Mark stepped onto the tarmac of the small county airport. The craft bringing him almost home wasn't that large for a commercial jet but it got the job done. The shimmering, blistering Southwest Texas heat slammed at him like a blowtorch. He didn't flinch; he didn't even acknowledge it was literally scorching the plants around him. He adjusted his sunglasses while walking toward the terminal; where he had been during the past few years, this was a minor vacation to his body and mind.
As he walked toward the ARRIVALS sign on the small air terminal, his mind subconsciously calculated and categorized the positions, placements, and motions of all things human and mechanical around him. His eyes were absorbing movements and shadows around him; this was now his nature as well his focus in life. He was not that unusual from any other person disembarking from the flight. His military uniform was - well, slightly wrinkled from nearly 27 hours of flying airport to airport, waiting for the next link to bring him closer to his destination. The Vietnam conflict was in full swing so military and naval personnel were easily seen many places; so were protestors, used car salesmen, and other typically civilian life forms that Mark cared less about. He was indistinguishable from other military personnel unless you looked into his eyes; they made you think about checking your life insurance payments.
The air conditioning touched his skin as he passed through the sliding doors. He located his duffle bag and travel kit, and then headed out to find transportation that went far from the typical routes. He had another 120 or so miles to go before he could relax, sit down in some peace and quiet, and then let his mind and body settle. When he left several years ago, a modest, nondescript county bus service ran through the small town he was headed toward. A short conversation with Airport Security directed him over the pedway and the airport entrance road toward a small, weather worn sign at the end of the shuttle bus lanes that listed that same service. The shade of a large elm tree covered a concrete bench.
Propping his duffle against end of the concrete bench, he allowed himself the opportunity to sit down and relax. None of the airline seats or the terminal chairs he had been cursed to endure for the past two days would allow any respite. The concrete bench, however, had its own silent strength out here in the open. It proudly displayed a history in scuff marks, pencil markings, the obligatory occasional chip gone from the corner, and it was actually somewhat cool being in the shade of a large elm tree. Behind his wrap around sun glasses, he surveyed his newer surroundings as he had done while disembarking the plane.
Satisfied the terrain was not hostile, nor indicated possible forces in shadowed hiding, Mark allowed himself the pleasure of letting his body relax and enjoy the cool warmth of the bench and the shade of the tree. Anyone coming near him might notice that he had yet to indicate discomfort with the searing heat and humidity, he was not sweating nor was he showing any problems with the humidity. He knew no one would have a likelihood of recognizing the person that left those thousands of days long ago as the military person sitting there now. That former person was a slight, chubby, shy, and significantly naïve person compared to the professional warrior with the well-chiseled body now holding the same name. Maybe the same spirit, most certainly not same mind or the same focus.
An archaic, wheezing bus rumbled in to the loading zone lane; Mark boarded it to finish the next, and hopefully the last, leg his transporting ever closer to home ground. The bus was old enough to be the same one he departed on - inwardly he smiled. That bus ran like shit and rode like crap back then; it appeared that some minor god had resurrected this clunker back into running condition just for him. No evidence any air conditioning other than the "10-50 AC" - wheezing downhill at 50 mph with all 10 windows open - had ever blessed this old beast.
Relaxing on the rear bench seat, Mark allowed himself to enter a light, restful asleep as the old bus chugged onward toward his destination. The same dream he had several times crept back into his mind's eye - a family scene with 2-3 small kids, nice house, probably his spouse in the kitchen working on supper, him in jeans and a t-shirt, and then the door bell rings. He opens the door - a war weary marine covered with old blood stains, some dirty bandages, and several bandoliers of ammo grabs his shirt and drags him from his house into the jungle where suddenly he is transformed into his own cammies, his own weapons, and is tracking a target in his sniper rifle sights. The quiet "phut" - "phut" firing of his own sniper silencer wakes him up again, as always, and he quietly looks around his position without moving his body. It has only been about 45 minutes but Mark feels rested enough to slide back into a light sleep again that does not have a dream he can recall. He knows its wishful thinking - that's what a base camp shrink told him once after a debriefing from an especially grueling mission.
About two hours later, Mark awoke as the bus began a slight descent into a small Texas town. This town, like so many other country towns off the main freeways, looked worn and tired. Not quite enough money to stay neat and tidy, the phrase keep well painted and spruced up he remembered as he left the bus and stepped on home ground. It did not escape his vision that the court house still needed bricks around the front right cornice piece fixed, or that the grocery store had "country fresh eggs" on sale.
