San Clemente, Chapter IV, "Beach Patrol"

Chief Murray shook my hand once again. I knew he was done with me, but I had more questions. I did not want to go home again with inadequate answers, much less no answers at all. "Where do I work?" I asked, standing at the open door. The Chief shrugged. "They don't talk much down there." He waived one hand in the general direction of the South end of town, when he said the words. "And a uniform?" I went on, but he just shook his head again. I looked at the man, who seemed so commanding and sure of himself, yet had no answers at all. "What about pay? How much does a Patrolman III earn?" But it was the same. He pointed South. I was going to have to get my information from La Casa Romantica, or whatever the hell they were calling it. I turned to leave.

"Here, you'll need these," he said, almost as an afterthought. A set of keys came at me, thrown from his left hand. I caught them before they hit the wall next to me. I examined them. They were Ford keys. Chief Murray walked over to the long narrow side window which looked out on the back parking lot of the station. He pointed at a sand colored vehicle. "You'll be using that." I followed his pointing finger. A Ford Bronco sat alone at the corner of the lot. It was a strange looking Bronco, however. It didn't have regular tires. Instead it had huge fat things at each corner. They stuck out a good six inches from the sides of the vehicle. The fenders had been rough cut to fit them. The flared parts that had been added were obviously cut from raw aluminum sheeting, then hung onto the remains of the regular fenders with little round rivets.

"She's brand spankin' new. Paid for by U.S. Government dollars. She's got duals, with three mufflers on each side. Silent as death in the sand. Got a three-oh-two V8 under the hood, and even air-conditioning. I'd give my left tit to own her myself." Murray stared at the vehicle he had so lovingly described. I looked at it. It was cool. There was no question about that. But it was also just a small truck. I wasn't in love with its appearance. I peered at the driver's side door. There was black lettering arced across it. "What's the San Clemente Beach Patrol?" I asked the Chief. "That's you," he said, grinning one of his engaging smiles, "and whoever wants to ride with you." I didn't understand what he meant by that, but I had bigger questions I had to get answered, and there was only one place I could ask them.

I went back out front where Scruggs operated the radios. I stood at the counter, as he finished some interaction with his desk microphone. "Come back here," he said, "you're an officer here. Out front is for our customers." He laughed after he said 'customers.' I presumed the word usage to be police humor. There were two doors to the back entry. I found them without help. Scruggs walked over to an ancient manual typewriter and sat down. He rolled a blank card into the machine, then typed letters onto it from a file next to him. I couldn't see what was in the file. Then he stopped. "What do you want to be?" he said, his hands poised over the keys. "Huh?" was all I could manage. "I mean, like, patrolman, beach patrol officer, reserve, special agent, or what? The Chief told me you'd know what to put in here." I looked at the little nome of a man, to see if I could detect more of his arcane sense of humor coming out, but I found none. "Ah, 'Reserve Patrolman' will be just fine. He typed. He pulled the finished card out. "I'll have the Chief sign it later. You can have it tomorrow morning." I shrugged. I walked out through the doors to the front of the building. As I exited the area before the counter I heard Scruggs yell. "Hey, welcome to the farce." I smiled back, then waved.

I drove the Volks around to the back lot. I got out, opened the Bronco with the keys Murray had given me. The Bronco was equipped with a Motorola police radio, full emergency light controls, and, ominously, a Remington twelve gauge pump shotgun. The gun was vertical, with its stock mounted down into the footwell on the passenger side. It was locked with a latch system. I looked at the lock. It took a tiny key. I checked the car key ring. There was a tiny key on the chain. I sighed. I was armed and dangerous once I got in the vehicle. But I didn't get in. I was wearing my Marine Officer Class A Green uniform. It just didn't seem right to drive the Bronco wearing it. I got back into the Volks, and headed for the South of town.

I entered the small road which led to the Cotton Estate gate. A full corporal was on duty, as opposed to the Lance Corporal of the day before. "Good Morning, Corporal, I said, easily, after rolling to a stop. I pulled out, then steadied, my new STAFF I.D. card. The Corporal took the card from my hand, then carefully read everything on it. I was impressed. "Thank you, sir," he finally said, handing the card back, then snapping off a crisp salute. I prepared to proceed, shifting the Volks into first gear, until I heard a horse whisper. The whisper said, "button your blouse before going in there, sir." I looked at the Corporal, but he stood as before, staring over the top of my car, still holding the salute. I frowned. The Marine was correct in fact, if not in etiquette. I followed his snide but wise direction and buttoned the front of my blouse up before proceeding.

"Two weeks, and a wake-up," I said to myself, as I eased down the road to park near the door that was not a real door. I knocked, as before. A Secret Service Agent, stood, as before, when the door had moved aside. He motioned with his head for me to proceed down the hall, the spring loaded wire leading up to his ear, stretching taut, then bouncing back when he had finished with the movement. My regulation leather heels made solid clicking sounds as I walked the surface of the Spanish-tiled hall. The great room was the same, except I noted two new tables set near the long row of windows, which faced toward the surf line. A man sat in each chair, facing out. Each had a hot steaming mug next to him. One was easy to identify from his hair color and cut. It was Haldeman. Neither man seemed to notice my presence. I stopped, waited, then walked next to Haldeman's table and stood there. They watched the surf. So I watched the surf. An offshore wind made the waves appear larger than they really were. The waves stood higher, and held their shape longer, because of it. White spume blew back from the edge of each wave, just before it folded over and broke. It was hypnotic to watch. A morning red sun behind the waves gave the scene a surreal 'moving scenery' kind of effect.

"This is Erlichman," H.R. said. "He handles domestic." Haldeman waved toward the man next to him, extending a small tea cup in the air. He held the cup by the lip, with thumb and index finger. I noted the full extension of his stiff little finger sticking out from the side of the cup. No Marine on earth would ever hold a cup in that manner, I knew, not, at least, where another Marine might see him.

"Lose the uniform," Erlichman said. I puzzled over the order for a moment, before responding. "Ah, what should I wear, then?" I asked, truly curious. "You can wear one of those khaki get-ups they wear around here, or go to a uniform shop and pick one out." Erlichman drank from his own tea cup when he was finished talking. I gaped. I did not know how to handle what I'd been told. I didn't even know what a uniform shop was, much less where it might be. I looked at the man, drinking his tea, and watching the surf line. He was as serious as H.R., I decided, but his long stringy black hair, seemingly unwashed and unkempt, gave him a disturbingly seedy appearance. I was uncomfortable with Haldeman, I realized suddenly, but I plainly did not like Erlichman.

"No, forget that," Erlichman suddenly said, turning to look at me. His eyes were dark and intense. I felt like he had instantly caught the distaste I felt for him. Caught it and didn't care. "You'll be Opcon to the local police here, so make yourself look like one of them. Do whatever they tell you to do when we're not telling you what to do." He stopped then, and began to laugh out loud. Haldeman joined in the laughter. I looked at both men. I didn't get the humor. I had been more comfortable with Scruggs basal humor, although I had not found it very funny either. While I waited, I remembered Amy's criticism of my poor inquisitor skills.

"What is it you want me to do?" I asked, after they had stopped laughing. Haldeman put his tea cup back onto its saucer with an audible 'clink.' He had fallen silent and contemplative again, watching the surf. I waited. "Until the Marines let you go, just show up every day," he said, then went on, "Check out the security system. Get to know and understand it. Get to know the people around here, except the Secret Service guys, they're not people. Get to know the beach. Arrest some aliens. They're all we get going by here. Look at some live sex. We get some of that too. Get familiar with all the procedures of the police agencies around here. Murray is sympatico." When he finished with the last, both he and Erlichman looked at one another, then nodded to one another. I felt dismissed, but I could not go home without having one other question answered. "Do I get paid? If I do, then how much?" There was another silence. "A thousand a month, I think," Erlichman said. "Check with somebody else. We don't get into those things." The two men began to talk to each other in low tones. I did not have to be told to leave.

A thousand a month was five hundred a month more than I made as a Marine Lieutenant. I didn't know about benefits, or anything further. But a thousand alone would guarantee me a little more access to the areas above Amy's darkened pantyhose line, and that made me smile. I walked back down the hallway with a Secret Service agent at my side. "What, exactly, is my job here?" I asked him. He shook his head. "i don't know. The Coast Guard station out back has some offices in it though. My boss is over there, and the head of the U.S. Marshalls. Check with them. I'm sure they'll want to know what you're up to." I went though the door, and out to my Volks. A lot of people seemed to be interested in what I was doing. I was interested in what I was doing. I just had no idea at all what it really was, or why.

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San Clemente, "Chapter II, "Cottons"

The letter had stated that I was to proceed to a place called the Cotton Estate, in San Clemente, and report in there. It had included no additional instructions, other than the confidentiality clause, and it had not been signed by anyone. I reflected ruefully, for a moment, on my departure from the First Civil Affiars Group. If I had been able to control myself better, when I was with Colonel Taylor and Captain Merrill, I might have learned more. I might have been able to get a peek at the orders which had been delivered to Howling Jack. My orders had been unsigned, but it was very unlikely that the Commanding Officer of any Regimental Support Team in the United States Marine Corps would have accepted any document that was not impeccably inscribed and signed. But, that chance, to at least have the identity of whoever was behind the orders, was lost. I smiled widely, however, as I wound the Volkswagen deftly through the curves of Camp Horno, on my way back to the Pulgas gate. I repeated the words of my exit from the Civil Affairs Group, then laughed aloud. The XO had given me a last look, so twisted and intense, that it had been as if a lighted cigar had been inserted into his mouth, burning tip first. I laughed some more, with both front door windows cranked down, and the small tinny FM radio belting out: "In the Year 2525, if man is still alive, if woman can survive...."

The Calafia exit, from Northbound Interstate 5, loomed ahead. I began to slow from my Volks' top speed of eighty-eight miles per hour. I had thought to call my wife, back at our apartment, but there had been no place to call from. There was also the stipulation, in my single sheet of orders, which said "immediately." I guided the car across the overpass, and toward the ribbon of blue ocean visible near the horizon, to the West. The exit took me to El Camino, which took me to the San Luis Rey overpass. The overpass ran into Pacific Palisades. That street ran half the length of San Clemente, paralleling the beach atop, alternately, one hundred foot bluffs and dunes rolling just above flat sandy beach coves. I turned South at the "T" made by the dead-ending of the road over the interstate. I crumpled my one page of orders between the buttons of my Class A green coat, straightened the tie clip on my cream colored Marine tie, then headed for the end of the road. Expensive homes lined the area, between the cliff down to the ocean, and the road I was on. I passed first, a small grade school, then the Coast Guard station. The road abruptly ended, just beyond the station. I turned around and crept back the way I had come. Recessed back, just before you got to the Coast Guard Station, was a large white wall with a big arch in it. I had missed it. A small asphalt road rant under the arch.

I drove to the arch, which had been converted into a gate. The gate had a guard, who only stepped out after I had stopped in front of a rickety looking wooden saw-horse. The guard turned out to be a single Marine Lance Corporal in field utilities. He stood at Parade Rest, next to the driver-side window, then slowly saluted. I didn't know if he was saluting the blue Officer base-sticker on the windshield, or if he had seen the yellow bars on my shoulders. I did not salute back. My cover was on the passenger seat. Marines did not salute indoors or uncovered, unlike Army personnel.

"How can I help you, sir," the Marine said, his arms dropping to his sides. Once he had finished the short sentence, his right hand rose up and extended to the window, as if waiting for some contribution. I looked at the hand. I knew immediately that security was tighter than the saw horse gave the impression of. The hand was waiting for documents of identification and some sort of clearance for why I was there. I said nothing, working my wallet our of my back pocket. I took out my military identification card, then pulled out the single sheet of orders from inside my blouse. He took the I.D. card, but just waved at the piece of paper. "Be right back, sir," the Lance Corporal said. I waited. I looked over at the Coast Guard Station, wondering if I was somehow going to be connected to that place until I processed out of the Corps. The wait grew so lengthy that I finally turned the ignition key off, and pulled my left arm out of the hot morning sun.

The Lance Corporal came back. "Proceed down the road, and through the next gate. Park next to the wall. Someone will meet you at the door." I took my I.D. card back. "What is the Cotton Estate, anyway?" I asked, then "Do they grow cotton here?" The Corporal just looked at me. "I don't know, sir," he said, deadpan, then moved to the front of the car to pull back the saw-horse. I shrugged. I had been having a nice day-dream about sailing a Coast Guard skiff among a bevy of Southern California beach beauties, but it did not appear that that was going to be my assigned function. I drove away, as instructed. The new black tarmac weaved back and forth several times, before the vegetation cleared, and I as able to see a second wall, with a second arch. I presumed the Marine's description of a second gate was, in reality, the second arch. I stopped near a barred wooden door, set deep into the solid stone wall. I got out of the Volks to examine it. It was one of those thick old wooden things with black steel straps. There was no visible handle or port. I looked around, feeling foolish, then tapped on the door. I would have said "open sesame" at the same time, but I was intrigued by everything that had happened that morning, and a bit unsure of myself.

The door sucked silently open. A tall suited stranger filled the space left by the door. The man wore a small radio microphone in his right ear, and aviator sun glasses. The glasses were of too dark a material to allow me to see the man's eyes. I had only seen Secret Service Agents on television, but I knew instantly that I was standing in front of one of them.

"Identification?" the man said, his hand extending out, in exactly the same way the Marine's had. I noted that he did not refer to me as 'sir.' "Wait here," he said, then left with my I.D. card, just as the Marine had. "Holy shit," i breathed, very quietly. Until that moment I had not realized that, whatever I had somehow stepped into, was not to be taken lightly. The Secret Service was a serious outfit. Also, the Marine guard out front was not there for play. Real Marine guards were only used for National Security assignments. The rest of security was contracted out. The man returned, but his hands were empty.

"This way," he said, gesturing with the slight flip of his left shoulder, while closing the door with his right hand. The door clicked instead of slamming. I realized that the door only looked like an old Spanish entryway. I wondered what it was really made of. I followed the man. "What about my I.D. card?" I said to the walking man's back. We walked through several more doorways, the doors always open. Finally, we stepped through an interior arch into a great windowed room. The agent stopped, turned, then leaned close to whisper, "You'll get your I.D., and a new one, when you leave....I think." He then departed the way we had come. "He thinks?" I whispered to myself. I looked out across the Spanish tile floor of the room. It was well appointed, with expensive furniture. The floor was partially covered by large Persian rugs, the kind I had only seen in stores.

The room's windows ran side by side along the far wall, giving a complete curved panorama of the breaking waves, which were moving ceaselessly in toward a long beach of flat beautiful sand. I noticed a man. He was standing, facing the ocean, right up close to the windows. He wore an unusual cream-colored suit. A distinctive feature caught my immediate attention. The man's blond hair was cut strangely. His haircut was like a Marine cut, except it was flat on top. It was an old flat-top cut I had only seen in photos and on television, not in real life. I looked around, but there was no one else in the room. I walked to stand next to the blond, flat-topped man. He was taller than me by several inches. I looked up at his chiseled profile. He face was clean-shaven, the muscles of his jaw tight, individually distinguishable, while his nose was long and straight. His face was slightly too long, I decided, and he looked a little too much like the Marine Corps posters of the perfect Marine. Every real Marine hated those posters. I didn't know what to say, so I turned and looked out at the waves too. We stood like that for several minutes.

"You're orders are from me," he said, his eyes remaining glued to the ocean just outside the windows. I held myself rigid, next to the man. I felt that he would tell me when to say something. I listened, and stared at the sea. When the man talked it was almost impossible to discern lip movement, I noted. "You'll be working for me," the man said, his lips again not moving. I felt an impulse to giggle. Maybe the man was a ventriloquist sent to entertain the President, I thought. But I did not even smile. I finally could not contain myself anymore. "Who are you, sir?" I asked.

"I'm H.R. Halderman, advisor to the President of the United States," he said, the words rolling out one after another, as if a tape was being played at a slower speed than it was recorded, with all emotion sucked out of it. "They call me H.R., behind my back....so don't." I nodded, wanting to ask "don't what?" but I didn't. H.R. Halderman flicked his head to the rear. Somehow I knew, from the gesture, that our strange, one-sided interview was over. I turned, heading for the arch I had come in under. "We start at 0900 in the morning around here," he said. I nodded, although I knew he couldn't see me. The Secret Service agent appeared, magically, at the arch by the time I got there. He handed me my I.D. back. "You get a new one in the morning. Don't be late. He doesn't like to start late." I nodded, putting my I.D. card away. "Start what?" I said, very quietly, so H.R. Halderman would not hear me.

"You work for H.R. now. Welcome to his world," the agent said.

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