Chapter 2: This Too Shall Pass

Thursday Afternoon 3 October 2019

I signed the contract, and some other required paperwork, mostly for the government. Only then did J.B. Brooks produce a bottle of Elijah Craig barrel proof bourbon. He poured three fingers of what he described as liquid ambrosia for Ben, Nolan, me, and himself. We sipped our whiskey from snifters, as my friends and I often did with our favorite single malt scotches. This particular bourbon was remarkably smooth, yet, quite complex. It also packed a wallop.

After savoring the fine bourbon, and accepting a booklet, and a thumb drive containing information for new members of TERRA. I surprised J.B. by requesting to get started on Monday, and to be able to stay on site starting on Sunday. I explained that I had barely moved into my (father’s) house, and hadn’t unpacked most of what I had recently moved out of my quarters in the First Special Forces Group compound on Joint Base Lewis-McCord. I couldn’t see any reason to waste time unpacking for a week or two, I might as well move this weekend.

Before going back to my house to pack, I drove to the Triple XXX, probably the last of the once famous drive-ins, with its legendary root beer. I had eaten a light breakfast, practically nothing compared to what I usually ate while serving active duty in the Army. Maybe that is why the bourbon seemed to make me feel all warm and fuzzy. Tucking in to a double bacon cheeseburger, fries, and a root beer float for dessert. It made me feel like a kid again. My family used to dine here once a month. My dad would also take me here when there were get togethers to show off classic cars and hot rods a few times a year.

I was content for the first time in a long while. Comfort food, a residual mellow feeling from the premium bourbon, and most important, a sense of purpose. It was only a bit after noon, traffic on I-90 heading east up Snoqualmie Pass was relatively light, so I got back to the house in twenty minutes. Jamie was working a three year old Appaloosa on a lunge line in one of the paddocks. I halted, and lowered the window to speak with her, no sense traipsing through the mud in oxfords and my suit. I informed her I would be leaving tomorrow, and gone for at least two weeks.

After I backed my Ford Escape into the garage, and secured it, I considered what a good woman Jamie is, and how lucky my dad had been to choose her to manage the ranch. Since I earned my commission, I had not stayed here more than one day in a hundred. The ranch was more hers than mine. I checked the security system, then entered the house, quickly shed my suit, and hung it up. I had a lot on my mind, so I put on some jeans, a flannel shirt, then went to the mud room and put on an old pair of ‘shit kickers’ a battered Stetson, and a barn coat.

While I had been off fighting the ‘Global War Versus Terrorists’ all of my horses had grown old and died. Jamie had, over the years, acquired replacement horses for my string of four. I suppose I owned the whole herd of two dozen or so; the number fluctuated as Jamie bought, or traded horses, trained them, and sold them. Two to three times as many horses were boarded here. Jamie had doubled the herd, as well as the number of horses boarded on the ranch. She had convinced my father, and after he passed, me to allow her to add two new barns, a covered riding arena, and other improvements.

What used to be fallow land now held the herds of dairy cattle, merino sheep, and llamas. She now purchased all of the hay and alfalfa, but the income from the other critters was significantly more profitable than growing, and harvesting such a meager crop that we had to supplement; purchasing all of it we got a bulk discount. Many of the horses we boarded belonged to the families of teenage girls. A few lived locally, more of them lived in Bellevue, or even Seattle. The girls were still in classes, or at work, so I had the barn to myself.

Maybe a third of the horses boarded here were owned by women who had boarded their horses here since they were girls. I was a bit surprised how few boys, or men, owned horses. Jamie told me our clients were fairly typical, at least for this region. When I applied to transfer to Special Forces, they noted that I had grown up riding; they were particularly interested that I had experience riding trails in the Cascade Mountains, and nearby foothills. I had even packed in for up to a week at a time, although I hiked more than rode during camping trips growing up.

The first American soldiers into Afghanistan in 2001 were members of the Fifth Special Forces Group. They were inserted by MH47E Chinook helicopters from Kazakhstan. They arrived with bulging rucksacks, and other gear, and only their “LPC’s” (“Leather Personal Carrier” two each: Boots). The tribal warriors of the Northern Alliance offered them horses. Few of them had any experience with horses, other than a trail ride, or maybe a week or two at a summer camp; half of those ‘High Speed” Operators lacked even that much experience. The US Army re-created a riding school, considerably different from the Cavalry of the 1930’s or before. They also taught mule ‘skinning’ (packing equipment and supplies using mules or horses).

I’m not a cowboy, but I’ve been riding recreationally since I was six. While I was off at Hillsdale College, and even while I was in the Army, I continued riding, even if not as frequently as I had growing up. Mostly I would rent a horse for an hour or two, but I did go on a couple overnight horse packing excursions. A couple years ago, on fifteen days leave, I spent a week riding horses in the Highlands of Scotland. Being in the saddle usually clears my mind of other concerns.

Jamie employs three women full time, as well an older dude in his fifties; she also has a bunch of girls who work part time, or do some chores to reduce their boarding costs. I don’t bother about the details, it’s no skin off my nose, the taxes and expenses are paid, and I enjoy a small supplement to my pay. None of the hands were around, but that’s not a problem as I saddle my own horse anyway. I enjoyed the solitude of the barn, the horses nickered, twitched their ears, or tossed their heads in greeting.

I almost never slept at the house, however, whenever I was based at JBLM, I often drove up to go riding for an hour or three. It is better therapy than drinking. Entering the tack room, I was pleased that it was as orderly as I expected. Pocketing a dozen treats, I then unbagged my saddle, and grabbed the tack, and a saddle blanket. Duke, my stallion was expectant as I approached, he seemed disappointed when I walked past him and placed my saddle near Willow’s stall.

Coming back to Duke, I patted his neck, as he nuzzled my chest, snuffling above my pocket containing the treats. Shamelessly I spoil my horses, I enjoy their affection; even if I have to purchase it with treats. Too many soldiers have to do that with their spouses and kids; I just have horses. My two geldings, Joseph an Appaloosa, and Yaeger a Mustang, are more patient than Duke; as long as I remember their treats, and to give them some affection too. Willow is a sweet mare, a Morgan, and though the smallest, she has a lot of heart.

Indian Summer is still lingering in early October, although the mornings are chilly; the barn is well built and maintained, so the horses don’t require blankets. Grooming Willow is a necessary task that calms me, I know I will have to attend to my checklists soon, but not now. She is eager, knowing what being saddled means. She is still and calm, but I can feel she has as much energy and excitement as Duke has, she just contains it better. She is the smallest of my string, but she bares my weight easily, and like most Morgans, she could do so all day, and all night too. My thighs would be aching long before she’d tire.

Several hours riding the nearby trails passed too quickly. I enjoyed my time in the saddle, but eventually my mind became too cluttered making lists of preparations, and what I must pack. Riding is good therapy, providing stress relief. I felt great, I was not stressed, I was eager to get on with this new chapter in my life. By the time I got back to the barn there was a dozen girls present. They had been chatting excitedly, but when I rode in, they hushed. As I unsaddled Willow, groomed her, and put away my saddle and tack I could hear them whispering.

Many of them knew I was the owner, and that I had recently returned from serving in the Army. Some even knew that I had served in exotic places, although only three had the nerve to chat briefly with me. I had an inkling that far more exotic rumors had sprouted from my rather meager responses. I guess most had always known I existed; Jamie would routinely post a prayer request for my team members and I when we deployed, and where care packages could be mailed. Occasionally my comrades had teased me about my female admirers; but they enjoyed the treats as much as I did.

Because I would be bringing them with me, I took extra care using the boot scrubber to clean off my old boots. Stripping off my jeans, flannel shirt, I tossed them in the washer with some PT shirts and shorts, as well as skivvies, I tossed the barn coat on top, but waited to turn the washer on until after I had my shower. Chicks might dig horses, but the smell of horses on a guy’s clothes is rarely a babe magnet. The shower eased my muscles, as well as washed off the lingering smell from my ride.

While my clothes were washing, I popped some leftovers into the microwave, and fired up my tablet computer. Sorting through my checklist templates, I selected several, and modified them for the upcoming evolutions. Most of what I needed was already packed. Using my old bedroom as a staging area, I opened several duffle bags, and packs, confirming the presence of the clothing and gear I was likely to need. I removed all of the military uniforms, except for a multicam “boonie hat” and a Gortex jacket in the same cammo pattern. It is not uncommon for Special Forces troops to wear civilian clothing on deployments. Mostly non-descript, but high quality clothing worn by hikers and other outdoorsmen. I also added two pairs of multi-pocket cargo pants, similar to what many military contractors wear.

On a whim I packed a couple of sets of shalwar kameez in earthen tones of tan, brown, and grey; its garb common to Afghanistan, Pakistan, parts of northern India, and Kurdish regions of Iran, Iraq, Syria, and Turkey, even the Kazak and Uzbek regions of Russia. Mine are well made, and slightly modified; they are rugged, and easy to move in. Besides I was never going to wear them on a deployment again, so I might as well wear them for fatigue duties.

Shalwar trousers are typically baggy above the knee, but fit tighter on the lower leg, mine have elastic cuffs that stretch over the tops of my boots to prevent bugs and crud from infiltrating. Kameez are a tunic, mine end at mid-thigh; from below the waist the side seams are left open, for ease of movement. It also provides easy access for a concealed pistol, and such. I added a tan and brown checkered shemagh, a long scarf that may also be wrapped around your face.

Footwear is a major consideration, I prefer to be out in the field, rather than chained to a desk. Quality footwear is essential to keep feet warm, dry, and provide ankle and arch support. Neglect your feet and you will regret it. The damn Chicoms had damaged my best pair of Lowa Tibet GTX boots, I needed to get them repaired; blessedly the Gurkha medic only cut the laces; he knew how much I valued those Lowa boots. Perusing my gear, I selected a pair of Lowa R-8S GTX Patrol boots, Zephyr GTX Hi TF, that provide better ankle support than ankle boot versions, that are more like trail shoes.

In case I had to do something particularly nasty, I packed a trashed pair of US Army standard issue Belleville suede boots; in my opinion the best of what can gotten from supply. This pair I got back at Fort Benning when I was in the IOBC (Infantry Officer Basic Course). I also packed some shower shoes and two pairs of athletic shoes. It’s a good idea to be able to change your footwear every day; they last longer and its good for your feet. J.B. Brooks told me I would be riding a horse at least several days a week, so I packed my Double H square toe boots, they are work boots, not for line dancing.

All of my clothing was clean and serviceable, but I had worn this stuff on multiple deployments. None of it was what had Ben called it? “Business Casual.” Whatever in the Hell that is. The images I googled would be ridiculous to wear on a working ranch, or in the woods. I tossed my laundry in the dryer, and threw on a shirt, some chinos, and put on my Lowa Elite Evos, they’re more of a trail shoe than boots, I didn’t have the time to order a couple more pairs from Lowa, so I was off to Costal Farm and Ranch.

Evening traffic on highway 18 wasn’t bad, and I enjoyed the scenery. I don’t know much, if anything about civilian style, so I resorted to my favored tactic for shopping. I slipped forty bucks to Sandy, a pretty co-ed aged girl, who seemed to have a clue to what might look good on me. In forty minutes, I had a half dozen shirts, and four pairs of pants that she assured me would qualify as “business casual” and I tried them on to ensure I could move freely in them.

While I was there, I picked up several pairs of work gloves, and some other needed items. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find any trail shoes, or light boots similar to my Evos. So, off I skedaddled to REI, where after trying on several options, I selected two pairs of Solomon Cross Hike GTX trail shoes, they call them boots, but I won’t. I wore each pair for at least ten minutes before I purchased them. I planned to start breaking them in over the weekend.

Some people might feel that I spend too much time and money on my clothes. “Clothing Maketh The Man.” I may not be a ‘Kingsman‘ but where I deployed, as well as where I would be working for TERRA, ordinary clothes soon look like what Bruce Willis was wearing in Die Hard. It might look cool in a movie. In an austere environment you get sun burn, wind burn, rashes from plants, bug bites, and worse. Its more than uncomfortable, its unhealthy; hypothermia is a serious threat. Wet blistered feet may lead to mission failure, and quite possibly your death.

As soon as I got back to the house, I finished packing, then loaded everything in to my vehicle, ticking the blocks on my checklists as I did. I also added my winter gear to the bug-out kit I keep in the vehicle all of the time. The weather report for the passes indicated ideal conditions for enjoying the transition to fall; but I would probably be coming back in two or three weeks, and it was better to have it and not need it, then need it and not have it.

Before I went to bed, I laid out the clothes I would be wearing tomorrow, as well as my EDC; identical to what I had worn earlier today to the interview. I placed my SiG P320RXP on the nightstand next to my bed; I had taken two rifles, a shotgun, and two pistols, and some accessories from the gun safe, and packed them in Pelican cases, and secured them in the back of my Escape. Technically I was in violation of state law, but fuck them, the AG wouldn’t be here if someone tried to break in.

Just before going to sleep, I verified the confirmation from Der Ritterhof Inn to stay Friday and Saturday nights. I made the reservation while waiting for my food at the Triple XXX. Since I was wounded by those Chicom bastards, I hadn’t treated myself to a vacation. As soon as I was released from Madigan Army Medical Center on JBLM, I had plunged into a physical therapy regime to return me deployable status ASAP. When that bitch smugly presented the edict that I would be removed from active duty, relegated to medically retired in thirty days, I was too busy settling my affairs to use any of my leave and had to sell it back to the army. These thoughts were counter productive, so I conducted some mindfulness exercises, and promptly went to sleep.

Awaking ten minutes before my alarm, I shit, showered, and shaved before dawn. I dressed, and verified my EDC was all as it should be. I was driving out of my garage before zero six hundred (6:00 AM). Last night I had cleaned my kitchen, and run the dishwasher. I didn’t want to leave anything laying around dirty for a couple of weeks, so I stopped at George’s Bakery & Deli for breakfast. Fortified, and with my second cup of coffee in my insulated travel mug, I hit the road.

Traffic was already thicker than I would like, but that’s nearly twenty-four, seven within thirty miles of Seattle. According to my GPS, traffic wasn’t bad on I-90, yet. None-the-less, I drove west on State Route 202, and turned north on to SR 203 at Fall City. This is still farm country, kinda; it’s becoming colonized by invaders from the Bay area of San Francisco, and the Silicon Valley who are thrilled by buying a mansionette for a mere two or three million dollars. Seattle is spreading like a cancer, from the perimeter of JBLM to Marysville, north of Everett.

Urban ‘sophisticates‘ from LA, Chicago, or the megalopolis sprawling from south of D.C. to Boston would sneer at what I perceive as urban blight. When I was growing up Issaquah was a small town, and the Ralston Purina feed plant was the biggest business in town, with a rail siding parallel to the main street heading north to I-90. Now it’s just another suburb. North Bend, Carnation, and Duvall are now being swallowed up; like Sammamish and Monroe were a decade or two ago.

Carnation still has quite a few dairy farms, as well as a complex belonging to the Swiss conglomerate Nestlé, famous for their chocolates, and other confections. Washington State has nearly as many dairy farms as Wisconsin, and in my experience, both are of some the best quality in the world. I have sampled premium offerings from Denmark, Germany, the Netherlands, and Switzerland; Washington and Wisconsin have dairy products of similar quality.

Just before Entwhistle Road, I got stuck behind a school bus, and poked along all the way from Carnation to Duvall. Despite that, I enjoyed the scenery, and got to Monroe just a little after zero seven hundred. Instead of overcast, we had a beautiful bright blue morning. I didn’t want to head up the pass with the sun in my eyes, so, I made a snap decision, and made a detour to the Maltby Café. I’ve only eaten here a few times, but they serve some of the best breakfasts I have ever enjoyed.

I don’t have fuzzy feet, but, on occasion, I enjoy a Second Breakfast, similar to a Hobbit. Lingering over my breakfast, and more coffee I read a local newspaper; I tipped the waitress well, for her pleasant attitude. There were quite a few other folks enjoying breakfast here, but there was always an open table or two, or I would have felt obligated to give up my table. Before hitting the road again, I watered my horse in the latrine. In years to come I would reminisce about this pleasant excursion. Generations to come will not enjoy such an experience.

A bit after nine I got back on the highway, and before ten I was in Gold Bar on Highway 2. Numerous times I pulled over so I could get out and enjoy the view. My father and I had taken this trip nearly two decades before when I was in my senior year at Mt. Si high school. When I was a kid, my parents and I had taken this trip several times. After absorbing the atmosphere, I would take a few photos with my digital camera, so that I could better remember the experience.

Despite playing tourist, I arrived in Leavenworth just a bit after noon. I was able to park in their lot, but my room at Der Ritterhof Inn was not yet available. This was an opportunity to break in one of my new pairs of Solomon Cross Hike GTX trail shoes. The center of town is only a five minute stroll from Der Ritterhof. Leavenworth has a Bavarian theme, and local ordinances require business to adhere to the theme. They embrace Oktoberfest here enthusiastically. Christmas is an even bigger celebration.

The Bier Gartens were already open, so I presented my Retired Military ID, and was given a wristband, gratis. There are four venues, I only visited one before going back to Der Ritterhof; I enjoyed a Rueben sandwich, and a stein of Big George Baltic Porter from the Icicle Brewing Company. I’m not a fan of yellow beers, and prefer red or brown ales, porters are my third favorite. This celebration of our nation’s first president is a fitting tribute. When I returned to Der Ritterhof, it was just past fifteen hundred (3:00 PM), and I was able to check in.

Leavenworth is a small town, nestled in a beautiful alpine valley. On some nearby mountain meadows, the Edelweiss blooms and grows, some dedicated individuals transplanted them from Austria a century ago. I strolled around town, enjoying the ambiance and breaking in one of my new pairs of trail shoes. Before nightfall, I visited all four Bier Gartens. For dinner, I enjoyed some schnitzel und sauerkraut, paired with some Nosferatu Imperial Red Ale. For dessert I enjoyed some strudel and a cup of coffee.

I drank plenty of water, and a quart of Gatorade before going to bed. I had consumed four steins, each of a different variety of beer, as well as a small glass of schnaps. I also pissed several times. It’s said that you don’t buy beer, you just rent it. I slept in Saturday morning, past zero-seven-thirty. I showered, put on my second new pair of Solomon Cross Hike GTX trail shoes, and enjoyed a hearty breakfast. It was drizzling this morning, so I grabbed my Gortex rain coat, and hiked about seven kilometers, up one of the foothills overlooking the town.

By the time I got to the top, it had stopped raining, and I was treated to a spectacular view. For perhaps thirty minutes I luxuriated, basking in God’s splendor. Before I hiked back to town, I took a couple of dozen photographs, and then filmed a slow panoramic to remember this day. I played tourist, had a couple of brats and some apple sider sauerkraut for lunch, along with a hearty brown ale. I sampled several more ales, and a couple of hard ciders, along with several pints of water, and a soft pretzel to maintain a pleasant buzz, rather than veer into drunkenness.

That evening I enjoyed some traditional German fare at the Andreas Keller restaurant, where my dad and I had eaten dinner during an Oktoberfest more than twenty years earlier. Bavarian food and micro brews were better at melting away years of tension, than numerous sessions of yoga, Tai Chi, and mindfulness exercises had been. I was replenishing my store of good memories; I would draw upon them in the years to come. After it got dark, I sampled several desserts, some coffee, and more schnaps.

Sunday morning, I was up by zero seven hundred, thanks to plenty of water, some Gatorade, and a healthy metabolism, I didn’t have a hangover. I had just enough time to shit, shower, and shave, and down a cup of coffee before attending divine services. After keeping right with God, I enjoyed a traditional Bavarian breakfast, and was checked out before eleven, and back on the road. Taking Highway 2 east, it merges with Highway 97 just beyond Peshastin. Continuing east through Cashmere, I crossed the Columbia River just to the north of the town of Wenatchee.

From Wenatchee I headed north on Highway 97 to Chelan Falls, arriving before noon. I stopped to stretch my legs, enjoy the view, then take some photos. Driving north another thirty miles, still on Highway 97, I crossed into the western edge of the Colville Indian Reservation. By thirteen hundred hours (1:00 PM) I was in Omak, which is partially on the reservation. I stopped and had lunch at Magoo’s restaurant in Omak, Nolan Clancy had recommended it.

After my pitstop in Omak, it was about another thirty miles to Tonasket. It’s a very small town, the junction of Highway 97 and SR 20. I took SR 20 east nearly twenty miles, until the turn off for the Aeneas complex, that is the primary facility of TERRA. Leavenworth is as lush and green as where I grew up in western Washington, but Wenatchee and to the east is in the rain shadow of the Cascade Mountains. There is plentiful vegetation, but its more often a dun grayish-tan, rather than the verdant green of the Puget Sound region.

Stands of pines, firs, and cedars, as well as farm fields and fruit tree groves, mostly apple trees, but also cherries, apricots, and several other varieties add touches of green to natures pallet. The Okanogan River flows south from Canada, past the towns of Tonasket and Omak, to merge with the Columbia near the southwestern edge of the Colville Reservation, providing plentiful water for agriculture, and the people living here. To the west and north are vast evergreen forests, but to the south, near Yakima, the Tri Cities (and the Hanford Nuclear Reservation), and Walla Walla it is high desert. Sage brush, silica mines, but also plenty of cattle and sheep ranches too.

Driving east on SR 20 there were occasional fields of wheat, alfalfa, and other grains, mostly there were fields that had recently been harvested, or that had been left fallow. To the north, looking left, was a small ridge line running up to the north-northeast. To the right was Bonaparte Creek, that flows west, through Tonasket, to merge with the Okanogan River. Up ahead I saw the sign for T.E.R.R.A. green letters on a tan background, a green arrow above the letters. The turnoff was to the southeast.

Both sides of the highway for the last few miles had been sagebrush, bunch grass, and sporadic stands of small evergreens. After making the turn onto the road to TERRA, the terrain and sparse vegetation was similar for the first five kilometers, Unlike the worn and potholed asphalt of SR 20, the road to TERRA was smooth, well maintained concrete; it was also wider than the government maintained road. The next ten kilometers (roughly six miles) were noticeably greener, fields of what might be winter wheat, and alfalfa, there was also a field of sunflowers.

The last three kilometers (~ mile and a half) the ground was barren, not merely fallow, but utterly lacking in vegetation. I could see a fence line up ahead; there was something blocking the road. As I got close, I realized it was a gate complex, similar to the entrance to JBLM. The last five hundred meters the road was six, or possibly eight lanes wide, although no stipes were painted. Just the large letters SLOW. There was a sign directing deliveries to pull over to the right.

The gate was open, or at least it appeared that a section of fencing to the right could roll on wheels to close the opening in the fence line. A red and white striped pole blocked the entrance, but as I approached at ten miles per hour, the first polearm raised up; I could see a second similar arm beyond it remained down, blocking the road. Above the roadway was a structure some six or seven meters (twenty + feet) high, held aloft on sturdy pillars. It was tall enough to allow any tractor-trailer rig to enter unimpeded.

Bisecting the entrance and exit lanes to TERRA’s Aeneas complex was guard post. From several hundred meters away, it was difficult to detect, it blended into the terrain; it was a greyish-dun color. Perhaps concrete, or something similar. The windows on the west side, facing the entry lane were non-reflective, only slightly darker than the structure itself. Concealed in the shadow of the overhead structure, the guard post was unobvious. Once I came to a halt next to it, I estimated it was three and a half meters (eleven feet) tall, perhaps five meters wide, and roughly ten meters deep; providing enough room for a vehicle to be stopped between the pole gates.

“Cornelius John MacLeod,” said a man’s voice, from a speaker grate.

“How’d you know?” I asked.

“You are expected, and the license plate, make, model, and color, match the description of the Ford Escape registered to you in the state of Washington. Please wait a moment,” the disembodied voice said.

Almost immediately a tall woman appeared. Her short blond hair, in a ‘bob’ haircut, wearing a tan ballcap, SECURITY printed in black letters upon it. She was wearing tan pants; a tan turtleneck could be seen above the neck of her body armor; the vest was a slightly greyer dunnish tan. She wore a green jacket, open, revealing her body armor. It appeared to be a version of the IOTV I had often worn; just a different color. Low on her right hip was a large semi-automatic pistol in a UM-84 holster where it was clear of her coat. I couldn’t see her eyes, she was wearing amber eye-pro.

“Welcome to Terra mister MacLeod. I’m Kimberly Bailey. This is your temporary access pass. Please wear it around your neck, or clipped above your waistline anytime you are outside the ranch house or stables. You will get a permeant ID card during orientation. If you have any questions, ask Armand Valesco,” she said, offering the tiniest of smiles.

Ms. Bailey handed me a red card with a large black R on it. She had to be at least six foot tall. I noticed she was wearing military tan suede boots of superior quality, but I only got a glimpse, so I couldn’t be sure of the manufacturer. She gave me abbreviated directions on how to reach the prototype ranch, where I would be staying during my orientation. She then pivoted, and headed toward a dun SUV with SECURITY printed in low contrast grey on it; it also had a low profile lightbar, that might be mistaken for a roof rack from the front.