William Weber - Turning the Tide

By comparison to a combat zone, the need for operational security in a tiny bar in Knoxville was slim to nonexistent, and yet the compulsion remained and, for John at least, was growing stronger every day.

John finished his beer just as his phone began to ring again.

“One more drink,” he whispered to himself.

James was watching the phone as well, two men lost in completely different thoughts.

“I gotta go,” James said suddenly. “You got this?” He was speaking about the tab. Like John, James still hadn’t found a job.

“All good,” John replied.

“I may be back later.”

John laughed sardonically. “If I’m still here do me a favor and shoot me, will ya?”

James slapped him on the back, rolled off the stool and headed for the door. “Roger that, LT.”

John bit his lip.

The tavern door peeled open, burning John’s corneas again. When it swung closed, John found himself alone once more with his own dark thoughts and the sound of cracking billiard balls.

“You all right?” the bartender asked. She was blonde, or at least this month she was, her harsh features softened only slightly by too much makeup and the dim pools of light around the bar.

John glanced up. “Couldn’t be better.”

The bartender looked over at one of the pool players who’d sauntered over to order a drink.

“Two Budweisers, Viv,” the man said, winking. He was smacking his lips on a wad of gum, made him look like a cow.

The bartender smiled. “Sure thing, Stan.” She went to the fridge.

Stan leaned closer to John. He was somewhere in his forties, dark curly hair and a goatee. “I couldn’t help catch that friend of yours called you LT.”

“That’s right,” John answered, struggling to focus through the beer haze.

“You a Marine?”

John shook his head. “Army. 278th Armored Cavalry.”

“Cavalry? I thought they got rid of horses and buggies a long time ago?”

John remained quiet.

“Cowboys and Indians, get it?”

“Yeah, I get it.”

The smile on Stan’s face wavered. “Hey, friend, loosen up, I’m just joking with you.”

Staring down into his drink, John said, “See, friend, the problem is jokes are supposed to be funny. So forgive me if I’m not rolling on the floor busting a gut.”

“Hey, if you can’t take a joke, that isn’t my problem.”

“And it isn’t mine if you can’t tell one.” John’s voice was rising and now the pool player’s friend was coming over. This guy Stan had been trying to antagonize him, had waited until Wright had left the place before having some fun with a guy who’d had too many beers. John’s fist tightened around the handle of his beer mug.

“I’m not here for trouble,” John told them. “Just back outta my space and we’ll chalk it up to a misunderstanding.”

“I’m not backing outta anything,” Stan said. “You vets think just because you fought in Iraq it gives you the right to cuss off anyone you like.”

“I’m warning you.”

“You’re warning me?” Stan laughed. “Now there’s a good joke.”

He stepped closer and was in the process of raising his hand to jab a finger into John’s chest when the beer mug shattered over his head. Stan’s legs gave out at once and he flopped onto the floor. His friend looked on in horror, eyes wide, his lips parted.

In John’s hand was what was left of the beer mug, the handle and a serrated edge which he held out in front of him.

“Get outta here before I call the cops,” Vivian the bartender screamed.

John snatched his phone off the bar and staggered for the door, stepping over Stan’s unconscious form in the process. The light outside was near blinding as he wobbled outside. His F-150 was out front and he went for the keys in his pocket before realizing his fingers were still laced through the remains of the shattered beer mug. He let it fall to the ground with a clink of breaking glass and noticed for the first time that his right hand was dripping blood. He wiped it on the leg of his black jeans and a thin gash appeared across his right palm.

In spite of the stinging pain and the shame he felt for what he had just done, John was also dimly aware that when he was drunk, he wasn’t thinking about the past. He stumbled into his truck, started the engine and marshalled his powers of concentration to back up and work his way home.

He was driving down Kingston Pike when a call from Diane came in. John answered it.

“Where have you been? I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for more than an hour.”

“I was interviewing for a job,” John lied, adding to the already horrible way he was feeling.

“Really? You never mentioned anything about that.”

“I’ll fill you in when I’m home. Did you need something from the grocery store?”

“No,” Diane said. “I just got a call from Christopher Lewis’ wife.”

“My old JTAC?”

“Yeah, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you.”

“I got that part already. What’s wrong with Christopher? He in trouble?”

“No, John. He’s dead.”

“Dead? But how?” he asked, although part of him already knew the answer.

“He hanged himself.”

John didn’t say a word after that. The beer haze which had been hounding him since he got behind the wheel of his truck was suddenly gone. In fact, all John felt was a numbness, creeping up his legs and into his head. That was the only way he knew how to keep the pain at bay, to prevent it from taking over his soul, from destroying him.

Oneida. Present.

The next morning, John awoke to find Henry in the radio room. All of the equipment was back in place and fully operational.

“Is there a message you need to get out, sir?” Henry asked, removing his headphones.

“It’s four in the morning,” John said. “Why are you up?”

Henry grinned. “I might ask you the same thing. The truth is, I don’t usually get more than a few hours’ shut-eye a night. I prefer to scan the airwaves, searching for other communities out there in all this mess. Many of them are isolated and afraid. Sometimes I’ll find a family in a cabin somewhere behind enemy lines who’ve spent the last three days watching Chinese supply convoys heading east. After that latest EMP, it’s been a good opportunity to get some data on damage assessment.”

John couldn’t help but be impressed. “There was something I’d been meaning to ask you.”

“Sure thing.”

“I can see how passionate you are about reaching through the airwaves to Americans on either side of the battle lines. Have you ever considered starting a radio program, one we would broadcast every day with updates from the front and tips on living off the grid?”

Henry practically beamed. He reached into a drawer and withdrew a sketchbook, flipping the pages until he arrived at a series of three-dimensional letters he’d drawn. Together they spelled The Stand Against Tyranny .

John stared down at it. “What’s this?”

“My radio show. At least the one I’d been planning to start once the war was over.”

“Why wait for the war to end? This is something we need now. Maybe even something we can use to help organize the resistance.”

John was referring specifically to the Allied use of radio stations like the BBC during the Second World War. Members of the resistance would be given orders to hit specific targets or gather for larger operations by listening for key words spoken during an otherwise normal broadcast.

John started to leave and then planted his feet. “You know, my only problem is the name,” he said.

“You don’t like The Stand Against Tyranny ?”