
Here is a sample of the story I am selling. Need to sell four more copies to get my phone turned on an pay rent this month. If you like this and want more, please paypal me at caleb.schaber at gmail.com and I will send you a signed, numbered copy of this limited edition publication for $10 (that includes first class postage).
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The C-17 Globemaster III had only the crew and one other person on it. My deportation was at least going to be one where I could stretch my legs out. The plane had some equipment stacked up in the middle, but it was mostly empty. The regular airplane seats were not installed, so we sat on the fold down seats off the wall. I always look for a seat next to the wall plug because the battery on my laptop is usually dead.
Since I already tried to escape from Qatar once and was stopped, I felt like a double detainee, who was now a freed prisoner–detained (because of some bizarre misunderstanding between the US Army, the US Air Force and the government of Qatar. But I knew being on plane didn’t mean shit until that bird was in the the air and my boots were off the ground.
I put on my IPOD and started listening to a Whitley Striber book about an alien being kept in a bunker under a suburban house. I got the recorded version of the book from the Gerlach library before I left in February.
. I sat across from the door on the other side of the plane. The best way to describe the inside of a C-17 that is empty is to compare it to the inside of a whale, more like a fictional whale people might ride in, than a real one. This whale was lined with myriad wires and
supports, and apparently something was amok inside it all.
They hadn’t closed the door. Everything looked and sounded like we would take off, but the damn door was hanging open. The crew chief was messing with some laptop, and it looked like I was fucked again when someone came up the ladder into the plane and pulled out another laptop, connecting it to the plane, looking like they were diagnosing something.
They didn’t ask me to get off the plane, so I sat their listening to this story about an alien, held hostage by the Air Force and studied by scientists. The bunker under the house it was stored in caught fire, and the alien escaped early in the book.
After being detained by the Air Force and refused even a bed, I started really empathizing with the alien. Eventually, like the alien, I made my escape.
Now, I had get my luggage.
The pilots asked me if I wanted to go to Afghanistan. I sure as hell did. But I had to pass on that adventure and get off the plane in Kuwait. I doubt many people want to get to Baghdad as bad as I did, with all burning cars, random explosions and a steady drizzle of indirect fire. The only reason I needed to get to Baghdad was to get two big green bags and a foot locker I left at the airport, unattended a week ago.
I wasn’t really supposed to be in Baghdad. My embed was over. But I had orders that allowed me travel in and out of Iraq. I told my point of contact, Major Russo, whom I had not met or spoken except via email, what I had to do. As far as my chain of command went, I was authorized. Of course, I was authorized to fly to Qatar as well and that didn’t help for shit.
I had already missed the deadline to hang out with my friend Durgy, from Burning Man, who landed a job as lawyer in Kuwait City. Now I was pressed for time on my embed in Kuwait. All this trouble getting to Baghdad was ironic. My next mission was driving into Iraq from Kuwait with a National Guard unit.
(This is just a teaser. Their is nine more pages).