ONE BLOODY ALABASTER EYE    Part one

TREVOR CAMERON, TERRORIST HUNTER

By Clayton R. Douglas 

                The kid was young, green and scared. We had been running through heavy woods, mostly uphill, praying for the snowstorm to hit before the choppers could lock onto us with their infrared scanners or the gunners could see us through their night-vision scopes. We were both winded, close to exhaustion, and the vision of what we had seen was weighing heavily on our minds.

                The whomp of the blades of a Russian Hind coming over a ridge stopped us in our tracks as we scrambled to unfurl the special ponchos that would hide our heat signatures and provide a slim chance of survival. With our rifles underneath us and the camouflaged, lightweight ponchos over us, we lay in the fresh, wet layer of snow that had fallen earlier and waited. If their instruments located us, we would never feel a thing. Missiles would tear the flesh from our bones in an instant and the war would be over for us. That was probably a better fate than being overtaken by the Gurkha soldiers somewhere behind us.

                The Ghurkas were small, Nepalese troops favored by the British and much feared by their enemies. They were bred to be soldiers. Their size was not indicative of their ferociousness. The great knives they carried were passed down from father to son and, once drawn, could not be resheathed with honor without drawing blood.

                In Korea and Vietnam, they had fought on our side. In this crazy conflict, it was hard to tell who was who and which side was which.

                The sound of the helicopter faded into the approaching night, but the danger was not lessened. The Ghurkas were silent, deadly and as tenacious trackers as bloodhounds. I knew that only an act of God would save us. The kid thought I could.

                “Where to now, Colonel Cameron?” he asked, with a composure that startled me. Could it be that he was not as frightened as I had thought? Maybe he just didn’t understand how dangerous and close to hopeless the situation was.

                I took a deep breath and composed myself. It’s hard to be a hero when you are scared shitless. I pulled up a picture of the terrain in my mind and glanced at the compass to orient myself.

“We will keep going north until we hit the highway. Maybe we will luck out and catch a ride with a sympathetic trucker.” I kept the heat-masking poncho over my shoulders, put the rifle at ready and started out in a northerly direction.

                We were deep in enemy-controlled territory, far from the relative safety of the city. The travel restrictions imposed on the general population cut deep into our chances of getting a ride with a sympathetic citizen. Only trucks and tanks were allowed on the major highways. We had missed our rendezvous and had been written off by our confederates as MIA.

                Our mission had been to confirm the rumors of a major termination camp near the border. The reports had been true, but the security around the camp had been far more sophisticated than we had expected. No sooner had we snapped the first pictures of the naked men, women and children being herded into separate facilities and caught a whiff of the noxious smell of burning bodies from the short, wide smokestacks hidden by the towering evergreens, than the alarm sounded, the searchlights went off and we were running for our lives.

                I felt a sense of hopelessness wash over me. What good would the photos do even if we survived to deliver them? Who would believe the pictures and who possessed the power to do anything about them?

                There were rumors that we had friends in the Army and in high places, but no one with any juice was showing their hand at this point. If the existence of such allies were true, how much longer would it be, how many more lives would be sacrificed before they would act?

                My eyes caught the kid’s. He was staring at me questioningly. Was he reading my doubts on my face? “Come on, let’s move it!” I said gruffly, turning my face from his.

                Then I heard a rustling of leaves and turned to see the little, black-clad Gurkha in night vision glasses with his knife pulled coming through the bushes to my right. I ducked and could feel the wind from the blade above my head. My own Cold Steel blade slipped silently from its sheath and I buried it to the hilt in his side.

                Luck! There was no time to congratulate myself. Where there was one, there were others. I grabbed the falling Gurkha and swung him around until we were facing the direction he came from. I started to yell at the kid to get behind me, but there was no time.

                A burst of automatic weapon fire came from the brush-filled forest. It was eerie to see the tracer rounds coming straight at me. The body I was holding bucked from the impact of a dozen bullets. I grabbed the Uzi hanging loose at the dead man’s side and returned the fire.

                I fired until the clip was empty, and then I unslung my own mini-fourteen from my shoulder while still gripping my formerly human shield tightly. I fired a few rounds at the suddenly quiet forest and realized I was still alive. And still standing there like an idiot. I dropped the bullet-riddled body and nestled between it and a moss-covered log. I removed the undamaged glasses from the corpse and slipped them over my own head, frantically searching the green shadows of the forest for my enemies and the body for anything I could use. I came up with a few 9mm rounds that would work in my pistol as well as the liberated Uzi. Whoever had fired at us was as good as invisible.

                Suddenly I remembered the kid!

                Using the glasses I scanned the scene and found him. The blood was hardly recognizable as such because of the glasses, but I could tell from touch, his pulse barely there and my fingers now sticky, that he was badly hurt. He had a surprised expression on his face as he looked up at me. It was as though he had thought that being with me had somehow made him invulnerable.

                The blood was coming from a hole or two in his side. If I could get him out of these woods and to a safe place, he might have a chance. But this was enemy territory and those shots would soon bring other men in black who desired only one thing tonight, that we both end up dead. I tore open my med pouch and pulled a kotex from it. “Keep this pressed against your wound. If you leave a trail of blood, they will find us. Keep it snug.” I ordered.

                “Yes sir, Colonel Cameron.”

                “Forget the Colonel,” I muttered as I swung him over my shoulder. “Just call me Trevor.”

                “Yes sir,” he said, suppressing a groan. I found two more bodies, confirming the accuracy of my shots. Since the Gurkhas normally run in groups of four, I figured that I had missed one who was now looking for backup.

                The kid didn’t weigh much over 150, so with the night vision I was able to make good time, but I could not be sure how much of a trail I was leaving. Within a half hour, the snow began to fall in earnest and I panted a sigh of relief as it covered our tracks and whatever drops of the kid’s blood hit the ground. Then, over a ridge, I saw the subtle glow of a kerosene lantern shining through a hastily pulled blackout curtain covering the window of a cabin. Light smoke rose from the chimney. If the boy was to live, I had to take a chance.

                The old man who opened the door took it all in with a glance. I never said a word, but he motioned me inside and closed the door behind me. I stood there, snow melting on his carpet, while he rolled up a rug and revealed a trap door. He helped me ease the kid through it and onto a cot.  When he lit the candle, I removed the heavy glasses and he took a closer look at me.

                “You’re Cameron!” He said with raised eyebrows. “The Free American!” His tone was thick with awe.

                “Damn right, he is. Just killed the hell out of a whole company of them damn Ghurkas, too!” the kid said through racking coughs. “Then he carried me here. Must’ve run five miles with me on his shoulder!” the kid exaggerated.

                “I’m awful proud to meetcha, Colonel.” Then he turned his attention to the kid. “Let’s get this boy’s bleedin’ stopped.”

                I thanked him and sat down. I am still uncomfortable with this kind of attention. Notoriety is sometimes helpful, like when I need help, like now, but I am equally well known among the Opposition. Their instructions are to shoot first and establish my identity later.

                “So Colonel,” the old man asked in a conversational tone. “You ever been to Colorado before? 

Chapter One 

I opened my eyes. I was soaked in sweat and shaking.  It took a moment or two to orient myself, then a few more to convince myself it had been a dream.  I have never dreamed a lot and never with such an intense feeling of reality.  It was so real that in the reality into which I had awakened felt more like a dream than the dream had.   Suddenly, the thoughts raced across my mind.

What if this was a case of precognition? Then another, even more strange!

What if I lay wounded in this strange future and what felt like a normal waking moment was simply the memories of a long distance past in the mind of a dying man?

I shook the thoughts and the dream from my mind and got dressed for my day. 

                The little Golden Falcon I had awakened in was loaded with every convenience a bachelor would want. The bedroom was equipped with a CD player, cassette player and a TV that swiveled and could be viewed from the living room as well. The living room contained one couch, one table, the large swivel chair I sat in and my computer — an old, slow 386 IBM with a hard drive and 5.25 and 3.5 disk drives. A laser printer and a modem, mouse and scanner covered my small desk and the adjoining wall. Everything was velcroed in its proper place, secure from the bumps and turns of the road.

                My name is Trevor Cameron Hamilton. Not Colonel Cameron. I never cared to go into the service, and wasn’t the kind of person who would rise high in the ranks anyway. I have never been to Vietnam or Korea. There is no war presently, and there are no concentration camps in America. There is some talk about a war with Iraq, but all is quiet here in Colorado.

                I checked my watch and realized I had almost overslept. I had no time for coffee. I didn’t want to be late for my fight.

He came at me with a furious series of punches. We had been at it for thirty minutes, but neither one of us had gained much of an advantage over the other. We were both perspiring heavily, and he was now tiring quickly, which I hoped would allow me to end this soon, before I tired as well. The flurry he was throwing at me now marked the onset of desperation.

                I blocked the first two jabs, but the third grazed my ear and left me an opening. Before he could recover his balance from the near miss, his arm was trapped by my left and he was pulled into my right. The blow caught him solidly in the solar plexus, and the energy to fight left him suddenly.

                The match was over. He leaned on me while he caught his breath. He was six foot, about a hundred and eighty. I could tell it bothered him a little to have to look up at me. Then he wiped the sweat from his eyes.

                "I have to tell you, Trevor, there isn't a lot I can teach you. Have you thought about going on the circuit?"

                "I'm not exactly the type for tournaments, Steve." He shrugged off my assistance self-consciously. He stood up and drew a ragged breath into unwilling lungs. There was a welt on his stomach in the shape of my glove.

                "Maybe you should think about it. I could help with the expenses! You know, the fees, travel maybe?" Everyone is out to make a buck. I was certain that he could hear the roar of the crowd in his mind. When I didn't answer, he mistook my silence for possible interest.

                "Someone your size, as quick as you are, would have a great chance to take the heavyweight class in the Denver tournament next month. Full contact karate is getting bigger all the time. In a few years, the tournament winners will be bringing in big bucks. I could maybe use someone like you to help train, teach my classes, too!"

                We pushed into the locker room. I held up a hand. "Steve. Listen. I'm not interested in fighting in tournaments. I travel a lot. When I'm in a town like Aspen, I pay for a lesson or two, workout at different dojos. It's my form of exercise, not my occupation. I prefer to earn my living with my head not my hands."

                He heaved a sigh, pulled off his sweat stained T-shirt and grimaced. The knotted muscles across his belly were still quivering. "Well, if you do as good with your head as with those hands, you must be rich!" His look was skeptical. I knew what he was thinking. My size and scarred features tend to mask my IQ and suggest possible professions like fighter or hit man rather than an intellectual or an executive.

                "Not rich. Comfortable." I dropped my clothes into my bag, withdrew my shaving kit, climbed in the shower and turned up the hot water. The superheated water beat on my bruised, tortured muscles. I pulled the rubber band off my ponytail and let the water momentarily straighten out the long, curly strand of hair, my one visible sign of rebellion. It was my reminder of a long-haired youth, casual college days and years of study. The beard and mustache had come off when I started my first business, and the hair had been trimmed around the ears, unruly black locks tamed a bit and drawn back into a neat, rubber band-contained curl. That decision probably helped to secure my first real estate loan.

                There was no need to go further. At thirty, I had everything I really needed and didn't have to please anyone but myself. After my shower I dressed in my standard jeans, boots, t-shirt and flannel top shirt. My tastes are simple and I choose my clothing by how it feels on me, not how others see me.

                Steve was dressed and ready to lock up. No one had witnessed our bout. I demand private lessons. Steve Staverof made his living teaching karate. It does no one any good for a stranger to best the sensei in front of adoring students. "Come on. I'll buy you a cup of coffee at McDonald's," he said.

                "OK." We grabbed our jackets and bags and walked across the street. The air was cool but not cold enough for the impatient skiers.

                Over coffee, and after a proper amount of time, he asked politely, "Where are you from, Trevor?"

                "Texas."

                "You been in Aspen long?"

                "No."

                "Might snow soon."

                "That's what I came here for."

                "I figured. You know you might have to wait more than two weeks?" he asked, adroitly probing to see if I was just on a vacation. Snow was not expected for a month.

                I had him at a disadvantage. I knew much about him from the information about the owner contained in his office. His business card told me who he was. I knew where he lived from his business license and his bills on the desk. His occupation, marital status and number of children could be deduced from the photos on his office wall. His phone number was on the emergency sign in front of his store. On the other hand, I was a stranger who walked in off the street on a cold September evening, bought a lesson and beat the teacher.

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