Read Online The Protocol: A Prescription to Die by John P. Goetz - Free Book Online
Authors: John P. Goetz
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it.
“Hello, Betty Lou. I see you have a special visitor today! Mr. Teague, how are you?” said the server as she placed two plates in front of them.
They called him Mr. Teague here. Not Eat. He thought of Mr. Teague as his dad, and sometimes he didn’t realize they are even talking to him.
“We’re having bologna sandwiches, and coleslaw today. Would you like vanilla or chocolate?” she said as she held up two small cans of Ensure.
Eat looked at her completely dumfounded. The menu was not right.
“Sophia? What’s with the new menu?”
Sophia looked around then turned back to Eat.
“Our menus have changed since Aequalis came in. Cost controls and such. Apparently they’ve done studies and this is what has been approved by the IPAB,” she said with an embarrassed look. “So. Betty Lou, chocolate today?”
Betty Lou nodded, pointed to the chocolate can, and returned her attention to working her napkin between her fingers. She turned her attention back to her son. “I don’t really like bologna. I wish they had grilled cheeses. I like her sweater though. Are you two dating?”
“No. You are my one and only,” Eat said as he patted her hand and smiled.
Eat wondered what the world was coming to.
Chapter 10
Two years ago, Butch had been an Army Staff Sergeant based at Bagram Airfield in Afghanistan. Now, he lived day-by-day. The army was his life; he was heading towards his fifteen-year mark, and planned to make it to thirty. His unit’s directive had been not only to secure the area but to make the residents feel safe and secure. He was to gain their trust.
Despite his size, Butch was an avid soccer player. He had received approval to organize soccer games between local kids and others based at Bagram during his down-time. The turnout was initially slow but as the locals grew to trust Butch and the other Americans, turnout slowly and steadily increased. At the time, Butch was happy. Proud. The kids were great. They had called him Big Sergeant Butch, sometimes just Big Butch. Games had always ended with hugs and high-fives and chocolate bars. Even the press had participated.
He’d thought they were on his side.
How wrong he was.
He hadn’t realized how naïve he had really been until his world came crashing down.
Butch could remember the day like it was yesterday. It was a Saturday morning. The kids were winning by a single goal. There was a nice crowd cheering the kids on to a sure victory. Even the others stationed at Bagram were there cheering the kids on.
Very few cheered against the kids.
Then all hell broke loose.
A man came running into the field. At first, no one understood what was happening, probably thinking he was just an excited fan running onto the field. A local. Perhaps he was an over-zealous father. He started on the American side of the field but ran right past them and headed towards the kids, directly towards Butch’s team.
As he ran, the man tore off his payraan, his white over shirt, exposing his chest. He wasn’t an excited parent. He was a bomber bent on sending not only himself but fifteen kids to Paradise. His chest was covered from belly button to collar bone with C4, secured with bands of duct tape. Even from his distance across the field, Butch could see the wires connecting each package of explosives to the single control wire. It travelled from the bars of explosive up towards his neck, was taped at his collar bone, then changed direction and shot down his arm to a push-button detonator held in his shaking hand. Butch could see his thumb was on the trigger.
The man began yelling.
The kids screamed.
They didn’t know what to do. They scurried behind the largest barricade they could find: Butch.
Butch wasn’t completely fluent in the local language, but had learned enough over his five tours to warn the kids. He knew the phrases that needed to be said to get his point across.
“Get back! Get down,” he yelled in Pashto to the kids as he waved his hands
“Hello, Betty Lou. I see you have a special visitor today! Mr. Teague, how are you?” said the server as she placed two plates in front of them.
They called him Mr. Teague here. Not Eat. He thought of Mr. Teague as his dad, and sometimes he didn’t realize they are even talking to him.
“We’re having bologna sandwiches, and coleslaw today. Would you like vanilla or chocolate?” she said as she held up two small cans of Ensure.
Eat looked at her completely dumfounded. The menu was not right.
“Sophia? What’s with the new menu?”
Sophia looked around then turned back to Eat.
“Our menus have changed since Aequalis came in. Cost controls and such. Apparently they’ve done studies and this is what has been approved by the IPAB,” she said with an embarrassed look. “So. Betty Lou, chocolate today?”
Betty Lou nodded, pointed to the chocolate can, and returned her attention to working her napkin between her fingers. She turned her attention back to her son. “I don’t really like bologna. I wish they had grilled cheeses. I like her sweater though. Are you two dating?”
“No. You are my one and only,” Eat said as he patted her hand and smiled.
Eat wondered what the world was coming to.
Chapter 10
Two years ago, Butch had been an Army Staff Sergeant based at Bagram Airfield in Afghanistan. Now, he lived day-by-day. The army was his life; he was heading towards his fifteen-year mark, and planned to make it to thirty. His unit’s directive had been not only to secure the area but to make the residents feel safe and secure. He was to gain their trust.
Despite his size, Butch was an avid soccer player. He had received approval to organize soccer games between local kids and others based at Bagram during his down-time. The turnout was initially slow but as the locals grew to trust Butch and the other Americans, turnout slowly and steadily increased. At the time, Butch was happy. Proud. The kids were great. They had called him Big Sergeant Butch, sometimes just Big Butch. Games had always ended with hugs and high-fives and chocolate bars. Even the press had participated.
He’d thought they were on his side.
How wrong he was.
He hadn’t realized how naïve he had really been until his world came crashing down.
Butch could remember the day like it was yesterday. It was a Saturday morning. The kids were winning by a single goal. There was a nice crowd cheering the kids on to a sure victory. Even the others stationed at Bagram were there cheering the kids on.
Very few cheered against the kids.
Then all hell broke loose.
A man came running into the field. At first, no one understood what was happening, probably thinking he was just an excited fan running onto the field. A local. Perhaps he was an over-zealous father. He started on the American side of the field but ran right past them and headed towards the kids, directly towards Butch’s team.
As he ran, the man tore off his payraan, his white over shirt, exposing his chest. He wasn’t an excited parent. He was a bomber bent on sending not only himself but fifteen kids to Paradise. His chest was covered from belly button to collar bone with C4, secured with bands of duct tape. Even from his distance across the field, Butch could see the wires connecting each package of explosives to the single control wire. It travelled from the bars of explosive up towards his neck, was taped at his collar bone, then changed direction and shot down his arm to a push-button detonator held in his shaking hand. Butch could see his thumb was on the trigger.
The man began yelling.
The kids screamed.
They didn’t know what to do. They scurried behind the largest barricade they could find: Butch.
Butch wasn’t completely fluent in the local language, but had learned enough over his five tours to warn the kids. He knew the phrases that needed to be said to get his point across.
“Get back! Get down,” he yelled in Pashto to the kids as he waved his hands
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