Chapter 1: A New Beginning

Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;
{cb}Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
{cb}The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
{cb}The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
{cb}The best lack all conviction, while the worst
{cb}Are full of passionate intensity.
{r}William Butler Yeats
My life ended on September 30^th 2019. I did not die. That nearly occurred early in the evening of June 17^th, earlier that same year. I was reminded of that fact once again, as I toweled off after showering. I was able to retain my balance, at least physically, but multiple pink scars, as well as twinges of pain reminded me of that day. Mostly, the therapy provided me by the government, physical, and mental, was over. Mostly. The pain is Not real. It’s a mantra I repeated, silently. It’s true. Kind of.

Naked, I walked from the bathroom of my father’s house to the bedroom. I can’t really adjust to the fact that it is my house now. It has been my house for years. However, I have not resided here for nearly two decades. I began to get dressed, donning first my silk boxers, and a microfiber t-shirt. Oddly, this one was white, not desert tan. It was what I was supposed to be wearing, I had laid out everything last night. Prior preparation helps to prevent errors. Silent mantras have ordered my life since before the first time I was wounded in combat.

The black socks I was wearing felt too thin. They had to be; I wouldn’t be wearing boots today. Putting on the crisp white shirt, I fastened all but the top three buttons. The wool slacks that I put on, the crease was as sharp as the ones on my Class A’s and Dress Blues that I never wore. As I was tying the laces of my oxfords, I lacked my normal dexterity. They are so very different from my boots, or athletic shoes. Fragile seeming laces. They provide no ankle support, nor proper traction on hazardous ground.

In the mirror my face is blank, as I fastened the last button and began choking myself. It’s just like riding a bike, I achieved a perfect Windsor knot, although I couldn’t recall the last time I had done so. Calmly, I adjusted my collar after tying my tie. It hadn’t been so tight when I last wore it. Nothing felt right. I walked to the gun safe, entered the combination, withdrew my SiG P320RXP. I dropped the magazine, and ejected the round in the chamber.

I stilled my mind as I verified the weapon was clear; then I inserted the magazine, chambered a round, and then topped off the magazine. Having placed the compact pistol in my custom Urban Carry G3 holster, I settled the holster upon my belt. This model holster is ideal for covertly packing a pistol while dressed in mufti. The G3 is an inside, and below the waistband holster, that I wear behind my right pants pocket. Observing my technique in the mirror, I practiced drawing smoothly; several times. Smooth is fast. Even without my suit coat, my holstered pistol was not detectable to the naked eye.

I clipped a pair of pens in the breast pocket of my shirt; one was an Uzi “tactical” pen with a window-breaker, it is also a last-ditch weapon. Counter-balancing my concealed pistol, I have a Leatherman multitool, and a SureFire “tactical” flashlight, in a Kydex holster; as well as a spare magazine containing twelve rounds of Hornady’s ‘Critical Defense’ 115gr. 9x19mm FTX. Twenty five rounds seems like a lot. Unless you have been in a gunfight, and realize they can disappear in the blink of an eye. They should be enough for anything I would reasonably encounter today. Too bad life is not reasonable. You are never truly prepared when you encounter an IED.

{FTX: Flexible Tip eXpander, an improvement of JHP: Jacked Hollow Point bullets; less likely that heavy clothing or other materials will prevent a bullet from expanding properly upon striking flesh.}

My Gerber “tactical folder” combat knife is clipped so it is concealed inside my left front pocket. My wallet and a butane cigar lighter I put in my right front hip pocket. I glanced in the mirror to confirm the bare bones of my EDC (Every Day Carry) is not obvious, even without my suit jacket. Instead, I noticed the bags under my eyes seemed big enough to contain all I would need for ten days TDY (a Temporary Duty Assignment away from your assigned base).

Until last week, I had been living in my assigned quarters on JBLM (Joint Base Lewis-McCord; formerly Fort Lewis and McCord Air Force Base, just a few miles south of Tacoma, Washington). When I was born, my family lived in Issaquah, and I attended grade school there. After my mother died, Father bought a small working ranch near North Bend. In his later years, he sold most of his stock; except for my horses, and a few of his. He hired a Stable Manager, and let her decide upon the number of ranch hands required.

Boarding horses paid the taxes and other expenses, and provided him a modest income. She is still managing the ranch. Recently, I discovered that there is a small herd of dairy cattle residing here. They are owned by a woman who runs a boutique organic cheese shop, who wants to ensure she knows what goes into the cheeses she crafts. There is also a small herd of Merino sheep, for wool; also, some llamas, for God knows what purpose. The additional income had provided for my father’s medical expenses.

After reviewing the books, I awarded Jamie a suitable bonus, and a raise. She deserves it. Until a week ago, I hadn’t needed it, I had my pay as a Major in the US Army. There were significant “kickers” to my base pay; fortunately, I lived modestly, and had banked, or invested, most of my income. Now I need a job. I need sleep too. I don’t think I have slept more than a dozen nights in this house since I graduated Mount Si high school, and joined the Army. Actually, that’s not completely true. While I was attending Hillsdale College in Michigan, I joined my father for Christmas, four years in a row; but rarely after that. I don’t really sleep here now. At best I dozed.

Leaving my suit jacket in the garment bag, I grabbed my smartphone too, and prepared to leave. I ticked all the blocks on my mental checklist. Adequately satisfied, I moved out towards the garage, pieing the corners and rapidly clearing the fatal funnels. In the mudroom I checked the repeater monitors for potential threats. All seemed clear. I grabbed my civilian Gortex rain slicker, and entered the code for the key-box containing the fob for my 2015 Ford Escape, and a few other remaining keys on the ring.

Glancing at the monitors again, I triggered the remote start, then entered the garage. Quickly, but thoroughly, I examined around, under, and atop my vehicle, before opening the driver’s door. I activated the remote to open the garage door, and drove out. Nearly always, I back in when I park; although I prefer to drive through a parking space, and only backup when I must. Its just prudent, and it reduces the odds of a negligent contact (few incidents are truly accidental).

I felt like I was sweating, although it had been less than a minute since I had surveyed the A.O. using the bank of monitors. Intellectually, I understood there was no Threat closing in on me. Probably. There were some nasty people, and nastier organizations that I have angered. Payback is a Medevac! Or a body bag. This time I got to Interstate 90 without being hit by an IED or complex ambush. At least by ten-hundred hours (ten A.M.) there probably wouldn’t be too much traffic. Probably. Fortunately, I was only driving to Issaquah; not Bellevue, or, Thank God, not Seattle!

I have put less than twenty thousand miles on my Ford Escape. I have driven it more in the last four weeks than I had in the previous two years. I wasn’t in CONUS (Continental United States) much, at least not where I had the need to drive my POV (Personally Owned Vehicle). When I did drive, it was mostly in various government NTVs (Non-Tactical Vehicles) usually king cab pickup trucks, or SUVs. Occasionally it was a HMMWV or an MRAP, but those were usually driven by one of the NCOs, with whom I served alongside.

Deliberately, I drove by the office complex that was my destination. There were no obvious threats. The location was non-descript, just another cluster of low-rise office buildings, few were more than six stories. Bland names predominated. Evergreen Services, Yamaguchi and Yamata, Cascade Transportation, Ivarsson Assoc., Hutchison Whampoa Ltd., and such. Sixty to eighty percent of the parking spots were occupied, but I didn’t see any people. No one was walking about, and most of the ground level windows were heavily tinted, or mirror like; energy conservation measures, fueled by government incentives.

Under leaden skies, I selected a parking space and backed in. I was fifteen minutes early for my appointment with T.E.R.R.A., Tonasket Environmental Research and Recovery Associates. On time is late, ten minutes early is on time. Dreading my first job interview, ever; the first of many more, with little hope of employment; I dismounted from my vehicle. I glanced up, rain loomed, but in the Great Pacific North Wet (yes, Wet, not west), if you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes, it’s likely to change.

I left my Gortex jacket in my Ford Escape, and put on my suit jacket. My mind was racing like Dale Earnhardt at Daytona. He was one of my childhood heroes. He died in a tragic crash during the last lap of the 2001 Daytona 500, ironically won by his son, Dale Earnhardt Jr., just a few months before my ETS (completed my three years of active duty in the US Army). None of my comrades had died during thar tour of duty. In the global war versus terrorists, too many guys, and a few women I served alongside became casualties.

Few were killed. Wounds, sometimes disabling, were far more common than death on the battlefield. Modern body armor, and advanced medical techniques, as well as rapid transportation to a CaSH (Combat Support Hospital) {the modern version of a M+A+S+H, you’ve probably seen the reruns}has resulted in far fewer deaths resulting from combat. Suicide. That has cost me more comrades than the immediate consequences of war. Mostly people didn’t seem to detect that I had been severely wounded just a few months ago, at least as long as I kept my clothes on.

Upon entering the building, I was greeted by a young man in a tailored dark suit, who said, “Hello. I am Benjamin Gottlieb. Welcome, and thank you for coming here today. You are right on time. Ten minutes early.”

He added the last comment with an almost boyish grin. On another person it might have seemed a smirk, but he exuded an exuberant charm. At first glance he appeared to be a teenager, or twenty-something. Similar to many young men in Regular Army infantry formations. Partially it was his round face, and cheeks that appeared to have never known a razor’s touch. My being nearly half a foot taller contributed to my perception of his seeming youthfulness; I am six foot four inches, and he was a couple inches shy of average.

The illusion of youth was dispelled when our eyes met. There was a glint of humor, echoing his boyish grin, but in his depths, I sensed he to had “seen the elephant” (been in combat). Sometimes, between fellow veterans there is a je ne sais quoi; without talking about your experiences, you feel a sense of kinship. As he turned, and then led me down a hallway to a meeting room, I noticed his movements were subtly off. His slacks were well tailored, so I couldn’t see his ankle; perhaps he had a holstered pistol on his left ankle. I suspected he had an artificial foot, ankle joint, or that even more of his leg had been replaced.

Perhaps, like me, he chose to strap part of his EDC to his lower leg. Today I had a Gerber Mk. II knife sheathed on the inside of my left shin. On my right lower leg, I had an IFAK (Individual First Aid Kit) in a custom set of pouches. Although I prefer to carry a larger medical kit, I could not do so in a concealed manner wearing a suit. I had practiced wearing, and walking about so that it was almost unnoticeable. If anyone mentioned my movements were slightly off, I would have told them that although I was nearly fully recovered, I was still in a physical therapy regime, to explain my slightly altered gait.

Indirect lighting complimented the warm color scheme, contrasting with the gloom outside. Grey overcast skies, and weeks of near constant drizzling, with bouts of rain showers inflicts SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) on more than a few residents of the great Pacific North Wet. Forrest green trim pleasantly accented the warmer colors, and contrasted nicely with the light oak wood flooring. Framed prints of woodland groves, a waterfall, meadows, and a secluded cove, labeled “Orcas Inlet” up in the San Juan Islands of northern Puget Sound, adorned the walls of the windowless hallway.

Benjamin led us into the meeting room, but I hesitated in the threshold as I recognized the man with the booming voice who said, “Welcome Major MacLeod! If you’ve got a hanker’n, wrap your mitt around a mug of coffee, then light an set. We got some jaw’n affore we get you to sign a contract. It’s likely to be thirsty business. We shouldn’t pour the whiskey until after we get your commitment.”

J.B. Brooks. Brigadier General Joshua Benjamin Brooks United States Marine Corps, retired. Although he is only an inch taller than me, and admittedly has a bigger frame, he is so much larger than life. In this room he was a Titan! Back in November 2004, when I was a mere Officer Candidate in the Michigan National Guard, he was a Lieutenant Colonel commanding the 3/1 Marines (3^rd Battalion, 1^st Marine Infantry Regiment) and leading the main effort in Operation Phantom Fury; better known as the Battle of Fallujah.

During a lull in the weeks long battle LTC Brooks was lured to a meeting with some supposedly peaceful sheiks. Tribal leaders sent a plea about wanting to coordinate the evacuation of children, women, and elderly non-combatants. It was an ambush, three Hajis with AKMs were trying to murder him and his entourage. His lead bodyguard was shot multiple times, due to his IBA (Interceptor Body Armor with SAPI plates), he survived. J.B. Brooks was toting an M4 carbine, but a round from an AKM hit the receiver, disabling his primary weapon.

As if he were Wyatt Earp born again, J.B. Brooks earned his moniker The “Shootist” he quickly drew his H&K USP .45 ACP, and gunned down the three Hajis! There was a Marine combat cameraman accompanying LTC Brooks, intending to publicize the Marines commitment to safeguarding Muslim non-combatants. He was already recording using a Go-Pro, and captured the gunfight in its entirety. The US Marine Corps is remarkably publicity savvy, so they didn’t hesitate to offer the video to every media outlet, as well as put it online.

I had watched the video in my college dorm room. Years later, in late June 2012 I was recently promoted to Captain, and was the officer in charge of ODA 1607, an ad-hoc Special Forces “A-Team” (as most people call them). We had just choppered in to Camp Leatherneck to coordinate our parallel efforts to impose US interests on the festering shithole that is Helmand Province, Afghanistan. Brooks was the General commanding the USMC 2^nd MEB (Marine Expeditionary Brigade) and the soup sandwich of international and local forces in that desolate patch of Hell on Earth.

Our confab with the leaders of various elements and detachments had barely begun, when Brooks was notified that one of his mentoring teams had been betrayed by the ANP (Afghan National Police) they had been assigned to work with. A Marine Sergeant was dead, and several other Marines were WIA (Wounded In Action). Because of small arms fire, the “Dust-off” (MedEvac helicopter) couldn’t get them, and the “Golden Hour” was slipping away! The members of my ODA and I clambered aboard the vehicles of the QRF in the wake of General Brooks. Enroute we were ambushed, of course. Close up, I got to witness J.B. Brooks dispatch two of the Hajis. Few Generals tote a rifle, nor are many expert marksmen. Brooks was.

The two wounded Marines, and their sole unwounded comrade were 1,800 meters from the nearest road. The terrain was steep, and the enemy were cunning enough to use the terrain to prevent the vehicle mounted machineguns from being able to hit them. We had to go in on foot to secure the area so a chopper could extract the wounded. While we were pinned down by long range fire, I took note that General Brooks’ M14 Rifle outranged my M4 carbine. As an officer, both of my deployments had been to Iraq. The first time I led an infantry platoon, the second a scout platoon. An M4 is compact, and suitable for the engagements I had previously been in. After that deployment, I typically armed myself with an H&K-417, chambered in 7.62x51mm; the same caliber as the M14.

The primary duty of an officer is to make assessments, and issue orders. Generals should be in a Command Post, not acting like a “Grunt” but no one wants to be listening to a radio as young soldiers, or Marines bleed out ... At least that day, it didn’t matter what the General was supposed to do; those Marines were mighty glad to see Brooks, and the other Marines fight their way to the wounded Marines in peril. They were even more glad when the MedEvac chopper arrived to rush them to the CaSH!

I figured that Brigadier General Brooks would probably rise to become the Commandant of the Marine Corps in a decade or so. (The Commandant is the title of the Marine General in command of the entire US Marine Corps.) Then, like so many other Four Star Generals and Admirals, I figured he’d get a cushy job with some defense contractor, or a consulting firm on J Street in Washington D.C.; lobbying Congress-critters to waste our tax dollars on one boondoggle or another. I couldn’t figure why he was here in the office of some little environmental group.

J.B. Brooks is an impressive colossus in a USMC MCCUU (Marine Corps Combat Utility Uniform) uniform. Clad in a bespoke slate blue suit he looked like a Fortune 500 CEO. How did I know his suit was custom tailored? I can’t find a suit that fits me off the rack, and General Brooks is larger than me in all dimensions, with the shoulders of a Linebacker. Last time I saw him up close, nearly a decade ago, he looked young for his age with only barely noticeable ‘crow’s feet’ when I looked him in the eye. Although he had to be over fifty now, from fifteen feet away, he didn’t seem to have aged. Of course, with his mahogany skin tone it was difficult to detect fine lines.

These thoughts raced through my brain in a matter of seconds, but I lingered too long, and General Brooks smirked, then said, “if you’re too namby pamby for a Man’s drink, Ben could get you some chia, or green tea. Or, if you insist on one of those frothy concoctions, Ben’ll scoot over to Starbucks an get you a skinny, fat, Fou-Fou.”

Mentally, I kicked myself, then headed over to the sideboard where Benjamin and another man were getting themselves some coffee, and said, “I’m a caffeine achiever. Sir.”

J.B. Brooks, his paw engulfing a large, steaming, mug, smiled, then said, “that’s what I figured. You drank Navy coffee without grimacing, when we were in Helmand Province, back in the day.”

“You remember that? Sir.” I said, trying to keep incredulity off of my face.

“Damn straight I do! I didn’t know you, but we heard good things about your Oh-Dee-Ay work’n well with the San Marco Marines up in Herat Province. We were dissatisfied with the cooperation we were getting from the Snake Eaters in our A.O. so; I requested your team. When your name came up for consideration a couple of months ago, I only had a flicker of recognition. As soon as I began perusing your file, it came back to me. Your men and you pitched in when we had to throw together a QRF. Y’all didn’t try to take charge. I got to see your team operate in the Shit. I was quite pleased with the performance of you and your team subsequently as well. I am confident you will be an asset for TERRA.”

“Why are you here? I figured you’d be the Commandant about now. You didn’t strike me as a tree hugger. Sir.” I blurted

Brooks just chuckled, then said, “We are not tree huggers. Just like most folks, we appreciate trees, clean air, clean water, and such. As for me personally ... The powers that be did Not appreciate me playing Cowboy more than one time too many. Worse, they interpreted my actions as lacking confidence in the Captain nominally in charge of the QRF. I did. She wasn’t up to snuff. Marines were going to die. Imprudently, I compared my actions to Lieutenant General George S. Patton Jr. personally conducting reconnaissance missions in Sicily. In hindsight, that wasn’t wise. I was directed to retire, for the good of the Corps. I was so bored I was considering writing my memoirs, when Rutajit Mukherjee got the hare-brained idea that a Rock Ape like me was just the Iconoclast he wanted to run this Three Ring Goat Rodeo.”

I considered that for a minute, then asked, “Why me?”

With a nod from J.B. Brooks, Benjamin Gottlieb replied, “too many environmentalist organizations are mostly tax farmers. Focusing on whatever fads the most tax dollars are flowing too. Corporate grants tend to follow those trends too. Follow the money is what they tell investigators and lawyers. It applies to philanthropic organizations too. TERRA doesn’t apply for many government, nor corporate grants. Never any major ones. We are researching solutions that are effective, and that ordinary people are likely to believe are reasonable.”

Confusion must have been evident on my face, for J.B. Brooks elaborated, “Mister Mukherjee is a naturalized citizen of the USA, among other ideals, he appreciates the service of veterans, and has encouraged us to recruit many veterans. We are also employing locals from Tonasket, Omak, and the Colville Reservation, many of them are what the elites deem to be underprivileged. During your service you demonstrated the ability to instruct a diverse spectrum of people, often in an austere environment. You have also proven to be able to manage others. Leaders of an ODA are not subject matter experts, the NCOs are. You allocate your personnel and other assets to achieve the objectives set by the powers that be. That’s what we want you to do for us.”

“Not to look a gift horse in the mouth. But the email I received indicated this is supposed to be a job interview, for a rather vague management job with TERRA. However, several times you have seemed to indicate that the job is mine. If I want it. But you have not told me What the job is?” I stated.

J.B. Brooks said, “after reviewing your records, nothing jumped out at me to reverse the opinion I formed of you back in Helmand Province. I don’t require the concurrence of either Nolan, nor Benjamin to hire you. I do appreciate their input, and neither is hesitant to state their opinion to me. Although we are not sticklers for formality or conventional corporate practices. Perhaps, we should introduce ourselves, as we had intended to before my presence, and our remanences derailed our tentative agenda.”

“Mister Gottlieb introduced himself when he buzzed me in,” I said.

Benjamin said, “Please call me Ben. Just so that you know, I am an associate legal counsel for TERRA. I frequently participate in hiring management personnel. I may be able to explain any questions about your contract. However, you are welcome, in fact it would be prudent to have your own lawyer review any contract you might sign with us.”

The previously quiet man spoke, “I’m Nolan Clancy, as J.B. said, call me Nolan. On the staff chart, I’m listed as an administrative assistant. I’m a former Captain in the US Army. Military Intelligence. Ben is too modest to mention that he is a former Infantry Officer, and earned his C.I.B. on a deployment to Afghanistan. I deployed to both Afghanistan and Iraq, but didn’t do anything remotely as exciting as the three of you. TERRA lacks what JB calls an S-1, or Personnel Section, Human Resources in most civilian corporations, despite having over a hundred full time employees, and a score more individuals attending college or university classes. We function more like a Tech Start-Up. We are less formal, all though that is true of many other environmental advocacy groups. Many of us wear two, three or more ‘hats’ or perform duties not related to our official position.”

(CIB: Combat Infantryman’s Badge, it can only be earned by US Army Infantry MOS soldiers who have been in combat)

J.B. said, “Major Cornelius John MacLeod is quite a handle. Your friends call you Cory. May my associates and I call you Cory?”

“When being informal, the guys in Group typically called me Mac, but I would be comfortable with Cory, as well,” I replied.

Before they began their presentation, I asked, “What do You do JB? Everyone else offered their job title.”

“I’m the C.E.O. I thought you might guess from the ‘monkey suit’ I’m wearing,” he said.

“Really? I sort of thought it was this Mukherjee fellow. It doesn’t say on your website. Some articles I read seemed to indicate that after making a couple hundred million, or maybe a Billion or more founding various tech firms, he got the notion to venture into ... Well, it was all rather vague, and not very complimentary. The TERRA website is heavy on projects and emerging technologies. Not much on personnel.” I said.

J.B. said, “yeah, the struggle for government and corporate grants is Darwinian. Too many so called ‘green‘ advocacy groups are more focused on acquiring funding. Some have temporary, or long term associations. Many based upon personal relationships. There is also a rather ridged orthodoxy! Some formerly respected environmentalists are viewed as ‘Heretics‘ for holding contrarian views, no matter the scientific evidence they have presented. Cliff Mass professor of meteorology at the University of Washington, Patrick Moore, co-founder and former president of Greenpeace, Bjørn Lomborg Danish environmentalist, to name just a few. So, having a “Grunt” a former Marine, particularly with my notoriety as CEO is not something we want to be prominent.”

“If that is so, why were you hired?” I asked.

J.B. said, “the short answer is I agree with Mister Mukherjee’s objectives, I won’t shy from controversy, and I am capable of getting the most out of numerous highly motivated individuals with Alpha personalities, nor letting them lose focus by clashing with each other. It’s not much different from commanding a Mew Sock {MEU(SOC)}or a group of special operations teams.”

{MEU(SOC): Marine Expeditionary Unit (Special Operations Capable) a Battalion of Marine infantry with attached units of helicopters, logistics, artillery. AAVs, and usually a 4 man SEAL det. Trained to cooperate with JSOCOM}

Ben said, “before we go any further, we need you to sign a Non-Disclosure Agreement, and you should adhere to this NDA.”

I did not pick up the pen he was handing me, and stated, “the way you say that implies I have not taken previous NDA’s seriously.”

Nolan said, “Ben is neither saying, nor implying that. If you will sign our NDA, we will show you an NDA you signed that is not legally binding.”

I stared at Nolan, but said nothing.

Benjamin opened a leather covered binder, and slid several legal documents to me, while saying, “these documents have been signed by General Brooks, in his capacity as the CEO of TERRA, and witnessed by Nolan and myself. These contracts guarantee that if for any reason your military pension and, or your VA medical care is rescinded, TERRA will provide a pension and medical care matching what you would have received. Including all future COLA or other increases.”

For legal documents they were brief and straightforward. The text of the documents was exactly what Ben said they were. The amount listed on them was precisely what I was receiving monthly. Including deductions, such as my monthly payments for VGLI (Veterans Group Life Insurance), basically identical to SGLI for active duty and reserve members of the armed forces. One of the best bargains, and it covered death due to acts of war or terrorism, that many civilian policies do not cover. After reading the documents, including the NDA, I signed them.

Nolan spoke up, before either of his compatriots, saying, “perhaps I am projecting, however, you seem curious about our comments about previous NDAs you have signed.”

Nolan pulled several documents out of his folder, and slid them over to me, then said, “an NDA is not binding on matters that are public knowledge. Coercing you by threatening to deny you medical treatment, or your retirement benefits, unless you agree to sign an NDA about matters that are merely embarrassing, but not actually secret information that is likely to harm the USA is problematic. Ben, I am sure, would provide us rather more nuanced legal advice. That is not relevant, I, we, are not urging you to challenge any of this. We do believe you have the right to know. This information is either deliberately being made vulnerable, or that the powers that be are so unconcerned that they are tolerating negligence is a matter of speculation.”

While he was talking, I browsed the documents he had provided. I was only partially listening, at first. The more I read, the less I paid attention to Nolan, and the more my anger grew at the functionaries, in, and out, of uniform who had presented what they claimed was the official position of the US Army and the government we served, that I was to blame for the situation in India. That by becoming, in their words injured, not wounded, by an IED (Improvised Explosive Device) {and perhaps not such an “improvised” weapon}emplaced on Indian territory by agents of the PLA (Peoples Liberation Army) of Communist China; I had embarrassed the Chinese Communists, and also, somehow, the USA.