Excerpted from Gum's Story by Rick Turnbull. Copyright © 2001. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One

Crack! Boom!

The sudden crash of thunder rolled through Phillip Turner's brain, jolting him awake. His first instinct was to duck and cover, to grab his gear and brace for incoming.

Then, rubbing his eyes, he noticed the clock on the bedside table and remembered where he was--a nondescript motel room on the outskirts of Hickory, North Carolina. He strained to make out the time--7:30 a.m., way past time to get up.

Part of the dream stayed with him, even as he tried to will himself awake. The machinegun and mortar fire, the explosions, the sound of women and children screaming and stampeding through a crowded Saigon street.

Another savage blast of thunder shook the room. Outside, the rain howled and scratched against the windowpane. Phillip pushed himself to his elbows and looked around. Yellow patches of ligntning danced off the far wall, highlighting a pair of keys on the TV that danced and jangled in the mayhem.

Sweat poured from Phillip's brow, dimming his vision as tattered fragments of the dream floated through his mind.

He saw Gum riding his bike, Gum smiling and waving as he peddled hard to catch up with the big plane taxiing down the runway. He saw the approaching jeep, the glint of blue steel, the sudden puff of smoke, the frozen look of horror on Gum's face.

No!

Phillip lurched forward, grabbing empty air.

Only when he leaned back and felt the familiar warmth of his wife's body lying next to his did the dream start to fade. Half-turning, he caught a glimpse of Kassy with a pillow to shield out the noise. He fought the urge to pull her close, to wake her up so she could help him make the nightmare go away.

Phillip swung his long legs over the side of the bed and pushed up. He staggered forward, straight into a wall that wasn't supposed to be there. Once again, he remembered they were at a Holiday Inn. He and Kassy had arrived in Hickory the day before to do some furniture shopping, something they did just about every Memorial Day.

He found the bathroom, flicked on the light. The face that glared back at him from the mirror gave him a shock. It couldn't be his, no way. He leaned closer, studying the stranger staring back at him. Full-bearded and puffed, with way too much gray and more lines than should be proper for a once handsome, blue-eyed, forty-five year old. When did you get to be so old, he heard himself asking the imposter in the mirror. Phillip was always way too hard on himself. His midlife guise was more like a diamond in the rough that women found a sexual attraction to and men respected.

He brushed his teeth, then went to work on his beard with the scissors and comb. Satisfied, he toweled off and splashed on a handful of cologne.

Back in the bedroom, Phillip sat down on the corner of the bed and slipped on his clunky white Reeboks. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Kassy still fighting her pillows. She squirmed and mumbled in her sleep. He reached down and gently stroked her strawberry blonde hair. When she flinched, he drew back. He didn't want to wake her. Not yet. It was still too early. The early morning hours belong to him.

He stood, ready for his ritual cigarette and coffee. He blew his sleeping wife one final kiss, then opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

The restaurant was located just off the lobby. He found a table, sat down and ordered a cup of coffee. While he waited for the waitress to bring him his wake-up brew, he poured over the headlines in the local paper. Out of habit he found himself scanning the obituaries.

"Will there be anything else, sugar?" the waitress asked, brushing dangerously close as she poured a cup of coffee. The scent of cheap perfume and the sound of smacking gum made Phillip wince.

"That'll do for now," he replied. "We'll order breakfast when my wife comes down."

"Oh, you're married then," the waitress said, a trace of disappointment in her voice.

Phillip smiled. "Have been for a long time."

The waitress stopped smacking her gum long enough to heave a despondent sigh. "Some women have all the luck," she huffed. She patted her French bun hairdo, flipped her order pad shut and bustled away.

Phillip took a sip of the coffee and lit up another cigarette before turning his attention to the paper again. He flipped through the sports section, business news and editorial pages before going back to the front page. Suddenly, in the center just below the fold, he noticed a wire service photograph. It was a black and white Memorial Day shot featuring a short, balding, sixtyish Asian male clad in a light-colored trench coat and holding a black, small-brimmed hat.

The caption read: Retired General Chu of the South Vietnamese Army, a highly-decorated hero of the Vietnam War, honors his fallen comrades with the placing of this wreath on "The Wall," the Vietnamese War Memorial in Washington, D.C. General Chu is retired and now lives in the United States."

At that moment a brilliant burst of lightning seemed to split the room in half. The ensuing peal of thunder rattled windows and almost knocked phillip out of his chair.

Trembling, phillip forced himself to glance down at the photo again. It can't be, he heard himself saying. It's not possible.

Rivulets of sweat broke out across his forehead as he studied the image in the photo. An image Phillip had spent the past two decades trying to forget. His glut flipped and churned, boiled and gurgled. He felt sick, sicker than he had felt in years.

As Phillip's eyes continued to burn holes in the dreaded image before him, his mind reeled and spun, jerking him back to 1973.