The Secret Decoder Ring

Fuck you, capitalist pigs. It was engraved in a downed tree trunk in the very clearing where a Blackhawk set down to insert the team. It was almost as if it was waiting for them. Expecting them. It didn’t look fresh, as within the past few days, but it wasn’t weeks old either. This was a bad sign. Then again, probably every clearing capable of landing a troop transport helicopter had the same inscription carved or painted in a conspicuous location. Certainly they hoped for that to be the case, because if they really were expected, then it was truly game over, before the mission started.

The portable radio picked up a Spanish Language news station. The whole team was following it. The 1984 Olympics. Bart Connor. Mary Lou Retton. Staff Sergeant Reyes was the linguist on the team and he did the translating, not that it was necessary. The names were obvious, as well as cardinal numbers, and the medals. Oro, plata, bronce. You could figure that one out quickly even if you didn’t know. Just follow the order. He wasn’t actually the team linguist; he was the demolitions expert. But he spoke Spanish natively, so why not kill two birds with one stone. They weren’t quite an ‘A’ team. An A team is all NCO’s. Spec Four Nichols was a last minute replacement for Staff Sergeant Keyes, the dedicated commo sergeant. Nichols wasn’t supposed to be operational yet, but his company commander pushed for it and there he was, out of Bragg on a training mission. Rather, a ‘training mission,’ in quotes, sitting in a jungle encampment in Honduras at least two years after the United States officially left Central America. Which, we didn’t, really, at least entirely. Our operations in Central America, supporting the Contras in their mission to defeat the Sandinistas in a bitter bit to prevent communism from spreading through Nicaragua and beyond, was arguably the largest American war… that never happened; at least not in the news.

Vietnam. Big news. Panama. Ollie North and his drug financed scandal. Contras. That was also big news. But nobody knew how big our presence was down there in its heyday in the late 1970’s and early 1980’s. It was huge, with thousands of involved service members, yet the average American believes the Central American conflict was limited to a handful of covert operatives and a scapegoat Army colonel. In contrast, a war was fought involving tens of thousands of service members. Soldiers were killed. Many committed huge acts of heroism. Despite that, all that returned had not a single combat ribbon awarded to their credit. We weren’t at war. Those weren’t designated combat zones. Certainly, it made the line troops bitter. But Special Forces? Nah. They operate in a veil of secrecy and actively shy from recognition anyway. No skin off their backs. They are soldiers, not Hollywood actors.

Keyes would have been a pivotal man. It was unfortunate about Keyes, and his incident with bouncers outside the nightclub off post. They say the bouncers will recover eventually, and most likely before Keyes himself would get through his own legal issues. He was sort of a Swiss Army knife. A Special Forces ‘A’ team is five NCO’s each with a specialty, tailored for the mission at hand. Keyes could do demo, he could do commo, he could do interrogation, and he spoke fluent Estonian. Then again, who the fuck needs to speak Estonian in Central America. That left the E4, Specialist Four Nichols, to join the mission in his place. But goddamn it, in a line Infantry unit, his role, pulling outside security with Gobbins as his lead would ordinarily be done by an E1 on up. Give him some respect. He spent damn nearly four years in Bragg undergoing training. He had just never seen the real thing yet. So technically, he was baggage. It’s not as bad as having to haul a useless Lieutenant around, but one gets the drift. Actually, that is more perception than truth. He is a soldier. He’s trained for combat. The real baggage was the sixth man. Richard Manley. This guy actually went by the name Dick, just because it sounded like, so porn, and being originally from the greater Los Angeles area, he was like, so LA. Dick Manley was also the token CIA field officer assigned to the mission. A non-combatant. That’s fine in a huge forward fire base environment, but a single team dropped off in a remote region of the jungle for a mission followed up by a covert extraction? Not so much. It pretty much eliminated their preferred fast roping extraction as an option. A helicopter swoops low, a long rope dangling beneath. Each team member grabs a handhold and the helicopter takes off, without bothering to board the team, who cling to the dangling rope, to a safe location before the enemy even has a chance to scratch their balls.

Oh right. Training. ‘Training.’ About that. None of them, not one, had orders to deploy to Honduras. Not official orders. No, officially, they were back in Fort Bragg, North Carolina and were currently on an undisclosed offsite training exercise. And nobody knew precisely, exactly, what the hell they were ‘training’ for. Except Dick Manley, who was sunning himself in a small break beneath the massive tree canopy, completely naked, to the chagrin of the team. Don’t be a Dick.

The Team Leader. Sergeant First Class Burch Moseley. The man was built like a brick shithouse, could run an obstacle course like an NFL running back, mow through a line of oppressors like an offensive tackle, and sip an afternoon tea like the Queen’s personal assistant. It wasn’t that he was entirely humorless… okay maybe he is. But he took no shit, and he didn’t like to be challenged. Unprovoked at least. You could challenge him – there was a protocol for that. But a buck sergeant? No. A Spec Four? Hell no, and what the hell is he even doing on my team?

Except Nichols got a slight reprieve. Moseley didn’t ‘hate’ him of course. Nichols was a good kid, just green, just maybe too ambitious in the wrong areas, but he was one of them. Almost. Now… Dick Manley on the other hand… Moseley disliked him. That is putting it mildly. More accurately, Moseley fucking hated him. He was everything Moseley wasn’t. West Coast. Hollywood. Poser. Well maybe not a poser, Manley wasn’t necessarily an outright pussy but he wasn’t hardened the slightest, at least physically. Why the Agency chose him for a top level field assignment is a mystery probably more closely guarded than nuclear submarine missile launch codes. So yeah, Nichols, as long as Spandex Bob is present, you get somewhat of a free pass, but sure as hell don’t push it. He wasn’t actually wearing spandex, he just looked like he should be wearing them.

You know, a sniper can detect your burning cigarette at one thousand yards. Umm, not really, but, still, be judicial where and when you smoke. There was really no enemy close by. Actually, there was really no enemy to speak of, by now. Moseley took a seat on a log next to the young, green Spec Four, and, had probably actively rehearsed his demeanor. “How you feeling, Nichols?”

Nichols was somewhat taken aback. Everything to this point was impersonal. “Confused, honestly, Sergeant…”

“Sarge will work. One of these days, you will be on a first name basis with all of us, including the officers. Just takes time son. Um, can I grab one of those smokes off you?”

“Yeah, sure… Sarge.” Nichols pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered on to Moseley.

“I know you want to know what is going on here. But you know the rules of classified information. To receive it, you have to have both the clearance, and the need to know. And… quite frankly, honestly, the need to know is more important than the clearance itself. One is waivable. The other is not. I sure as hell wouldn’t be the one to have to justify the call to let a non-cleared individual privy to top secret information based on the fact that it is in the best interest of national security to do so, but…”

“But I have the clearance.”

Moseley puffed on the cigarette. “Let me explain how this works. Let’s say, for sake of argument, our mission is to raid a compound so we can retrieve a top secret decoder ring. You have the clearance, so that allows you to participate on this mission. But, the entry team to the compound needs to know what they are looking for. They need to know what this decoder ring is made of, what color it is, what is its size, weight, and where should they be looking to find it. But you… You are performing outside security. You can do your job, with or without knowledge of the decoder ring. And if you can do it without it, you will do it without it.

“Why is that? I don’t understand it? I’ve come this far.”

“It’s about practicality, not entitlement. What happens if you get caught by the enemy? You can’t compromise the mission if you don’t understand it. Well, very much anyway. Well… scratch that, if you’re caught it’s probably game over. But, still, you understand, right?”

“Yeah they uh… drove that point home in basic. I just thought that was some training strategy, not real life. That’s all.”

“Training strategy… hmm, well, we train for what we expect to encounter. And then some. Kid, relax. Trust me on this, I was you back in ‘Nam. I learned it was always better, easier, if you didn’t know the big picture. I mean yeah, you gotta know enough to complete your mission, but don’t burden yourself with anything further. Because trust me, it will become a burden.”

Reyes lit a cigarette and became frustrated when the cheap transistor radio started hissing and the volume declined. The battery was running out. A very light drizzle started in the pitch-black darkness, which cooled the air. He quickly let the smoke drop from his mouth, partially burning an oblong hole in his poncho liner, instinctively pulled the netting over his head, and drifted off to sleep. They say dreams are just the product of our minds’ subconscious outlet. He dreamed that he was fighting for his life against a jealous husband. Then again, Reyes’ dreams are literal, not subconscious. He felt much safer in the Honduran jungle than he did in his off-post apartment in Bragg, where multiple boyfriends and husbands could implant booby traps if not outright assaults.

It was a political thing. Although their predecessors’ mission was in Nicaragua, they operated out of Honduras. Their objective for this mission was located in Nicaragua as well, but for whatever reason, the Hawk dropped them off in Honduras. The team could cuss about it all they wanted but in reality, it was just over the border, and the helicopter had to land far enough away as to be out of earshot of the objective’s location. Which, is actually, pretty goddamned far. Certainly, Moseley would have preferred a closer HALO insertion, but the presence of CIA officer Manley precluded that, plus Nichols wasn’t HALO qualified anyway. Thirty four ‘klicks’ is really not that extreme in terms of your weekend hiker, and certainly any self-respecting Green Beret would shrug off the prospect, but travel through dense jungle, add some terrain and creeks, stir in some heat and humidity, and drizzle many hard to see bitey things that could kill you, and do it in full gear, weapons and ammo plus whatever equipment and explosives you might need, and it raises the challenge up several notches.

It was literally in the middle of nowhere. It would have been easier to build a two-story structure on a tiny island in the middle of the ocean. You just load all your stuff on a big boat, dump it on the beach, and go to work. There wasn’t even what you could call roads leading to the place. Guess they didn’t want company. But, it works both ways. Even if they had to take the objective by force, (which by the way, is what they expected that they would have to do) any armed response was far enough out that they could get what they needed, call for a chopper and get out of there before anyone knew what happened. It was a calculated gamble. Aerial surveillance photos indicated that the clearing was large enough to land a helicopter, but, it was hard to judge. A contingency would be to hover over the rooftop to extract the group if it couldn’t land on the ground. Failing that, Manley was just going to have to learn how to fast rope in a big hurry, if it came to that. Or, he could hump his way back to the original drop point. Actually that wasn’t a serious choice. Leaving a ranking CIA officer alone for an extended period, subject to capture, was not an option. Plus his sorry ass was already pushed to its physical limit just getting there in the first place, and he wasn’t even carrying anything other than his own sleeping gear. In fact, it was beginning to look as if he wasn’t going to make it. That would complicate matters. In that event, Moseley decided that Nichols would stay with Manley while the remainder of the team executed the mission, and then call for a simultaneous extraction from the two locations. That wouldn’t be easy. That would mean popping smoke. Giving a precise grid coordinate from within the thick jungle canopy would be next to impossible.

“How you holding up, hoss?” Moseley said, slowing to aid Manley.

“Are we there yet?” Manley asked, rivers of sweat flowing from his neck line.

“Damn close. We’re within five klicks.”

“I… I gotta rest.”

Moseley surveyed the area. “All right guys, head over to that creek over there and drop your gear, we’re going to take a little break. Drink some water, and cool off for a bit.” Moseley really wanted to be closer to the objective, more like five hundred meters, versus five kilometers, prior to resting so they could both rest and prep for the execution of the mission. “How you holding up, Nichols?”

“Good to go, sarge” Nichols replied.

“Outstanding. You hump a good load for such a light guy.”

“Can’t hang, shouldn’t have came.”

Moseley eyed the weary CIA officer, dressed in thoroughly drenched plain black fatigues. He looked as if he actually fell asleep. He turned back to Nichols. “All right kid, here’s the deal. You wanna know what we came for? Guess what, I told you.”

“Whaaa… huh?”

“That’s right. A secret decoder ring.”

“You messing with me sarge? I thought you were just using that as an example. And you told me yourself that I didn’t have a need to know.”

“Well I changed my mind. If Mr. cheery over there expires on us, you will be helping us look for it.”

“Look for a…. decoder ring?”

“Well I doubt if it’s actually a ring. It’s a small, pocket size mechanical encryption device. Which, the CIA believes just may contain some key Soviet cryptologic codes. Or something like that. I’m not sure how all that works. I’m not good at explaining shit like that.”

“So how did we end up looking for it down here? In the middle of nowhere?”

“I don’t know. That part they didn’t tell me. My best guess? They turned a captured Nicaraguan soldier, and maybe intercepted locally broadcast coded radio messages that the NSA couldn’t crack. Don’t know, don’t care, I just know it’s important. Important enough to take by force.”

The group reached a small clearing in the jungle, yielding some unexpected, and not entirely welcome direct sunshine. Moseley halted the group, and motioned for them to gather around, and spoke in a whisper as he laid a map on the ground. “All right. We’re going stealth mode from here on. I believe we are within a couple hundred meters of our objective. Vickers, I want you to drop your gear and go on a recon of the objective. Get a visual on it. Come back and tell us what you see. The rest of you, drop your rucks and get ready for an engagement.” It was not uncommon at all to leave your equipment behind, with the exception of your radio and your weapons in a hot extraction scenario. Hopefully, Vickers would identify a closer spot to leave the gear, so leaving with it could be an option. But push comes to shove? Nobody is going to be fooled. They will know who came and what they were after. It will end up being one of those embarrassing things that both sides will agree it never happened, and even if the Sandinistas care, so what. Hell, it’s rumored that later this year they are going to actually hold their first democratic election. Maybe that’s why the CIA wanted to push so hard to get the trophy. They’re still commies. Right now.

Vickers stroked his thick, bushy mustache that was suggestive of some sort of British soldier, and refrained from spurring off in a fake UK accent. “Yeah, I got visual on it. I didn’t see anybody though. No sentries. No activity. I don’t like it.”

“They aren’t going to be running sentries in the middle of this hellhole. When you say no activity, you mean like abandoned?” Moseley asked.

“I don’t know. I mean, the doors and windows are intact. Could be individuals inside. I couldn’t get close enough to tell.”

“Can we stage closer than this?”

“Yeah, right at the tree line.”

“Clearing big enough to land a helicopter?”

“Big enough yes, but there are ground obstacles. But the building has a flat roof though. A helicopter could probably could land on that.”

The team took a position obscured behind the tree line of the clearing for the structure. Moseley was facing an agonizing choice. In some respects, the presence of armed sentries would have almost been more comforting. Because that is normally what they would expect. But the structure is not clearly abandoned. Behind those walls could be armed troops, civilian workers, some combination thereof, or nobody.

Moseley shook his head and turned to Vickers. “Yeah, I don’t like this either. Listen, I want you to do something. I want you to go around the perimeter but be real careful. I just want to make sure we don’t have a surprise waiting for us behind that tree line.”

Fifteen minutes later, Vickers approached the group from the opposite direction, having circled the perimeter. “It’s clear. There isn’t anyone there. And I’m pretty damned good at spotting hidden troops.”

“All right, listen up. Here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to breach the building. But we’re going to be sitting ducks running towards it. I want you guys to take up positions around the perimeter, and keep your eyes open. We storm it in five minutes. Synch your watches. Three, two, one… mark.”

Gobbins, lead outside security man, questioned the order. “All of us?” He asked.

Moseley hesitated. “No. You and Nichols stay back and provide overwatch as planned, until we call you over. Keep Manley with you. We’ll come get him once we’ve secured the building.”

“Flash bangs through the windows?” Reyes asked.

“No. No grenades, no firing, unless absolutely necessary. I want to try to keep this whole thing quiet.”

In precisely five minutes from the mark, the team of Moseley, Vickers and Reyes scurried rapidly towards the building from different directions, taking aim with their M16 carbines, scanning for figures in the windows. They met at the front door. It was locked. Vickers tried to kick the door in but failed. Moseley body slammed it, and managed to break it open. A battering ram would have been nice, but good luck hauling that through the jungle. Within less than twenty seconds, they managed to clear every room of both floors. The building was completely empty. Moseley slapped himself in the forehead. The genset was not running.

“What do you make of it, sarge?” Vickers asked, as the three men stood in the spacious entry foyer, in a rather rustic looking building, constructed of CMU bricks and haphazardly formed concrete. There was a kitchen area. A coffee maker. A water cooler with some full and empty jugs sitting next to it. Everything was more or less orderly. It wasn’t like people went poof during a rapture event and left half-filled cups and plates with food on them. It just looked… vacant. That was nice, but it just seemed off. Where are they? When are they coming back? Was this a complete waste of time?

“I don’t know what to make of it. I guess we should be glad for what we got. Go get Manley, and let’s get to finding our package.”

So where would you expect to find your secret, pocket sized, mechanical encryption device? You wouldn’t leave it sitting out in the open, unsecured, even if you were present in the facility. The most logical place? Upstairs, with the radios and telegraphy equipment. Probably in a safe. Almost definitely in a safe. And there was a safe. But it was not exactly as they had anticipated. Reyes, the demolition expert, stared at it. And after ransacking every rack and drawer in the entire building, for a solid hour and a half, they had concluded that, if the device was present, that it would be present in that safe.

“You know sarge” Reyes said, “the problem here is that it’s small enough that if I put a couple shaped charges on it to clear the hinges, it’s going to blow the bejesus out of everything in it.”

“Can you drill it out?”

After twenty minutes, the portable drill ran out of power, and barely made a mark on the plating. “Nope” Reyes said. “Not with the equipment I brought.”

Manley spoke up. “Why don’t we just… take it with us?”

Both Vickers and Reyes started laughing hysterically. “Good one, Manley” they replied, almost in unison.

“Well hold on now” Moseley said. “Maybe that isn’t such a crazy suggestion. How much would you say that thing weighs?”

Reyes sized it up. “Couple hundred pounds. I guess I could defeat those bolts holding it to the bench without much problem.”

“Well, then we can just load it in the Hawk. Or even sling load it, if we have to.”

It was unknown exactly how much time they had before a returning party might arrive. It could me minutes. Hours. Days. Months. Maybe never. But, it was a reasonable assumption they had at least a few hours to play with. With the external overwatch now deemed unnecessary, Nichols and Gobbins were recalled, to provide rooftop watch in shifts. With Gobbins scanning the skies, and the rough trail leading to the compound, Nichols poked around the encampment. They had running water. There was a tank on the rooftop. That made it hot water. Sanitation was a roofed outhouse some distance away near the tree line. The refrigerator was warm, dry and empty, save for a sealed plastic packet of sliced sausage, labeled in Spanish, and within the pull date. It was tempting to open it and eat it. Did it require refrigeration? Did it need to be cooked? He could ask Reyes, but Reyes was busy upstairs.

Manley seemed to be starting to recover from the effects of probably was what was the most heat and exertion he had ever done in his life. He was slightly pudgy, with wavy blonde hair. He looked a bit like a surfer. Which was the other thing that Moseley disliked about him. Nichols was genuinely disappointed that he was not able to see this, what was termed a ‘secret decoder ring’ even more so than Manley himself, who was overall responsible for it. The remainder of the team could care less, except they hadn’t anticipated hauling out a heavy, awkward safe, and certainly did not look forward to it.

It wasn’t easy hacking through those bolts attaching the safe to the heavy bench constructed of C beams and angle iron. Moseley actually considered sling loading the entire bench and safe assembly, but it was simply too heavy to move to the roof, plus they would probably exceed the Blackhawk’s weight limitation and would necessarily require a second bird dedicated to the safe. But, Reyes pulled through and got the job done, and two men were able wrestle the safe to the roof. Two hundred pounds was… optimistic. It felt a hell of a lot heavier than that.

Moseley decided to play it safe and call for two choppers anyway. It was an option that was available, so why not use it. The men would load the safe on to the first bird, and Manley would ride with it, and the team would hop on the second bird. Both would head directly to an airport in Puerto Lempira, where the team and package would be transferred to an unmarked civilian turboprop transport headed directly to Andrews Air Force Base. From there, Manley and the safe would be transported to headquarters in Langley, Virginia, and the team would be flown back to Bragg. Mission accomplished.

It seemed too easy. Moseley fished for a non-existent pack of cigarettes, and Nichols obliged. The rotor wash of the Hawk made lighting the cigarette a special challenge, but after several attempts, he managed to get it lit. Never mind that no one was allowed to smoke within twenty five feet of an aircraft, they were Special Forces, and had just completed a successful, if uneventful mission. They earned it. He stared down over the treetops of the dense jungle, and started to breathe a sigh of relief, as the birds started to depart the area. Then all hell broke loose. It was surreal. It was like things were happening in slow motion. You see these things in movies about war. You know that these things are staged for drama. Yet, it was just like being in a movie. Not just watching it, but being in it.

If it had actually flown as slow as it appeared to fly, the helicopter pilot could probably have avoided it. But nobody saw the RPG in time to do anything except to brace for the impact. It pretty much blew the front cockpit section clear off, and the helicopter slowly spiraled in to the trees, when the rotors flew off in an explosive wrenching motion that is like being punched in the gut by a stamping press.

Nichols woke up. The fire was still actively burning. He was bleeding, dazed, and had a severe pain in his ribs. They were probably broken. But miraculously, he was otherwise relatively intact. Unlike the others. Both pilots were blown to bits. Pieces of their helmets and uniforms and bloody flesh were scattered over a wide area. Reyes was splayed open, with his intestines dangling to the ground. Gobbins was burnt beyond recognition. In fact, the only way Nichols knew it was Gobbins, is because Vickers was slumped over the tail rotor section, with no pulse and half his head missing. Sarge was still alive. He was missing both legs, but he was alive.

Nichols searched relentlessly for a trauma kit, gave up, and started to fashion a pair of tourniquets out of ripped uniform clothing.

“Don’t waste your time” Moseley said. “I’m fucked.”

“If I leave, you’re gonna die, sarge.”

“If you stay, we’re both gonna die. Now get out of here. That’s an order. Make your way north to Honduras. Stay off the goddamn roads.”

“Damn sarge.” Nichols said, as a tear dropped from his eye.

“Save your crying. Do it over a beer when you get back to Bragg. Now go on. Now.” Moseley slumped over. He lost too much blood. Nichols felt for a pulse. There was none.

He was right, Nichols reasoned. He could hear the sound of approaching voices, shouting in Spanish. If he was lucky, very lucky, they would assume that nobody could have survived that crash, and wouldn’t go looking for him. Did they know how many people were present in that helicopter when it left? Did they know how many bodies were actually present on the ground? It was hard to say. It was that bad.

It was thirty-four kilometers from the drop point in Honduras to the objective, and probably more like forty given the heading of the helicopter when it was blown out of the sky. What happened to the second ship? There was nothing around to suggest that it had met a similar fate. So they would send people looking, right? No. Of course not. The Sandinistas would beat anyone to the scene. Hell, they were pretty much already there. He didn’t have a working radio, but out here a radio is useless anyway since anyone friendly that is likely to be on freq is well out of its range. Prior communication was established by means of a portable SATCOM unit, but that was destroyed in the crash.

Day turned to night as Nichols aimlessly stumbled through dense brush and rough terrain. At some point, he collapsed from exhaustion. He dreamed that he stumbled upon a farm field, and that a beautiful farm girl had discovered him, and was nursing him back to health. Then he woke up, in some rather harsh pain. It turned out that he actually did stumble on to a farm field. The girl, and her mother, rather looked like they had been given a beating with the ugly stick, but right now they were the loveliest ladies he had ever seen. And the father, who appeared to be living proof that the ancient Indians actually did fuck water buffalo, was the most handsome man he ever met.

Nichols didn’t speak much more than basic gringo Spanish. Senor Mendez didn’t speak a lick of English. “Donde vamos?” he recalled from high school Spanish class as the ancient pickup truck bounced on the dirt road.

“Tegucigalpa. Ebajada de Estados Unidos” he replied, in a slow, drawn-out voice.

Thank god Nichols thought. The United States consulate. The embassy. Wherever the hell that was, but he didn’t care. He was going home. The man could have handed him over to local authorities. That would have been easier, it would seem at first glance. In reality, if the man could have had a conversation with him, he would explain that handing an injured man, dressed in military fatigues, with no identification, not even dog tags on him, would probably invite scrutiny that he frankly didn’t want.

It’s that one pub, technically outside of Bragg in Fayetteville, the one where if you didn’t wear a beret, you didn’t belong. Maroon is acceptable. Black is better. Green is where it’s at. It’s the establishment that essentially memorializes Special Forces. If your picture ends up on their wall, you met an ill-fated demise. The wall grew larger by four in the last two months.

Sarge was right. Save your tears for beers. The commander had a heart to heart with Nichols. Nobody blamed him. Blame him for what? Training accidents happen. It’s not like he, or any member of his team were responsible for the maintenance of that helicopter. He didn’t do anything particularly heroic either. He was just there, caught in the middle. He was at a crossroads. He was due for a promotion, and he was due for a reenlistment.

There was no question about his future career. Colonel Phillips assured him that no stops were going to be placed as a result of that unfortunate incident. And the Command Sergeant Major was standing by his side, more than just nodding – but verbally agreeing that he was on board with Colonel Phillips. And that meant something, because the Colonel will lie. The Command Sergeant Major won’t. No, although he genuinely believed his career was on track, it was more a question of whether he really wanted it. Mowing through his initial enlistment peeled a chunk of his life away that could have been used to further another pursuit. Like college. Maybe a business degree. That meant some cushy desk job. The difference is that if you watch your coworkers get blown to bits and burned to death in a carpeted, air conditioned office, you are truly in an unlucky place. And if it happens, it’s guys like him that go after the bad guys that made it happen. One day he’s gung ho, and the next he’s down in the dumps ready to resign.

It really wasn’t busy at all. It was a week day, and he had just recovered from his broken ribs sufficiently to be returned to full duty status. That also meant a follow up with a civilian specialist doctor to check on another rare potentially debilitating condition, which was cleared up rather quickly so he had the rest of the entire afternoon to kill. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a tall, pudgy figure in a tailored suit staring intently at the four new photographs hung on the wall of honor. He almost didn’t recognize him at first. Richard ‘Dick’ Manley. An out of shape surfer dressed like a federal agent, except that an out of shape surfer in a suit is generally assumed to be dressed for a funeral. In that sense, he was, of sorts. He noticed Nichols gazing at him in his peripheral vision, grabbed his mug of beer, and walked over to the small table where Nichols was seated, and invited himself.

“What an amazing coincidence” Nichols said, taking a swig of beer himself.

“Not really” Manley replied. “They told me I could usually find you here. I’m real sorry about your team.”

“I’m over it. So tell me, Manley, did you guys get what you were after? And more importantly, did it save lives, and contribute to national security?”

Manley looked over at him, a somber expression on his face. “Yeah, we did. You guys made a difference. You did a great job.”

“You came all the way over from DC to tell me that?”

“No, I came over to find out who made it and who didn’t. You’re the one that asked.”

“Don’t they tell you those things over there?”

“They do, but I wanted to come over and see for myself.”

“Well I guess I appreciate you coming over here, and I appreciate you telling me that, but I’m going to be honest with you. Those guys didn’t like you.”

“Oh I know. You probably don’t particularly like me as well, but I don’t think you actively dislike me either.”

Nichols looked up. “That would be an accurate assessment of the situation.”

Manley stood up. “I have a flight waiting. Good luck with everything.” He downed his beer, and walked out of the pub with no further ado.

The massive Langley-McLean headquarters complex seemingly had no shortage of windowed offices. Well in reality it did, given the size of the Agency. He was an officer, and although he rated a small, windowed office, he just wasn’t high enough on the totem pole to score a high one overlooking the Potomac River. He looked back on that visit to Bragg. Nichols threw him a curve ball. He didn’t actually expect to run in to Nichols. He wanted to go through the motions, so he could have some semblance of peace with himself.

He thought about framing it. Yet it was so patently offensive, that he could hardly justify glamorizing it. Glorifying it. For now it was just buried in a desk. Out of sight… but not out of mind. Some days, he’d pull a fifth out of his drawer, look at it, and remember the image of the other chopper, as it was blown from the sky by an RPG. If they were going to shoot down one, why the hell didn’t they shoot down the other? Were they only expecting one? How did they choose which one to shoot?

Those questions repeated themselves in his mind endlessly, and wouldn’t be answered for another two days, until the metal shop managed to drill the safe open, and then it became abundantly clear. One of them was meant to make it back. The sad, ironic truth, is that maybe, just maybe, if Moseley had not ordered that second chopper, they all might have made it back.

He stared in disbelief when the technician reached in the opened safe with gloved hands, and retrieved the only item stored in the safe. It was a piece of note paper, on which someone had hand written a short message. Fuck you, capitalist pigs.