The Belt of Orion - An Original Sci-fi Tale of Suspense and High Adventure

Chapter One

2007-11-23T10:30:00.000-06:00

A Tiger Hunt (circa. 1,500 B.C.)

The tiger quickly lifted his head from his prey, dragging a length of intestine by his teeth with the movement. Jerking his head to the side, he dropped his ears back and raised his upper maw in a silent snarl. As if he could see through the dense undergrowth of the jungle, he focused on a point in the distance where he could hear the clatter and yells of the villagers as they stomped and hacked their way through the jungle, slowly moving in his direction. They are hunting him and he knows it, but his instincts won't allow him to relinquish his meal just yet. It almost seemed as if he were aware that he had enough time to finish the little twelve year old girl laid out before him before the villagers got close enough to even see him.

The young girl was taken within the past hour while she was squatting at a stream washing her clothes. Normally, she would have been accompanied by several other girls and women from the village for protection in numbers from the wild beasts of the jungle and especially not this early in the day either. But this morning, in her innocent embarrassment, she went to the stream alone to cleanse herself and wash her underclothes before any of the other villagers had awakened.

Ironically, it was her rite of passage into womanhood that would make her an attractive mate and future mother in her village that drew the tiger to her like a magnet through the early morning mist.

The bloody mess at the stream was an obvious testimony to the carnage a tiger would leave behind. The blood trail was fresh and could easily be seen from the village side of the stream leading into the jungle on the other side where the body had been dragged through the dense foliage. The villagers had been alerted by a young man who had gone to the stream a couple of minutes after the girl and had witnessed the brutal killing. The men had quickly gathered the tools and weapons for a tiger hunt and set out almost before everyone was fully awake.

The tiger, angered by the noise rapidly approaching him through the jungle, bolted from his breakfast, barely half finished. Running at a full gallop through the gigantic leaves of the jungle and over and under the gnarled roots of trees that made up the jungle's canopy, he barely realized that the noise from the men had started to encircle him.

The villagers, ancestors of the people who would come to inhabit modern-day Cambodia, had become extremely successful hunters over the generations. Spreading out in a line a half mile or more in length, they would move forward through the jungle towards a clearing of about two hundred meters in diameter their forefathers had created for this very purpose.

As they neared the clearing, the middle of the line slowed it's forward progress through the jungle as the ends of the line sped up. By the time they had reached the clearing, the line had come together on the opposite side, trapping any animals that had been driven from the jungle to the inside of the great circle. It was then that they all stepped into the clearing as one, and closed in on their individual prey, ignoring all others by allowing them to flee through the gaps of the closing circle of men.

As the tiger broke through the jungle into the clearing, his breathing was labored and his heart was pounding a cadence of fear and desperation. The noise and screams of the men hunting him had surrounded him and was deafening to his sensitive ears.

When he realized his cover was gone, he quickly turned around to retreat back to the safety of the jungle just as a man with a sharpened bamboo pole and make-shift shield stepped into the clearing followed by another to his left and another to his right. The startled cat turned and ran to the center of the clearing hoping to escape on the other side as one by one, each of the villager's men cleared the tree line around him, each screaming and yelling and banging his shield with his pole, each wearing a scowl of murderous determination on his face. Then, in concert, with the thunderous rhythms of pole against shield, the circle started to close.

As the men stomped further and further from the tree line, the tiger finally came to a stop at the center, defiantly making his stand, daring the men to approach closer as he swiped his claw-bared paws through the air threateningly, his fearsome roar lost in the clammer of the hunters.

The noise reached a crescendo as the men closed the circle to within twenty yards of the trapped animal, bracing themselves for the charge that would end the hunt, when a blinding, thin beam of bright white light shot down from the heavens above, slicing the tiger across the middle of his back with a single swipe as clean as if it were done by a sword. The men froze in place as the two halves of the tiger fell to the ground and a brightly glowing disk quickly came into view overhead, momentarily hovered over the dead tiger, and then slowly descended as three thin pole-like legs extended until it settled and came to rest on the ground over the big cat.

Dropping their shields and poles, the men panicked and ran for the safety of the jungle where some just kept running until they got back to the village, with a few of them stopping to turn and watch what was happening back in the clearing. By the time they had turned back to look, there were three naked, small skinny, gray, children-like creatures with over-sized heads and large black eyes bent over the tiger's carcass.

Chapter Two

2007-11-22T13:05:00.000-06:00

The End of an Era

As the sun set at their backs and their eyes were fixed over the sea just above the horizon, they stared in disbelief as three UFO's disappeared from view.

It was late April 1975 at DaNang Air Base and the witnesses to the sighting were Ameircan Soldiers, Sailors and Airmen along with nearly the entire population of that port city on the east coast of South Vietnam.

Just minutes before, the formation of the slow moving, glowing disks had passed directly over Saigon from the southwest, proceeded on a vector directly over DaNang on the coast and continued in a straight line out over the ocean until they disappeared in the east.

TSgt Ralph Benson was inside the comm center at the sprawling Saigon facility when an excited young Airman came running in out of breath. "Sarge! Sarge! You gotta come see! There's UFO's flyin' overhead outside!"

"Glen," he replied, "will you give me a break? I've got enough work to do here without any of your crap."

"No, no. I'm serious as a heart attack Sarge! There's UFO's outside! They're flyin' overhead even as we speak. I swear to God! Come take a look.""Okay," he said as he got up to follow him outside. "But I'll have every damn stripe you've ever thought about having if you . . ."

He was cut off by the sight of three glowing disks, slowly moving over the compound to the east. He had heard about Project Blue Book and all those knuckleheads who swore they had seen flying saucers. He had always thought it was all a load of crap, but here they were, bigger'n caribou dung - flyin' directly overhead.

As amazing as the sighting was, the timing couldn't have been worse. Vietnam was being evacuated of all American personnel, effectively signaling the end of the war and North Vietnamese Regulars were rapidly approaching the city to exploit the power vacuum that would guarantee an unimpeded invasion. "And me and my crew in the middle of it all right here in downtown Saigon." he said to no one in particular.

His deadline was just hours away before the destruction of the comm center had to be completed and he wasn't even half-way through the classified yet. The boys from that Air National Guard unit out of Arkansas sure made quick work on the equipment though. "Damn," he thought to himself, "I wish I could swing a sledgehammer like that. I guess they must spend a lot of time chopping wood back home or something." He knew as he thought it, that more than likely it was from swinging sledgehammers erecting all the tents and antennas during the numerous field exercises they put them through in Combat Comm. All in all, it's a pretty good program with the G.I. Bill and the college tuition and all - except in time of war. Then you gotta take your chances with the rest of the active duty types. Think about it, why take recruits when the guardsman's already in uniform, trained and ready to go? Besides, those boys had a field day tearing up the "Switch".

The "Switch". An odd name for one of the bigger hubs in the South Pacific. But then again, any site that works as the central switching facility for a country the size of Louisiana typically is nicknamed a switch after its function. But it's the true hubs that carry the heavy traffic in and out of country that carry the real loads. Saigon was one such hub in a vast telephone and data communications network.

The ORION network, named after the stellar constellation due to the close similarity of the locations of the sites spread out over the eastern Pacific, evolved over the decades since WW2 out of necessity to provide communications between installations in theatre and from the far east back to the U.S. by way of Hawaii.

The primary backbone of the network included sites in Korea, Japan through Okinawa, Taiwan, and the Philippines, branching there to Vietnam, Australia and Guam. There was a back-link from Vietnam into the hub in Thailand that covered communications to the bases there, and from Australia there were two links down into sites in the Antartic completing the stellar constellation map of the hunter. From Guam, the long-haul traffic extended through Hawaii and to the gateway in California.

The line of communications during the Vietnam War extending from Thailand to California was nicknamed ORION's Belt and carried orders from the White House concerning the war and other such important communications as updates from the front to include Kissinger's efforts at the Peace Talks towards the end of the war.

As ComSec NCOIC for the facility on Taiwan, Benson was briefed on the network and it was common knowledge with anyone in any way connected to maintaining the system. Benson was a just a single little cog in the machine, stationed on an island off the coast of mainland China waiting for his orders to come in for a change of station back to the 'States like everyone else when he got temporary duty orders to go into Saigon and head up the team to destroy the comm center - especially all the classified.

He was only about half-way through counting off each sheet in each file, signing off the destruction of it, passing it to the guy at the shredder and moving on to the next sheet when a call came over the radio from his radio operator at the Embassy. "Charlie Romeo, Charlie Romeo, this is Charlie Whiskey, how copy, over?
"Benson keyed the radio and replied, "I got you five by, Charlie Whiskey, what's up Red, over?"

"Charlie Romeo, be advised, the mob outside my location is getting way out of control. Further, I have been authorized to pass new orders for you to wrap up what you're doing the best you can, blow the place and get over to my location for emergency evac, over."

The best placed plans of mice and men. - They were supposed to have at least three more hours, make their way to the Embassy, get choppered out to DaNang where their freedom bird waited, then back home. But no, "We've got to bug out now before the job's done." he thought. Well, at least the equipment's been destroyed and the guard guys are safe back at the Embassy, if not already in DaNang, but Benson was nowhere near finished with the classified.

According to proper procedure, each page had to be accounted for and it's destruction documented by at least two individuals. He had five, four-drawer file cabinets full of classified left with no time left to go. He looked over at the SSgt assigned to help him and told him, "Steve, it doesn't look like we're gonna make it out of here with a clean and documented destruction."

"It don't look like it to me either." Steve replied.

"Go get me five thermite grenades", which he did.

"You know how these work, right?" he asked him."Yeah, put 'em on top of the cabinet, pull the pin and watch it go into meltdown, but the cabinets are right next to each other. It might get a little hot in here for us to stay and witness it."

"Better for the burn, guy. We do this and the destruction is as good as done. Let's light 'em up."

Just then, the radio came alive again from who he thought was the operator back at the Embassy.

"Charlie Romeo, Charlie Romeo, this is Charlie Oscar, how copy?"
Besides recognizing the call sign, Benson could tell by the gravelly voice at the other end, it was his Chief of Operations, Lt. Colonel Moss. "I read you five by five Charlie Oscar, how me, over." he replied.

"I got a good copy on you Charlie Romeo", the radio came back, a little off frequency and starting to fade out, "I need you to pull a file for me before you finish up there, do you copy?"

"I understand, one file needs to be returned, is this correct?", he said."Yes, Charlie Romeo, I need you pull file four-fifty-seven and return with it to this location for me only, as soon as possible, do you copy?", he was starting to break up into static towards the end.

"That's affirmitive Charlie Oscar, file, I say numbers, four, fife, seven. Is this correct Charlie Oscar?", he passed back.

"That's affirmative, Charlie Romeo, file number four, fife, seven." repeating the correct way to pass numbers over the air. "I say again, ensure you return it only to me at my location. I urgently need that file before we leave for the coast, over." reiterating his earlier missive.

"Will do Charlie Oscar, return to you only, ASAP, Charlie Romeo out."

"Charlie Oscar, out."

He went over to the cabinets, checked the drawer indexes, ended up at the next cabinet he was to set to destroy and opened the third drawer. Quickly flipping through the tabs looking for four-fifty-seven, he saw that the divider holding the entire four-fifty section was sealed in a large manila envelope, about an inch thick and labeled in big, red bold print that read, "PROJECT ORION - TOP SECRET ULTRA V - NO FORN". He grabbed the whole one-fifty section, turned around to Steve and said, "Light 'em up and get EOD in here to blow the place. Our flight is gonna take off without us if we don't get outta here."

While Steve was pulling the pins, he scanned around the workcenter for a classified pouch with no luck. What he did find was one of those blue Air Force fiberglass briefcases with the three-digit tumbler lock on it. He opened it, found the combination on a slip of paper inside and tested it. 2-3-9. It worked. He tossed in the manila envelope along with his destruction documentation, closed the case and scrambled the lock. On his way to the door, he grabbed Steve and made their way outside to find EOD.

Outside, the perimeter was packed with locals trying to get in past the constantine wire-topped fence with no sucess. he found "Gramps", a MSgt EOD troop they had brought in from Thailand, the only other person left besides Steve, a couple of marines and himself. Gramps looked to be much too young in years to be a Master Sargeant, but in his thoughts, Ralph chalked that up to the probable high turn-over and nature of a career field having anything to do with bombs and high explosives. He told him the place was ready as soon as the cabinets were done.

Gramps went in with an ALICE pack full of C4 and came out a few minutes later. Benson stopped him and asked him for his empty ALICE pack for the briefcase and then said, "How're the cabinets coming?"

"Slag, man, they're already slag. You might want to move a little further away from the building though."

"Oh, you're ready to blow it?", he asked.

"No, I mean I've set the charges on a three minute timer and it took me a little over a minute to go around and set 'em all", he said as he quickly moved past Benson. "What I'm saying is, it's about to blow any second and you might want to move a little further away from the building."

The small group of American servicemen barely made it to the gate before the building went up. The explosion was a blessing in disguise because it tended to clear the streets around the compound so they could make their way over to the Embassy without too much of a crowd to struggle through.

Getting to the Embassy front gate is what proved to be the greatest fight of the day as the mob outside the big gates had reached riot porportions with the Marines barely holding them back from the inside. One chopper was taking off from the roof as another was landing as they made their way through the crowd to the gate.
Sporadic small arms fire could be heard all up and down the boulevard, the crowd was keeping pressure on the gate to get inside, and the Marines weren't giving up any ground.

After they were safe inside the compound proper, Ralph turned to Steve and said, "You just gotta love them guys," motioning to the Marines back at the gate who were still fighting the crowd back trying their best to keep the gates closed.

Chapter Three

2007-11-21T16:03:00.000-06:00

A Slight Detour

Once inside the Embassy, Benson asked around for Colonel Moss and nobody had seen him. Steve and Benson walked up to the third floor and found the radio operator in a small room where he was in the process of packing up the radio gear.

"Hey Red, where's the Colonel?", he asked.

"Haven't seen him all day," he replied. "Why?"

"He contacted me on the radio shortly after you gave me the bug out order and told me to bring him back a classified file from the comm center", motioning to the pack on his back. "I've got it here in this ALICE pack and I want to get rid of it."

"Man, the Colonel ain't been here all day that I've seen and I don't know anything about any classified you were supposed to bring back." Then he added, "If I were you, I'd just destroy it and call it a total loss with the rest of the stuff that went up back at the comm center."

"No can do. The Colonel specifically said I was to give it only to him and ASAP. I thought he was transmitting from your radio right here", he said.

"Benson, I haven't left this chair to go take a piss from the time I signed on this morning till about a half hour ago and I haven't even heard of the Colonel being in the building all day, much less here talking on my radio", he shot back. "Now, if you don't mind I got work to do before we take off for DaNang."

Taking the ALICE pack off, Benson removed the fiberglass briefcase, set the combination and opened it. He then reached inside and pulled the big manila envelope out and holding it out to Red, he said. "Look, the Colonel wanted this classified ASAP. If you see him before I do, make sure he gets it. In the mean time, keep it with your other gear."

"Okay, boss. You win." Red replied as he tossed the package in the bottom of one of the radio crates face-down.

Turning away, Benson said, "Alright, see you in a few. I'm gonna go find the Colonel." Benson shouldered the pack, then started walking with Steve down the long corridor from the radio room. Taking the brick out of it's holster on his hip, Benson keyed the radio and said, "Charlie Oscar, Charlie Oscar, this is Charlie Romeo, how copy, over?" he waited for a few seconds with no reply. He keyed the radio again, "Charlie Oscar, Charlie Oscar, this is Charlie Romeo, do you copy, over?" Still no reply.

They turned the corner and started walking down a short hallway to the Ambassador's office. He said, "Somebody's got to know where the Colonel is. Maybe someone in the Ambassador's office knows something. I'm gonna go check it out. Why don't you go around and try to find him and we'll meet back at the radio shack. We're fixin' to leave and the Colonel's outta pocket."

The door to the Ambassador's outer office was open, so he walked in and looked around to see a portable shredder on every desk, with someone frantically feeding documents into each one. The floor and all the desks were littered with papers and documents. He stopped at the first desk he came to and asked if they had seen Colonel Moss. They never heard of him. He asked around the room with the same answer. "He's got to be here somewhere." he thought to himself. "To the best of my knowledge, since we got to Saigon, he didn't even leave the Embassy to sleep."

He walked out of the office back down the corridor to where Red was just starting to pick up one side of a heavy crate filled with radio gear when he asked him for a hand with the stuff to get it up the stairs to the roof.

Benson grabbed the other handle and they awkwardly made their way up the stairs and onto the roof where they dropped the crate in the lashing wind from a waiting CH-46 and went back down for the rest. Red grabbed the packed-up GRA-4 mast assembly with one hand and reached for a handle on the other crate. Benson grabbed the other side of the crate and lead the way up the stairs.

Once back on the roof, the flight engineer waved them over to help load the other cargo that was already there. The radio gear was at the tail end of the crates to be loaded, and didn't make it on the flight. Red wasn't about to leave his gear on the roof, so he opted to wait on the next flight.

By this time, Steve had stepped up onto the roof where Red and Benson were fighting the wind from the chopper. "Find out anything?" Benson screamed over the blasting roar of the chopper's blades.

"No, nothing." Steve screamed back. "What are we supposed to do?"

"We go to DaNang and wait for him there", he screamed, "If he's not there, then he's got to be on his way here. Red's got the file the Colonel wanted and is going to wait for him here. If he doesn't show, then Red'll join us in DaNang. If the Colonel gets here after Red leaves, then he'll see we're packed up and gone and meet up with us there, but right now, this is our flight, Bubba, we gotta go!"

With that, they ducked down, ran to the chopper, stepped up on the landing and joined the other two passengers who were already strapped into their seats among several wooden crates. Benson ended up in between Gramps and a pretty blonde who was dressed in a mid-calf sleeveless summer dress. She was holding a black satchel to her chest like it had her life savings in it and Gramps had a classified pouch in his lap.

"That's funny," Benson thought to himself. "I don't remember Gramps having a classified pouch." He looked over at Steve just as he was getting strapped in, and stuffed his ALICE pack under his seat.

The chopper lifted off a little too fast for Benson's liking and quickly gained altitude over the city. Looking down on the crowd at the gates and the surrounding streets, he wondered how in the hell the jarheads were going to be able to turn loose long enough to get up the three flights of stairs to the roof for their own evac. All he knew was that his part was done and he thanked God he was on his way outta there. All he could do now was pray they made it out just as safely, but in the forefront of his mind, he was really concerned about where the Colonel was and why he couldn't reach him on the radio.

They cleared the city soon enough and the chopper was leveling out for a smooth flight to DaNang as the passengers settled back to endure the ride. Benson peeked out of the corner of his eye and saw that the pretty blonde had relaxed her death-grip on her briefcase a little and seemed more concerned about the wind kicking up the edge of her dress revealing a nice pair of legs that ran all the way up. Not that he was paying any attention, mind you, he just happened to notice. He just happened to notice the fancy lace, too, but he really wasn't staring, no sir.

Glancing over to his right, he saw Gramps unsnap his harness and unsteadily make his way up to the front of the chopper. As he squatted down between the pilot and the flight engineer, he pulled a Colt Gov't Model out of his classified pouch, and jamming the business end of it into the pilot's ribs, he ordered him to turn the chopper around. The pretty blonde finally noticed the gun in the pilot's side and screamed. Gramps turned and yelled at her to shutup.

Over the roar of the engines and blasts of air against the fuselage, Benson heard Gramps yell coordinates for the pilot to fly to. The pilot looked down at him and heard him yell, "Are you crazy? That's in Cambodia!" To that, Gramps replied, "I know exactly where it is. We have an unscheduled stop to make. Now do it!"

That having been said, Gramps looked over at Benson and with a wave of his pistol, he yelled, "Toss over the backpack, soldier boy." Benson reached under his seat and kicked the pack across the chopper floor to him. As he secured the backpack under a leg, Gramps reached inside his fatigue shirt and pulled out a small transciever. He turned the radio on and keyed it saying, "Yellow Dog One, this is Sparrow Hawk. Package and transport secured. Returning to Beta Site, over."

Benson looked over at Steve, and imagined his own look of shock at the turn of events. What really got him thinking was why did Gramps want his ALICE pack? If it was the 457 file he was after, he was out of luck 'cause it was with Red back at the Embassy packed up with the radio gear. What's going to happen when he finds out he doesn't have "the package" that he was after? Obviously there's more to the file than Col. Moss had let on about.

Benson thought to himself, "What could be so classified about the ORION Network? Everybody in the world including the Chinese and the Russians know we've got communications back to the 'States from the Far East. What's the big deal?"

Gramp's radio squawked back. A gravelly voice came over the radio saying, "Sparrow Hawk, this is Yellow Dog One, Roger. Relay transport prepped and standing by, out."

As the helicopter completed its turn and leveled out for Cambodia, Benson dwelled on that last transmission. - That was Col. Moss on the other end - in Cambodia.

Chapter Five

2007-11-20T18:02:00.000-06:00

I Wouldn't Have Changed a Thing...

As he turned the knob to open the door of the old Victorian home, 31-year old Ron Benson stepped quietly through the door, shutting out the bitter, biting cold of a late November Bangor evening.

Closing the door as slowly as he could so he wouldn't alarm anyone to his presence, the stress from his job in the Air Force seemed to melt away with the frost and snow on his bushy mustache and thick eyebrows that had collected during the short walk from the old country road to the house.

Hanging his heavy cloak on the rack by the door, he was overwhelmed with a mixture of the aromas and the sounds of music from the '50's that reminded him of so many traditional Thanksgiving dinners his family had enjoyed through as many years as he could remember. Finally - through the airports and layovers and the long taxi ride through the snowstorm out to the family farm - he was home.

The voices were becoming clearer and the excited conversations more understandable as he crept down the long hallway from the front door to the dining room. He wasn't supposed to be able to get away from the base with the upcoming ORI threatening his flying squadron, but at the last minute on the afternoon before the holiday, the commander released everyone for a full four-day weekend to enjoy Thanksgiving with their families if they could still make it to their respective homes. Ron didn't have to be told twice. In fact he cut out a little early so he could make the layover in Chicago that connected with LaGuardia. He wasn't expected to make it home for the holiday and he didn't call ahead to let anyone know, either.

There in the dining room were his parents and long-time family friends "Uncles" Steve Markham and Red McKinney standing around a dining room table that was completely covered in dishes full of mashed potatoes, fresh, boiled corn on the cob, green beans, gravy, a huge pan of dressing and big plate of cranberry sauce slices just to name a few dishes he glanced at and recognized.

His dad was laughing and cutting up the turkey while Steve and Red were cutting up with his mom right beside him. The four of them looked like a bunch of kids at a birthday party they were having so much fun. Ron leaned up against the doorjam and just took in the tableau and smiled. They were having so much fun they didn't even realize he was standing there until he cleared his throat.

"Ronnie!" Steve exclaimed. "You made it home after all, you little sneak thief!" Both he and his mom ran over to him with Red on their heels. The three of them practically tackled him in the doorway while each one of them were trying to get an arm around his neck to give him a hug.

"There wasn't a doubt in my military mind you'd make it home for "turkey day", son," his dad called from the table, still cutting on the turkey. Dropping the knife and fork, he wiped his hands on a pillow case-turned apron he had stuffed into the top of his pants and started walking over to the group. "Come over here and give your old man a hug."

So began the Benson's traditional Thanksgiving dinner, with Steve and Red telling tall tales about their times in the Air Force, bragging on "little" Ron following in his father's footsteps, forging his own reputation as a shop chief in a Stealth Fighter squadron jet engine repair facility, while his mom and dad quietly beamed their pride in how well their only son had turned out. "If only he could find himself a good girl and settle down." his mom thought to herself. "He's so dedicated to his work, he has no time for himself."

It was true. Ron's success in the Air Force was directly related to his obsession with the job. He was still in high school when Desert Storm broke out, and it was during the massive coverage by the news media when he got "the bug" to join the military. Specifically, the Air Force. More specifically, a flying squadron woking with the Stealth Fighter that so impressed the young man. The dream became reality when he scored higher on the mechanical portion of the aptitude test he took to get into the military than any other section of the test. He was a natural-born mechanic having been raised on a Maine potato farm and having to help his dad with the machinery whenever anything broke down. It seemed Ron had a sixth sense about machines. He could hear a tractor running across a field and tell you something was wrong with it. And the wierd thing about it, nine times out of ten, he was right. And he could fix it, too. He could break an engine down, put it back together and have it back in service before lunchtime. He enjoyed the work, too.

It wasn't that way early on though. When he was much younger, he'd spend days on end helping Uncle Red in the maintenance shop his dad had set up in the old barn next to the house they lived in trying to figure out why this motor or that one wouldn't work. On a farm, if left unattended, a makeshift machine shop usually piles up with equipment that's broken - each one being placed with a promise that it'd get fixed when 'we get around to it'. While his dad and Uncle Steve worked the fields, Red taught him everything he knew about motors and engines and had patience enough with the boy to keep his interest keen and his little butt out of trouble around the farm. It didn't take Ron long to master the craft, and soon enough, he became an invaluable asset.

But as much as his parents wanted to keep him home and safe from the evils of the outside world, they knew he was destined for greater things. Getting the old family farm back up and running was Ralph's dream. Ron had to follow his own. All Ron's parents could hope and pray for was that they gave him enough of the right kind of tools to make it on the outside, away from the farm.

As it turned out, his parents had no need to worry because he did just fine. In fact, he did so well, the Air Force kept him in the relatively new fighter squadron since he graduated from tech school for jet engine mechanics. He made rank quickly, got promoted to SSgt out-of-cycle and made TSgt the first time around. He saw action in Kosovo, Afganistan and was with the first wave into Iraq under GW Bush. He was Shop Chief now back at home station, training the younger troops for duty abroad and was well respected throughout the squadron.

Yes, he turned out just fine, but he longed to be back on the farm. The job was important, but he had seen too much too young and now, the training and sending of his troops overseas, just to hear of one of them from time to time getting wounded or killed was starting to wear down on him. He was torn between his dedication to duty and his longing to come back home. His parents weren't getting any younger and they never did hire any outside help to work around the farm except during harvest and Steve and Red were just as old as his father was. They really needed him back home, but they weren't about to say anything. Too much pride to, cut and dried. That was their way. The Benson's way. Always had, always would be. The Bensons had held that old potato farm together for generations. If a thing ain't broke why fix it?

After dinner, everyone helped clear the table and the men started filtering out to the living room while the girls loaded up the dishwasher and put up what wasn't finished into containers for leftovers. Ron lagged behind and offered to help but his mom would have nothing to do with any of that. She reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a couple of bottles of German Auslese wine they were holding back for after-dinner drinks. The Cabernet was okay to have with dinner, but Auslese is for swishing languishly as an after-dinner treat. Ron juggled the bottles while he grabbed the corkscrew and four wine glasses and headed out to the living room.

After opening the bottles and pouring the wine for everyone, Ron settled down next to Red on the black leather, brass-studded sleeper sofa. The men were engaged in their favorite conversation - the war in Iraq. "How long are they gonna draw this thing out, anyways?" Red was saying, "I mean, why don't they just pull up stakes and get the hell out of Dodge?"

"If they did that, every Islamic country surrounding Iraq would move in and there'd be a bloodbath that'd make Cambodia look like a paper cut." Steve countered.

"Yeah, but how many American lives is this war gonna cost us? I mean, let's look at this, it's 2008 now, and we've been in there since what, 2003... yeah, we've been over there five years now. Today's count is way over 8,000! For cryin' out loud, what's it gonna take?" Red argued.

"It's all about the oil. Always has, always will." Ralph said. "They tried the electric car thing. Even did it right and started out by trying to ween us off the stuff with those silly little hybrid cars, but America's demand for power and efficiency wouldn't allow it. We were back swimming in the stuff before they could completely change us over to it. It's always been about the oil."

"Yeah, don't you know it." Red answered turning to Ron, "You're too young to know about when one of the big three gas companies went bankrupt and why, but that little story tells it all."

"How's that?" Ron replied.

"Back in the '60's the big three oil companies were ESSO, Gulf and Texaco. Conoco hadn't sold out to Citgo yet and there were some Lion stations and a few other minor players still around or starting up, but those were the big three, ESSO, Gulf and Texaco. Now, Standard Oil was owned by Rockefeller before it became ESSO, a French company whose sole source of oil was from off-shore oil rigs right off the coast of guess where..."

"Where?" Ron asked.

"V-i-e-t-n-a-m." Red solemnly said with purpose. The word practically dripped off his tongue. "Charles de Gaulle couldn't secure the penninsula from the communist insurgency and when they packed up and went home, he told Kennedy it wasn't worth it - that the VC couldn't be defeated. I'll give 'em that, they tried to warn us off but Kennedy, under advisement from LBJ, whose family had been in the oil business for generations, convinced Kennedy that we could do a better job than France and could probably secure the old French colony in five to seven years. The rigs were left untouched and were still more or less in good working condition back then and now, since Clinton normalized relations back in the '90's, they're beggin' us to come back and get those rigs back up an' runnin'. I don't see that happenin' in the near future."

"Yeah," Steve interrupted, "Twelve years, 50,000 American lives later and we end up pulling out just like the French did - and for what? Oil??? We ended up empty-handed even after all that. America's addiction to the black stuff is as bad as horse is to a heroin addict. She can't live without it. Americans have to have it to get to and from work, to do our work and survive our winters. And when we pulled out in spite of that hunger for oil, Cambodians just about became an extinct race - just like what's gonna end up happening in Iraq if our politicians have their way about it. But what else is there to do?"

"Not to slight those sacrifices in the least," Ralph cut in, "but think about this - the total dead after the first day's battle at Gettysburg was just about 50,000. Granted, that was a bad time to be in a war, but it took what, twelve years for the VC to pile us up to that number? But that's not what I wanted to point out here. What I wanted to say was the numbers of the dead are always a small fraction compared to the injured and combat-wounded. That ratio could be as great as ten to one or more and a lot of those injuries can't be seen on the outside either, son." talking directly to his son, now.

"Post Traumatic Syndrome and Traumatic Brain Injuries are at the top of the list of immediate problems with returning veterans. But ever since World War I, you've got to take into account chemical weapons that reek havoc on our young men and women coming home from war that can eat you alive from the inside out. Sometimes it takes decades for it to catch up to you and it ain't pretty towards the end, either. I personally know of guys that barely hung onto life by a thread for six months to a year or more before it finally took 'em. I'd hate to linger and go out like that."

"You did know your grandpa was in the class of '41, right?" still addressing Ron, "He went AWOL for three years after he got back from Germany in '45. That was back when they still called it 'shell-shocked' or 'brain-rattled' because they didn't really understand PTSD or TBI, but that's what he had alright. He wasn't right even after he finally got back home. That's about the time the farm went to hell in a handbasket. He finally got some attention and got back half-way right after a year or two or none of us would be here today. You should have heard your Great Aunt Lucie talk it about him. He was one hell of a man before he went over there. He was one those 'gentle giants'. Us kids loved him to death, he was so much fun. He'd let us get away with so much."

"Where'd they finally find him, anyway Ralph?" Steve asked.

"Down in a mission in Houston." Ralph replied, "Actually, he was staying at the mission, but they found out who he was after they hauled him in for stealing an apple off one of those sidewalk carts and ID'd him down at the station. Poor devil couldn't even remember his own name - even after three years."

Red got up to pour himself another glass of wine and walked around the room freshening up everyone else's glass. He ended up finishing the second bottle before he got around to himself so he left the room to get another bottle.

Steve spoke up saying, "You know Ralph, I never did tell you about the time they choppered me up to a hill to refuel the generators on one of those unmanned radar sites did I?"

"No. I didn't know you ever went out on any of those. Weren't the power pro troops supposed to be taking care of that?" Ralph replied.

"Well, I kinda sorta lost really big out at the compound one night" Steve went on, "playing poker with the power pro guys, you know, and payday was still more than a week off. I swear they were cheating."

"Those guys always cheated, Steve. Hell, they used a marked deck for cryin' out loud." Ralph said.

"Yeah, well I didn't know that at the time. Anyways, after I lost that last hand, they threw me a deal that if I'd refuel this one hill till payday I'd only have to pay 'em back half of what I owed 'em. I was crazy enough to take 'em up on it and... well... anyway, here I am, up on the hill, rolling these 55 gallon drums of diesel off the chopper while it's still running and no one said anything about securing the site, I mean really, we're way south of the 'Z and all, and I jumped off the landing and turned around to get my rifle and thought I saw something over in the tall grass at the edge of the clearing off to my left way behind the chopper's tail section. I swung my M-16 around and I let loose with about a six or eight round burst in that direction about the same time I see the guy jumping out of the grass into the clearing. I practically cut him half Ralph. I cut that little bastard in half right below his chest. He had a satchel charge slinging from his hand but he didn't even get a chance to pull the plug on it. He just looked at me with his eyes all big in surprize and just fell to the ground in two pieces. I still have nightmares every once in a great while about that even after all this time. I wake up in a cold sweat - wide awake like I've been up for hours. We were Air Force communicators Ralph, we didn't sign on for any of that shit. They didn't train us for any of that."

"Damn, Steve." Ralph replied. "You never told me about that. I never even knew you were in the bush at all."

Red walked back in the room with two new bottles of Auslese. "Oh, man. The girls aren't even half-way finished and Carol gave me holy hell about us drinking all the Auslese."

"Don't worry about it, man." Ralph said, "She's just messin' with you. I bought three cases of the stuff in case we got snowed in and she knows it. Remember me telling you about us getting snowed in that one time back at Spang'? We don't get caught short-handed. I got the rest of it in the downstairs refrigerator ready for action. Besides, if I know Carol, they've got their glasses poured and hid from sight or else they'd be done in the kitchen by now. He, he. They're just havin' their own little party back in there is all."

Steve was still thinking of what he just told Ralph and Ron. The memory of Ralph's run in with Colonel Moss and Gramps back in Cambodia crossed his mind. They never spoke of it since they left Vietnam and he wasn't about to bring it up now especially with Ron in the room either. "Ralph has his own demons to deal with." Steve thought to himself.

"So, what'd I miss?" Red asked.

"Steve was telling us about his little refueling incident." Ralph said.

"Oh, about his lucky shot?" Red asked jokingly.

"You knew about it?" Ralph asked.

"Sure. There ain't no secrets between radio maintenance, man. You know that." Red replied.

"What else haven't you guys told me?" Ralph implored.

"Oh, nothing much." Red replied. "Unless you count that time I threw a grenade down the hill and took out three of 'em... single-handedly." as he said 'single-handedly', he grabbed the sides of his shirt with his thumbs up high like he was proudly grabbing the straps of a pair of overalls.

"You did what??? When did that happen?" Ralph inquired incredulously.

"Oh, We don't really know if it was 1, 3 or even 100, but I had gone up to help Steve refuel one time before he got those power pro troops paid off. Besides, after I heard what happened to him up on that hill, I figured another pair of eyes couldn't hurt to keep a lookout, so I went up with him the rest of the week. It all happened within a couple of days of each other, his incident and mine that is. It wasn't really any big deal."

"Doesn't sound like no little deal to me!" Ralph exclaimed.

"Okay, okay. Here's what happened. The chopper powered down after we landed. Something about the mechanic had to check something with the main rotor or something or other. Anyway, here's this guy up on top of the chopper way up on top of this hill, and all exposed and shit. He might as well have been waving a flag for someone to take a pot-shot at him when someone from down the hill does just that. Didn't kill him or nothing, just winged him. Bad enough we had to go up and get him down after it was all over though. Anyway, the pilot yells out to me to grab a grenade and lob it over the crest of the hill and hope like hell it hits the guy and well, we didn't hear anything after I threw it, so I guess I got my own lucky shot off, huh?"

"Christ, we might as well have been in a combat outfit the way you guys talk about it." Ralph exclaimed.

"Ralph, we WERE in a combat unit - remember? 1st Combat Communications? Emphasis on the 'Comabat'?" Steve laughingly said.

"I don't know about that." Ralph laughed back. "The way I remember it, it was more like the the 1st Mobile Communications Squadron - emphasis on the MOB." to which they all started laughing.

"Hey, don't bogart that bottle, Red." Steve interjected, "I'm getting a little dry over here."

"Okay, okay. Don't pull me by the short-hairs, I'm coming." Red said as he got up to refill Steves's glass for him.

"And what about you Ronnie? You've been awful quiet over there." Red said to Ron over his shoulder while he was pouring.

Ron looked up from his glass obviously in his own thoughts then said, "Well, I never did talk about it, but something did happen over in Kosovo."

"Oh?" Ralph asked, concerned. He knew Kosovo was not only Ron's first assignment overseas, it was his first assignment in a war zone.

"I had volunteered, well actually, I got volunteered to go out on a Med-Aid trip where you load up a couple of dueces or 5-tons with medical supplies and MRE's and go out to some of the more disaster-struck areas where people are starving and suffering because of the war and we were going through this one little bombed-out village that was on the way. We weren't scheduled for a stop-over there, but when about 20 or 30 villagers started running towards the road from one of those bombed out houses, waving their arms and yelling at us to stop, the front truck pulled over." Ron got quiet for a few seconds before continuing, gathering his thoughts.

"It was the L.T. in the front truck who made the decision to stop. He came around to the back of the second truck where I was and told us to hand out a few cases of MRE's and some water. Me and another guy were in the back with the MRE's. L.T. got his medical bag out and set up a field table on the side of the truck in the shade so he could tend to whoever needed medical attention. The villagers were crowding around the little table on the side and the tailgate in the back while me and the other guy started tossing out case after case of MRE's. I remember looking down at the L.T. and thinking now all we need is one of those big signs that read 'The Doctor is In'... Funny some of the things that come to mind in situations like that."

"There was plenty there for everyone and then some but they still kept crowding the tailgate like we were gonna run out or something. Anyway, everytime I tossed a case out, I kept seeing this one old man that was trying his best to squeeze through the crowd but he was just too feeble to push through. Finally, when everyone had gotten their case, there was the old man, standing just outside the tailgate by himself with outstretched arms and the most pitiful look on his face. I leaned over and handed his case of MRE's down to him so he wouldn't hurt himself taking the weight of it. When he got a firm grip on it and brought it down, he hugged it to his chest for dear life and smiled up at me with this rotten, toothless smile just as his head disappeared into a cloud of red mist not two feet from my face. Blood and chunks went everywhere and all over us. A sniper must have been waiting until he had a sure target and finally took his shot out on the old man. He was either too far away or had a silencer on his rifle because I never even heard the shot. L.T. threw his bag and the field table in the back of the truck and scrambled for the front truck. We tore out of there so fast the dust was still stirred up when we were well on down the road." Ron fell quiet again, slowly swirling his half glass of wine, looking down into the liquid as if he were seeing an image somewhere down deep in the glass.

The other men in the room didn't know what to say. Here was 'little' Ronnie who they had each had their hand in raising. All they ever wanted was to keep him safe from harm and here he was, fallen prey to the same damn machine they paid their own sweat and sanity to.

Steve grabbed, struggled with, and finally ended up dropping the T.V. remote off the end table next to him, muttered a "Dammit...", and turned on the T.V. TCM was playing the old Thanksgiving traditional show 'Wizard of Oz' with Judy Garland. The Tin Man was singing 'If I Only Had a Heart'.

"How ironic" Ralph thought, while pondering Ron's story, "I never really paid any attention to that old song, about how in spite of the strength a woodsman has, who's got an armor-like metallic body to protect him from any harm, could be so defenseless against something as harmless as water of all things. - And all he ever wanted in life was a heart."

Ralph was dwelling on just that thought when, during a lull in the evening at a family gathering after a Thanksgiving dinner that 'couldn't be beat', with everyone sitting around the T.V. at about nine o'clock at night, Ralph Benson felt a sharp, stabbing pain in the center of his chest that took the very breath from him. The pain quickly spread to his left shoulder just before he realized he was having a heart attack. Ralph threw himself back in the recliner and reached out into the air in front of him to grab something, anything to help him get up and out of that chair when Ron turned and saw the pain-stricken and terrified look on his father's face. He was grabbing his chest with his left hand, his right hand was extended out in front of him, and his mouth was open as if he were screaming, but there wasn't a sound coming out. Ron immediately recognized the symptoms and called out to everyone in the whole house, "Someone call 911! - Pop's having a heart attack!"

-----

In the waiting area outside the emergency room at the hospital, the cardiologist was explaining to those who were closest to Ralph in this world that Ron's quick reaction to begin CPR on his dad may have only postponed the enevitable for a few days at the most. "This is common in both men and women in his age group who haven't been watching their diet for cholesterol, fats and sodium. Tonight's episode could not have possibly caused the damage we've found to his heart, especially considering CPR was started immediately after the onset of the attack." He continued, "Tonight's episode was simply the straw that broke the camel's back. In cases like this, Ralph more than likely has been experiencing small, minor heart attacks over the past year or more that he would've probably just shrugged off as muscle spasms. The problem is, that with each passing little attack, another little piece of his heart was dying."

"So... how much damage has been done?" Red interjected.

"Over 80%." he replied. Carol screamed a wailing "Nooooooooooo... !!!" Steve went to her and hugged her close to him as she started beating her fists against his chest. "How could he be so stupid? He's so smart in everything else!" She slowly stopped hitting him and wrapped her arms around his neck, crying loudly.

"Carol, we've got him calmed down." the cardiologist continued. "He's more or less stable for the moment, but his blood pressure is still dangerously high. In his current condition, I don't know how long we can keep him stablized. He could go anytime. I'm so sorry, but if he makes it through the weekend it will be an absolute miracle. If you'd like to go in and see him, we've got him moved into ICU but you're gonna have to make it brief."

"We're all going in." Carol said.

"I don't believe that would be a good... " the cardiologist started.

"The lady said we're ALL goin' in." Red said threateningly, stepping up to within inches of the physician's face.

"Uh... like I said, if you make it brief, you can all go in."

As the small group moved slowly and cautiously through the ICU, it seemed so unnaturally quiet, with only the beeps, whirring and clicking sounds of the various life-saving equipment attached to patients clinging onto life. The nurse was guiding them to the only bed in the room where the curtains had been drawn completely around the bed. When she reached and parted the corner of the hanging material close to the aisle, she quickly passed out of sight as she held her finger up to her lips for everyone to be quiet.

The moments passed painfully slow until she finally emerged and whispered, "It's okay, you can come in now."

Still holding Carol around the waist, Steve led her through the opening in the curtain and into the close confines of the small area around Ralph's bed. There were wires attached to probes on his chest dangling over the head of the bed connected to the heart monitor that was standing beside the bed quietly beeping. An IV stand was close by on the other side with a drip through what Red recognized as a 'butterfly' sticking out of his arm and he had an oxygen tube draped over both sides of his cheeks from his upper lip. Ralph looked tired and pale, but otherwise, he looked like he was resting quietly.

Carol slowly reached over the bed's guard rail and gently touched his hand as if she were afraid her touch would break something. "Ralph?" she said, "Ralph, can you hear me?"

Ralph's eyes slowly opened and he spoke quietly saying, "Hey guys!... I would've made up somethin' special if I knew everyone was gonna come over."

"What are you talking about, Ralph?!" Carol asked, wiping her tears from one cheek with her free hand.

Red, knowing exactly what Ralph was saying, said, "That's alright man. We got the caterer waitin' out in the lobby for you to get your tired ass up outta that bed."

Ralph let a little chuckle escape and went into a fit of coughing.

"Hey, hey." Steve interjected, "It ain't that big a deal, man. We're not payin' him by the hour or nothin' - he's on contract. He ain't leavin' till you get outta here." Even Carol smiled a little at that, finally realizing they were just kidding around to lighten the situation.

"Baby, come here and give me a kiss, will you?" Ralph asked.

Carol reached way over the rails to get to him, then lingered with a kiss directly on his lips and stood back up.

"Guys, I hate to admit it, but I don't believe I'm going to pull outta this one." Ralph said.

"Don't talk like that Pop." Ron said, "You're gonna be just fine. The doc says you just need to rest."

"You've always been a horrible liar, son" Ralph said, "but I appreciate the gesture. I've already been briefed on my condition." Carol turned away and buried her face in Steve's neck as she began a new round of sobbing.

"Son, come here. I want to tell you something." Red backed away from the bed so Ron could get to his father.

"All my life, you've made me so proud in everything you've ever done. You've exceeded any fathers highest expectations. I'm so proud of the man you've become. I'm just so sorry I couldn't have been there for you when you needed me the most." Ralph said.

Suddenly feeling a deep sense of guilt that he might've been the cause of his father's attack, Ron said, "But you were, Pop. Both you and mom were always there in spirit. I should have never said anything about... "

"Let me finish, son... My time's come. There's not anything anyone said or did to bring this on. It's just my time is all. I just wanted you to know how proud I am of you and that if I had it to do all over again, I wouldn't change a thing. You remember that, son. I wouldn't have changed a thing. Now, make room for your Mom. I have to tell her something." Ron noticed his breathing was beginning to get labored.

Ron turned around to get his mom just as she was making her way to the bedside and he let her pass by him.

"Carol, everything's gonna be alright... You don't have a thing to worry about. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me and I love you dearly." Ralph said to Carol. He swallowed, took a deep breath and continued, "I've often wondered what in the world I ever did to deserve you and still to this day, I can't figure it out. I know down deep if it hadn't been for you, I'd been dead a long time ago... " Ralph's heart monitor started beeping a little faster.

"Ralph, be quiet." Carol said, noticing the machine while he spoke. "You're upsetting yourself."

"No, I've got to tell you this before you guys have to leave." Ralph said. "You remember that old trunk?"

Carol looked at him not understanding.

"My old trunk from the Air Force." Ralph said.

Understanding now, Carol said, "Now's not the time Ralph, we can tal... "

"Now is the exact time to talk about it." Ralph said, interrupting. "The trunk goes to Ron, now. He'll know what to do with it." The heart monitor was beginning to beep rapidly now.

"Ralph, you need to rest. We can talk about this later." Carol said.

"Promise me, Carol. You give that trunk to Ron, you hear me? Promise me." Ralph's expression was rapidly becoming pained.

"Okay, okay. I promise. I promise - now will you please get some rest for God's sake!" Carol's voice was beginning to crack just as the heart monitor sounded a steady tone and Ralph's eyes slowly closed.

"Ralph?... Ralph?..." Carol called to her husband desparately.

"Nurse!" Red called towards the nurse's station. There was already a crash cart being pushed down the aisle of the ICU by a technician with three nurses following closely behind.

"CODE BLUE - STAT!!!", the technician called out to no one in particular. "AND GET THESE PEOPLE OUT OF HERE!"

Chapter Seven

2007-11-19T11:17:00.000-06:00

The Game

The darkened apartment was suddenly flooded with light from the hallway as the door slowly opened and Ron Benson stepped inside. He was unusually casual as he turned the light on at the door, tossed his basketball in the recliner, removed his jacket and hung it on the cloak stand. He turned CNN on in the living room as he moved to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator door and took out a partial gallon of milk, and quickly gulped seven or eight mouthfuls of the soothing liquid straight from the container to appease his aching ulcers.

As he leaned on the kitchen counter to watch the news, the TV announcer is excitedly broadcasting an amazing event that had happened at the 2010 NBA championship game between the Knickerbockers and the Lakers earlier in the evening. He glanced over at the time on the microwave - the clock read 1:12a. While he stared blankly at the TV screen, he started to drift off into his own thoughts.

He began thinking back to when his father, Ralph, was a twelve-year old, sitting transfixed on the edge of the lower bunk in a small back bedroom he had shared with an older and a younger sister. He was all alone in the room. The grainy image on the old B&W Silvertone TV is broadcasting the details of the killing of an American President and the arrest of the black-eyed assassin blamed for the crime as the police drag him out the front doors of a theatre in a place called Dallas. Tears were rolling down his cheeks even though he couldn't possibly fully comprehend at that tender age, the ramifications of what he was watching.

He knew who President Kennedy was. He was the man responsible for the space program. His entire elementary school was herded into the school auditorium one morning to watch John Glenn rocket into outer space for the first manned spacecraft mission on a little TV someone had put on the apron of the auditorium stage. President Kennedy was a great man who pushed the space program. America was a great country. His dad was proud to be an American and to be part of all that was going on in America. His world had expanded beyond his home, church and school to frontiers, pioneers and outer space. Now, somebody had killed all of that and in his own little mind, his dreams and fantasies had suddenly turned into nightmares and stark realities. He was too young to take all that in. America was too young to take all that in. It just wasn't fair to take all that away.

"If only Pop was alive to have seen this day", Ron thought to himself. "He'd be jumpin' all over the house like a frog in a fire."

He was smiling a small, justified smile as a police siren outside his second-story apartment window jarred him back from his thoughts to the news broadcast on CNN. A security advisor to the president was tap-dancing around the hard-hitting, probing questions of the interviewer, denying any government involvement, while promising a full investigation into the event at the game.

As the interview continued on the TV, Ron drifted back to the basketball game earlier in the evening, going over it in his mind as he had witnessed it just a few hours earlier. He couldn't believe he did it. Better yet, he couldn't believe he did it and got away with it.

It was the bottom of the 4th quarter. The Nicks were ahead by a one point lead in a long-anticipated game with the Lakers, the scoreboard was reflecting numbers that looked more like a football game than a championship basketball game. Even though the few hard-earned points in the game had been made through tough sacrifices and flaring tempers on the court, the crowd still cried for more. It was probably the most exciting game in World Series history and a thrilling end to a long season with the winning team in the balance as the Lakers could still salvage this neck-to-neck game.

The Nick defense was holding its own as the ball was being passed back and forth between the Lakers offense just outside the half-court circle. The ball finally made its way to a Laker who had been frantically jumping and yelling at the hoop for a while now, only to be swept out of his hands by a Nick defender, but landing back in the hands of another Laker who was close to the penalty line in the corner of the court. Two Nickers were all over him blocking any chance for a shot, so he couldn't try the rebound, and as the buzzer went off signaling the end of the game, he passed the ball like a pitcher would throw a fastball to a Laker who was dead center in front of the goal, almost at mid-court. He caught the ball as the buzzer went silent and from somewhere out of desperate instinct, he took the shot anyway.

The ball left the tips of his fingers and with a backward spin, it loftily rose through the air in an arc that every fan watching knew would be a no-net sinker through the hoop - albeit in vain as the game was already over. But what a dying effort it was. It was picture-perfect as it made it's way to the goal. Through the roar of the crowd, the path of the ball was traced by the TV crews, everyone in the stadium and the millions watching at home and sports bars and family gatherings all over the country as the ball slowed to a stop half-way to the goal some twenty feet up - and stayed there, just spinning in mid-air.

For the next ten seconds or so, the echo of the roar of the crowd died down to the quiet of a cemetery on a cold, still night as the ball held its position in mid-air, then slowly started spinning in a small wobble like a gyroscope that was winding down, but instead, was gaining speed as it went. It's path widened and got bigger and bigger until it was moving in a circle parallel with the floor about ten feet in diameter - still out of reach, some twenty feet in the air over the heads of the stunned players. It made a full eight rotations around the players, then just as quickly as it had come to a stop, it flew like a rock from a slingshot over the bleachers through a rafter window, crashing through and scattering shattered glass down on the heads of the Laker fans standing on the upper rows as the ball left the building into the night sky outside, vanishing from sight.

The silence continued for another few seconds before the crowd, in unison, reacted with an audible gasp that was in so much contrast with the cheers and roars that had been heard throughout the game. In the sports bars across the nation, the only sounds that could be heard were the electronic sound effects of video games. Family rooms were dead silent. Radio and TV announcers reporting the plays of the game for the past couple of hours were, for the first time in their professional careers, at a loss for words - their mikes were keyed with a death-grip on their mike stands, but the air-waves were silent. Across America and around the globe, for every person who was sitting in front of a TV screen watching the championship game, their own little individual worlds came to a screeching halt with just one thought on their collective minds - "What in the hell was that?"