SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

I probably wouldn’t have become this involved had they not told me to stop working on the case. Never before had I been limited in my goal to protect American secrets from foreign hands. Yet here it was, an official letter signed by the Deputy Secretary of the Air Force, telling me in no uncertain terms that I was to cease my investigation on The Bohemian Grove. It was stamped, hand signed, and about as official a directive as I’ve ever received, but the problem was it ignored the facts.

Facts such as:

The Bohemian Grove has been a meeting place of America’s most prominent men since 1872.

No one who isn’t invited is allowed anywhere near The Bohemian Grove.

The Manhattan Project was secretly planned at The Bohemian Grove by Doctors Lawrence and Oppenheimer, along with members of government and the heads of major corporations.

A ceremony known as the Cremation of Care is performed every year as a mock child sacrifice to the Canaanite god Moloch.

And Special Unit 77 recently traced a link from a known Stasi front in Paris to an unknown catering business in the town of Monte Rio, California, which is the nearest town to The Bohemian Grove.

I had little doubt that the East German Ministry of State Security, or Stasi as it was better known, had an agent working against the men in The Bohemian Grove, especially since The Grove’s annual meeting was in two days. If I was to follow the directive, it would allow an East German agent access to some of America’s best kept secrets. If I was to ignore it, I might be able to stop something terrible from happening.

The bottom line was that I needed more information before I could decide which track to take, which was why me and Gomer Pyle (aka Jimmy Chan) were standing at the counter of a botanica in the Mission District of San Francisco. Gunnery Sergeant Chan was the Marine Corps replacement for Chiaka Chiba, who we’d lost almost a year ago last July. On the surface it might seem strange for them to replace one Asian-American Gunnery Sergeant with another, but that was by design. The large Asian population in San Francisco required someone who could not only blend in, but operate more freely.

It took a few minutes of convincing that we meant no harm. Two non-Hispanics dressed in black suits, white shirts, black ties was usually bad news in this neighborhood. Eventually I was able to get a name and address. Four blocks later, we stood at the front door of a squat white stucco pushed towards the back of a dusty lot. Deep red Bougainvillea surrounded the front door like a toxicodendron guard. We knocked and after a few moments, were ushered inside by a plain young Hispanic woman, her hands covered with flour, an apron at her waist. An older woman hummed from a chair deep in the shadows of a corner as she watched a telenovela on the television with the sound off. The young woman pulled us into the kitchen where she’d been making bread.

“I don’t know what you said to my husband, but my father isn’t well.”

I nodded, keeping eye contact. “I apologize for this, ma’am. If there was anyone else, I wouldn’t be bothering you, but Major Cruz has some information we desperately need.” I was as earnest as I could be, even though I was really overstating things. I was on a fishing expedition, pure and simple.

“What is it you think he can help you with?”

I shook my head. “Sorry, it’s classified.”

She snorted. “You’ll be lucky if he’s even coherent. Classified.” She laughed and shook her head.

“If that’s the case, then we’ll be on our way in no time.”

She looked from me to Gomer and back several times, then gave a quick nod. She showed us into a back bedroom that had a sick odor I always associated with impending death. The windows were covered with dark cloth. Only a table lamp gave light to the withered man beneath the covers. A few stray hairs still hugged a head which held dozens of liver spots.

“Enrique, it’s been a long time,” I said, trying to get the man’s attention.

The eighty-three-year-old man’s milky eyes turned toward me.

“It’s me, David — David Madsen. Do you remember me, Enrique? Do you remember Monte Rio? Major Enrique Cruz, I am speaking with you.”

The old man struggled to open his mouth, spittle connecting both lips that eventually closed without making a sound.

“See, I told you he couldn’t help,” Enrique’s daughter said from the doorway. “He hasn’t said anything since last Monday.”

I gazed at her with narrowed eyes. “That’s pretty specific. Did he have any visitors that day?”

She shook her head.

“What about the day before?”

She shrugged. “Listen, I’m not always here. I really don’t know. You’d have to ask my mother.”

“Is that her in the front room?”

She nodded.

“Mind if we ask her a few questions?”

“You go ahead. I need to attend the bread.” She turned and disappeared from the doorway.

I nodded to Gomer and was about to leave when I felt a hand brush my own. I looked down and it was Enrique, trying to grab me, but all he could do was touch me like a baby might.

I bent down. “Enrique, what is it?”