Survive(The File Soldier book 1)

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What if today is your graduation day at medical school? You recover from retrograde Amnesia and discover the master to whom you've to wait believes the oath you just took to uphold the sanctity of life is just but crap. To save lives is not his agenda. You're a trained killer, with a mysterious code embedded in your arm. A terrorist faction called the Shrine Tango Movement seeks to exploit your I.Q. But its a setup. Extremists from the terror group capture and lure you with a €5 Million reward to solve the so called Psi-Files secret chain. The chain is to be employed to design a high-tech spacecraft from which a biological weapon known as the 'Night Blight' shall be released on selected locations in the U.S., Israel and Ukraine. In what appears to be a retaliatory move against this ploy, the U.S. is about to go to war with Russia. And three other factions are hunting you down to steal the chain. Would you flee? Would you fight back? Or would you embrace this quest? Survive tells it all.

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I’m an Ex-German Special Forces expert in unconventional warfare. I’ve an I.Q. of a hundred and seventy. Even creepier, I’m clairvoyant. Meaning, I’m a seer of things invisible to the eye.

But these abilities place me in the list of most wanted men for whom a dozen terror groups are hunting. The Shrine Tango Movement—a faction seething with secrets and covert dealings, is such a group. Mr. Howard Green—the S.T.M’s boss, lures me with a €5 Million reward to solve the so called X-Files secret chain. Apparently, it’s a chain he intends to employ in designing a high-tech spacecraft from which a biological weapon known as the ‘Night Blight’ will be released on selected locations in the U.S.A., Israel and Ukraine.

But I’m too stubborn to embrace that quest. And that affords me mystery in all its shapes. The S.T.M. embarks on a plan to make my life a living hell.

With a “catch me if you can” mind-set, I screw up things.

An excellent card is drawn. This beholds me in the grasp of a fugitive fleeing to save his ass. Not even my closest buddies can come to my rescue for, they’re all blacklisted ...set to face the very same music.

If destiny has two ways of crushing us, then, it’s but the bonds of our choices that truly light the roads we travel. My name is John Tailor and, folks, this is my story....

It’s a seemingly gloomy September 10th 2001. This is how it begun.

In the S.T.M’s quest to create a new generation of extremists back in 1999, I’d been kidnapped, ferried and deposited into an indoctrination camp in Afghanistan for specialized training in Jihadist ideologies ahead of my deployment to the X-Files secret chain. But I was never good at losing focus. Two years later I’d secretly managed to secure myself a scholarship to study at Harvard medical school.

A summer correspondence I’d received from the institution during Spring indicated that I’d been scheduled for Winter intake. Registration dates were nearing. But one thing was certain. They’d never have allowed me to leave in pursuance of such ambitions. It’d be pointless.

Escape was the only way. A clear death sentence.

No one had ever attempted such a thing before.

The mystery that spun doom took shape in the forenoon of the 10th of September 2001. I call to mind I’d just emerged from some moorland 15 Miles East of the dreaded Kundus Mountains. As things stood, my escape from the S.T.M’s Kundus-Indoctrination-camp had excited friction between myself and Mr. Green. He’d thus sworn I would pay for my actions in blood.


Kandahar International Airport. Afghanistan.

The Airplane, headed for New York, and taxiing from the parking bay at the Airport streamed out jet efflux like a spitting Cobra. It was a Boeing aircraft, the latest in the Twway Inc. modern fleet.

19:20 P.m. had struck—already. The space about the passenger cabin was meager and the passengers aboard seemed vexed.

I was among them. By dint of being a master of my own game.

A lady of about twenty five sat beside me. To the left was an old woman. I noticed a strange stare from the little girl accompanying her. She appeared transfixed by my sixth finger.

In the cockpit two male pilots—Wesley and Collins, sat conversing in low tones. The lights on the instruments console flashed over the pedestal, illuminating the flight plan.

There was that little girl—Molly, by name. Seven years of age, she told me. And as we begun to get used to the smell of one another, she talked more to me than she did to her grandma.

I’m a Postaxial Polydactyl. For that reason, she asked me such questions as why my supernumerary digit had no joint. If I’d seen any vampires. Why my torso appeared bulky or where I was headed for.

To have beguiled time in response to little Molly’s questions, I confess, was to stimulate mines of curiosities on her part. But I claimed to have encountered vampires in Canada and lied I was headed for a town called Devil’s Kettle. I resolved to keep her confused and scared so she’d leave me alone.

Easy task. That didn’t take me long. Within no time, I’d drowned her into deep slumber.

In the cockpit, the visors were ready. I saw it all in my subconscious mind.

Collins engaged the differential throttle, and steered with brakes and rudder. Giving the signal for take-off, he unlocked the steering wheel and taxied to the centre of the take-off area.

It struck 19:30 p.m.

By that stroke the moon was full. The sky was blue. And the stars confirmed their delicate twinkle.

To ensure the wheels were parallel to the runway, Wesley and Collins steered ten yards from the center of the take-off area. Brakes came on, allowing the formation to take up position. By radio and visual signal, Wesley obtained confirmation that the formation was ready for take-off.

Slightly, he advanced the throttle and giving the take-off signal, released the brakes.

In the cabin all was quite. Preparing one for everything and nothing at the same time.

I understood the drill. So, I listened. I observed it all in my sub-consciousness.

The formation had maintained station, so Wesley moved the throttle to the half-open position. I fumbled around and buckled myself down the seat. Molly’s loud snores seemed to strain my school of thoughts.

I pulled off my leather jacket and tore off my K-9 Body Amour. From my left trousers pocket I drew my gun and stashed it under my armpit. The .56 slipped between my September Issue of Playboy magazine.

Two minutes elapsed. I’d to make sure I didn’t elbow Molly awake.

Quickly, I slid on my K-9. Three minutes elapsed. My leather jacket came on. Silence reigned— at that, my skin almost crept.

The aircraft accelerated down the runway. For five to six minutes, we climbed to a cruising altitude. As usual I remained calm.

At the starboard, two infants disrupted the cabin atmosphere with annoying cries. Some teenagers at the front whimpered in excitement.

I appreciated the silence of the lady sited beside me. Six men at the fore—a row off the cabin crew section, dawdled away the cruising anxiety in bottles of whisky. They might’ve taken some along with them I confirm, for the evening serving shouldn’t have started in such heavy turbulence.

The lady beside me broke the silence. ‘My name is Julia,’ she said.

I glanced over my left shoulder and turned. ‘John Tailor,’ I said.

She had an excellent German tongue—I confess. Her mastery of the English language staggered me as well. I found out that she was travelling to the U.S.A. courtesy of an exchange programme organized by the European Union. She called it Erasmus or something.

I informed her I’d been offered one by the Integrated Corridor of Scholarship Organization—I.C.S.O., to study Neurosurgery at Harvard School of Medicine. And that I was, as well, traveling to the U.S. to begin my undergraduate studies.

As it turned out, Julia was already a student at Harvard. And with the charm I saw in her smile and the twinkling in her eyes, I desperately fell in love with her.


They called it the “Dirty Hour”—D.H. in short.

The human traffickers usually came out of their hideouts between 11 p.m. to 2 p.m. Like nocturnal creatures, they say, when the sun’s generosity had vanished deep down, they sprang into action.

The following events were taking place at the Miami Military Air Traffic Centre control room:

Two men skunked about tracking down those inglorious bastards. They scanned aircrafts; received coded identification and flight data information, gained access to flight plans and customs pre-declarations. They talked to air-traffic controllers and vectored-in customs service and coast guard interceptor aircrafts to trail suspect aircrafts. The names of these two men were; Johnston and James Steel, twin brothers C.I.A. Agents, newly deployed and straight from the military University of Munich, Germany.

On runway 06 at the M.M.A.T.C., two U.S. air force pilots readied themselves for take-off. Their call signal was POMPSHIT—designed by one Mr. Joel Smith, a veteran U.S. Air Force One Senior Master Sergeant. By name the two went Leonid and Nestor, the best of the best.

Leonid stepped out the little lobby room east of the aircraft parking bay. Delightedly smoking, he got down on his left knee and set tight his shoelace. Nestor, the co-pilot dashed out, patted him on the back, and requested him to gather the crew so they’d take a ride. Leonid, alarmed by Nestor’s proposal, crushed his half-smoked Winston under the heel of his shoe. This man was a brilliant co-pilot— his brother’s keeper in air.

Four 403d Wing recruits from the Kessler Air Force Base made the crew. And by the time Nestor returned, the Auxiliary Power Unit was on.

The plane was a Dassault-Breguet Falcon 20 fighter jet, manufactured in Toulouse and assembled in Hamburg. It was a speed machine—a weapon of magnificent quality.

On account of modern camouflage tactics, the crew assigned to the interdiction of human trafficking kept the unofficial name Falcon. The official designation in the certificate of registration of the combat surveillance equipment was HU-55D though, used to track down terrorists in Mexico and Panama.

A suspect plane was pursuing us. So, Leonid and Nestor ventured to blow it up before it caught up with us.

A guy calling himself Mr. Hubbard Stroud suddenly announced that our plane was now in his control. He claimed five armed men were on-board, and that he’d changed our course for Moscow, Russia.

Surprised, Julia stared at me so intensely I believed she wanted herself siphoned into my stomach. She quivered like a child out in the snow. This announcement had come as a rude shock.

On the spur of the moment, I reached onto the underside of my K-9 and drew out a jungle knife, assuring her everything would be okay. She stretched out her hand, so I handed the knife over to her. My request to her was, she should use it when need arose. She trembled at that, but assured me she’d be safe.

For five minutes, I crept under the passenger seats. Seat number 35. Number 25.

Fifteen—battling six rows in about a minute.

To the front cabin crew section, I had seven more to go. That’d take me thirty more seconds.

I drew out my short gun and clasped it in my hand. Ready—ready to fire.

Twenty seconds. Five rows.

Seven seconds remained and seven rows were done. I was faster than I thought.

I glanced at my wrist-watch.

Like an alligator, I crept further, anticipating the worst. Six seconds. Cabin crew section. No cause for alarm—yet.

I ventured into my jeans trousers side pocket and drew out a little pen-knife. Quickly, I popped it open. The electrical bay panel number 41 was right next to the forward exit door.

I pinned my razor sharp pen-knife into the carpet floor, making an x-cut. Popping back the cutting edge, I drew out a small Pentalobe star screw driver. Five more seconds were gone. I drove out one screw. With two screws out, ten minutes had elapsed.

In a trickle of twenty minutes, three screws were off their seats. The last pair was done within the twenty fifth.

With a hand gesture, I assured a knot of scared flight attendants that everything was going to be alright. That I was going to take care of the situation. That everything was under control. That no one was gonna get hurt.

Anxiously they shivered in fright, but nodded in unison. Jostled about a little corner like a dray of squirrels, they watched me crawl-by. They were terrified—really petrified, that for a moment I was sure they’d melt down. I loved it not at all.

I pulled and eased myself through the access gap to the aircraft electrical bay. Carelessly, I stashed my gun into my pocket, rested my feet onto a thin metallic bar above the floor of the bay, and pulled the panel lid shut.

It was so hot in there. Unbearable heat. It felt as though I’d jumped into a pressure cooker.

For a while, I searched—carefully. A clearing appeared before me. But without light, it was like moving into a vampire’s dwelling.

I squatted, then took a breath. A deep one.

Think, damn it. Think, fool!

Searching for my little Fisher Space ball point pen, I took off my bullet-proof jacket. Inbuilt with an LED lighting system, it was the one special pen I always engaged in place of a standard spot-light in Afghanistan.

I pulled off its lid and struck the switch on. Taking a glance at the tiny spotlight, I smiled briefly at the illumination. Still, I was in the crouching position.

My first bead of sweat hit the floor. I pricked my ears alert, mopping the beads off my forehead. Then, I started to the electrical and electronics computer.

A dark blue tube struck my eye. It was made of a rare type of heat resistant thermoplastic and served as an interface from the EEC to the cockpit electronics.

Between my teeth, I clipped in the butt-end of the tiny spot-light. Drool crusted one corner of my mouth. Again, I drew out my little pen-knife, held the dark blue tube firmly in my hand, and made a longitudinal slit down to the EEC base.

Bravo! Three wires emerged. One red. A blue and green one.

I reached for the red one. Grasped it, and tore it apart. Then, I grabbed the green one, and cut it as well. The thicker blue came last. Quickly, I joined the two blue and green cables in quick tight twists. I could scarcely draw my breath.

But what would be the game plan?

I disclose, that was to mess up the communication radar. So easy I should’ve busted with spiritual edification.

Within the perimeters of the electrical bay, I busied myself trying to figure out a shorter route into the engine nacelle. But then, for a fact, the firewall wouldn’t be an easy composite to dismantle. Possibilities would make no difference to the wilt of prevailing time pressure as well.

I made along the right side-wall of the bay. This stretch was extremely hot. I traced cowling number seventy six. And as I drew deeper into the mayhem, it appeared darker than I’d imagined. For that reason, I engaged my spotlight again. This was no easy shit. I was all sweaty.

Five minutes elapsed.

My wrist-watch indicated five past midnight. I’d dawdled away twenty minutes already. Passing my hands about the front and rear bulkheads in double rows, I ventured on a search. At about seven past twelve, my left hand rested upon a little metallic flap at the bottom right corner of the electrical bay.

With my right, I reached for the flap. And feeling it for a while, I shifted the spotlight between my teeth again—directing the sharp illumination over.

Got it! I exclaimed.

The little flap went between my thumb and forefinger. And in a circular motion, I twirled it clockwise.


I drew out my pen-knife. With it, I drove out three little screws from the underside of the bulkhead. A tiny hole whose diameter seemed to be double the girth of my index finger appeared. I held the spot-light closer, directing the illumination through it.

It felt so hot in there. But this is where my patience and time were key ingredients for success though.

Twenty minutes past midnight, I drove the knife through the tiny orifice. And for about two minutes, I searched. Easy, now. Easy. This was a thin tungsten wire attached to the bottom side of a spring. I broke the wire and the lights on one EEC went off, followed by a continuous repetitive gong sound.

Now I had to rush.

The illumination struck the following inscriptions on the surface of the bulkhead. Tungsten wire release spring, CuNi18Zn27, 200°c, 690 N/mm². I lowered my spot-light onto the floor. With both hands, I secured the tip of my pen-knife onto the middle of the spring and pulled it outward, breaking it off its seat.

The repetitive gong sound went off.

It went on again.

Then off. I spun and faced the EEC, and waited. The lights didn’t go on.

Quite Impressive. My first success.

Stepping into the engine nacelle, I shifted the spot-light between my teeth and pushed the bulkhead to the left. In wonder, I stared straight ahead into the heat exchanger with my eyes splitting further downward across numerous wiring.

I observed. And swiftly, made mental notes as I adjusted to the darkness in there.

I then motioned ahead to the Air-fuel Heat Exchanger, drew out my knife and took off my K-9 amour. My T-shirt went off as well. For a moment I thought I’d take the top of the Exchanger for a strip-tease.

With my knife, I sliced a piece of cloth from the lower edge of my T-shirt and disposed the rest about the Gasper System. In search of the fuel lines, I headed straight for the Heat Exchanger.

Time flew.

Coiling myself between two honeycomb fittings, I finally found one attached to an Aluminium plate at the lower inlet section. Between my teeth, I bit the small piece of cloth and secured my butt upon the suction pump behind. The battery to my spot-light went dead. So I drew out my Smartphone and downloaded an LED Flashlight App. from Google store.

I imagined the passenger cabin atmosphere to be miserably raw. And true to that fact, mystery gnawed into the stolid silence. Two armed gun-men made leisurely along the gangways. One walked rearward, the other toward the front. It was expedient that this conquest should bestow absolute attention for, they waved each other at about mid-section, shaping out their pacing as to arrive at the extreme ends at the same time. You’d wonder whether they’d to compute that.

I reached for the fuel inlet pipe and, with a steady grip, grasped it firmly in my left hand. Pressing my back against the fuselage my pen-knife in my right hand, I sliced the plastic pipe into two. Hurriedly, I lowered the knife onto the floor and, with the small piece of cloth, blocked the orifice to prevent fuel flow. The fuel would leak though. To prevent this, I then reached for my pen-knife and stuck the piece deeper into the pipe.

Two minutes.


I sneaked between two rows of gasper system mounting, then into the aft cargo compartment. In there, I remained. Five minutes elapsed until I was sure the aircraft had consumed the available contingency fuel. I crept to the midsection-panel number fifty six. With my pen-knife, I undid the screws, opened the panel slightly and waited—until I saw one gun-man approach.

One. Two.

Three. I computed the steps.

On his fourth, I pulled open the entire panel. ‘Got ya!’

The man lost his balance. I grabbed him by the feet and wrung him underneath. I stepped on his neck, kicked the gun off his hand and quickly slammed the panel shut. I turned him around and with my knee on his neck, severed his spine. One down! No alarm.

Haste was necessity. Speed. I brushed the panel sideways.

Grabbing the side-bars of the opening, I curled myself upward. That brought me to the passenger cabin about seven meters to the rear exit door. Then, again, I replaced the panel. I aimed my gun at the robust handy man walking rearward.

One. Two.

Three. I counted.

I pulled the trigger. And bam. Two down! Mission completed.

As I approached Julia, the boom of a loud explosion hit my ears. Then there was continuous gunfire, followed by bangs and crashing of indisputable magnitude. A glance out the window, revealed the flexing wing bending and vibrating under brutal side-winds.

The wake turbulence screamed, and scrambled for the better part of the Aerofoil. I almost felt the agony of the keel surface. Strong wake turbulence pounded and rocked the aircraft into perfect submission.

Alarmed, I went flat onto the floor. My involuntary start occasioned Julia to claw hard upon my arms. In a perfect stall, the aircraft pitched nose-down.

We’d been shot!

The next thing I call to mind, was recovering from a coma at the West Coast Miami, with Julia Elise and a Dr. Vivian Isidor by my side trying to reconstruct my fractured skull. My recovery took me nine months and left me with a terrible retrograde amnesia. The memory of my past was completely eroded.


Nine years later...

Harvard Med School, 25 Shattuck Str. Boston, MA 02115.

Whether these lines should convey the secrets of a chequered existence to stimulate disclosure of events relating to my strange past or not, I hardly care a straw. I’m obliged to embrace this moment of truth as a cool and humid afternoon of the 22nd September 2009.

Bolt-erect and in a cheerful mood, I adjusted my gown and stalked about the Gordon Hall student registration centre. With me were a throng of fellow graduates who’d found my genius— with respect to my dissecting abilities, so amusing they wouldn’t help harping upon the exponent thrills of those cases of surgery we’d experienced. My excitement fever—I confirm stupidly, had for reasons I wouldn’t tell, shut me up in the tremendous league I’d won against man and medicine.

By-the-by, the stress and strains of the past few weeks were whimsical enough to be joked about in lovely medical delicacies. Yet what psychological upheavals I suffered from breakfasting with cadavers and crashing demons of Anatomy against the window to my apartment in the wee hours is not to be graced with any significant illustration of joy.

I suspended my excitement in the noisome claim of how I was—after all, fished-out of the Atlantic Ocean from a plane wreck nine years ago. And ventured to mention a Dr. Vivian Isidor who’d remolded my skull thereafter, remembering very little of the state of emergency (on that fateful day)—what I begged no excuse for calling; that unpleasant and miserable day for, death had whispered upon my ears.

Upon the end of graduation, I grabbed the M2 Cambridge-Harvard Shuttle to Vanderbilt Hall on 107 Avenue Louis Pasteur. My room-mate Daniel—an ill-tempered clumsy fellow from Texas, was already gone, taking my newest pair of underwear with him. If I’d begun with an appetite for beer, Mr. Dan—who was borderline schizophrenic and a cross-dresser with a penchant for wearing bow ties, would’ve messed it up.

In quietude, my other roommate—Dr. James Block a terrible womanizer from Detroit, quickly packed-up his bags to alarming capacities. Nettled, I sat gazing out the window. My eyes stung Julia my girlfriend who—as well, appeared to have been staring in my direction within hail distance in her apartment at the second floor of the women’s campus across the parking yard.

I sprung to my feet, spun around and begun packing my very own, my internship situation at Johns Hopkins guaranteed.

Then, in his usual paroxysm of haste my buddy Dr. David Kessler—who I’d diagnosed with a rare case of Kleptomania, stormed into the room. He said hey, tossed me a khaki envelope and left in a hocus-pocus rehearsal of some med. stuff that passed my ear without inquiry.

I grabbed it—and tore it up in stolid silence.

Drawing out the white piece, I withdrew a few paces and jolted my back upon the window-sill. A quick eye pursued over its contents. Scanning over the opening remarks, I hardly understood the first paragraph. But then the salutation and the body of this letter were, far from what I’d expected.

Dear son,

I write this in good faith to observe my final wishes. Changpu Lee is my name; your dad of the past, of the present and of the future. In medical terms you’d say; without whom you wouldn’t have had half of your chromosomes. In my hospital bed at Sunward Park Hospital, ward five—Johannesburg South Africa, I’ve heard—from the media, about your scholarship to Harvard. The newspaper-clip with the news of the impossible surgery of the May’s twins of South Africa—for whom you put your career on the edge to save, bears me company.

As I toss and turn about my bed, the panic in my doctor’s eye, betakes a bleak near future to which I spare no detail. The tumor in my brain throbs painfully. The clock still ticks, reminding me not for the first time, that this world’s not any more my home.

Don’t get me wrong. Pray let’s bury the hatchet. That way, it’s healthy. Even healthier for a dying father. But telling you this, I can’t help. Remember; when a leaf falls from the family tree it always finds its way back. Your name was not Mot Sirrom. Read the two end toward front. Like so, you’ll have Tom Morris. Find your elder sister Peggy, you’ll know why. I hear you’ve a different name altogether these days. John Tailor or something. That’s quite a name.

Now you know the truth. But whether that sets you free, I’ll leave it at that for, I can hardly breathe. Dr. John Tailor or Dr. Tom Morris, you decide. You’ve the freedom to choose. Let me go, for my hands are frail and my eyes are misty. I can’t speak, I can’t think, I can’t kick. Not anymore. The secrets that darken the roads you travel are—under joint conspiracy, maliciously addressed to Chan Lee’s private ear. The S.T.M., the Russian Brotherhood and the Gush Emunim are party to the X-Files chain, for which the objects of the conspiracy to destroy the U.S.A., Israel and Ukraine have been drawn.

In this delightful communication, I sigh myself

Changpu Lee,

Your loving father.

Who was this Chan Lee? Clearly my ESP abilities failed me here. The conclusion to the letter plastered a huge vacuum in my mind. My only worry though, was that as soon as I’d enough of it, my memory was back in full spackle!

I’m a trained combat soldier.

Pulling up the sleeves to my Topman brand shirt, the following inscriptions appeared on my upper-right arm; RXC2346HX- X- Files. In a pathetic calculation, I approached the telephone and dialed.

‘John Tailor. Good evening, Taxi to Boston Logan International Airport.’

‘Pick up?’

‘Harvard Medical School—one zero seven Avenue Louis Pasteur.’

‘Time, please?’

‘17:45 UTC,’ I replied.

‘Vanderbilt Hall—107 Avenue Louis Pasteur, 17:45P.M, direction HMS. Correct?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Sir, I missed your name.’

‘John, John Tailor.’

‘John, its Raphael Jones. Allow fifteen minutes tops.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes tops.’

‘To whom I’m I speaking?’

‘Raphael Jones, Ridgeway Taxis, NXC.’

‘Very well, sir.’

It was cold and frosty. I slipped the letter into my trousers pocket and made toward the radio receiver. On, I turned it. The signal was WAMC-FM 105.1, the voice of Great Barrington. Being Hypothermic, I hugged my shivering body and made straight to the kitchen.

″Good evening folks. The Massport today joined officials from down town Bedford to officially open a three- mile-long highway system located on a 60.75 acre of property at L.H. Hansen Field. While providing civic advantages to the commuter that can now walk from town-owned conservation land in Bedford to Virginia Avenue in Cayman, a primary benefit of the trail system to Massport is to accommodate emergency access to the suburban areas of Boston Logan. A traffic snarl-up will be experienced to the Boston Logan International airport for the better part of the evening as a result.″

That was the voice of one Mr. Billy Genes—cool, and evidently easy. In such sublime evenings as these cold and boring ones, I should’ve found myself in perfect vibe with the aristocratic insight in his tone but for my medical school sigh-out mode. With the urgency in his voice on this Massport issue this evening, I felt my hopes of arriving at Boston Logan International Airport fly out of my tissues like a flash of light.

A glass of scotch I’d slithering down on my way from the kitchen, had thrust me into magnificent castes with blurred vision. This higher octane of coolness however, drove me straight into my bedroom. In there as I packed, I sneak my eyes behind some dark pair of sunglasses I’d purchased to challenge my roommate with respect to his trying to be cooler than I seemed to be.

Such crazy achievement seemed to have rejuvenated me. And that such a news-reporter as Mr. Billy Genes was, couldn’t have been a stain enough to have on-board my medical school sigh-out mode.

My packing took about nine minutes. On the tenth, I slid myself into a brand new black three-piece suit. White executive shirt. Black tie. And black leather shoes—Christian Louboutin model-A designer footwear. Trimmed and touched to the butt.

In my hands were two large suitcases. One blue. And a black one.

I motioned back to the living room and perched myself onto the sofa. But that opened drawers of irritating memories in my mind for; as I sat I saw things. And I saw more of them than was necessary.

Off I took my coat, and pulled up my sleeves again. On my right upper arm, I channeled my eyes over the inscriptions RXC2346HX- X- Files. A train of memories struck my mind.

I was an Ex-German combat soldier trained in Vietnam. I’d escaped from camp in Saigon after three years of hard training. Munich was the city I’d flown to, kidnapped by S.T.M. men and flown to Kundus Afghanistan for indoctrination in extreme versions of Jihad. I could remember guys like Mr. Howard Green and Steven Blame, the top officials of the Shrine Tango Movement.

I remembered Mr. Chris Coons, Jerry spatter, Boaz Igor and a couple of other militants of the extremist movement. My fight with the hijackers aboard the Twway 647 aircraft was now a stain in my memory.

To explain my complete recovery from the retrograde Amnesia, regardless of my training as a neurosurgeon, there never would’ve been a greater task. But the fact was; in the name of wonder, my memory was back!

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