Red Snow. Sean Ryan Stuart

and turned around for the last time, and gazed at the Presidio with fond memories. He weaved his way through the early morning Lombard Street crowd until he reached Van Ness. He then took a right on Van Ness and continued up the street until he reached the northbound highway 101, which then led him to once again cross the Bay Bridge. Halfway across the bridge, he stopped at the Treasure Island exit and admired the view from atop the Coast Guard’s building. The view from this location is absolutely spectacular. A surrealistic panorama unfolded beneath his gaze. The view from this location brought back many fond memories, and made him feel pains of anguish as well as joy. He decided that it would be best if he left now, while he still could. Jeremy drove back onto the Bay Bridge and headed east toward Sacramento.

      Jeremy drove at a leisurely pace, knowing full well it would be a long day. Two hours later he arrived in Sacramento, and drove southward on Highway 5. The drive on I-5 was a rather dull and uneventful trip until he reached Los Angeles. Los Angeles was one of his least favorite cities. He hated the smog, traffic and hectic lifestyle. Every nerve in his body was on edge as he slowly worked his way through the traffic. His survival instinct cried out; he wanted to lash out at these reckless and discourteous drivers. He paled at the thought of someone’s smashing Loretta’s car. After what seemed like an eternity, he managed to catch the eastbound Highway 10 toward Las Vegas.

      Jeremy wanted to spend a few days in Vegas visiting his cousins, Douglas C. Lawyer, a very wealthy and successful criminal defense attorney, and Daniel “Danny” Lawyer, an equally successful banker. Jeremy couldn’t help but smile at his cousin’s unusual last name. Why would anyone named Lawyer choose that profession?

      However, “Dougie or Degoulass” was his most common nickname, but that did not stop him from being one of the most prolific Casanovas in Nevada. Douglas had great success with the ladies, but he also was one of the most brilliant lawyers in the West. His success with the ladies was only surpassed by his immense skill in the courtroom. Jeremy was positive that Dougie would someday be someone of great importance, a federal district judge, or perhaps even a U.S. Supreme Court Justice. His other cousin Danny was a quieter individual. He preferred the finer things in life, and usually partied with a different group of friends then his older brother. As a successful banker his clientele expected a more demure attitude.

      Jeremy accelerated the pace of his Mustang in anticipation of a reunion with his cousins. As the Mustang slowly climbed the last mountain pass, just west of the Nevada state line, Jeremy could already see the incredible glow of the neon lights that surrounded Las Vegas. Jeremy was always fascinated by the glamour and glitz that permeated Vegas. The lights, glamour, casinos, and of course the showgirls were of great interest to him. Jeremy could easily understand why a young successful lawyer would pick this desert oasis as a watering hole for life. The Mustang slowly cruised down the “strip,” as it was known, an infamous boulevard almost six miles long, cluttered on both sides by immense gambling casinos, motels, gas stations, tourist traps and restaurants.

      Jeremy pulled into the Matador Hotel, his favorite place in Vegas. His old war buddy Guido Fontana worked here, and he was anxious to see him as well. Jeremy’s Mustang pulled up to the young valet attendant and asked him to please take good care of his car. Jeremy got out of the car, walked up to the front desk and asked if they had a room.

      “I’m terribly sorry, Sir, but we are completely sold out, the convention, you know,” the front desk clerk answered, without even looking up.

      “Gee, that’s too bad, does Guido Fontana still work here?” answered Jeremy with an inquiring look.

      “Uh, you know Mr. Fontana?” asked the young clerk, his voice rising in excitement.

      “As a matter fact, I do, we served together in Vietnam, and he always bragged how he worked in this hotel. Does he still work here?” Jeremy asked.

      “Oh, you mean, Junior Fontana. Yes, you might say that. His father owns this hotel, and two others along the strip, and also one in Lake Tahoe. I’ll be glad to tell him that you are here, Mr., Mr.?” The young man asked, his weasel-like face gleaming with a sudden, but insincere smite.

      “Just tell him Jeremy, from Nam, and he will understand,” stated Jeremy, glancing down on the young man.

      The young clerk, a rather pathetic-looking kid, barely out of his teens; his face still pocked marked with adolescent zits and horrible acne, rushed to a red phone hanging on the wall, and quickly dialed three numbers.

      “Frankie, this is Jim at the front desk. Tell Junior that a guy named Jeremy from Vietnam is here and wants to talk to him,” the young kid stammered in the phone.

      “Who in the hell is Jeremy Vietnam?” Frankie screamed in the phone.

      “No, no, not Jeremy Vietnam, you dummy! Jeremy from Vietnam, Junior’s old war buddy,” the kid answered, his chest swelling in mock indignation.

      “Okay, I’ll tell him, but you had better watch your mouth. You ever call me names again, and you’ll be sharing a cement bed with the fish at Hoover Dam! Do you understand me, zit face?” Frankie answered, his voice barely rising above a whisper.

      Jeremy noticed the young boy first turn beet red, then his scarred face slowly lost all of its color, as he listened to Frankie on the other end.

      “Excuse me, Mr. Jeremy, Junior will be right down,” murmured the young clerk.

      Jeremy turned his back and gazed toward the large gambling area.

      He hadn’t really noticed it right a way, but the din of thousands of slot machines was deafening. He was enthralled by the masses of silver-haired ladies yanking on the one-armed bandits. His attention was suddenly diverted by a large hand gently tapping him on the right shoulder.

      “Hi, CPT Grant, you haven’t changed much, except for the hair, and you are a lot skinnier than I remember,” Guido said, as he embraced Jeremy from behind.

      Jeremy turned around and looked down at Junior. Junior was about five-feet-nine, with a stocky build and seemingly no neck. His jet-black wavy hair was beginning to thin on top, but his boyish grin had not changed much. Jeremy reached over and gave him a bear hug. Guido Salvatore Fontana, the ex-Special Forces Staff Sergeant had tears in his eyes. Both men stood there for a second and pumped hands like farmers churning milk.

      Guido had been Jeremy’s weapons specialist and armorer. He was by far the most skillful and deadliest soldier Jeremy had ever met. He had a natural aptitude with weapons, explosives and knives. Jeremy knew that Guido could always be depended on to carry out his mission. One of his other great attributes was his physique. He regularly pumped iron, and exercised. Four years of heavy weight lifting had molded him into a beautiful specimen of muscle and incredible strength. Guido was one of the strongest men, Jeremy had ever seen. He had developed a typical bodybuilders shape. He had huge arms, a bulging chest and no neck. Jeremy was amazed how little Guido had changed.

      Jeremy stared at Junior and had flashbacks of an incident which occurred in Vietnam. His thoughts drifted to the incident, and suddenly he was there again, the flashbacks seeming more real than the actual event. They were on the way to a base camp in the Mekong Delta, just south of Saigon, when their jeep hit a land mine. The explosion was so great that it flung the jeep, and its passengers, ten feet in the air. The jeep crashed and landed on top of one of the men, pinning him underneath. Jeremy was unable to budge the vehicle until SSG Guido S. Fontana brushed himself off, grunted like a weightlifter and picked up the vehicle with a superhuman effort. Jeremy was then able to pull the injured soldier to safety, and carry him to the hospital. On another occasion, their base camp was under heavy attack and their only heavy weapon, a “Ma” Deuce (M-2) .50 caliber, air-cooled heavy machine gun had been blown up by a mortar round. SSG Fortuna ran over to the bunker physically manhandled the heavy weapon and began firing it again. The M-2 had the heavy metal base blown to bits, but Guido was able to brace the machine gun on some sandbags and with his incredible strength continued firing until the attacking forces retreated. SSG Guido S. Fontana earned his first Silver Star during this engagement. Jeremy knew of no other man that could successfully fire and control such a weapon without a gun mount.

      A powerful slap on the right shoulder