TRUCK TALES
Chapter I: The Trail Of The Corsican Wife
If some old trucks could talk…
I got this chronic condition called synesthesia. I could say I suffer from it, but really, I kinda enjoy it. I blame it for my increasingly frequent “spaced out” moments; times when I just sorta pull up, my eyes go outta focus and everything shuts down except the one lean little hamster on his running-wheel in a dark corner of my brain—and the wheel is spinnin’ like a Skilsaw blade. My space-outs can last a few seconds or, well… until it gets dark and then light again. Whatever.
It sounds all official and medical-ish and stuff, so people don’t ask about it, and because they’re mostly idjits they don’t look it up. Synesthesia is defined as “A condition produced in one modality when a stimulus is applied to another modality, as when the hearing of a certain sound induces the visualization of a certain color.” Basically, it’s when sumpin you see, hear, feel, taste or smell reminds you of sumpin weirdly else, or multiple sumpins weirdly elses. I don’t wanta give you examples because they could be used to institutionalize me.
In this case it was seeing an old restored heavy-hauler military surplus truck rollin’ on the highway, complete with arched canvas Conestoga cover over the steel-ribbed cargo bed. I was instantly flashed back to the ’80’s, spending two days and nights in the tail of such a truck, marooned on high ground in the midst of flooding—and the tales told in the truck. As my synesthesia episodes go, it wasn’t very weird at all, but the stories were sorta interesting, maybe.
We were an off-the-books international bunch, with some extra-international oddities included like, for instance, an expatriate Swede representing Belgium and an expat Chinese guy repping France. They were even more “deniable” than the rest of us. We were en route to a rehearsal for an op when heavy rains and poor road design halted us. It was supposed to be a 4-hour ride. It was not. Entertainment consisted of us. Ever wondered what itinerant weapons operators chat about during idle hours?
Pain, Fear & Ghoul Tattoos
A coupla guys talked about unusual weapons glitches, like, with one rifle model, if you slowly and carefully rotated the rear sight elevation dial, all went well. But if you gave it a fast 180 degree twist up, the entire curved sight and spring popped out the top like a Jack in the Box—every single time. The retaining pin of one heavy machinegun’s salami-sized flash suppressor was so weak and poorly designed it often allowed the suppressor to shoot right off the end of the barrel in mid-burst, with slugs pingin’ off it exuberantly, scattering high-velocity fragments thither and yon (never a fun thing).
Two guys chatted about the many similarities in the physical reactions to pain and fear; how they are both electro-chemically driven, determined by a dazzlingly complex enzyme cocktail. Recognizing the interrelationships to be as complex as DNA, and since homo sapiens and chimpanzees shared well over 90 percent of DNA, how closely related were pain and fear—and could either be genetically manipulated? One had an advanced degree in organic chemistry. The other had studied stress physiology—my wife’s field—extensively, monitoring graduate courses in it. Just a coupla dumb grunts, I guess, right?
I’d never met the Swede (cunningly nicknamed “Swede”) before, and he’d been shooting suspicious, appraising looks at me since back at base, when Collie stuck his leonine head into the truck, pointed at me and growled “The Connor is in charge of you lot, understand me?”—and was gone. It seemed Swede wasn’t fond of the land of his birth. Ending a profane and thorough excoriation of Sweden’s current sociopolitical state, he declared only three great things had come out of Sweden in the past century: Volvo Marine diesel engines, the musical quartet ABBA and himself.
I suggested the august group should include the Swedish Mauser models M/96, M/38, M/41, the M/94 carbine and the absolutely superb 6.5x55mm Swedish cartridge. He looked shocked, then flashed a toothy grin. He asked, “You got?” I said, “One of each, except two Mod ’96’s.” In that moment I went from “big dumb Yank” in his book to “the distinguished American connoisseur of fine firearms and ordnance”—and became his pal. He switched packing-crate seats to put an arm around me. “You right; I was, uh, stupid forgetting! We friends, ya?”
Someone asked about his tattoo project. He jumped up and stripped off his shirt. “My frien’ the Connor must see!” he roared. In a drunken stupor (“I vas drunk like Svedish sailor—but I VAS Svedish sailor!”) he had allowed some ink-poker to attempt a huge tattoo of ABBA’s members across his back. They came out looking like four hungry, smiling cannibal ghouls at midnight. He decided to double-down on that, and had tattoo artists adding dagger-like fangs to their mouths, fluttering bats overhead, grave markers and bloody Viking axes. Those who had seen the original version agreed it was a big improvement. Classy, huh?
Inevitably, the subject of wives and lovers came up. Someone said Milo had a great story to tell, if he would, please? Milo cleared his throat and began…
The Corsican Mystery
Milo and Ren (short for Renford) came from different countries and served in different armies. At about the same time, both caught the attention of senior officers who quietly moonlighted as talent scouts for certain publicity-shy governmental agencies. The two became GLUD’s—an inside joke, meaning “Guys Like Us—Deniables.” They met in GLUD training, hit it off and became casual friends. The relationship deepened when their first op together nearly swirled down the porcelain bowl. Their one and only vehement argument was over who would run and who would stay to “plug the hole” behind the rest of the team—and likely die there. Tough, stubborn guys; they both stayed and both lived, a bit the worse for wear.
Soon they wearied of rental-hopping; putting personal possessions into storage during longer out-of-country assignments, and then searching for cramped new quarters upon their return. So, they leased a spacious flat together. It was only after sharing some wine, meals and long conversations they learned to their surprise that years before, they had both been married to—and divorced from—Corsican-born brides with the same unusual first name. Hmm.
Milo recounted how wonderful it was every time he returned from an op; how his bride cooked him a celebratory feast ending with a chocolate-raspberry torte, then plopped him into a luxurious scented bubble bath, gently scrubbing him all over by candlelight while soft music played, champagne flowed and… He saw Ren’s mouth agape, his eyes saucered wide. “What?”
Tearing into their armoires, they produced two remarkably similar scrapbooks full of photos, mementos and loving notes, all written in the same delicate hand. She’d had different last names, different hairstyles, but the truth was obvious and astonishing. A few years apart they’d been married to the same woman. Très intéressant, huh? And there was more—much, much more.
Calling in forbidden favors, spending countless hours between assignments and not insignificant sums, Ren and Milo assembled a towering pile of puzzle-pieces. They’d found five past marriages in rapid succession. Romances averaged three months; marriages lasted 1 year. Two soldiers, a metro firefighter, an undercover police narcotics agent and the most recent, a deep-water salvage diver filled the list—all dangerous occupations. They confirmed details in personal meetings with all except the diver, who had been killed by a collapsing wreck in the North Sea. The remaining four were sure they had initiated first contact.
Milo and Ren, vacillating between anger and intrigue, tracked “Target Ex” to a suburb of Paris and commenced surveillance.
Connor OUT
