Predatory Instincts

By Kevin Schmitt

When you are raised in a vineyard you develop the right attitude toward spirits. They serve to relax a worker after a hard day’s effort, and can also encourage a higher level of social interaction in public gathering establishments. Captain Jean Luc Picard knew as much as any man about the later. He had in his time visited public drinking establishments all over the planet Earth as well as watering holes separated by thousands of light years of space. Only once did he ever have what he would call a bad experience in a saloon. That was the time he got knifed through the heart on Star Base Earhart.

Now there was an irony for you. He had been in regions where the law of the jungle still prevailed. He had ventured into drinking emporiums where beings of various sorts could get their lives cut tragically short because they got caught cheating at some game or because they paid too much attention to a wench with a low life expectancy of her own. But the one place where Picard really stepped into it was at Earhart. A simple barroom brawl had gotten out of hand and a hot tempered Alien scored a touché that in most arenas of conflict would have been fatal. But 24^th Century technology was on hand to save his life and provide him with an artificial heart that would serve him well for many years.

He was most grateful back then that his older brother was half a galaxy away and couldn’t admonish him for overlooking a fact that he had grown up with: Intoxicants sometimes encourage bad behavior. Of course that is no reason to avoid bars, but it’s a good thing to keep in mind while you are in one. Picard exchanged glances with a drinking crowd that was memorable to say the least. They were aliens who immediately recognized him for what he was as he entered the establishment. His escort lead the way to a table what was right in the very middle of a pretty big place. Maybe thirty tables and a very long bar.

“What’s the problem Captain, don’t you like the idea of being surrounded by dozens of drunken Romulans?” asked Commander Donatra.

“I imagine that our recent altercation with Shinzon is still being handled as classified by your planetary news services. “

“But of course. What else would you expect?” asked the Romulan while signaling a waiter.

“What a pity. I was hoping to be treated to a rousing chorus of For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow.”

“If I understand you correctly, you would rather be carried on their shoulders than dragged out into an alley. Well, fear not, they will be thinking that you are on someone’s leash and they will not meddle in matters that are above their station.”

“Unless they’re too drunk to follow your rationale,” pointed out the human.

“Yes well there is always that possibility,” Donatra conceded. “Now shall we down an ale or two, or would you prefer something stronger?”

“Stronger than Romulan ale?” Picard asked with trepidation. “May I remind you Commander that our combined medical resources are being taxed to the utmost with all the battle injuries we’ve sustained. I do not believe it would be very responsible of me to willingly become another casualty.”

“Your pardon, Commander Donatra, but we happen to have some wine that has been cut for the elderly customers that come in when there is a surplus of Vegka soup on hand,” a waiter suggested while cleaning the table.

“Elderly?” queried the human.

“Primarily customers that are over two-hundred of your years,” the commander specified.

“Well, if Worf can drink prune juice…” Picard muttered to himself.

“Excuse me?”

“The wine sounds lovely,” the human piped up with a smile.

CONTINUED HERE:(CLICK)

copyright 2014 by Kevin Schmitt

Lurking Below

By Kevin Schmitt

 The ring billed gull banked sharply to the left and came around for a second look at something strange; at least by bird standards. It’s upper body was sleek like that of a seal, but it’s face was strange and it’s upper limbs were decidedly human. As for its lower limbs---well, that was a real puzzle for the gull. The creature was riding a piece of drift wood. Many could be found on the water, especially after a good storm.

 The gull swooped down and focused on the point where flesh should be gripping a rolling wave drenched length of wood. But even the gull’s keen eyes could not detect claws, feet or legs of any kind. The wood actually seemed to be part of the creature; but of course even a bird knew that such a thing was impossible. The bird wondered if the strange creature was any relative to the turtle, which was a good swimmer but not very fast.

 Speed was important to most creatures but not all. It might prove important to the creature down below because it was not the only long slender swimmer in the water. Some fifty feet behind the legless creature there was an enormous fish. It was larger than any creature the gull had ever seen in those waters. It was a predator, but apparently one that was capable of identifying that which is not edible. The would be prey was counting on that, since its sleek shape afforded it only so much speed even in emergencies.

Click HERE to continue. 

Kevin Schmitt lives in Shakopee Minnesota and has been a factory worker for 35 years. He kayaks in the summer and writes fiction during the cold weather months.

Hillary Clinton's Perfect Man

    By Kevin Schmitt

Be advised that this work of fiction was not created to suggest that magical forces exist within the Democratic Party. Of course if they did, it might explain one or two things.

  

The foot sore guest in the Akris Punto took stock of her surroundings as her traveling staff filed in with the luggage. The Conrad in Chicago was the kind of place that the average American dreamed of visiting at least once in a lifetime. For the former First Lady, it was a nice place to catch her second wind before resuming her place on a political treadmill that was more to her liking than the mechanical kind. Hillary Rodham Clinton had planned her short visit to The Windy City to be just that: short. She was on Obama’s turf and even though the ranks of the disillusioned were growing, Chicago would never be the best place to pitch a new deal, despite the fact that she actually grew up in one of the suburbs.

 “When is my meeting with John Cullerton?” she asked while gazing out the patio door to see if the rain clouds were getting closer.

 “I arranged for him to meet downstairs for after dinner cocktails,” the secretary informer her.

 “Ok, he’s safe to drink with. Now let’s turn all our phones off for a couple of hours while I soak my feet and read a few letters. I know this place doesn’t look like one, but let’s try and capture the atmosphere of a Buddhist temple just before the chanting begins.”

 One phone managed to ring before its owner could put it to sleep and the youthful aide looked as though she had been caught stealing chocolates.

 Clinton shrugged slightly.

 “Ok, you can answer that one. Then it’s all quiet until my corns soften.”

 The woman smiled and placed the latest techno gadget to a shell like ear.

 “How can I help you?”

 

Continued,  CLICK

 http://beforekevlarcontinuations.blogspot.com/2014/09/continued-hillary-clintons-perfect-man.html

Return of The Lone Ranger

By Kevin Schmitt

 On July 31, 1917, the Allies launched a renewed assault on the German lines in the Flanders region of Belgium. After an opening barrage of some three-thousand artillery pieces, Sir Douglas Haig ordered nine British divisions to assault the German lines near Passchendaele. The people of Arras learned of this soon enough, and there were some who hoped that the offensive commencing seventy kilometers away would draw enemy cannon away from their area, since the town of Arras was only a few kilometers from the a front that extended from The North Sea to the Swiss border.

 None of that mattered to the young American who was sleeping in a pile of hay that needed to be guarded (along with everything else) in the French livery stable. The young man was a light sleeper, and when a pair of uniform boots approached the end horse stall, the lad sat up with sticks of straw dangling from his jet black hair.

 “Excusez-moi,” said a young French corporal who was holding a small sack. “Do you own this horse?”

 “That’s right, Corporal, and if you have any ideas about drafting him, you’ll need more than two strips on your sleeve. I’ve only been in this country three months, but that is long enough to know that Europe has only a fraction of the mounts that existed before this damn war got started.”

 “D’ accord, but I think the French Army may be of some assistance to you in these troubled times, if in fact you are the American Del Reid.”

 “Oh I’m him alright, but what makes you think I have any troubles? Lots of people are sleeping on hay these days. You blow up someone’s bedroom and it comes real natural.”

 The corporal had always been proud of his command of the English language, but at the moment he wasn’t sure if the lone occupant of the stable was being funny or insulting. It was one thing to live with dying and wounded soldiers, but every French fighting man hated the fact that so many civilians had lost their homes because of long range guns that could not be sufficiently silenced.

 The corporal mentally shrugged off the comment and said

 “My captain requests that you meet with him. He holds American cowboys in very high regard, and he will tell you himself that courier horses do not want for proper nutrition. This war has made a shambles of the surrounding grass lands and good water is in short supply. But when a General wants a message delivered, he will see to it that it is delivered by a well fed horse.”

 “Don’t you French have telephones?”

CLICK to continue. 

Kevin Schmitt lives in Shakopee Minnesota and has been a factory worker for 35 years. He kayaks in the summer and writes fiction during the cold weather months.

Blood Of Thorns

By Kevin Schmitt

  On a hill top overlooking the rocky outskirts of a city, two men bent their backs with unaccustomed labor. More than that, they took blood mixed with rain onto their expensive clothing and gripped the cold and clammy flesh of a corpse that bore the markings of Roman cruelty. Yet they were fortunate in a way. Most often a condemned man would be left hanging after a crucifixion. There was nothing like a rotting cadaver to remind people that life and death are the only realities in the world. Holy causes cease to exist with a man’s last heartbeat. At least that’s the message that the occupation forces kept driving home.

 But because this execution had been special, Pontius Pilate had ordered the corpse taken down immediately after death. The legionnaires who made up the execution detail were told that cult followers might show up to protest the ill treatment of the body, but the truth was something quite different. The Roman governor knew perfectly well that most of the members of the Sanhedrin would object to taking the body down, and that’s why Pilot gave the order.

 He hated the governing council that stood (in most cases) between himself and the people. Not that he wanted to deal with the people directly, but he hated anything that even vaguely resembled a theocracy. Priests were supposed to conduct religious ceremonies and let logical men govern the country. The fact that these so called spiritual elite wanted a man crucified just for speaking his mind was further evidence that he was the governor of a lunatic country.

 In any case, it was an angry country, infested with men who would never accept the fact that Judea was now part of Rome. One man in particular felt that way. He was young (which made perfect sense) and possessed a warrior’s physique. But he was intelligent enough to hide his muscles, as well as his politics. He stepped forward now and offered to help the two men who intended to move the body down a hill that was now slick from an unnatural storm.

 The two men were Joseph of Arimathea and Nicodemus of Jerusalem. Both men were prosperous and also members of the same  Sanhedrin that had clamored for the death of the rabbi Jesus. Now they stared suspiciously at the younger man, but also noted that the soldiers were gone and the women folk were stumbling down the hill ahead of them, bent in an effort to support  the dead man’s mother.

Continue HERE

Taking Water

 Written by Kevin Schmitt

The Gulf Of Thailand promised many things around 0300 hours on the morning of the 6^th. Heavy fog, flat water and a diversionary tactic in the form of a trawler that was supposed to report to new management that it was taking on water. Of course the Naval arm of The People’s Republic of Vietnam might not give a shit about that, but somebody somewhere liked the idea so the plan was floated.

Lt. Junior Grade Herb Greenwood was a bit curious about that end of the operation when he first heard about it. It seemed like every boat along the coast was either being used to transport refugees or else they were being guarded so that they couldn’t be used for that purpose. The N.V.A. was taking over and a lot of people felt that their neighborhood was about to go to hell.

Greenwood’s best theory was that the U.S. Navy simply grabbed one of those refugee boats, took custody of the very fortunate passengers, and then offered the skipper a small fortune to head back to home waters and pretend that his boat was in trouble. That skipper would have to be a tad desperate, and a whole lot less important than the fellows who were supposed to benefit from the diversionary tactic.

Greenwood stopped thinking about that when it was time to move in. Because this was a special op, he was given command of a Mark-V Picket boat that he had never seen until a couple of hours before it was time to move out. The river patrol boat was forty-five feet long and nine feet abeam. It was a variant of the boat he had skippered as part of the Mobile Ravine force that had operated so extensively throughout the delta portion of the country.

That was back in 67 when there was still some hope of bleeding the communists white. Now it was May of 75 and Operation Frequent Wind was still being talked about with no lack of disgust. Maybe that’s the reason they didn’t have to twist his arm to get him to lead the team. His wife was Vietnamese, and she would have to wait many years before she would be able to return as a tourist, and make contact with the loved ones that hopefully would still be alive.

Her name was Nhu which means gentle. She and Herb made an interesting couple. She was a real beauty with light colored skin and a small bone structure. Herb on the other hand was a real Red Skin. In part because he was always out in the hot Southeast Asian sun. Also in part because he was a Paiute Indian, born and raised just a stone’s throw from Las Vegas Nevada. On their first date Herb introduced Nhu to the wonderful world of cards, and in no time the young woman was hooked. Their plan was to buy a house in Las Vegas and she would get a job as a dealer in one of the casinos until Herb could collect his pension and then hopefully get a job teaching math. That was the plan, and it would enable his wife to find happiness thousands of miles from a homeland that was now being turned into a Vietnamese holocaust.

 To continue, click HERE.

Atonement: The Sequel

By Kevin Schmitt

Chapter One

The odd looking monk pulled on the left rein until the monastery was behind him, then pointed the team of horses toward the south tree line. The huge stone structure that was his home would not shrink and drop below the man’s broad shoulders until the wagon was clear off the green, well groomed acreage that surrounded it. The imposing edifice was The Abby of Our Lady of Gethemani; three stories high and resembling a fort in the sense that it was made up of four adjourning wings and an open central courtyard. Covered entirely in white plaster it was an enormous Catholic foot hold in what was essentially a Protestant semi-hinterland. The man driving the wagon only thought about that when some zealot chose to pour it in his ear. The man in the monk’s robe wasn’t a true Catholic and as far as he was concerned, the United States of America could fill up with Catholics, Protestants or Polynesian shark worshipers.

 The wagon driver had experience with all three faiths and a whole lot more. He had traveled the world and seen the elephant. In fact, he had watched men use the elephant to build temples both Christian and pagan. He did not doubt the existence of God, but he was certain enough that mankind could not fathom the particulars of The Almighty any more than they could bring peace in his name.

 Peace.

 It had become a warm cloak effectively hiding a torso covered with scars. The year was 1879. The war had been over for nearly fourteen years now and in all that time he hadn’t been called upon to do anything more dramatic than refereeing fights between young boys. But as he approached the small town of Bardstown, an old and familiar feeling began to creep over him. He raised the hood of his robe up despite the fact that it was a warm day. Bardstown wasn’t a dangerous place, even during prime drinking hours, but the monk stayed alert all the way to the post office.

 When he got there he found himself alone with the postmaster, who doubled as the town marshal. An over the hill lover of apple pies with drooping jowls and eyes that were going bad. His name was Henry Dale, and in the back room somewhere he kept a double barrel shotgun with a cracked stock and some of the first shotgun shells ever produced in the United States. (Something to brag about at the time of purchase, but not anymore.)

 When he spotted the monk he quickly came out from behind his counter and closed the front door so their conversation would stay private.

CONTINUE CLICK HERE

The Dire Dimension Affair

     Written by Kevin Schmitt, 

who also wrote The Bear and Eagle Affair

Chapter One

 The amateur radio operator bent over with a grunt to retrieve a fallen screw from an old but well maintained parquet wooden floor. Maybe this bit of electrical work should have been given to one of the lads before they all left for home. Maybe. The hands were getting more and more arthritic and the light from the single forty watt bulb didn’t help. But on the other hand, the teacher didn’t have anything better to do while waiting for a ride back to the guest quarters.    

  

 Tomorrow promised to be a more interesting day for the students.  Eight vibroplex Morse code key boards sat on a long improvised table, except for the one that was being rewired to a portable speaker. That teaching tool would allow the user to hear his own key work and enable the teacher to assess the student’s code sending skill as well. The table took up most of the floor space in the tidy back room. The front area was a pottery shop that had recently gone out of business.

 Somebody’s cousin arranged for the back room to be rented by the Syrian Technical Institute of Radio. How The International Telecommunications Union would benefit from these modestly run workshops was open to debate. Ham Radio was a small but praiseworthy effort made by individuals to bring countries and cultures together. But most of the Middle East was looked upon as a troubled child, where amateur radio aficionados had to bow their heads to the political forces of the region. When a political movement gained power in a Middle Eastern country, that party required assurance that the people with the short wave radio sets would function as nationalists, not as members of a world community.

 The volunteer Morse code instructor was a political wild card, and of the worse sort; but Rashid Jalal was still head of the STAR Program and he had a history of putting logic ahead of politics. That was a comfort, but when a strange automobile rolled up in front of the pottery shop, the British born instructor turned off the light and exited the building with ears wide open.

 A man in his mid-forties bailed out of the French auto and met the instructor while she was still in the doorway.

Continued,  CLICK  HERE

Atonement

Written by Kevin Schmitt,   

author of The Bear and Eagle Affair.

Chapter One

In the midst of a forest primeval, two men trudged silently on a ribbon of open ground that still held thousands of road stones under refuse made from plants and rain. Young trees luxuriating in the strong sunlight threatened to close in on the old Spanish trail, now that the treasure wagons were a thing of the past. Men carrying mail and perhaps the odd barrel of rum would contribute a cut or two with an ax, and in this way the land route between Portobello and Panama City could live another year.

  The man with the Brown Bess musket didn’t much care for jungles, unless they were the kind that might hide scantily clad women. Tahiti was the first such place to come to mind, but it was not the last as the two men followed the sun from east to west. The fighting man was attired much like a sailor, with a baggy white blouse and dark sea trousers. He hiked in a type of sandal that he had purchased back on the east side of the steamy isthmus. In a backpack he carried his boots, and a few other items that a traveling man might need after leaving the tropics.

   He was perhaps five foot nine in height, with muscles that were suited for a fight or flight existence. Facially, he looked like a man approaching middle age, but his well conditioned musculature put him right around thirty, and if there had ever been any trace of boyish innocent in those dark gray eyes---they had long since disappeared. The man sported a forehead scar, but it did not create a sinister appearance except on those occasions when he was about to take a human life. The man was no Scandinavian, but with sun bleached brownish hair he most certainly stood in contrast with his ebony crowned Indian companion. The native guide was of Wounaan descent, but his clan was nothing now; like blood poured into a swift stream. The guide pointed to a tree some ten feet from the trail and his companion noted the bright piece of cloth that had been nailed to its south side.

   “This is it,” Ramiro stated in a low voice. “Not worry. I not be long.”

    The bigger man didn’t respond. He was all done arguing. But the cloth marker suggested to him that it was time to decide who’s counsel he would bet his hide on; and that decision took all but two seconds to make. He relocated himself, and continued to scan the dank and depressing surroundings.

   The perpetual gloom limited the number of plant species that could survive on the forest floor, but there was a mosaic of competing moss like plant formations that gave ground only to the heartiest ferns. The giant creepers were everywhere, presenting a curtain effect that would give a white man a fifty foot radius of vision between trees.  From the darkness under the forest canopy the creepers would ascend the trees until they could obtain their share of sunlight. Most were easy enough to cut, but some varieties were damn hard. Ramiro never wasted time or energy on anything. He knew what not to dull his blade on, and he knew where not to step.

    At his destination he quickly gathered up twenty fistfuls of hibiscus. Then he backtracked so that his machete arm could remain silent. As he neared the trail his steps became stealthy. The birds told him that the man with the handsome scar on his face was no fool. Perhaps he should have listened to him.

   Perhaps.

Continued  HERE  (click)