The Doctrine of Presence. Benjamin Vance

      “Hell, yeah … we could do it on the sly, man. No one but us five need to know eeenything about it. We could film the filmers and get the dirt on ‘em. Come on, whatcha think? We know how to sneak, camoflage and stay dirty, live off the land; at least you do, I was in the Air Guard. I don’t like doin’ that shit, but I could, man.”

      “Are you serious Fredo? Have you talked to any of the other guys?”

      “Yeah, I talked to Greenieeee … Charleeee … and to Leo too, but he didn’t talk much. They think it’s a great idea, as long as you come up with a plan. What the hell are we doin’ ri’now, man; just waitin’ to die or get crippled or waitin’ for our weenies to drop off or some shit? Let’s do somethin’, man. Nobody else has a good idea about stuff to do.”

      I thought for a few seconds while I consulted the floor for ideas, found none, and then suggested it wasn’t going to be easy; we needed to have transportation, military rations and other food supplies, cameras, night vision devices, emergency first aid kits and gallons of water. And that was just off the top of my head. Fredo didn’t want to hear how difficult it would be. He wanted to get together in private and hash out the details of “how.” Back then, I wished I had never met the ne’r-do-wells who attended our monthly luncheons. Now … I’ve changed my mind. Did I forget to mention that I commanded an A-team in Vietnam; a Special Forces A-team, not a movie A-team?

      2

      I guess it’s not such a bad thing being around a bunch of human misfits when about all they love is old memories and young animals. The people you have to watch are those people who abuse animals. Jeffrey Dahmer started out abusing animals, and look what he did. No, give me a bunch of ugly, old, decrepit has-beens any day, especially if they’ve served their country with honor. My God, what accomplishments they’re capable of, mentally and physically, is beyond description. In moments of deep thought, usually on the crapper, in the shower or driving, I still shake my head at the synergistic innovation our crazy bunch created. Most of them believed this: Consider every day a holiday; every meal a feast and you’re sure to enjoy life.

      Charley “Gimp” Lindell caught an Improvised Explosive Device gift from the Taliban in Ascrackistan and was missing a section of his tail bone and nerve tissue that kept him from walking without excruciating pain in his left leg. The Marine Corps and Veteran’s Administration doctors wanted to remove his left leg with the sciatic nerve causing his pain, but he refused. Initially he lived on pain killers and was no good to anyone, but ultimately a great VA psych doctor got him off the drugs and onto an exercise regimen, which over the years relieved a lot of pain and vastly improved his self-worth. He had a little girl friend who doted on him, but he considered himself undesirable I guess; thus the self-created nick-name “Gimp”. He’d never been married. Although handsome in a skin-head sort of way and possessing the upper body strength of Schwarzenegger, he seemed preoccupied with his IED experience, to the detriment of everything else in his life. Why he started hanging with us; I’ve never understood. He was 36 years old during the time.

      Greenie Mitchell had been in the Navy for a stint and started attending our monthly lunch and bitch sessions because he pretended to be an aspiring three-gun master and retirement was not his forte. He knew everything about weapons, but couldn’t shoot worth a shit. In that regard he was a contradiction. He had been an armorer for the Arizona Army National Guard for over forty years and could do anything with a weapon; anything except shoot it accurately. Sometimes it bewildered and hurt him to see someone else shoot much better than he could, with weapons he had customized. What a talent Greenie had though. No one knew his real name, or if Greenie was his given name. No parent would do that to an offspring … would they? Greenie was a bit chubby and 59 years old during the time.

      Alfred “Fredo” Alvarez got his nick-name from haunting the bars and cat-houses of Nogales, and some other border towns between New Mexico and California. I heard someone thought he looked a little like Fredo, from The Godfather. In any case, he above all people, considered himself a ladies’ man. Actually he was a most excellent communications expert, who still ran a MARS station and speculated about strange uses for GPS satellites. He could make two cans and a piece of string broadcast for a hundred miles and he could set up a perimeter alarm that a centipede couldn’t breach. He was a horny old goat and 63 years old during the time.

      Leroy “Leo” Dykehouse was an anachronism. He should have been in the Second World War; perhaps he was. Initially, no one knew much about Leo, except that he had been in Vietnam, Bosnia/Kosovo, Iraq, and Afghanistan. When U.S. troops were pulled out of Afghanistan, he retired. He lived in our home town because his only relative; a sister was there. He was an extreme combat veteran, and medic when needed. He was known to drink too much, and no longer had a driver’s license, although people reportedly saw him riding a Harley on occasion. He was tattooed from head to toe, and Fredo said he had a rubber duck tattooed on his right ass cheek. I don’t know; don’t care how Fredo knew. All I know is that when there was a job to do, Leo was there doing more than his share. No one knew how old Leo was during the time, and he no longer imbibed.

      Dai-uy is Vietnamese for Captain. It is pronounced Dai-uwee or Daiwee. Although I made higher rank in another government organization, I never lost the nick-name. That was thanks to some of the brave men I served with; who I ran into in the States, Germany, Korea and elsewhere from time to time. It seemed everyone wanted to keep me at the rank of Captain. I guess it was just easier to talk to a lower-ranking officer, especially one who left Army Special Forces for a job with Weapons Engineering Development, or whatever. When I consulted with Armed Forces technical weenies, I always seemed to bump into someone I’d known in ‘Nam or elsewhere. They always called me Daiwee, so it stuck. What did I do after I left Army SF? Well, it was lonely but a lot of fun; classified … still. I was almost sixty years old during the time.

      3

      Simple assent has never been my strong suit, but the five of us agreed to meet at the local Marriott Hotel’s restaurant, to hash out our initial approach to the problem of doing something, likely illegal, and not getting caught. I was surprised to be the only one initially worried about the illegality of what we were planning. Too late, others worried as well. Everyone except Leo provided many recommendations, improvements on strategies and realistic solutions to logistics problems; drawing from their own particular expertise. The only time we heard from Leo was when we voted on an item; all concurred on a movement, or we needed a tie-breaker to settle a dispute. Leo was stoic, but he was neither stupid … nor ignorant. During one discussion on being without power in remote locations, four of us agreed to take extra power cells and batteries for our satellite telephone and cell-phones. It would be an essential contingency. Leo disagreed.

      He actually recommended a better solution which involved an entrepreneurial company which made small, portable wind and solar powered units for remote command post use. He and some friends used a unit at an undisclosed location in the Middle East. The combined weight was around thirty-five pounds and it was soldier-proof, and silent. It made good sense, so we eventually procured one, then three. They turned out to be one of our better investments.

      Fourth-generation night vision scopes and rifle sites were other essentials which severely drained our funds. We talked our way around the purchase of rifle scopes several times. It ended up being one of our biggest headaches, but in the end we all admitted the need for non-IR capable night vision. They cost a bundle, but it seemed we were in for the full ride. Stealth was the final and most essential consideration. The documentation of illicit actions by cinematographers was our primary goal, but one doesn’t voluntarily enter into such situations without proper defensive weapons, if for no other reason than to deter retribution.

      Everyone except Leo agreed that we needed silencers for our weapons. It was Leo’s argument that silencers reduced the speed and accuracy of the projectile. Greenie disagreed. He said, “Gentlemen, I can make, and have made for the Nevada Highway Patrol, silencers