Chapter Twelve - The Things They Wore

Chapter 12 - Hand Off

Kaeo rolled out of his cot to the rousing sound of knuckles smacking against each other. Garza was asleep on a neighboring cot while Max and Logger were sitting cross-legged, facing each other and deeply engrossed in a game of bloody knuckles, both of which were already bright red. Kaeo had seen this before, Marines like those two played for keeps.

While maintaining eye contact, Max moved his fists up slightly and then brought his knuckles down on Logger’s with as much force as he could muster. Both of them growled in pain, Logger more so. He shook his hands out for a quick moment before balling them back up and extending them towards Logger. Logger whipped them down with lightning speed as the sharp crack of bone on bone echoed through the room.

“Fuck.” Max grunted as blood dripped down from a small cut on his right middle finger. He inhaled deeply to compose himself and pointed a finger at Logger. They locked eyes with silent intensity

“I've fucking got you now.” He hissed. Max smacked his knuckles across the top of Logger’s, drawing blood in turn. The light in Logger's eye flickered for just a second; he had come so very close to breaking.

Blood dripped off his hand. “Jesus Christ, give me strength!” He cried out, entirely serious. With great vengeance and furious anger he smacked his knuckles down on Max's, opening more wounds. They continued beating on each other for a good minute and a half before they both decided it was a pointless endeavor. Their hands were thoroughly split open and bruised although they merely shrugged it off.

A mercenary Kaeo hadn't seen before was on watch outside the cage. Although “watch” would be a generous term to describe his level of attentiveness. He leaned precariously far back in his chair, feet propped up on a stack of crates, deeply engrossed in a two month out of date copy of “Soldier of Fortune” Magazine.

“How cliché,” Kaeo thought. Travis Haley was plastered on the cover, the Eagle Globe and Anchor tattoo on his forearm made him easy to identify. Apparently there was an article about the 04/04/04 battle in Najaf, Iraq in which Haley had in participated during his time working for Blackwater.

“Kaeo, you wanna join us for a little prison PT?” Logger asked while wiping the blood off of his knuckles on the inside of his pockets.
“Yeah.” pausing to stretch for a second then he set himself down for some push ups. Max plopped himself down on top on his back. Kaeo didn't shift his weight at all; he'd done this before but for some reason, Max felt lighter today. He dropped down and pushed, and pushed, and pushed. The reps flew past and his entire body was starting to feel the work. He reached the point where he normally would've stopped but went right past his threshold.

Max was shouting something about Buckaroo Banzai while relentlessly slapping the back of his head. Kaeo wasn't really paying attention. He could feel himself slowing down and struggling as he went past his previous milestone, but he had to keep going for some unfathomable reason. The soreness transformed into genuine burning pain as he dropped down for one final push. He stalled at the bottom, then slowly started moving upwards again and locked his arms out, completing the rep.

“You can get off now, Max.” Kaeo grunted out curtly. Max stood up, letting the Corporal roll onto his back to catch his breath.

“Where the fuck did that come from? That was seven more than you did last time.” Max asked.

He's right, that was some real slant kamikaze-ass bullshit!” Logger interjected.

Kaeo tipped his head to look up at Logger. “Dude, is that really what you see when you look at me? Some buck toothed, cross-eyed ‘Tojo’ with a rising sun bandana and a fucking Katana?”

Logger shrugged. “Maybe a little. You’re like a legit Japanese immigrant, right?”

“I was five.”

“But you still speak Japanese, right?” He asked.

“Because my parents made me, it was all they'd speak around the house. They also hired a tutor to teach me how to read and write that shit”.

“So you're not fully integrated, then.” Logger added.

“Let me phrase it this way, I was the varsity kicker for Oceanside High, the year we won the state championship. First team all-state too”.

Logger's eyes suddenly lit up. Apparently, football made you American in his eyes. “No shit? I played center. What was your record kick?” Logger asked as he extended a hand.

“Fifty-six yards in a game, sixty-one in practice.” He replied as the big man helped him onto his feet.

“Nice! I bet you got scouted.”

“Yeah, I didn't really want to go to college out of the gates though, I wanted to go out and do something different. So I enlisted and just look at where I ended up. One hell of an adventure though.”

“Damn, look at our Nip, he doesn't even know he's in a war! Thinks he's some kind Manga-based superhero!” Max interjected.

“I put on my superhero uniform everyday I'm in the Corps, brother.” Kaeo responded cheekily.

Max hissed. “God, I hate that cheesy motto shit.”

He continued. “'Angry American', 'Don't tread on me' are you fucking kidding me? The first time I got back from Iraq my Mom tried to play me that song: 'Where the Stars and Stripes and the Eagle flies'. Fuck Mom, Eagles fly in Canada too. I don't need to wave a little fucking flag and put a hick-ass bumper sticker on my truck to show that I'm patriotic. I'm a goddamn Marine.”

Kaeo tuned Max out as he continued on what was anticipated to be lengthy diatribe. He glanced towards the small barred window along the top of the wall of their cell. It was just getting into afternoon now. This was going to be a long, long incarceration if things kept up like this. He was gonna stay sharp and focused throughout this ordeal, he had to. He grabbed the small high window ledge and began doing pull-ups, taking care to peek out at the outside world at the top of each rep just to remind himself of what he was after.
Midway through his third set, he heard someone moving down the stairs. Bobby tapped the reading one on the shoulder who rose up and grabbed his weapon and magazine then sauntered up the stairs.

Leaning forward, Kaeo wrapped his arms through the bars and nodded his head in greeting. Bobby crossed his arms defensively, pulling up his t-shirt's sleeves ever so slightly, exposing the bottom of a tattoo's scroll work. He could just make out the words “Utrinque Paratus”. Kaeo had seen that tattoo before in Afghanistan. He knew giving his captors the big four; name, rank, serial number and date of birth were only going to last him so long. Maybe it was time to open up.

“Nice tat you got there. Parachute Regiment, eh?” He asked.

“Yeah.” Bobby tried to remain stoic but his posture loosened slightly. Baby steps. Kaeo took a moment to remove his long sleeved combat shirt in favor of the t-shirt he had on underneath, rolling up the left sleeve and showing bobby his own tattoo. He'd had his naval parachutist jump wings tattooed on the inside of his left bicep to commemorate earning them just a few short months ago. It seemed like an age since then.

“Good group of guys, I met a few in from the 1st Battalion in Sangin back in '12. Gotta say, there's nothing quite like jumping out of a perfectly good aircraft.” For a brief second a smile tugged at Bobby's mouth but it disappeared as quickly as it had come.

“Sangin? What unit were you with?” he asked.

“Golf Company, 2nd Battalion, 7th Marines.”

“A little before your time I suspect, but some blokes from the Two-Seven stole a bunch of our kit.” Bobby said.

Kaeo smiled. “Sounds like them. We've got a saying in the Marine Corps 'gear adrift is gear a gift'. Got a chance to return the favor and took it, eh?.”

Bobby returned the smile in full and put his hand over his twenty thousand dollar prize. Kaeo was getting somewhere.

“You guys have some nice cammies.” he continued, admiring the dark distinct pattern that seemed to blend very well in the local environment, especially at night.

“Yeah, they're Courtmanche Fashions. Custom fitted, even. We used to buy all our stuff from them until they got bought out pretty recently. It's way better than the rubbish they gave me when I was up for Hereford.”

“You went up for SAS selection?” he asked, hoping that he wasn't prying too much.

“Twice, woulda made it the second time but broke my leg on the last section. Shit run-a-luck. But hey, ready for anything, right? Got scouted by the company and decided to go private after my term was up.” Bobby explained. Leaning forward, “Tellin' ya, loads 'a dosh out there for guys like us.”

“I'm sorry, we haven't been properly introduced.” Kaeo extended his hands through the bars. “Kaeo Tokura, 1st Reconnaissance Battalion.”

Bobby stood up and grabbed his hand, giving it a few shakes. The two Lances behind Kaeo both have confused looks.

“Robert Miller, Jomungandr Defense former 1st Battalion, Parachute Regiment.” Robert paused, turning Kaeo's hand to get a better look at his forearm. “What happened to your arm… and your face?” Kaeo touched his face on reflex. His nose was doing pretty good; it hadn't been bothering him at all despite being broken so recently. But the left side was still a little tender. Probably had a nice bruise. Oh well, he healed fast.

“Slight graze awhile back. It's all stitched up now though. That, and I got into what you might call an honor duel.” Kaeo said while he scratched at the burn on his left arm.

“That bandage looks pretty dirty, I'll get Doc down to put a new one on.” Bobby assured him as he went upstairs

“Thanks!” Kaeo shouted back.

“No problem, mate.” as Bobby’s voice trailed off.

“Logger, look! I'm Kaeo!” Max announced, pulling his hands close to his armpits. He then began flapping his 'wings' madly and cawed “Fuck all y'all! Fuck all y'all! Fuck all y'all!”

“He's got a point. You're not going all Stockholm on us are you?” Logger asked.

“Fuck no, I am not a fucking Blue Falcon and I'm not a fucking Section 8. I'm trying to do us all a favor so shut the fuck up and do your fucking jobs. Which, currently, is sitting over there staying out of the way while I work on getting our asses out of here.”

The two Lances slinked over to the cots in the corner as two sets of heavy thumps and one set of soft taps moved down the stairs.
Rikka, Bobby, and an unfamiliar looking mercenary with a small bag walked down the stairs together.

She sat down at the back, apparently supervising. He avoided eye contact with her, instead trying to seem occupied with other things.
Her eyes clearly saw right through him, and underneath his facade of exuding an aura of friendliness he was just a beast.

Beasts don't save pretty blue-eyed girls, they kill them. Although he suspected she herself was more beast than woman. Perhaps they were kindred spirits?

“Doc, Kaeo. Kaeo, Doc.” Bobby’s announcement broke his train of thought. He extended his hand, Doc stared at it for a second before realizing he was supposed to grab it and shake it. Kaeo rolled up his sleeve to expose the bandage. Doc ripped open his bag and cut off a length of gauze, pulled out a couple baby wipes and roughly scrubbed down his arm.

“These stitches should probably come out soon. You're healing up pretty well.” Doc explained while speedily rolling fresh gauze around his forearm.

“Yeah, I do tend to heal pretty fast.” he said while testing his range of motion under the new bandages.

Doc's eyes drifted to the hands of the two Lances. “What the hell happened to you two?”

“Bloody Knuckles.” they both responded simultaneously.

Doc sighed.“Put your hands through the bars.”

Bobby gave Kaeo a questioning look as he cracked open up one of the relief crates and retrieved four Daily Humanitarian Rations, essentially a halal bulked up MRE commonly referred to as a “Humrat”.

“Marine is as Marine does Mr. Miller” Kaeo responded.

Kaeo accepted them, setting one aside for Garza when he decided to escape his wonderful violence filled dreamland.

“Fair point, I've done enough stupid things in my time to empathize.” Bobby replied. Rikka just shook her head in the background.

Max unruffled through the humrat with his newly bandaged hands, proceeding to scratch at the stubble on his face like a nervous crack addict. “Any of you got any dip? I had a whole log in my ruck that I was gonna give Kaeo for his birthday but then this all happened.”

“I had a bunch of canned Civie food for him too.” Logger added.

“Birthday? I don't remember it being anywhere near November 10th.” Garza cut in while rolling out of his cot.

“His human birthday dude. You know, like we had when we were still treated like living beings.” Max said.

“When is your birthday?” Rikka inquired.

“September 20th, the day after tomorrow. I'll be 20.” Kaeo answered.

“Hey, you and the boss here will be the same age!” Bobby realized out loud while leaning back precariously in his chair.

Rikka frowned and subtly nudged one of legs of Bobby's chair forward with the toe of her boot, resulting with him losing his balance. He unleashed a desperate “WOAH!” as he flailed wildly in an attempt to regain center. All in vain, he crashed to the floor with a loud thud.

Bobby gave Rikka a suspicious look as he dusted himself off and righted his chair as Kaeo suppressed a laugh at the sight.

“What is it with you Yanks and this dip stuff?” Bobby asked, changing the subject.

“Simple, dip and energy drinks wins wars.” Max explained.

“Without it, America ain't the world's foremost power.” Logger agreed while tearing open his package of lentil stew. Logger stopped himself before digging in to mumble out a short prayer.

“We've got cigarettes...” Bobby offered.

“Eh, I quit but... what the hell. Hook a brother up.” Max said. Bobby handed his pack through the bars after taking one out for himself. Max stuck one in his mouth and lit it quickly with a match from his humrat.

Logger tapped him on the shoulder and cleared his throat. “Hebrews 13:16, and do not forget to do good and to share with others, for with such sacrifices God is pleased.”

“I can take a fucking hint.” Max groaned while handing him the pack. Logger took one out, lit it and offered the pack to Kaeo. He waved it off; one vice was more than enough. Truth be told, he couldn't do it without coughing up a lung. Logger then turned to Garza.

“My wife would kill me. She already hates the dip.” Logger shrugged and passed it back to Bobby who then finally passed it to Rikka.

Doc picked up his bag and walked towards the stairs. “Now play nice, children.” casually waving his hand over his shoulder.

The four of them puffed on their cigarettes and the room slowly acquired a faint smoky tinge. It was taking most of Kaeo's willpower to maintain composure. This was taking him back to all those times he'd been hit with CS gas.

Max exhaled. “Man, I wish I had my harmonica right now. I always wanted to play it in prison, half the reason I bought the damn thing. Either way, I feel a song coming on.”

Just visible through the small slit window, several UN supply vehicles rolled past the little outpost.

“I hear the train a comin'. It's rolling round the bend and, I ain't seen the sunshine since, I don't know when. I'm stuck in Folsom prison, and time keeps draggin' on. But that train keeps a rollin' on down to San Antone...” Max began in his closest approximation of Cash.

“When I was just a baby my mama told me 'Son, always be a good boy, don't ever play with guns.” Logger joined in.

“But I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die. When I hear that whistle blowing, I hang my head and cry..” Kaeo mouthed under his breath while he shifted through his humrat as the other two sang.

“You know, you guys would make a pretty good acapella group.” Bobby commented after they finished their performance.

Max disagreed. “Us? We're not even that good. You should meet one of the guys in our Alpha team. The boy's a future goddamn J-pop idol.”

“Where the bloody hell do you people come from?” Bobby asked half-jokingly.

“Hickland,” Max pointed to himself and Logger. “nipland,” he pointed to Kaeo “and Oregon.” pointing to Garza.

“And just where are you from?” Max asked.

“The bad side of London.” Bobby replied in a tone that sounded like he was proud of that fact.

“And you... Miss Mannerheim, was it?” Kaeo asked.

“Finland.” She was still watching him. He suspected that she probably already identified the threat he represented and was doing her best to minimize it. That was why she was down here, to make sure he and his new friend didn't get too buddy-buddy.

She had him all figured out, or at least she thought she did. Regardless, he was getting out of this, no matter what.

Stevens crouched close to the ground, carefully following the trail. The rest of 2-1 Alpha and all of 1-2 followed behind in a wide pattern. Encino Man had lost the trail twice prior causing them to have to backtrack, burning precious time, but it was not as if any of the rest of them were any better at tracking than he was. Already the sun had begun to rise and they had barely traversed three miles. Finally, the trail suddenly widened and opened up into an isolated, muddy road.

The Manimal followed the trail onto the road and stopped around a pile of cigarette butts. He picked up and examined one carefully as Dygalo approached him with 1-2 Team Leader Sergeant Mason not far behind.

“What have you got Lance Corporal?” Mason asked.

Manimal paced around some more. “Cigarette butt. Looks pretty recent, probably not more than a couple hours ago. The foot trail ends here too. Looks like they mounted up.”

“Three big trucks and four other victors. The tire tracks are pretty clear on which direction, they were heading south-west but this road gets enough traffic that they get pretty mixed up after a while and the rain has softened the road up a bit. It'd be next to impossible to figure out where they split off from the rest. They could be anywhere along that road by now Sergeant.”

“Good work, step off Lance Corporal. I've got to talk to Staff Sergeant Dygalo. Alone.”

“Understood, Sir.”

Stevens glanced at Dygalo who was grinding his teeth in his custom manner. The other marines formed up a quick perimeter while the two team leaders stood in the center discussing their options. McGraw looked to Stevens and mouthed a quick “What's going on?” Stevens shrugged quickly and then dropped to a knee next to Johnson. Johnson had flipped out the bi-pod on his M249 and set it up on a fallen tree while quietly humming Maroon 5's “Animals”.

McGraw turned up the sensitivity on his Comtacs and listened into the two Sergeants’ conversation.

“Staff Sergeant, I think it's time to cut our losses and head back.” Mason stated firmly.

“If it were your boys out there, would you fucking give up this easily, Ian?” Dygalo snapped back in a rare display of emotion.

“Let's be realistic here, Staff Sergeant, we're not gonna be able to do anything constructive. Let's get back to Bruno, rally up and consider our options.  Actual already passed word that literally every Marine in country is gonna know about this. Alright?”

“You're right. Let’s call for extract...” Dygalo's face suddenly lost any trace of frustration and transitioned into pristine calm.

“We're gonna fucking find them. We're gonna fucking find them if I have to kill every last person in this shithole country.” Dygalo spoke the words with a certain cold and detached manner that Sergeant Mason, in all of his years serving with him, had only heard one time before.

Mason retrieved his Garmin 650 from his vest and got a grid reference on their position.

“Raptor this is Raptor 1-2 Actual requesting an extract at grid Mike Victor One-Tree-Two-Niner-Niner-Zero LZ marked by green smoke. The trail went cold, over.”

“Solid 1-2, Bird's on route ETA 15 mikes. Raptor Out.” Dygalo and Mason went out the perimeter and watched in silence while they waited for their ride.

Jean-Paul Bonnaire's hands shook nervously while he smoked the cigarette that the nice attendant had given him before handcuffing him to the chair. The room was rather austere: a table and two chairs and a calming shade of US government specification blue uniformly covered everything.

The door opened and a lithe well-dressed man with rusty red hair entered. He smiled. The very act unnerved Jean-Paul slightly.
“Howdy!” he greeted, oozing the trademark disgusting optimism of America. He dumped a stack of files on the table and sat himself in the chair opposite Jean-Paul.

“I trust that your accommodations are adequate?” he asked, half-jokingly.

Jean-Paul shrugged.

“I see you're a direct man, let's not beat around the bush. You know why you're here.” He proceeded to open a file full of pictures of Jean-Paul decked out in his anti-fiber gear posing with other members of the resistance.

“Now, obviously you're a smart man considering how you managed to evade capture two times previously and you've probably already gauged my intentions.” The man paused for a moment, his lithe movements implying that he was ready for anything Jean-Paul might pull off.

“There are two types of unknowns in this world, the known unknown things that we know we don't know and unknown unknowns things we don't know we don't know. But what you don't know is what cards I have to play, a classic Known Unknown. I know you know the location of the western most staging area, so spare yourself the anguish and just tell me.”

Jean-Paul stayed silent.

“You've got a wife don't you?” he asked while sorting through his folder “Two kids too. Twins, even! You're a lucky man.”
Jean-Paul's face hardened as the man laid photo after photo of his family out on the table. He would not relent.
“Until now, just how far you're willing to go for a bunch of clothing has been an unknown unknown.” He paused again for effect while Jean-Paul mulled the thought over.

“I'm not an unreasonable man, and if you cooperate it'll make this whole deal a lot better on the both of us.”

“At the head waters of Lake Cahora Bassa, about ten kilometers west, there's of a tributary of the Zambezi. During the Rhodesian Bush War, both sides used it to ferry supplies across the border. The river is hard to pick up from the air, but once you're on the ground, it's easy enough to see. You'll find what you're looking for there.” Jean-Paul spat out.

The man smiled, jotting down the information verbatim. Afterwards, he gathered his files and stood to leave the room.

Jean-Paul shifted in his chair and called out to him. “Just who are you?”

“Folks around here know me as Oxide. I'll have someone in to help you in a few minutes.” He replied while smoothly closing the door behind him.

Oxide rounded the corner into a small room of cubicles and leaned over the top of one. The occupant, a pudgy balding man idly sipping his coffee turned around in his chair toward Oxide’s direction. There were dark circles under his small beady eyes.

“Crack him already? I think that's a new record”. Oxide quickly scribbled out another copy on his notepad and tore it off.

“Pass this to Berger's S-2 guy. I'm sure he'll want it”. He instructed.

The pudgy man studied it intently for a second before looking back up. “Shouldn't we be sending this to Putnam or someone else at JSOC?”

“Nah, I think it'll be better if we keep it within the Marine chain of command. We've got a good rapport with them. Getting the rest of the task force, let alone JSOC involved would just complicate things. Besides, given recent events...” Oxide trailed off.

“Oh I get it, this is about those Marines. Speaking of disappearing things, you get anything from Scarecrow on that Chinese thing he was working on?”

Oxide retrieved a smaller folder from his stack and tossed on the desk.

“I'll spare you Scarecrow's long winded shit. They're in on this like white on rice. They're using a South African shipping company to move money and weapons. They don't seem to be too keen on these tailor dudes though. As far as the Indians, the government is unconnected however, there's a couple textile companies all contributing to a fund for the Neo-RENAMO dudes through several shell corporations, all very shady.”
“Any idea where the Tailors are getting their funding, then?”

“Scarecrow and I haven't been able to figure out where their money and gear is coming from, they remain distinctly enigmatic. Feels kinda good to have someone competent for once to square off against. Manage to dig up anything on those Jormungandr Defense contractors?”

The pudgy man glanced over his own notes. “I've been calling around 24/7 for the last couple days. They check out, totally legit. They're on contract with the French Government to assist with relief convoy security. I've had our chatty little gremlins all over them and even they can't find anything.”

“Keep digging. I've got a feeling that something's there.”

“They don't call me The Mole for nothing; if it's there I'll find it.” he responded after sipping his coffee.

“They call you ‘The Mole’ because ‘they’ are fans of ironic nicknames.” Oxide sighed. “Just keep me posted, alright? I've got to explain all this to that oxygen-thief from the Joint Chiefs.” Oxide began to walk away but stopped suddenly and turned around back to Mole.

“And get the guy in Room 202 some coffee or something. He just saved all of us a whole lot of footwork.”

“Consider The Mole on the case.” waving over his shoulder while turning back to his computer and stack of files.

The fifty-eight year old General Berger glanced over the report that Major Donahue had just handed him.

“How much would you trust this source?”

“He's been 100% reliable so far, Sir.”

“And you want me to act on it right now?”

“I believe I did advise that in the report, Sir.”

Berger brought up a map of the area his projector. The entire country was crisscrossed with square grid markings and locations of units and their respective zones of responsibility and presumed enemy positions. A number of units were clustered around a splotch of red hostile territory centered on the port city of Maputo.

Berger extended his pointer stick and tapped it on the red spot.

“You see this, Major? This is my fucking problem. CENTCOM and the Joint Chiefs breathing down my neck and I've got to deal with these RENAMO fuckers before they decide to put a couple more turns on the vice that my nuts are in. They've have held several units from the Army's 3rd Infantry Division for three days and now it's my job to bail them out. I've had re-tasked dozens of units to facilitate that. And you want me to divert a unit all the way over here?”

He tapped it on the north-western region of the country.

“Uh... not necessarily, Sir. What about the units in the region already?” Donahue inquired.

“All I've got in that area is a few Companies from the One-Six and 1st Recon and they're both criminally overstretched as it is.”

He moved his pointer to Linchinga. “This is where Capone and his Alpha company, Assassin, have set up shop since moving off my base.” tapping on two small icons located on opposite sides of Nampula.

“Right here I've got Raptor and Hitman. Capone's Charlie and Bravo Company respectively, they're both taking contact essentially every day. I'd call their hands full.”

He moved down further south and west to Tete. “This is Godfather's territory he's got Enforcer, Headhunter, Butcher and Disciple and their attached units to cover this whole area.” General Berger folded up his pointer. “Do you see my problem, Captain? I have Seven Companies to cover the entire north-western half of this shitfaced country while I'm trying to conduct a major offensive all the fucking way down there.”

“What about this unit here in Tete, why not give it to them?” Major Donahue was pointing to a marker that Berger neglected to mention.
“Those motherfuckers? That's a Company from the Rangers. I'd rather gnaw my fucking arm off than give an Army unit, let alone the fucking Rangers, a legit mission.” Berger's face contorted in thought for a moment.

“What's the plan, Sir?”

“For now, a recon. I can't risk diverting anything if there’s a possibility that it may be nothing.”

“Go ahead and pass this report to Capone's S-2 and include a warning order. I need that mission done in ninety-six hours.”

“Right away, Sir.”

“Now step off, I've got a war to win.” Berger dismissed Donahue with a flick of his hand.

Lieutenant Colonel Gladstone eyed his map carefully. He'd just had some very interesting information passed from Scarface's Intelligence office to his own S-2 shop and he wanted eyes on within the next seventy-two hours to get some solid intel before sending in a larger element. Gladstone's plan would be very critical in maintaining the general's high esteem for First Recon. Apparently, flyovers weren't picking up anything significant and a good old fashioned long range reconnaissance mission was called for. The sort of thing any good Recon Marine worth his proverbial salt would kill for.

The location itself was on the very outer limit of the Three-Three's area of operations, and more than a hundred clicks from any establish FOBs or OPs.

He quickly formulated a plan and then extended his hand expectantly.

“Major Coburn, get me Captain Balietto on the hook and then track down Division's S-3 and get me some aircraft.”

“Right away, Sir!” The Major quickly changed channels on one of the tent's many radios and handed the handset over to him before picking up one of the other radio's handsets.

“Assassin, Assassin, this is Capone Actual, stand by for tasking, over.”

“Assassin Actual standing by for tasking Capone, over.”

“Scarface just passed down word, Capone needs eyes on Grid Papa Quebec Niner-Tree-Seven-Six within seventy-two hours. Consider this your warning order. Your S-2 should have the details momentarily, break.”

Coburn tapped Gladstone on the shoulder and he lowered his handset. “Division's got a single MV-22 for that time frame. That's the best they can do, everything is either tasked out, running CASEVACs or, is being used to lift troops and equipment for the Southern offensive. They also offered us an ANGLICO team.”

“Solid.” Gladstone raised his handset again. “Assassin, we've been tasked an Osprey to facilitate insertion and an ANGLICO team to direct fires which I trust that you will not use unless absolutely necessary, aircraft are at a premium right now. Advise that you insert via parachute and then exfil to a secure landing zone for pickup. Scarface wants a quick in and out, a legit long range recon mission, our reputation is riding on this Assassin, I trust that you will not turn this into a Goat Rodeo, over.”

“Solid, Capone. I wouldn't dream of it. Interrogative: any update on Raptor's missing Marines? Over.”

“Negative, Assassin. We've got every unit in country on the lookout and Raptor and Hitman have been doing an extensive sweep of the area but haven't found anything. The returns are not looking good, over.”

“Roger that, Capone. Assassin Actual, out.”

“Good hunting, Assassin. Capone Actual, out.”

Captain Balietto set down his handset and turned to one of his staff. “Tell Blackburn to light a fire under his ass, I want 3-2 to start gathering up their shit twenty fucking minutes ago.”

The Lance Corporal barked out a quick “Yes, Sir!” and tore off into the camp.

This deployment might just have some worth after all. This would be the first time anyone, in the entire US military, had inserted via parachute since the Invasion in '03 and, it looked like this wasn't going to be a joke PR move like that was.

Lance Corporal Ebanez adjusted the lens on his camera slightly.

“So, Captain McGregor, could you just tell a little bit about what went down last night?”

McGregor fiddled with the microphone clipped to his collar for a second before responding.

“Well, we performed a night recon on the train yard and pushed then performed a combined arms assault with some LAVs from the 3rd Light Armored Reconnaissance Company and pushed out the local Guerillas. All in all, a complete success.”

“Coming into the situation, what were you expecting in the way of resistance, Captain?”

“We came in expecting a fight. Our local patrols have been taking contact just about every day from various guerrilla groups. But we've dealt a serious blow to their operations in the region today. This train yard was a key staging ground for their operations in this valley, and we hit them where it hurt.”

“Overall, how has First Recon reacted to their new AO and how is moral currently?”

“Overall I'd say the men are reacting quite well to the new area of operations. Classic 'same shit different day' sort of thing. A lot of the younger guys are looking to our more senior marines for guidance, some of which have two, three deployments and eight in the case of our old hand Staff Sergeant Dygalo under their belts. Our NCOs have really been pulling the Company together and it makes me proud as a Company Commander to see them preform at this level. As far as morale, it's not excellent but it's not horrible either. It's no secret that we've taken a few causalities, but we've got to go out and keep doing our jobs regardless. They've been in peak form so far and we've really changed the dynamic of this whole valley since our arrival just a few weeks ago, but I wouldn't say we're out of the woods yet.”

Ebañez lowered his camera.  “Well, thank you for your time, Captain. That was great.”

McGregor had swallowed his pride for that ordeal. It really hurt him to have to lie. He had been specifically instructed to not talk about 2-1 Bravo to the Combat Camera crews. They needed to paint a positive picture of events, and it's not like they weren't positive overall in the region. It was just that this event was a black mark on his honor, and he'd probably off himself if they ended up on Al-Jazeera.

McGregor watched Ebañez approach Dygalo.

The Staff Sergeant was sitting next to his Humvee while cleaning his weapon in silence with the remains of his team.

“Staff Sergeant, would you mind answering a few questions about the operation last night? It's nothing formal.” Ebañez said while hurriedly setting up his camera.

Dygalo continued cleaning his weapon, apparently attempting ignore the buzzing Lance Corporal.

“In your own words, how would you describe last night’s op, any major take aways?”

Dygalo stopped wiping the upper receiver of his Mark 17 and slowly looked up.

“Get that fucking camera out of my face right now or I'll-“

“Aye, Staff Sergeant.” Ebanez said as he scurried away from 2-1.

“Fucking POGs.” McGraw snorted impertinently and ran another patch down the bore of his M4A1.

Lieutenant Eckloff approached the group.

“What's up LT?” Johnson asked while fitting the trigger assembly back into the receiver of his 249.

“Bad news, boys.”

“What's going on?”

“Our resupply convoy is now a twisted, burning, monument to our failed hopes for progress towards stability in the valley.”

“What does that mean?” Stevens asked.

Eckloff sighed “We're down to one meal a day, night optics at 50%.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?! What the hell happened?!” Johnson clearly wasn't liking the sound of that.

Eckloff explained. “RENAMO guerillas ambushed our supply POGs. They fought off most of them, but the Guerillas made off with the company's supply of C4s and MREs, that, and they blew up our fuel truck. The convoy had to turn back, went out over the Division's net about an hour ago. The fucking valley is too dangerous to convoy in supplies so the only way we can get anything in is via airdrop, except that nearly every air asset is already in use. Raptor's trying to see if y'all can hitch a ride with a CASEVAC flight to the big base in Nacala tomorrow and beg, borrow, buy, or steal a solution to our battery problem. As far as food, we might have to go local.”

“The last time I ate local I had the shits for a week.”

“Get some rest now. Y'all should be ready to go with all your shit in twelve hours or so.”