and discreetly deliver it to designated factions covering up all tracks that may jeopardize exposing us. By day, I was a soldier, and night, I kept busy at the T.O.C supporting the cause of exposing the truth. Although it seemed like we were finding out so much and exposing information made no difference. I was becoming more and more frustrated daily.

4/17/2008

Ft. Hood Motor pool

16:30 close out meeting

I was closing up my tool box while the others were chaining theirs to the designated tool box area. Shelton and Jacks were joking around with Bernal and Noorak. Everyone else was heading to the barracks or to the dfac to eat. Specialist Shelton and Specialist Jacks, transferring from previous units, were the last two additions to our unit before we left Iraq. They were both tall African American male soldiers from Texas.

Jacks was six feet three, darker than me with a little more weight with curly hair and a slow look on his face all the time. He kind of reminds me Patrick from Sponge Bob. Half brainless, but only cause he chose to be, I can recall some deep intellectual conversations we had in the past.

Shelton was six feet two and darker skinned. He’s the kind of guy that stayed in the gym and has the build to prove it. He was no stranger to any of the clubs here in Killeen, or any of the women that stepped foot in any one of them.

They all stare at me and laugh under their breath.

I pay them no mind. I just tote my box over to the tool box area and lock it to the rusted iron chain. They continue to laugh, so I walk over and ask them, “What’s so funny!?”

The group continues to smile. Noorak, who is now red in the face, yells out from a short distance, “Nothing at all, Sergeant Thomas!” The small crowd bursts into a small laughter.

“Sergeant Thomas? Where’d that come from?” I asked closing the gap in space.

Shelton answered in his Texan accent, “We all know you’re fast tracking up the rank and you already have your specialist promotable status, so you might as well put your points in and get ya stripes, Sergeant Thomas.”

They all laugh again.

I had to laugh myself this time. I always knew they had faith in me, but I never thought I could give orders to these guys, we went through the hard times together equally.

“I can’t see myself doing that, I just want to E.T.S out and live that beautiful civilian life and get my rights back,” I said.

“You say that now but come the first of next month, we’ll just be privates. It’s cool though, Sarge, we’re used to it,” Noorak said, causing the others to laugh out again. A door slams and echoes through the motor pool.

“Specialist Thomas!” A voice of dominancy calls for me. The others get quiet and start to walk away from the voice, quickly heading to the nearest exit. A broad figure in uniform walks towards me with a fast pace, as though a sense of purpose is driving him. It’s Sergeant First Class Pummel. He was bigger than Shelton and Jacks combined, twice as dark and ten times as ugly. We called him Green Mile due to the uncanny resemblance of the movie’s innocent prisoner.

If I was thinking, I most likely would have evacuated the area before he saw me just like the others did, but it was too late, he was already locked on to me.

“Specialist Thomas, when I call your name all I want to hear is ‘Here, Sergeant, moving, Sergeant’!” he said loudly, with his usual authoritative voice.

I run over stopping three feet in front of him and snap to parade rest. He always saw himself as Old Testament I guess, but anytime I see him I look at his right arm and see no unit deployment patch. Reminding me he’s been in the military seventeen plus years like he always tells us, but does everything in his power not to see the combat zone. He looked good on paper to the higher ups so he never had to deal with the ordeal of leaving the U.S. In our eyes, he’s what we call and forever will be a, “Paper Soldier.” He peers down at me with half closed, “could care-less eyes”. “Thomas, why haven’t you submitted your points to battalion in order to receive your promotion?” he asked with legs shoulder width apart and hands behind his back. I can’t believe it, now this guy’s even directing his attention towards me about this.

“I’m not focused on getting my stripes at this time, Sergeant.” I answered.

“And why is that, Private?”

“Because I believe I can be more beneficial to the platoon as a Specialist, Sergeant.” I answered. I know it was a lame excuse but it was an excuse nonetheless. Fact was, I didn’t want to lead.

He takes a step toward me and leans in with a vertical hand, fingers extended and joined directed towards my face.

I notice a gold ring with a “G” and protractor shaped symbol on it.

“You’re a Specialist Promotable, which says your only beneficial focus and concern is getting those three chevrons that you refer to as stripes and be the sergeant this unit needs you to become,” he says harshly, spitting with frustration. It’s quiet but I can feel the eyes of the others who once evacuated the area, observing the situation in the distance. “See, you privates…” He stops in mid-sentence, and in the silence I hear a vibration and see a dim blue light emitting from his pocket. He retracts his hand and stands up straight to dig for the phone in his right pocket.

“If you have to take that, Sergeant, don’t let me hold you up. I understand fully,” I said facetiously.

He shoots me a mug and balls up his lips refraining from any further conversation. “These privates,” he says. “Tch! Audacity, always audacity,” he says under his breath, walking away to engage in his phone conversation.

“Haaaaaaaa!!” A burst of laughter breaks out behind me.

I turn to see it is the group of four again, I smile at them and get going.

“Hey yo, Tommy Boy, we’re going out tonight, you coming?” Jacks asked me.

“It’s Tuesday,” I said.

“So, we just gonna do a few drinks at CiCi’s pizza and go play miniature golf or something. We hardly even see you outside the motor pool,” Shelton said.

I know I’ve become detached from everyone I ever called my comrade or friend, but getting tipsy and swinging a golf club just wasn’t my idea of a good time. Besides, I was focused on exposing the truth in our government and focused on the cause. “Nah, not this time. I got other plans, maybe next time,” I said. Meaning another night at the T.O.C was all that I had on my agenda for the rest of the evening.

“Alright, see it your way,” said Bernal. They head out and I follow out behind them to the parking lot. I open my car door and right before I get in I see that guy again. He’s just staring at me in all black and that same B.D.U field jacket.

<><><> 

I spent the next four hours at the T.O.C preparing and finalizing a report I was about to send off to a connection in Ft. Drum, about voting and the inexistent Electoral College’s scandal. Shane stopped by and checked on me and Bazz was in his own world doing his own research on the opposite side of the room and left an hour or two before I did.

Afterwards, I went back to the barracks myself. I walked up the staircase to the second floor and turned right exiting the stairway. I heard loud techno music from loud speakers and my door was open.

BOOM BOOM BOOM!
I heard while the cement ground trembled under my feet. The words to the song were inaudible, but the bass almost seemed to shake the brick barracks. I quickly walk towards the noise to see what was going on, constantly saying to myself, “Noorak, I’m going to kill you.” I make it to the familiar brown door with the sign 246 on it. It was wide open and I saw a drunk, but to my surprise it wasn’t Noorak.

“What’s up, man?” The skinny tall Hispanic guy said. The gelled hairstyle and skinny cheekbones with a Cheech and Chong smile was only my roommate Guitierez, making his once-in-a-blue-moon appearance.

“Guit, it’s like ten o’clock,” I said, turning the volume down on the stereo system on his side of the room.

“I’m sorry man, hey, my bad,” he half says half sings. He was well-intoxicated at this point. Him being here could only mean he got into an argument with his girlfriend.

I pay him nor the music no mind. I already know this routine. He’ll be back in her place by the weekend. I just wanted some rest. I fell on my bed like a tree getting cut down by a lumberjack. All I needed was someone to yell timber.

Before I realized it, I was asleep almost instantly. I hear a phone ringing over the music like an alarm clock. “Guit, get ya phone! Guit!” I yell over the music.

“Yeah, bro?” he answered.

“Phone!!”

I hear some racket, rambling and random noises of things hitting the floor as he searches his side of the room for a phone. “That’s not my phone, bro. Check your side, maybe it’s yours.”

I fully wake up and look at my pant leg. He was right, my phone was ringing. I grab it out of my pocket, it reads “Unknown” on my caller I.D. I answered, getting up to step outside for silence and fresh air. I look over the balcony, “This is Thomas!”

“Good evening, I was given the understanding that you have a love for the truth. I’m sure that’s what you and your colleagues have been aiming to get through to the U.S. for quite some time now I do believe,” a mysterious voice speaks with a rapid unfamiliar accent.

I paused, instantly I found myself completely awoke and aware. I hear my heart beat in my chest, but it wasn’t there. It had dropped to somewhere in my stomach. I had no clue how anyone could find out about what was going on. I became afraid and shaken. Not for me, but for the others and obviously, if this person contacted me, it had to be me who wasn’t covering my tracks. If I was going to Ft. Leavenworth for treason, I would go alone not revealing information on Shane, Bazz, or any other contact. I chose to get straight to the punishment, instead of hesitate. I chose to get a grip on myself. “Who is this, what’s your name?”

“My name? Tch!” I can hear him exhale with a hint of frustration. A heavy European accent answers, “You can just call me, John Todd.” That was obviously not his name, he’d been better saying John Doe. But, What did he want? Is it his intention to blackmail me, or is he C.I.D? I had no way of telling at this point, I had to play his game.

“Well, John Todd, how’d you get this number?” I ask with anxiety in my voice.

“You’re asking the wrong questions. You should ask, what do I want from you? Which would force me to answer: To meet and hold a conversation of truths. After that I suspect you will ask where. Which I will answer the Coo Coo’s Nest, when shouldn’t be a problem at all after my next statement.” He explains strategically mapping out the conversation without any help from me. “Which your curiosity to see what I could possibly be wanting to talk about will lead you to ask one final question which would be…” He pauses awaiting my answer after he so carefully designed the only optional question after who, where and why.

“When?” I asked.

“Godspeed.”

CLICK!

He hangs up abruptly.

I look at the time on my cell phone reading 10:07 p.m. and quickly head to my car. Driving past Battalion Avenue and making a left onto Tank Destroyer and straight out the east gate heading back out to the T.O.C. The whole time I contemplate whether I should call the others or not, and explain what’s going on with this John Todd. In the end, I thought it best I didn’t bend, cause if they’re legal authorities wanting someone to blame and make an example of, they would only have me.

I park in the back. I take a deep breath and let it out. I get out of the car and walk around to the front. Even though the Coo Coo’s Nest was a weekend party spot, it was open through the week as well. I walk around the brick wall and through the green front door.

Looking around inside, now that the place is less crowded than usual, I can actually see the brown and maroon tiles of the floor. I can almost see a glimmer of my reflection in the well-polished tiles. I see how sad I looked being here on these terms, but really I didn’t know which was worse, the fact that I was potentially willing to turn myself over for treasonous acts against my country or that I was looking for a person that I never met before that seems to know my secrets very well. It might be a joke Shane came up with. No, I refuse to entertain the idea any further. Going to jail is one thing no man plays with, even Shane. I stand in the entrance and scan the bar. I see the usual bartender, a few regulars and two women dancing alone. I walk slowly to the long side of the bar.

“Tommy Boy!” Shouts a welcoming Dan from the opposite end of the room. Dan was the bartender of the place. He wore a flannel shirt and jeans, it was his usual apparel in the colder months, the warmer months too for that matter. I think he is the only Haitian I’ve ever seen wear flannel.