Friday, October 25, 2013

When Death Never Sleeps

*****
Thanatos: Greek God Of Death
*****
LATE TO LUCKY'S PARTY?
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***
Lucky was in terrible pain – his abdomen was swollen. The whole right side was badly bruised where Simms had hit him with the "equalizer." He couldn’t stop throwing up, spending the whole night crouched before the toilet, or clutching a pail his mother put next to his bed.

Lucky kept the Simms incident to himself, saying it was only an accident on the athletic field. A Cypriot doctor was sent for – there were no American doctors on the island and all the British doctors were with the military, and were unavailable to civilians.

The Cypriot doctor examined Lucky thoroughly, checking his reflexes, listening to his chest and peering at his tongue and into his eyes and ears. He said the bruises were just bruises and nothing to be worried about. His diagnosis: a chill, or perhaps something the boy ate, although the high fever indicated it was more likely a chill. In either case, the cure was the same. He’d given the boy a heavy dose of Epsom salts to purge him, he said.

Lucky wanted to point out that he was already purging himself, but by now he was in sheer agony, spitting up only bitter green bile, his abdominal muscles in a constant – almost automatic – state of clenching and unclenching. Another day and night passed and Lucky learned what it meant when they said an event seemed like an eternity. Surely this illness was one of those endless times. He kept throwing up and his mother dutifully administered the Epsom Salts until his throat became so raw and swollen from the bile that he could barely swallow his own saliva.

The doctor advised that the crisis typically lasted three days, so they must be patient and continue the treatment and that the pain would soon be gone and the fever would break. And so eternity was stretched even more and Lucky got weaker and weaker, so that he could barely move in bed. When his mother offered the Epsom Fruit Salts, he clenched his teeth and refused to drink.

He was at the point now that he could barely rise from his bed. And his stomach was a throbbing drum of fiery pain, so he was unable to even slump over on his belly to expel the salts into the bucket. The pain was so intense that he couldn’t think, or even weep or moan.

He just rocked his head back and forth, wishing he could end it, like his Grandpop Sullivan. If someone gave Lucky a shotgun then he would not have hesitated to use it. The longer the agony lasted, the more he fixated on the idea of taking his own life.

Thoughts of suicide were not new to him. He’d considered it many times – the first when he was five and recovering from a beating. His father had broken a thick razor strap over his back, then hurled him into the rear of the trailer. Lucky found a closet and snuck into it, hiding behind a basket of ironing. He heard his father stomp around, the trailer floor rocking under his weight.

Lucky peered through a crack and saw him get beer from the little fridge and make himself a boilermaker – beer and whiskey. Then he sat down, muttering under his breath. He continued drinking until he passed out. The radio was playing during all this, but so low that it was almost a whisper.

Lucky heard one of his favorite songs playing, "Lucky Old Sun." Vaughn Monroe, Old Muscle Mouth, they called him, was singing in his deep baritone voice:

"…Up in the mornin', out on the job
I work like the devil for my pay…
I know that Lucky Old Sun
Has nothin' to do
But to roll around heaven all day..

The words rang through the heart of the boy. While his father slept, he listened until the last sad note was played and then ran the song through his mind repeatedly, thinking there must be an answer in there somewhere. There must be! The song was about him, wasn’t it? Lucky Old Sun! That was him, wasn’t it? That was his name: Lucky.

He waited in that broom closet a long time – experience had taught him that sometimes his father was testing the boy, waiting to see if he’d creep out. Then he’d get him again, mocking him for being such a baby.

While he was waiting to be absolutely sure his father was asleep, Lucky rummaged around the closet until he found a souvenier Japanese bayonet his father kept in the back. When he thought it was safe, he crept out, clutching the bayonet to him, then fled the trailer and dove into the field of tall grass behind his home. Lucky wriggled out into the middle of the field, hugging the wet ground in case his father took it in his head to search for him.

Finally, he sat up and reconsidered the idea that had been in his mind when he’d started looking for the bayonet. He could stop all this misery right now. With a simple act, he could be transformed into that lucky old sun and be lifted to paradise. Once and for all, it would be over. Nobody wanted him anyway. His father certainly didn’t want him. And if his mother wanted him, why didn’t she stop his father from hurting him?

He looked at the bayonet. Touched his belly. Soft and giving. It would be easy. The solution seemed simple. Lucky visualized the deed, pressing the point of the bayonet against his stomach, conjuring up the strength to drive it through. But at five, his arms were too short to get a good grip on the handle. So he dug a hole in the sandy Florida ground and buried the bayonet – packing the sand real good - leaving as much steel as he could protruding from the ground.

Lucky crouched over the blade, letting the weight of his body push against the sharp tip. It didn’t hurt that much and when he fell, he figured it would be over so fast that the pain would be momentary. Certainly, it wouldn’t be as bad as being beaten with a thick leather strap until it was broken. And he hadn’t cried the whole time. He’d taken it, gritted his teeth and taken it. This pain couldn’t be as bad as that.

He considered again: All he had to do was pull his hands away and he’d fall forward and the sword go right through.

Good.

He just had to get himself ready.

Lucky leaned back and measured the blade with parted hands, which he compared to his five-year-old torso. He nodded in satisfaction, it would go right through and come out the other side. Surely he would be dead in an instant and this misery would be over.

He made up his mind.

Yes, he’d do it.

It’d be like shutting off a switch to make the lights go out. One second he’d be there and in the split second that it took to close the switch… he’d be gone. Safe. No more pain. No more worries. He’d be like that Lucky Old Sun that everybody was always so glad to see.

Lucky knelt over the bayonet point again. But now a good deal of water was oozing out of the hole he’d made and the blade was loose – it wobbled back and forth and then fell to one side. This was no good. He’d have to fix it. He was in a swampy area, so if you dug a few inches in the ground more often than not water would rise to the surface. What he needed to do was dig out enough sand to make a big mound and bury the bayonet in the mound, making sure the weapon would be perfectly firm and straight when he threw himself on it.

He started work, scooping up handfuls and stacking them on the side. Then he used the bayonet to enlarge the hole and gather more material for his mound. Water filled the hole as he dug, getting deeper and deeper until it was almost a small pond. A cloud passed overhead, obscuring the sun and his work for a minute, but when it moved on the water leaped up clear and sparkling in the renewed sunlight. He saw flashes of color in the pool. Bright colors, orange and red and green. Moving colors, flicking this way and that.

What in the world?

Lucky put the bayonet down and bent low to see. To his amazement he saw tiny little creatures moving around in the pool. There were strange translucent fishes so sheer that you could see their insides and they had little dots for brains. Bands of color ran down their sides. Others looked like pale pink shrimp that were also translucent. Scuttling about the bottom were transparent crabs, pale green and blue in color, with tiny claws and dots on the end of stalks for eyes.

Where had they come from? They certainly weren’t there when he started digging. Was it magic? Like Jack And The Beanstalk’s magic seeds, except Lucky got tiny marine creatures instead of a beanstalk with a giant living on top.

He shifted his weight, but he was too close to the edge of the pool and the sides collapsed. Lucky tried to stop the avalanche of sand pouring down on the little creatures, but it was no use. In a moment, the hole was gone and there nothing to mark it but a circle of goopy sand. He tried to dig the hole again – to duplicate his small miracle, but nothing like that magical moment occurred again.

The boy remembered his original purpose - which was to take his own life with the bayonet. But now it seemed like a stupid, even childish idea. Why, if he had succeeded he never would have seen those wonderful animals. And for the first time in his short life he considered all the marvelous things that surely would present themselves in the future. And so he made a bargain with himself: he’d stick around a little longer and see what he could see. If things got too bad, he could always find a way to end it, to shut off the switch.

When Grandpop Sullivan had died by his own hand Lucky took special note of the fact that the reason for his grandfather’s despondency – his ailing wife – vanished within a month when Grandmom Sullivan had recovered. So the whole exercise - the whole terrible thing of putting a shotgun in his mouth and pulling the trigger - had been pointless. If his grandfather had waited a bit, everything would have righted itself.

But now, groaning in his bed in Cyprus, Lucky had reason to regret his long ago decision. Caught in the grip of an unceasing agony that seemed to get worse – with no relief of any kind in sight – he desperately wished he had that bayonet so he could cut out whatever it was that was tormenting him.

And then there a came time when he realized that even if he had the bayonet, he didn’t possess the strength to use it.

Finally, one night his father’s boss came - Mr. Sisco, David Sisco’s dad. The Cypriot doctor was there and he spoke to Lucky’s parents and Mr. Sisco in hushed tones. Lucky gritted his teeth and fought back the pain, straining to hear what was being said.

The doctor’s diagnosis had changed. Now he said Lucky most probably suffered from yellow jaundice – he mentioned the yellow pallor of the boy’s skin and pointed out that the whites of his eyes were tinged strongly yellow. And there was the fever of course, which continued unabated. It was even more important to continue his Epsom Salts treatment, he said. That was the only cure for jaundice – a good purging.

Mr. Sisco had brought a CIA corpsman with him – not a doctor – more of a combat nurse. The corpsman said the doctor could be right about the jaundice, but that Lucky was gravely ill and needed hospital care. Mr. Sisco told Lucky’s parents that he could make arrangements to airlift Lucky to Beirut, Lebanon, where they had a modern American-style hospital. But the doctor protested that the boy was too weak, that he’d never survive the flight. The CIA corpsman examined Lucky, shook his head and firmly agreed with the doctor.

That was the first time – but not the last - that Lucky heard his imminent demise being discussed. The idea didn’t upset him, he just wished he could control it himself. Bring it to an end with a wave of his hand, instead of awaiting the decisions of others.

Finally, it was decided that Lucky was to be transported to a Cypriot hospital in Nicosia. The doctor, the corpsman and Mr. Sisco promised Lucky’s parents that it was an excellent hospital – brand new, in fact, with all the latest equipment. Everything would be done for the boy that could possibly be done.

If Lucky thought it was bad curled up on his bed, the sheets wet and twisted from constant movement, the trip to the hospital was an even greater agony. He’d lost so much weight that his pajama bottoms wouldn’t stay on and he couldn’t tie the string tighter because the slightest pressure on his stomach was unbearable. He didn’t think he’d survive getting dressed in his robe - the pain was terrible when Brosina gently turned him this way and that while his mother worked the robe on. Brosina wept the whole time, sobbing and making strange hooting noises of sorrow. His mother was stern-faced and so pale – her eyes buried deep in dark hollows – that Lucky had the giddy feeling maybe she was sick and not him.

It hurt too much to walk and besides he was too weak, so the CIA corpsman and the doctor carried him outside where a cab was waiting. They put him in the back and Lucky heard someone say, "Hello, Mr. Lucky. What is happening to you, my friend? Did the English boys do this?

It was Nikos, his favorite cab driver. But sick as Lucky was, the last thing he wanted was to raise the subject of Simms. "No, no, nothing like that, Nikos," he said. "I’m just sick, that’s all."

The cab driver started to say more but Lucky cut in quickly – "Parakalo, Nikos," he said in Cypriot. "Yiah mena." Meaning, "Please, Nikos. For me."

Nikos fell silent. But Lucky’s mother had heard part of the exchange. "What’s this with the English boys?" she demanded. She leaned over Lucky. "Did they hurt you? Did they do this?"

"It was nothing, mom," he said. "Just a game, I told you. I ran into the goal post."

The doctor was getting in on the other side. "The lad has jaundice, madam," he said. "Jaundice."

His mother nodded, but sick as he was, Lucky saw the look in her eye. Helen’s Irish suspicions had been aroused. The cab started forward, crunching and rocking over the rough gravel road and it felt like somebody had shoved a white hot poker into his belly.

"Ah!" he said. "Ah!"

Then he got himself together again and bit back a moan. Sure it hurt, but yelling about it didn’t help and only made him look weak in front of everybody else.

"Oh, Lucky," his mother said, and he didn’t have to open his eyes to know that she was crying. The last thing he wanted was to make his mother cry.

By the time they got him to the hospital everything was a blur of pain and confused motion. He had a sensation of being lifted up and then being set down on a hard surface. His body started moving forward – on wheels, he guessed. Not that it mattered, as long as he didn’t have to walk, or bend, or put weight on his body in any way.

He got his eyes open a slit and saw a young Cypriot nurse hovering over him. She had beautiful dark eyes like Athena’s. For a moment he thought, maybe she was. Maybe they had called Athena and she rushed to his side while he was being taken to the hospital.

"Athena?" he whispered. "Athena?"

The pretty face hovering over him smiled the sweetest smile. "My name is Tina," those soft, wonderfully feminine lips said. Then, "Is Athena your girlfriend?" The smile grew brighter. "You have a Cypriot girlfriend?"

Lucky nodded. "Ney," he said, meaning yes in Greek. Then worried she might mistake that for an English negative, he elaborated. "Mahleesta," he said. "Feelee dheeko mou Athena."

He gripped the nurse’s hand, wanting to make sure she understood. It was very important that she knew that Athena was a Cypriot. He wracked his brains for the words. He couldn’t think of them. Then he remembered Paul on the plane. "Kypria," he said. "Feelee Kypria."

He wondered if maybe grammatically the sentence should have gone the other way around and surely there were words in between – necessary modifiers.

Then the nurse said in English, "Well, now we know all about you Mr. Cole."

"Lucky," he corrected. "My name is Lucky."

She laughed. It was a lovely laugh. So musical.

"Mr. Lucky," she said. Then, "Your girlfriend is a Cypriot and her name is Athena, isn’t that what you were telling me?"

Lucky nodded. The pain was starting to come back again and he was afraid to speak because he might cry out if he did. The nurse must have noticed the change, because she gripped his hand harder.

"Don’t worry, Mr. Lucky," she said in a low voice. "In a minute I’ll give you something and make the pain go away."

That promise lit up his heart. He hurt so much, but now he could bear it just a little longer because the nurse – his new friend, Tina – said she would make it stop.

They put him in a room – a private room and surely the most luxurious room in the hospital because with the CIA everything was always first class. Then Tina was gone and people were fussing over him and only making him hurt more. Rolling him around to take off his clothes and put on a hospital gown. But he held on, thinking, any minute now Tina will return and make it stop hurting.

She didn’t come back.

The pain did not cease.

Then his mother and father came and stood over him and told him he was a brave young man.

And still the pain did not cease.

The doctor appeared and reassured Lucky and his parents that everything would be just fine. Then he shooed Lucky’s folks away and nurses drew the curtain and drained his blood into needles and told him to pee in a bottle but he couldn’t, he didn’t have any water in him.

He pointed at his mouth and said, "I don’t have any spit, how can I pee?"

Lucky thought his joke was pretty funny and wanted to laugh but a wave of pain crashed over him and took him down and down and down to the places the nun’s promise you will be condemned to if you continue to give way to your sinful boyish impulses. Then people were lifting up his head and making him drink more glasses of Epsom Fruit Salts and it hit his belly like liquid fire and up it came again and he choked on it and growled and spit and heaved into the pail until only thin green slime ran out of him. And then they did it all over again.

Meanwhile, his whole right side throbbed along with his heartbeat, pushing and pushing - a hot fist wanting to get out. He became so weak he fell unconscious, but even there the pain persisted. It followed him into his dreams and made ghastly nightmare movies of people torturing him, plunging hot irons into his right side and laughing, laughing, laughing. While all the while, Tina stood over him promising him his release.

In his delirium he wondered, did Tina have the bayonet? Was she hiding it until everyone was gone and then she’d slip into the room and help him kneel over it. Help him dig the hole in the sand – never mind the magic fishes – and she’d steady him while he crouched over the blade.

Then he’d just throw himself forward.

The blade would pierce that hot knot in his right side. It would hurt, sure it would hurt. But it already hurt. How could it be worse?

Besides, then it would be over.

But Tina never came, with or without the bayonet.

And the pain didn’t cease.
***
The pain didn’t cease and he got weaker and weaker, until he felt more like a ghost than a person. The only reason he knew he was alive was because he hurt so much. Lucky was pretty certain he was dying and only wondered why it was taking so long. It was also becoming more difficult to breathe. It took so much effort to suck air in and the pain would hit, gripping his abdomen so hard that he couldn’t get his breath out again.

Well, he thought, now I know how I will solve it. I’ll just quit breathing. That should be easy enough, because it hurt so much to get the air in and out. So, he held his breath. But after awhile, no matter how hard he fought, his reflexes took over and he had to breathe. He tried it the other way – drawing in breath, but holding it. But a sudden wave of the familiar pain crushed the air out of him and made him gasp for more.

And so he remained there, condemned to a unreal world of pain and strange consciousness. He couldn’t have told you what was happening around him. But he knew every small, painful object that surrounded his body. The touch of the sheets beneath him, the weight of the thin blankets upon him, the rasp of the uncut hair on the back of his neck, each was a separate misery.

The male nurses came and forced him to sit on a pot to void his bowels, but he had nothing to void. So they gave him enemas and he voided what they had forced into him. They filled him with water and then gave him emetics and he vomited. He came to think of himself as a helpless vomiting and shitting machine. 

Meanwhile, he grew so thin he frightened himself when – propped up by the nurse - he looked at himself in the mirror one day and saw a skeleton with sunken eyes, cheeks and ribs that stood out like his grandmother’s old washboard. He glanced to either side to see if it was someone else reflected in the mirror instead of this skinny fugitive from a "Tales Of The Crypt" comic book horror story.

Then the time came when he thought that this was finally it. He hurt so badly, was in such torment, but his mind was sailing clear and glorious above the pain. He was going to die. Today was the last day he would have to suffer, because he was going to die. He was certain in his heart of hearts that it was over and in a few hours Tina would finally redeem her promise and bring the bayonet and the pain would finally cease.

Suddenly, he heard loud voices beyond the closed door of his room. His father’s voice. And mother’s. They were quarreling with someone. His interest was stirred enough that some strength returned. The door came thundering open and his father entered, followed by his mother and the Cypriot doctor.

"You can’t remove him," the doctor was saying. "I refuse to release the boy. It’s too dangerous."

"Just watch me," his father said. He leaned over and scooped Lucky off the bed, blankets and all.

Lucky gaped at his dad and noted the surprise in his face that his son’s body was so light. Then he saw his father’s jaw firm. Christ, did his dad love him after all? Then his mother rushed over and tucked the blankets around Lucky as his father turned and strode for the door. The doctor tried to bar his passage. Behind him, there were white uniformed nurses and orderlies.

"Get out of our way," Lucky’s mother said and when the doctor hesitated, she flew at him, making claws of her hands. Alarmed, the doctor leaped aside, as the did the nurses and orderlies.

Everything became very hazy after that. Lucky saw things in snatches of woozy reality. They went down a long winding staircase, the doctor and the nurses alternately pleading and shouting threats. There were men at the bottom of the stairs, one or two might have been in uniform, although Lucky wasn’t sure. Part of him thought he was back at the Athens airport and they were making a break for it. His father carried him down swiftly and surely, brushing the men aside and Lucky’s mother rushed ahead and opened the big glass doors that led out into the street.

Lucky wasn’t certain if was night or day, but he stirred a little, forcing his eyes open. To his weak surprise a caravan of military vehicles, painted British Army green, waited outside. Two jeeps, engines running, sat before and after a military ambulance. Behind the rear Jeep was a long black limousine and Lucky thought he saw someone who looked like Mr. Sisco standing nearby. Then he knew it was Mr. Sisco because the man rushed over and he heard him ask how Lucky was.

"I don’t know, chief," Lucky’s father replied.

And David Sisco Sr., head of the CIA operations in all the Middle East, ran to the ambulance where the rear door was open and two British orderlies were waiting and he spoke swiftly and surely to them, making certain they understood their instructions.

Then Lucky was carried into their presence and one of the orderlies made a joke to Lucky as they took him from his father and gently passed him inside to someone else, who placed him on a gurney and strapped him in. He didn’t know what the man said and if he had laughed from politeness it would have been an agony, so all he did was force a smile then stretch his head back to look for his father and mother. They weren’t allowed in the ambulance and were shouting that they would follow with Mr. Sisco.

Then the British corpsmen were telling Lucky that he was going to get an oxygen mask "Just like a test pilot, mate" – and a mask was put over his nose and mouth and they were telling him to breathe and it became so much easier. Breathe, breathe – pure oxygen flowing. And maybe something else – the tang of laughing gas like the dentist gives you. He started to relax, but it still hurt like hell.

One of the corpsmen leaned over him and whispered, "You’ll feel fine straightaway, mate."

Lucky felt the sting of a needle and suddenly… amazingly…

The pain ceased.
  

 NEXT: A Soldier Named George

*****
THE SPYMASTER'S DAUGHTER:
A new novel by Allan and his daughter, Susan


After laboring as a Doctors Without Borders physician in the teaming refugee camps and minefields of South Asia, Dr. Ann Donovan thought she'd seen Hell as close up as you can get. And as a fifth generation CIA brat, she thought she knew all there was to know about corruption and betrayal. But then her father - a legendary spymaster - shows up, with a ten-year-old boy in tow. A brother she never knew existed. Then in a few violent hours, her whole world is shattered, her father killed and she and her kid brother are one the run with hell hounds on their heels. They finally corner her in a clinic in Hawaii and then all the lies and treachery are revealed on one terrible, bloody storm ravaged night.

CLICK HERE FOR THE KINDLE EDITION
*****
LUCKY IN CYPRUS: IT'S A BOOK!


Here's where to get the paperback & Kindle editions worldwide: 


Here's what readers say about Lucky In Cyprus:
  • "Bravo, Allan! When I finished Lucky In Cyprus I wept." - Julie Mitchell, Hot Springs, Texas
  • "Lucky In Cyprus brought back many memories... A wonderful book. So many shadows blown away!" - Freddy & Maureen Smart, Episkopi,Cyprus. 
  • "... (Reading) Lucky In Cyprus has been a humbling, haunting, sobering and enlightening experience..." - J.A. Locke, Bookloons.com
*****
NEW STEN SHORT STORY!!!!
STEN AND THE STAR WANDERERS


BASED ON THE CLASSIC STEN SERIES by Allan Cole & Chris Bunch: Fresh from their mission to pacify the Wolf Worlds, Sten and his Mantis Team encounter a mysterious ship that has been lost among the stars for thousands of years. At first, everyone aboard appears to be long dead. Then a strange Being beckons, pleading for help. More disturbing: the presence of AM2, a strategically vital fuel tightly controlled by their boss - The Eternal Emperor. They are ordered to retrieve the remaining AM2 "at all costs." But once Sten and his heavy worlder sidekick, Alex Kilgour, board the ship they must dare an out of control defense system that attacks without warning as they move through dark warrens filled with unimaginable horrors. When they reach their goal they find that in the midst of all that death are the "seeds" of a lost civilization. 
*****
MY HOLLYWOOD MISADVENTURES


Here's where you can buy it worldwide in both paperback and Kindle editions:

U.S. .............................................France
United Kingdom ...........................Spain
Canada ........................................ Italy
Germany ..................................... Japan
Brazil .......................................... India

*****
TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
Audiobook Version Coming Soon!

Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969

In the depths of the Sixties and The Days Of Rage, a young newsman, accompanied by his pregnant wife and orphaned teenage brother, creates a Paradise of sorts in a sprawling Venice Beach community of apartments, populated by students, artists, budding scientists and engineers lifeguards, poets, bikers with  a few junkies thrown in for good measure. The inhabitants come to call the place “Pepperland,” after the Beatles movie, “Yellow Submarine.” Threatening this paradise is  "The Blue Meanie,"  a crazy giant of a man so frightening that he eventually even scares himself. Here's where to buy the book. 

*****

***** 
STEN #1: NOW IN SPANISH!


Diaspar Magazine - the best SF magazine in South America - is publishing the first novel in the Sten series in four  episodes. Here are the links: 

REMEMBER - IT'S FREE!


Friday, October 18, 2013

The Cold War Invades The Schoolyard


Prior to the holidays the boy’s history teacher - a young woman brimming with liberal ideals - had assigned the class an essay on the influences of the Romans on modern British history. During the Christmas recess, Lucky had worked diligently and enthusiastically on the essay. One of the few joys the school offered was his discovery that British history and Roman history coincided for so many hundreds of years. After all, Julius Caesar, himself, had conquered the barbaric people of England fifty odd years before the birth of Christ.

The result was much more class time was spent on Roman history than in the States. Lucky thought that was marvelous. Only his love for the ancient Greeks topped his devotion to the Romans of old and he pored over all the stories of Romulus and Remus, Horatio On The Bridge and the marching legions battling the German tribes. But the more he considered his essay, the more he realized just how broad the topic was and how difficult it might be to fix on some specific modern thing of historic importance that had to do with the old Romans.

An overheard discussion during his father’s weekly chess night with his CIA colleagues sparked the essay that got him in so much trouble. In some ways, Lucky’s father and his fellow agents were as liberal as his teacher - although they were certainly far more cynical than that young woman, since most of them had waded through rivers of blood during the recent war. At the same time they were also marked by a strong streak of romanticism that both hated and treasured that cynicism.

They saw themselves as Renaissance men with pipes and slide rules and professed hard boiled opinions on philosophy, history and the general fate of mankind. They were cold-blooded Cold War warriors with democratic ideals. They firmly believed America should fight Russia now, because in the end the two nations were destined to fight – and the Western World - with its democratic ideals - must prevail. At the same time they had some sympathy with socialist thinking. Forged during the America’s Great Depression, most of the men had first-hand experience with poverty. They also deplored the racism that permeated U.S. society and thought it only natural that a poor man would be enticed by Communist proselytizing.

Joe Davis, a Texan who was one of Lucky’s father’s closest friend, liked to say: "In the olden days the kings used to hang a man for stealin’ a loaf a bread to feed his starvin’ kids. By God, my daddy did that and worse not many years ago. And if they’d a hung him when I was away at war I’d of come back and shot ever single son of bitch who had anything to do with it."

Opinions of that kind were repeated and discussed at the floating CIA chess party that each man hosted in turn. Lucky frequently sat in on the games when it was his father’s turn to play host. Despite his youth, he was an excellent player and was always welcome to join in if one of the regulars couldn’t attend. During those games the boy kept his mouth shut while he played and listened closely to everything that was said. When the evening grew late and drinking deep he knew if he sat over in a corner in the shadow of the console radio the men tended to forget his presence and speak more openly.

On the night in question, they were discussing Gen. Eisenhower’s victory over Adlai Stevenson in the November presidential election. Although most were in favor of Stevenson’s domestic policies, they were happy to see their old commander at the helm. They were especially impressed because, as promised during the campaign, Eisenhower had flown in Korea to assess the situation. The trip was made in secret in November and the details were just coming out.

"I hear the Russians are messin’ their britches," Davis said. "Even Stalin’s scared of Ike. He’s a bad old bastard and Stalin knows he’ll do whatever it takes."

Someone ventured: "Assassination?"

Davis shrugged and took a long pull on his drink. "That’s what I hear from upstairs," he said. "Soon as Ike’s sworn in, all bets are off. If I was Stalin I wouldn’t stand so tall at the next May Day Parade. Liable to get himself tweeped."

Lucky knew that "tweep" was agency talk for "Terminate With Extreme Prejudice" – an order for a sanctioned assassination.

Lucky’s father shook his head. "Our allies worry me more than Stalin," he said. "At least he’s our admitted enemy. It’s the English and the French who are getting our people killed."

There were murmurs of agreement. "Damned Colonialists," somebody said. "They won’t let go!"

Davis agreed. "Look at those riots in Egypt," he said. "We warned them what was gonna happen. But they kept on goin’. And they are gonna lose the place by and by. Thing is, none of it’s necessary. The Brits, like the French, are ham-handed colonialists. Keep everybody under their thumb because they can’t do the same to the homefolks at home. Take it out on some WOG. Shoot, the Brits are just beggin’ for trouble."

Somebody snorted derision. "Same thing’s happening here in Cyprus," the guy said. "We’re all sitting on a powder keg because the Brits are so blind."

Lucky frowned, thinking of Sandros and all those fire bombs he was stashing away for when the time came to rise up and strike a blow for Enosis.

Davis said, "I suppose y’all saw the report about the bust up at the cop shop over by Kyrania."

Everybody made noises of agreement. Although it wasn’t the official British line, what had happened was that a little village outside of the beach city of Kyrenia was saddled with a particularly arbitrary - and brutal - police force. As usual, all the cops were Turkish Cypriots. The riot was triggered by the arrest of an anti-British agitator during a Christmas service at the local Orthodox Church.

The end result was an attack on the police station. Boys threw gasoline bombs, while more than a score of men - armed with rocks, cudgels and farm implements - waited for the policemen to flee the burning building. At such a small village, there were only seven officers to confront the mob. One policeman was killed - stoned to death. Six more were badly injured. The main agitator scampered away before reinforcements arrived and rumor had it that the village hero was hiding up in the mountains above Episkopo in one of the monasteries.

Lucky’s father said, "Joe’s right. The English ought to pay more attention to their own history. They’ve patterned themselves after the Romans, but don’t seem to take the lesson of the Roman mistakes."

"The Egyptian corn harvest riots," somebody said. "Back in the time of the Caesars."

"Shoot," Davis put in, "the Egyptians have been riotin’ since even before the Romans. Hell, they gave Alexander’s boys a hot old time. And the exact same situation exists today. Which is my whole point. The limeys aren’t stupid, but they are blind to their past mistakes. They know their Roman history, because the Romans had them by the nuts for half a thousand years. But they can’t seem to put it together with their own. What’s that bit about history bein’ doomed to repeat itself?"

There a moment of silence as everyone reflected. Then someone asked: "What about the police station thing? Should we worry?"

Everyone turned to look at Davis, an OSS veteran who had spent most of the last war fighting behind enemy lines. Davis shrugged. "The Limeys are gonna mess it up," he said. "They always do, so we might as well get used to it." He took a long drink, then said, "Don’t know about you boys’ but I’m through solving the Limey’s problems. How about we play more chess?"

Everybody chuckled, freshened their drinks and got down to some playing.

The agent Lucky was filling in for finally showed up and so he moved off to the side, thinking over what he’d heard. That whole Roman corn riots thing had him fascinated. (He knew, of course, that they weren't refering to corn, as in corn on the cob. It was a general term in olden days for seed crops of any kind.) He could see a real connection to the fading British empire and how they were trying so desperately to hold onto it. All to the detriment of the people in their colonies – like Egypt, and… well like Cyprus. Many of them treated the people scornfully, as if they were less than human. It was that attitude, Lucky thought, that made the Cypriots yearn for freedom, for Enosis. And surely it was that attitude that was to blame for the deadly attack on the police station.

So Lucky had his essay. He called it, "The Last Sunset," a play on the old saying that "The sun never sets on the British Empire." His theme was that the British empire had been doomed from the beginning because the English failed to learn the lessons of ancient Rome. They’d already lost India, Egypt was next, then the African colonies and surely Cyprus wasn’t very far away.

The teacher was thrilled. He’d strummed all the right chords in her socialist philosophy. She was so taken by the essay, that she’d had Lucky read it aloud in class.

Its reception with the other schoolboys was not so fine. At first, he was rewarded with wide grins from boys grateful for this break in the classroom tedium. But as he read on, detailing Lucky’s imagined sins of British political leaders, some of them began to glower and whisper fiercely to one another. When he was done, he was greeted with a cold silence. The teacher looked puzzled at first, then alarmed. She rose to addressed the class – possibly to defend the essay, Lucky thought, but then the bell rang and the boys burst from their seats and rushed out. Some of them jostled Lucky and a few were so bold as to call him a "bloody Yank."

Miserable, Lucky filed out after them. The teacher stopped him. "Don’t worry," she said, "they’ll see your meaning when they’ve had time to think it through."

"Yes ma’am," Lucky said.

"It was a good, bold essay," the teacher continued. "You were only speaking your mind. That’s a good thing."

"Yes ma’am," Lucky said again.

The teacher started to say more, but the look on his stricken face silenced her. She patted his shoulder and Lucky exited the room.

In the hallway, a few of the boys were waiting. Lucky knew them to be members of Simms’ group. This he had expected. What startled him, though, was the presence of Derek among them. The boy’s mother was making him wait until the end of the semester to transfer. Even so, these were the very fellows who were abusing Derek and making his life miserable. Why was he here? And why did he look as hostile as the others.

One of the larger boys, Aston, stepped forward to confront Lucky. "Think you can say stuff like that and get away with it?" Aston demanded.

"I didn’t mean anything," Lucky said. "It was just an assignment. We all had to write something over the holiday."

"You’re the only one that said nasty things about England," Aston said. "Like a bleedin’ Communist."

Aston raised a threatening hand, then thought better of it when Lucky shifted his books from his right to his left. He didn’t like that Communist remark. Even so, he’d only get in trouble if there was a fight in the hallway.

"Turning my Christmas holiday assignment in on time doesn’t make me a Communist," Lucky said.

Aston glowered. Like many of the other boys, he’d made weak excuses for not finishing his essay. "We’re not bum lickers like you," he said. "Kissin’ the teacher’s arse. And we don’t say nasty stuff about England."

"Yeah," came a small voice. He looked over. It was Derek. He flushed when Lucky looked at him. Then lowered his head and muttered something under his breath.

Lucky turned back to Aston. "If you don’t like it, you can lump it." Just then the warning bell rang. Lucky shifted his books back into his right hand. "I’ve got a class," Lucky continued. "If you dopes want to get into trouble messing around in the halls, then it’s your problem."

He strode off, shoulders straight, head high. But he was tense - waiting for something to hit him in the back. His next class was physical education, which consisted of a series of exercises in their regular school clothes and a session of soccer, or some other sport like rounders, a boring form of baseball.

This was both good and bad. It was good, because the class was out in the open and Lucky could see if anyone was trying to ambush him. The class was also semi-supervised, so if a fight was forced, Lucky could appeal to one of the teachers to make it fair. It was perfectly acceptable – even encouraged by some teachers - to settle differences in one-on-one fights with boxing gloves, supervised by a teacher. But none of the boys wanted to box Lucky, because they knew what had happened to Simms.

On the other hand, the teachers frequently used the class as their own personal time. There were no formal physical education coaches – it was an activity that rotated among the male teachers, some of whom would rather catch a smoke or a coffee, or even a nap. It was not uncommon for the ending bell to bring a sleepy-eyed teacher out of the equipment room - a converted gardener’s shed that could be locked from the inside.

If he caught a napping teacher that session, and if Aston alerted Simms and his pals, Lucky could be in big trouble. He took a breath. Okay, he’d just have to be careful. First he had to arm himself. He glanced back, Aston was gone – so was Derek - but several other boys were following him. They were all in his PE class, so on the surface it didn’t appear suspicious. But Lucky knew they were shadowing him. If he stopped to rummage in his book bag for the weapon Sandros had constructed, or ducked into the boy’s room, they’d whistle up help and be on him.

In the name of all the saints, why had he written that essay? He should have settled on something about the influence of Roman roads or aqueducts. Why had he drawn attention to himself? And the teacher! Why had she made him read it out loud? Couldn’t she just have graded the paper and left it at that? Oh, but it wasn’t her fault. It was his and his alone. Lucky was Mister Big Shot, the snot-nosed CIA brat who listened in on a classified conversations and had to show off that he knew things other people didn’t. Of course, he’d given nothing away, but he’d never have thought to connect all those modern political events with ancient Rome and the demise of the British empire. Heck, even if it wasn’t true, it still made a whale of an essay topic. And now he was in a whale of a lot of trouble.

He’d be fortunate if only Moby Dick fell on him.

As he strolled onto the field, Lucky noted there were only a few boys present – and none of the teachers. He’d been moving too fast trying to stay ahead of his stalkers. He clutched his school bag close and walked toward the equipment shed. He slid the straps open, bent the flap back, then took off his cap. Ostentatiously, he stuffed his cap in the satchel. Meanwhile, his fingers were crawling around for his weapon. All he encountered were books, notebooks and pencil cases. He dug deeper, fingernails scraping bottom and finding nothing but lint, dirt and crumbs.

Where the hell was it?

Then his fingers closed on a slender wand and he started feeling a little better. Actually, Sandros had constructed two weapons for hand-to-hand combat. This was the lesser of the weapons – a car antennae. It was a telescoping wire that collapsed to about 12 inches and extended to nearly a yard. Sandros had snapped it off someone’s car – a Turkish cop’s Jeep, he claimed. Then he’d attached a small fish-weight to the tip, fixing it with black electrical tape. He also wrapped the bottom with tape, but thickly, to give a good handhold. The idea was when you snapped your wrist, the fish weight would carry the wire whip out to its full length. This made a formidable weapon against a multitude of attackers.

He showed Lucky how to use it. Snapping it out – letting the weight carry the tip out all the way. Then whipping hands, wrists, faces – any exposed skin that presented itself. They practiced on bushes and hedges and once on a cactus tree. The wire whip cut so deeply into the fleshy cactus that Lucky was appalled.

"I don’t want to really hurt anybody," Lucky protested. "This is like a knife."

"Never you mind about that, Lucky," Sandros replied. "I could make you a gun – a single shot gun. But this is school affair, correct? Many vicious boys against one, yes? Of course, it is. Use the wire whip and the lead knuckles I’m going to make you and the authorities will be satisfied. Never mind a gun, if you used a rock in a sling shot you could take them, yes?"

Lucky nodded. He’d become quite expert at the Cypriot slingshot – which was a heavy band of pure, red rubber, attached to a piece of leather for the sling. You gripped the rubber in your fist, pulled back, and let fire a rock. The result could be devastating. Lucky had seen a goat herder bring down a mad dog with one well-placed shot that collapsed the ribs and smashed the poor crazy animal’s heart. Sling shots were forbidden at school, as were penknives, or anything that could be considered a weapon. Thus far, even when his book bag had been searched, no one had recognized the wire whip for what it was. As for the lead knuckles, he’d managed to juggle them around to defy discovery. This was his current problem – he’d hidden them too well.

The knuckles were the truly devastating weapon of choice – especially when worked in conjunction with the wire whip. To make the lead knuckles, Sandros had hammered a two-ounce fish weight into a shape that comfortably fit Lucky’s fist. This he’d wrapped with electrical tape, to give it a good grip and to help absorb some of the shock.

"You don’t want to break your fist on their heads, Lucky," he advised. "Strike for soft parts, or the jaw or the side of the face. Avoid the teeth or you will cut yourself and suffer a great sickness."

Lucky already knew about the perils of teeth hitting. In the States he’d knocked down a school bus bully with one blow. It was the perfect shot, the one his Grandpop Guinan had taught him, with the grabbing of the opponent’s left elbow, turning him into the punch. Unfortunately, the blow hit the bully square in the teeth, cutting the hell out of Lucky’s knuckles. So while the bully was humiliated and momentarily incapacitated, Lucky fist swelled up to the size of a melon and became a red and purple monster full of full of pain and pus that smelled to high heavens. It took a shot of penicillin to knock out the infection and the doctor laughed while he did the deed and informed the boy that the human mouth was "the filthiest thing in the world."

But as Lucky rushed across the field, looking for some way to escape his dilemma, he knew damned well that it wasn’t a punch into the teeth he had to worry about. Heck, there was no way this would be one of his grandfather’s one-punch knockouts. There were too many of them.

He dug out the wire whip, hid it in his hand. Then he was at the equipment shed. He stopped in front of the door, knowing there was no one inside, but putting on an act to gain time. Lucky knocked, shouting, "Sir, may we have a ball, sir?"

There was no answer, because there was no teacher present. Even so, Lucky pretended he heard something. He leaned closer to the door. "What’s that you said, sir?"

He was playing to the audience of his enemies gathering behind him. Meanwhile, he was still scratching for his lead knuckles. Scratching, scratching. Nothing there. Then his fingers touched a familiar edge.

There they were!

Maybe?

"Sir," he said again, "Could we have a ball, sir?"

Then he heard a hiss. He looked to the side and saw Derek standing at the edge of the shack. He motioned to Lucky.

"Over here," he said.

"Get out!" Lucky growled. He didn’t have time for this little twerp.

Derek looked hurt. "Don’t worry," he said. "I’ve got the others. It’ll be alright."

Lucky glared at him. Derek withered under the glare, then said,

"I was just pretending. You know I’m really your friend."

"What others?" Lucky demanded.

"Jacques and Paul," Derek said.

They were among the foreigner boarders attending the school. They were both big, friendly lads who stood for no nonsense. Lucky took a quick look. His stalkers had been joined by four or five more malcontents.

Derek noticed. He motioned for Lucky to follow. "Over here," he said. "We’ll catch ‘em by surprise."

Lucky look at him very hard. Derek’s eyes wavered. Then they dropped and he blushed. "I want to get even," he said. "Help me, okay."

Lucky hesitated, then nodded. Already, his mind was whirling with plans for a counter attack. With Jacques and Paul backing him up, he could really lay into these guys. Show them what an American was all about. As he walked toward Derek, his right fist finally curling over elusive fish weight. He let the satchel fall away, getting a good grip on what Sandros had named rightly named his "equalizer." In his left hand, he had the weighted antennae whip. All he had to do was flick his wrist to shoot it out to its most formidable length.

But when he stepped around the equipment shed he found the towering, pimply-faced Simms staring down at him with gloating eyes.

"’Lo, Yank," he rasped.

Simms was flanked by several of his toadies, who were closing in. Lucky reacted quickly, but even as he started to flick his steel whip out he heard footsteps rushing in behind him. At the same time he raised his right fist – clenched around the "equalizer." There were shouts as his ambushers pinned his arms to his side. Lucky struggled, but there were too many of them. Now those shouts turned gleeful as hands ripped his weapons from his fists. Simms leaned down at him, smiling a rat-toothed smile. He grabbed Lucky by the tie and pushed the knot up until it was choking him.

"My mates say you don’t like us, Yank," he said.

Lucky heard Derek stutter, "He ca-ca-called us Ro-Ro-Romans."

Simms pushed the knot tighter. Lucky could barely breathe. "Greasy Italians, is it?" he said. "That’s what you’re sayin’ about us?"

The bizarre statement combined with the lack of oxygen to make Lucky’s head reel. What in the world was Simms accusing him of?

"N-N-No," Derek broke in, trying to explain. "He meant the c-c-corn r-riots…" he gasped for breath, then got it out, "It’s our fault!"

Simms’ eyes lit up. He put his face down until his nose almost touched Lucky’s. "Our fault, is it?" he said. "Our fault!"

This was getting stranger and stranger. Lucky knew Simms didn’t have the faintest idea what the row was over. Nor, did Simms care. Honor of some sort had obviously been impugned and must be redeemed at all cost.

"L-l-look what he had!" cried Derek, holding up the fish weight equalizer. "He was going to hit us with it."

Derek laughed. "This Yank’s got more tricks than a bloody Chinaman," he said.

He released one hand – keeping a tight grip on the tie with the other. Lucky would have tried to make a break for it then, but other hands were holding him.

"Give it here, old son," Simms said to Derek.

Lucky’s betrayer beamed and handed over the equalizer.

Simms hefted it in his hand, smiling at Lucky. "Gonna hit us with this, were you?" he said.

It wasn’t a question, so Lucky didn’t reply.

Without warning, Simms drove his weighted fist into Lucky’s belly. But the boy was expecting it and although it hurt like the devil, he didn’t lose his wind. Even so, his stomach felt on fire.

"How do you like that, Yank?" Simms said, drawing his fist back for another blow.

Lucky did the only thing he could think of. He jerked up his knees and let himself fall backward. Simms, still clutching his tie, was caught by surprise and fell with him. His chin hit Lucky’s forehead and Lucky heard Simms help as he bit into his own tongue. Lucky thought his neck had been snapped and the tie was so tight he could hardly get his breath. He hurled himself over, landing on top of Simms, his back crushing the larger boy’s abdomen.

He reached up and tore the boy’s fingers away. His enemies were shouting and clawing at him, but Lucky rolled to his feet, kicking back – his heel connecting with someone. Then he bent his head down and rushed them, breaking free.

There was a whole empty soccer field in front of him and he ran like his life depended on it, which it very well might have. He ran hard and fast and he could hear boys shouting behind him. And then he ran straight into the goal post – hitting his head and bouncing back to collapse on the ground, stunned and barely conscious. He heard voices and clenched his fists, forcing his eyes open and dragging desperately for air. He looked up at a sea of blurry faces. One came close and his nerves jumped like a threatened animal’s and he lashed out at it.

A strong hand captured his. Lucky struggled. I won’t stop, he thought. I won’t!

"Here, now, cease and desist!" came a familiar adult voice. It was the teacher with two names - Mr. Quinton-Thomas.

"Sorry, sir," Lucky gasped.

He pushed himself up to a sitting position. He had no choice but to hold his sides and gasp painfully for breath. Something felt wrong inside of him. But he pushed that thought aside and stifling a groan, he climbed to his feet. He saw Simms and his toadies, including that little bastard, Derek, hanging back in a small group a few yards away.

"I note the lack of a soccer ball in the vicinity, Cole," Quinton-Thomas said. "So how is it that you had your fateful encounter with the goal post?"

Woozy as he was, Lucky realized that the teacher didn’t ask him if he was okay, or check on his condition. Strange school.

"Clumsiness, sir," Lucky said.

Then a wave of sickness overcame him. He fell to his knees, doubled over and retching.

Quinton-Thomas made a noise showing his disgust. "Oh, someone get him to the nurse’s office, please," he said. "I can’t abide the smell of cafeteria peas as is it is, without first passing them through the gut of a Yank."

The boys laughed. A young teacher’s assistant helped Lucky to his feet and escorted him to the nurse’s office. The sickness didn’t stop. The school nurse attributed it to the run in with the goal post. But when Lucky kept throwing up, she called his house and got his mother on the phone. A taxi was sent for and Lucky went home.

He never set foot on the grounds of the Dr. Arnold Thomas Academy For Boys again.

 NEXT: WHEN  DEATH NEVER SLEEPS

*****
THE SPYMASTER'S DAUGHTER:
A new novel by Allan and his daughter, Susan


After laboring as a Doctors Without Borders physician in the teaming refugee camps and minefields of South Asia, Dr. Ann Donovan thought she'd seen Hell as close up as you can get. And as a fifth generation CIA brat, she thought she knew all there was to know about corruption and betrayal. But then her father - a legendary spymaster - shows up, with a ten-year-old boy in tow. A brother she never knew existed. Then in a few violent hours, her whole world is shattered, her father killed and she and her kid brother are one the run with hell hounds on their heels. They finally corner her in a clinic in Hawaii and then all the lies and treachery are revealed on one terrible, bloody storm ravaged night.

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*****
LUCKY IN CYPRUS: IT'S A BOOK!


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Here's what readers say about Lucky In Cyprus:
  • "Bravo, Allan! When I finished Lucky In Cyprus I wept." - Julie Mitchell, Hot Springs, Texas
  • "Lucky In Cyprus brought back many memories... A wonderful book. So many shadows blown away!" - Freddy & Maureen Smart, Episkopi,Cyprus. 
  • "... (Reading) Lucky In Cyprus has been a humbling, haunting, sobering and enlightening experience..." - J.A. Locke, Bookloons.com
*****
NEW STEN SHORT STORY!!!!
STEN AND THE STAR WANDERERS


BASED ON THE CLASSIC STEN SERIES by Allan Cole & Chris Bunch: Fresh from their mission to pacify the Wolf Worlds, Sten and his Mantis Team encounter a mysterious ship that has been lost among the stars for thousands of years. At first, everyone aboard appears to be long dead. Then a strange Being beckons, pleading for help. More disturbing: the presence of AM2, a strategically vital fuel tightly controlled by their boss - The Eternal Emperor. They are ordered to retrieve the remaining AM2 "at all costs." But once Sten and his heavy worlder sidekick, Alex Kilgour, board the ship they must dare an out of control defense system that attacks without warning as they move through dark warrens filled with unimaginable horrors. When they reach their goal they find that in the midst of all that death are the "seeds" of a lost civilization. 
*****
MY HOLLYWOOD MISADVENTURES


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*****
TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
Audiobook Version Coming Soon!

Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969

In the depths of the Sixties and The Days Of Rage, a young newsman, accompanied by his pregnant wife and orphaned teenage brother, creates a Paradise of sorts in a sprawling Venice Beach community of apartments, populated by students, artists, budding scientists and engineers lifeguards, poets, bikers with  a few junkies thrown in for good measure. The inhabitants come to call the place “Pepperland,” after the Beatles movie, “Yellow Submarine.” Threatening this paradise is  "The Blue Meanie,"  a crazy giant of a man so frightening that he eventually even scares himself. Here's where to buy the book. 

*****

***** 
STEN #1: NOW IN SPANISH!


Diaspar Magazine - the best SF magazine in South America - is publishing the first novel in the Sten series in four  episodes. Here are the links: 

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