Heaven’s Gate
21 Redirection
April and her crew flew directly to Lansing to prepare for our taping at Michigan State. I stopped long enough in Indiana to have a quick meeting about our sudden popularity and how to handle the requests for audiences. I finally agreed to continue the season through May instead of ending at thirteen weeks with an option to continue into June. I was definitely going to take July and August off, partly because I didn’t think I’d get my thesis done before then. I was collecting lots of data, but hadn’t structured how I was going to present it.
Sunday afternoon, Cassie and I drove up to Mishawaka and spent the night at Mom and Dad’s. Dad did a careful inspection of my new car and congratulated me.
“Did you trade in the Suburban?” he asked.
“No. We’ve kept it well-maintained and even though it has a lot of miles on it, it’s still in pretty good shape. Monte is taking it in to have a new paintjob and to replace some of the upholstery. Then he and George are going to do a complete overhaul. When they are done, we’re installing lights and a siren and donating it to the fire department. Seems there are a lot of times someone needs to roll out for an emergency that doesn’t require moving 2,000 gallons of water with us. It will become the command vehicle for the firehouse. We figure it has another ten years in it if it’s cared for.”
Monday morning, Cassie and I drove on up to East Lansing for another week of shows. We were becoming more efficient in our operation. Sam was staying at the ranch to work on the business end of things. She’d be taking calls for our new guest coordinator position and trying to spice up some of our shows as soon as possible. Cassie was the only person with me to handle guests and my schedule. And blowjobs. Only mostly we didn’t do that. We did make love every night we were together, though. She also accompanied me any time I was with the ladies of a sorority. We lived in a crazy world and I didn’t need someone running up and claiming I was the father of a love child one day.
April was working with her two-person crew, as well. They had their work organized to the second. They picked up equipment at eight o’clock Monday morning and were ready to tape when I walked on stage at five o’clock. After the show, they could pack up lights and cameras and move to Tuesday’s location in an hour. The next morning, they set up and were ready to tape when the show started at eleven.
“Will you be okay driving back alone Thursday?” I asked Cassie.
“I won’t be alone,” she responded. “As soon as April and her guys get the equipment returned to the rental company Thursday morning, they’ll ride south with me while you go play.”
“Cassie…”
“And if you don’t play hard enough, the whole casa will be pissed,” she said. “Are you sure you can get your staff on the airplane?”
“They said it was no problem. Hikers carry walking sticks all the time.”
When we woke up Thursday morning, Cassie and I made love fast and furious. We were usually pretty slow and gentle in our loving, but having the extra time with her alone meant that we were exploring a little more than we used to. She got on her hands and knees, waggled her butt in the air, and said, “Hard, Brian. Take me!” I didn’t need a second invitation. In half an hour we were finished, showered, and on our way to the airport.
I was going to see Whitney.
I flew into Washington National and checked into a room at the Embassy Suites. I was fifty miles from Quantico, but Whitney had specifically stated that she wanted to be far enough from base that we wouldn’t constantly be running into other Marines. She said weekends in the Quantico hotels had so much sex going on that they could be smelled all over base. The town of Quantico only had a population of a little over 300 people and several hotels. Among other things, it was where parents and friends stayed when they came to see their Marines, new FBI agents, and special services people graduate from training.
Whitney had the weekend clear from Friday night to Sunday night. I caught the metro into DC Thursday afternoon and toured all the usual sites. The mall was pretty cool but I was too late to tour the White House or Capitol Building. I did get to see the Smithsonian Castle and the Museum of History. The cherry blossoms all over the area were beautiful. I had dinner at a nice grill and then caught a cab back to the hotel. It cost a fortune, but I was not at all certain about taking the train at night and then finding my way to the hotel.
Friday morning, I was dressed in a utilitarian red gi and belt that Leonard had waiting for me when I got home last Sunday. Under it, I wore the khaki boxers and T-shirt Whitney had sent. I had a small pack slung over my back with a change of clothes and my wallet in it. I carried my gun staff in my hand and I’m sure I looked pretty strange as I boarded the bus to Quantico. At ten o’clock, I presented myself at the gate to the Marine Base. After the guard checked his clipboard, he asked me to have a seat and said my escort would arrive shortly. Whitney said she had arranged a master class and demonstration for this afternoon. I knew what that meant. We were going to spar. And then I was going to take her off-base and fuck her all night long.
Whitney wasn’t the lieutenant who met me, though. I was welcomed to Quantico by Lieutenant Davidson who escorted me to a jeep and we went onto the base proper. He showed me to the office of Captain Reynolds. Captain Reynolds reminded me of a slightly shorter version of Lionel. Maybe crossed with our high school friend Jackson. His head was shaved clean and he stood to welcome me. He looked me up and down and sighed.
“Is this for real?” he asked.
“Not sure I understand the question, sir.”
“Sergeant Klaeffer at Parris Island assured me that I was going to meet a true master of the martial arts. I was not expecting…”
“A shrimp, Captain? A kid? A snot-nosed little punk?” I supplied. He grinned at me. It was a feral sort of expression that said more to me than the words he spoke.
“A smartass,” the captain finished. “If Anderson and Klaeffer are trying to put something over on me, they’ll both spend the rest of their service on the front line in the hottest spot I can find to send them. But I’m not letting this little master class and demonstration proceed unless I know for a fact that you are a master. What’s your belt? Your degree?”
“I have a bachelor’s degree in chemistry,” I deadpanned. “There is only one way to test a master. Are you up for it, Captain?”
He stood and led me to a jeep where his driver took us to a gymnasium. He didn’t bother to go to a locker room to dress. He stripped out of his uniform beside the mats and handed each piece carefully to his lieutenant. I smiled at him as I pulled off my jacket to reveal the same color T-shirt that he wore. I looked around.
“You did not show me the courtesy of providing an assistant to take my clothes. Forgive me while I fold my own,” I said. I was in so much shit there was no way out, but I’d do anything necessary to protect Whitney. I started folding my gi.
“Jones!” the captain shouted.
“Sir! Yes, sir!” a man working out nearby shouted.
“Assist the master with his wardrobe!”
“Yes, sir!”
The man ran to my side.
“Please, master, let me assist with your uniform,” he said. I smiled and handed him my jacket, then stripped off my shoes and pants. “You should know, sir,” he whispered to me, “the captain goes straight for a kill-shot. It’s the Marine way. Only Lieutenant Anderson has ever gone three rounds with him.”
“Thank you,” I said as I handed him my pants and shoes. “That is the way it should be.”
“Three rounds,” Reynolds said. “If you can make it that far. A round ends when a killing blow has been scored. Lieutenant Davidson will blow a whistle. We will retreat to our corners and then begin again. Do you agree to these rules?”
“I really don’t know any rules for what we are about to do,” I said. “But since I do not want to kill an officer in the United States Marine Corps, I will cease combat when a whistle blows.” I bowed to him, but not far enough that I couldn’t keep my eyes on him. A good thing, too. He charged as I bowed.
I’d learned a lot the time I sparred with Coach Hancock. I was expecting the fast action of the captain. I simply wasn’t where he expected me to be. I placed three taps on his back: the base of his skull, the center of his back, and the base of his spine. Any one of them would have killed or completely disabled him if I’d gone all out. The whistle blew.
It was a different person that looked at me from the opposite corner as we approached each other this time. He already knew that he wasn’t facing staged combat. Now he was fighting to not be humiliated. It took nearly four minutes before I slipped past him again and delivered the exact same taps in the exact same locations. The whistle blew.
He came at me with his feet flying this time and before I realized what he was doing, he’d snatched my staff from where I’d rested it against a pillar and rushed me with it swinging. It whistled over my head with enough force to have actually killed me if he’d connected. I dove through his legs and stood knocking my head back until it just touched the base of his neck. I spun and placed two more blows in the exact same places as the first two rounds. The whistle blew. I stepped away and retreated to my corner of the mats, but felt him coming at me.
“Put me down if you can, you twisted little runt!” he screamed. I turned and faced the onslaught of his feet flying at my face with a wall of fire between us. He stumbled back and I thrust out my hand, sending the force of the universe into his chest. He flew backward and landed on his back. Davidson kept blowing his whistle over and over. I approached the fallen captain and checked his vitals quickly. He came to.
“The Marine way is to never leave an enemy standing,” he said. “Thank you for this lesson, Master Bri.” He stood and we shook hands. He led me to the showers with our attendants carrying our clothes. As we lathered up in the shower he finally spoke again. “Do you understand why I had to test you?” he asked.
“Sir, you train the finest fighting force in the world. You would be derelict in your duty if you didn’t ascertain their training was the best.”
“You might be a smartass kid, but you are a fine master. I’ll be interested to see what Anderson does with you,” he chuckled.
“So will I,” I whispered. I had a feeling Whitney had advanced way past where I was.
I’d had a light lunch and a pleasant conversation with Captain Reynolds. Lieutenants Davidson and Jones ate at the next table, giving us privacy and still near enough to answer a command. I found out that even though Whitney was in what they called The Basic School, which was really ‘how to lead soldiers’ school, she had also been assigned as an instructor in the OCS in personal combat. Our master class this afternoon would be her OCS students who had not yet been awarded the bar of a lieutenant.
I was told we would meet at 1300 hours in the same gymnasium.
The first time I saw Whitney, I saw she’d received and accepted a white gi with a black belt. I approached the opposite side of the mats with Lieutenant Jones in my red gi and red belt. This time, Whitney took the lead and stepped to the center of the mats. There were about two hundred packed into the gym around the mats.
“Marines!” Whitney snapped. “This is a master class in personal hand-to-hand combat. You will stand in ranks at double width with your staff in hand. Now!” The class formed up quickly. They were in perfectly straight rows with enough room between them that they could do forms with staffs and not kill each other. Whitney beckoned me over. “This is Master Bri. Your training has included the ancient Japanese art of the Bo staff. This weapon came to be because after the Samurai invasion of Okinawa, the people were left defenseless. It is an art that calls any stick a weapon that may be used against a sword. It is an inferior weapon. Yet your training has led you to believe that having a staff will give you an edge as a superior weapon to an unarmed combatant. In this master class you will learn basic forms of the Tai Chi Gun. It is the Chinese equivalent of the Bo Staff. Give your attention now to Master Bri who will lead us in these forms.”
I chose not to talk. I don’t have the booming voice of a sergeant or of Whitney or even of Captain Reynolds. I’d found out long ago that it wasn’t words that taught me. I went through each movement and waited until the Marines had repeated it. The time between my movement and theirs lessened by the second movement. They were focused and intent on the forms I showed. We did one complete set and I called out, “Together!” I did the series of moves with the Marines reflecting what I did. They weren’t bad. They were intent on learning everything we had to teach them. We worked for an hour before Whitney called a break for fifteen minutes to get water. Then she called them back into formation. She strode through the ranks like she owned them. I guess this was her class, so she did.
“Armstrong! What is the last move in hand-to-hand combat?”
“The killing blow, Ma’am!”
“Ehrends! What is the first move in hand-to-hand combat?”
“To kill my enemy, Ma’am!”
“Every blow that does not kill your enemy increases the likelihood that you will be killed,” Whitney barked.
“What is your second move, Lancaster?”
“To kill my enemy, Ma’am!”
Whitney kept going, barking questions at random class members and listening to their answers. The one wrong answer earned fifty pushups while the class chanted the correct answer. I realized that Whitney was giving me an instruction set on how things were done in the Marines. I took it all in. She was going to serve my balls for dessert.
Whitney came back to the mats and asked to see my staff. She turned and tossed it to Captain Reynolds who placed it against the far pillars. She tossed her own staff to him as well. A dozen guys ran out and rolled up the mats and removed them. I thought for a moment we were finished. Whitney started removing her gi and I realized we were preparing for combat. Lieutenants Davidson and Jones rushed to our sides to accept our gear as we stripped to our khaki skivvies. It appeared that this time we were not going to fight in the nude, at least. I felt the bare wood floor beneath my feet. Just like the sacred space in the silo back home. I nodded to Whitney and stepped back to my corner. Whitney turned and Captain Reynolds tossed her staff to her. What the fuck?
“Master Bri is unarmed. I am a Marine. I have superior armament. What is my first move?”
“Kill!” shouted the Marines. Whitney faced me and the battle was on. If I wanted my staff I’d have to get past her. Fuck! She attacked. She used her staff as a launch point to brace herself while she lashed out with her feet. I avoided all but one of her first onslaught and knew I’d have a bruised rib for that one. The only thing that Whitney and I both knew was that we would not kill each other. But if she connected with one of those blows of her staff to my head, I might not wake up until tomorrow.
Her defense of my staff—trying to keep me from getting to it—worked to my advantage. I wanted my staff, but I didn’t need it. I could use feints at retrieving it to my advantage and launch an attack under her defense. Both Whitney and I hit the boards more than once. No matter how well conditioned you are, no matter whether you can take a blow and remain conscious or unmoved, your body is flesh and blood. You might be able to withstand incredible amounts of pain or even to heal yourself more rapidly than most. That won’t prevent your body from being damaged by the force of the blow. Marines aren’t metaphysical. In Marine parlance, you hit a man to put him down. If you don’t put him down, you didn’t hit hard enough. Gobbledy-gook about drawing in the power of the universe doesn’t cut it. Whitney was hitting hard with every intent to put me down. Blows from a staff can do a lot more than bruise you. When Whitney realized I wasn’t going to try to reach my staff, she pressed her advantage even more. I blocked. I struck. She blocked. She struck. I have no idea how long we fought. Then I saw something I’d never seen in Whitney before. I saw her gather fire. When she threw herself at me, I met her with a wall of flame.
We both fell back on the floor and it took a minute for us to get up. I shook my head. Whitney leaned heavily on her staff. We looked at each other and nodded. We bowed. I turned to Lieutenant Jones to retrieve my gi. I felt Whitney’s energy gather. I pushed Jones out of the way and reached up to block Whitney’s staff as it whipped toward my head. In one move, I snatched the staff out of the air and redirected its force, ripping it from Whitney’s hand. It struck her solidly in the back of the head and she fell to the floor on her face. She didn’t get up. I walked to the center of the combat zone as the lieutenants and Captain Reynolds rushed to Whitney’s side. I knew she was out but not seriously injured. I’d work hard on soothing her bruise later tonight. I looked at the soldiers who had been seated to watch the match.
“Combat ends when one of the combatants can no longer fight,” I said. “There is no draw in combat.” I turned and knelt beside Whitney as she came around. She looked up into my eyes and smiled.
“And that, Marines,” she whispered, “is known as foreplay.”
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