Chapter 9

FOB Fenty, Jalalabad, Afghanistan

As evening chow was winding down for the platoon, a few stragglers wandered into the corner of the hangar deck that was set up with several plywood tables. Cpt Borden and his two medics carried their trays to the end of two short rows of tables, opposite of where members of the scout/sniper platoon normally alighted. Beeman, Garbo, Valdez, and White were the last of the straglers for chow. O’Brien noted the last four people, shot a questioning glance to his Number Two, then resumed his consumption of chow.

Cpl Pistochini, reading Sgt O’Brien’s non-verbal communications, stood to address the four Marines. “Who the fuck is standing watch, Hangnail?”

The three wannabes froze in their tracks, but Beeman continued to sit for a notable second serving. “Nobody, corporal. We locked both the front and side hatches.”

Pistochini nodded to the Marines, clearing them to continue with chow. “You know, boss. That brings up a point. Why the fuck can’t we just keep the doors locked 24/7?”

“Not a fuckin clue. Ask the major.”

As if on cue, there was banging from the side hatch echoing across the hangar’s cavernous space.

“Well fuck, who has the duty?”

L/Cpl Valdez stood, wearing the duty 9 mil rig, making it obvious he had the duty. “I do, corporal. I’ll get it.”

Valdez, his chow interrupted, stomped across the hangar deck. Standing to the side of the frame, Valdez opened the Hatch with his right hand on his duty weapon. The DIA agent strode into the hangar with an air of importance, rapidly walking to the opposite side.

“Lieutenant, sergeant. We need to commence the flag debrief.”

Lt O’Connell did not bother to look up, and other than the three medical soldiers, the lack of importance they assigned to the DIA agent was obvious through their inattention.

“Mr Jensen, the major has scheduled the meeting for 1900. Required personnel will be present at that time.”

“We need to have a pre-meeting, Lieutenant.”

“A what meeting?”

“We need to verify that our reports match.”

O’Brien was visibly irritated and attempted to recall the JAG sentencing guidelines for homicide. He figure an act of passion would be 2d degree, demonstrably well worth the 15 to 20 years of an all expense-paid stay at Fort Leavenworth. He stood as he decided that removing Jensen from the gene pool would be an act of preservation for the good of humanity; and it would shut him up.

“Did you hear the LT, sir? He’ll be there per Major Tisdale. We’re havin fuckin chow ... sir. Will there be anything else ... sir?”

Jensen’s now familiar beet-red skin coloration returned to his face, much to the entertainment of O’Brien’s troops. “Well, just be there.” With the failed attempt to retain any level of authority, Jensen quickly departed.

“Secure that fucking hatch, Hangnail.”

With a knowing smirk, “aye, corporal”, Beeman went to lock the side access door to the hangar.

To Pistochini’s discomfort, Jammer started the evening festivities. “You think that spooks are infinitly stupid, or infinitesimally smart?”

Crammer followed his friend’s lead. “To be infinitely stupid, you still have to have brains. Sorta doubt that spooks got anything other than basic reptile brains, man.”

Hartman, always the philosopher, “Infinity? Infinitesimal? What is that? But it does have a symbol. So do the math dweebs believe that its an actual thing?”

As he pontificated infinity, Hartman had a distant focus while he methodically sectioned an apple with his ka-bar, then dipped each slice into a mix of Tabasco and mayonnaise and black pepper.

“Good point, Cheeseburger. Infinity is supposed to be the fucking max, but that Number Theory book I borrowed from the boss has shit like N times infinity. What the fuck is that? Big? Bigger? Biggest?”

“Can you add to infinity? A multiple of infinity? Don’t see how arithmetic operators can apply to infinity. Its not a specific value, its not anything real. Right, boss?”

O’Brien smiled that Pistochini had been drawn into the navel gazing. “What makes ya think any number actually exists, including integers?” O’Brien shoved the milk cartons away from his food tray and pointed to them. “There’s five milks here. They’re fuckin real, the cartons, that is. The number five by itself, is it real? Where the fuck in the universe does the integer ‘5’ exist? Its an abstraction that humans concocted. Just about everybody has discussed this shit, from Plato to Einstein.”

“So you’re saying that numbers cannot exist without humans to think about them.”

“Mostly. It’s fuckin metaphysics. Ontology. And I sure as fuck ain’t gettin into no ontological discussion. That shit will rot your mind. Sorta like the masturbatory arguments of whether mathematics is discovered or invented.”

“So what do you think, boss? Was math discovered or invented?”

“Eat shit, Crammer. Not gonna do it.”

The platoon guffawed that Mybar’s troll had backfired. But the class clowns could not let it lay.

“Then what about physics? Physics is a system of mathematical expressions. So if there are no humans to make up the math, would the universe exist?”

“Holy shit, Crammer. Why not go the head and jerk off for a while?”

“Really, boss.” Mybar arced his hand overhead. “All of this shit. Are the constructs of the universe dependent on us thinking about it?”

“That shit was discussed over 80 years ago by Tagore and Einstein. Find a library and read it. Early in their discussion, Einstein said something like, ‘the big question is whether truth is independent of human consciousness’, similar to ‘does the integer ‘5’ exist outside of the human mind?’ I believe that old Albert used some fucked up logic and conceded too much crap to Tagore because he was a renowned poet and philosopher from India. In other words, the unverifiable wa-wa of eastern mysticism. Its sorta like asking is infinity even or odd?”

“So, is infinity even or odd?”

“Who the fuck knows, Jammer. A theoretical math dweeb using set theory and discrete principles will probably tell ya something different from an applied math guy using Number Theory. But you should know that its a great way to troll mathematicians.”

The platoons three wannabes listened intently, wondering if they could ever aspire to be one of these geek ‘super-grunts’. Being somewhere in between awe and fear of the two NCOs, Garbo and Valdez and White had, at least, bonded with each other over the realization that they were not of this ilk. But they were determined to learn all they could from O’Brien and Pistochini before being returned to their respective rifle and weapons platoons.

The three Marines’ thoughts of inadequecy were interrupted and somewhat reinforced when Sgt O’Brien directed attention in their direction.

“Pistol, tell me about our three PIGs. What ya got going?”

“Still working on the single-variable shit, boss. Had them do wind tables out to 800 meters. They wanted to do some fancy tables for M4s. Did you know that no one publishes a damn thing for 5.56 mil like the Quantico dweebs do for 7.62? Haven’t seen shit for batch test data and the standard deviations, other than the ammo specs in the mil-standard.”

“I’m bettin that’s because those fuckers don’t want ya to know the M4 ain’t shit past 400 meters. Ya know what the gunner told me? That average M4 qual scores, compared to M16 scores, have dropped a few points.”

“Sounds like a commie plot to me, boss.”

“Yep, straight outa the fuckin Kremlin and Peking ... So what ya got goin tonight? And I’m guessin I gotta go to the this meetin tonight. Sir?”

“That is correct, Sergeant. Per the major, the Warrant Officer here is supposed to make sure you attend.”

“Fuckin thrills, sir. Gonna be the high point of my day ... Ma’am, how did you get roped into bein my baby-sitter?”

The army pilot gave a questioning smile to O’Brien. “Fates of the universe? Luck of the draw?”

“So you were in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

“Always am, sergeant.”

“That’s good, ma’am. Your ability to find shit sandwiches makes you perfect for our fucked up little world ... Ya never answered me, Pistol.”

“Yeah. We’ll do gear stuff. Wanted to mostly read this mission background and planning shit. Did you know that intel file is over a hundred fucking pages, boss? Those intel people need a hobby.”

“Dunno. Can’t count that high. I just looked at the pictures.”

Most of O’Brien’s troops laughed at their sergeant’s self-deprecation and his interaction with the pilot and others. The troops saw O’Brien as their fearless leader, seemingly afraid of nothing, whether it be physical or institutional. He said things, in front of officers at times, that could never be said by the troops. Pistochini did not laugh; he had been closely observing the army warrant officer observe O’Brien and others. And the soldier was, in fact, fascinated with the platoon; principally Sgt O’Brien.

Just before crossing the dark runway, as the airfield was not controlled after the tower shut down, Lt O’Connell paused to look for landing aircraft. O’Brien, to all appearances, blithely ignored such precautions and continued walking across the gravel and weeded infield before stepping onto the runway. O’Brien noted that Cpt Borden did the same, while the army pilot and himself did not delay. Any delay on O’Brien’s part would not be logical, he had been aware of the area sounds and smell and motions the second he exited the hangar’s side door.

Entering the small conference room, O’Brien smiled upon sighting three boxes of new dry-erase markers, blue and red and black. O’Brien wondered if Maj Tisdale would have severe delirium if he had to use a chalk board. O’Brien found a chair positioned near a corner, next to the wall opposite the corner of the three plywood boards used as a conference table/desks.

Jensen ignored the arrival of the four and continued to shuffle through the pages of hand-written reports by his people and others, as if their ordering was a matter of paramount importance.

As Tisdale opened the door, he called attention on deck as the flag officer entered, followed by an Air Force colonel.

“As you were. Please be seated.”

Tisdale did not delay matters. “We have reviewed Sergeant O’Brien’s and Corporal Pistochini’s after-action reports. We have also reviewed the communications logs. The admiral will have his people review the other reports. Sir?”

The admiral did not stand, it was a small conference room and he considered the venue to be informal. Looking across to the opposing corner of the room, “Sergeant O’Brien, why were there no images of the tangos team killed by your team?”

O’Brien immediately stood, “Sir, we had no cameras.” He remained standing at a ‘relaxed’ attention.

“Major?”

“No mission requirements, and no supporting equipment was provided.”

“Mr Jensen, find something for this ... Sergeant, what do you think was the intended destination of the RPGs and munitions?”

“Unknown, sir.”

“Speculation?”

“Sir, the admiral could extrapolate using their travel vector, otherwise, unknown, sir.”

“And your reason for cutting across Pakistan?”

“Sir, route selections and rationale were described in Corporal Pistochini’s and my reports ... sir.”

“Why did you order the killing of civilians from the farming community?”

“Sir, all actions and respective rationale were described in Corporal Pistochini’s and my reports ... sir. Any further comments will be considered after my platoon has been informed of our article 31 rights and provided legal counsel, sir.”

“Son, do you know who I am?”

“No, sir”

“I am the commander of U.S. SOCOM. We are not necessarily subject to rights granted in article 31 for special operations.”

“Sir, my platoon belongs to Fifth Marines, and is supposed to be TAD to Third Marines. Neither is under SOCOM command. We are guided and delimited per the constitution and the UCMJ. Is the admiral ordering me to give up my article 31 rights?”

“Damn it! What’s your malfunction, Marine? You may be regular infantry, but you are operating under the umbrella of certain congressional provisions and dispensations.”

“Sir, respectfully, SOCOM command has no veracity per its treatment, use of, and respect for Marines. Please reference how SOCOM and the senior command betrayed that Raider unit in 2007 at the west end of Nangarhar.”

A dark silence spread over the small conference room. O’Brien continued to wear his expression of indifferent contempt. The admiral now understood the terse nature of the reports submitted by the Marines, as special forces had earned the distrust of Marine infantry, regardles of, or because of, the Corps’ forced participation in special forces via their raiders.

“I understand, son. You are dismissed, sergeant.”

“Aye aye, sir.” O’Brien executed a facing movement and rapidly exited the conference room.

The admiral exhaled slowly in a controlled sigh. The admiral speculated that the DIA agent may been the recipient of a boat-load of luck to have intercepted a capable unit for their intended tasks. But he was now of the realization that he should have waited for the availability of the next ranger company per Major Tisdale’s preliminary advice. He could only think, ‘Damned Marines. Bunch of God-forsaken Dudley Do-Rights.’ The admiral’s evaluation was blatantly insular and fully and foully incorrect.

“Major, can these Marines accomplish the next mission?”

“Yes, sir. O’Brien and his people are an unexpected find. Competent, almost profoundly so. Their level of aggression and determination matches that of the operators I have served with. Their technical shooting skills are second to none, limited only by their equipment. They are only lacking in the years of training typical for our operators.”

“Perhaps the sergeant can be encouraged to re-enlist for the Raiders?”

“Doubtful, sir. Sergeant O’Brien is on an involuntary extension. His EAS has passed.”

Admiral Olson shot up in his chair at that revelation. “What?!?”

“Lieutenant, what do you know about this?”

“Nothing additional, sir. The commands are a bit desperate. The Corps’ intel community at the battalion level has undergone a severe and top-down re-org. Most two shops are bare-bones operations. That is why Sergeant O’Brien is the Platoon Commander, not the Platoon Sergeant. Most battalions in Third, Fifth, and Seventh Marines have only a single officer and one or two staff NCOs in the S-2.”

“You are not his commander?”

“No, sir. I am on loan from the MEF G-2, and was assigned the day prior to their trans-pac. I am tasked with logistics support of this unit. My current status with the MEU is unknown.”

“Major, your project may have screwed the pooch on this operation. General Dunford will be madder than a wet hen when he is informed what the project is doing with his people. We do not need this drama. One more mission, and we send them to their battalion. And God help us if we lose one of these Marines.”

Admiral Olson, preparing to depart the FOB, was disappointed that he would get no further intel and insight into insurgent operations in eastern Afghanistan. The admiral had refrained from offering a kudo for affecting the insurgent organizations for this eastern quadrant, as he now considered the arrival of this particular group of Marines to be the happenstance of good luck.

Cpt Borden and CW3 Halley walked across the field together.

“Damn, Captain! Never seen anything like that before. O’Brien handed the Admiral his ass. And is it common for the Marines to extend people beyond their EAS?”

“Don’t think its been common recently. They did it during Desert Storm. In fact, I read that the Corps brought back senior people from retirement just before Desert Storm. Don’t know about the Navy, but its standard stuff in a Marine’s contract.”

“Captain Borden, are those O’Brien’s donkeys?”

Borden’s laughter received the attention of both Spock and Troi, casually grazing on the infield between the ramps and the runway. “O’Brien really likes those two. I wonder what he plans to do with those animals. We’ll need to tell the Marines that their children are running a muck.”

O’Brien and Pistochini did not understand why the donkeys were restless and acting super alert, even though well-fed, watered, and provided with a nice ad-hoc paddock.

“What the fuck, guys? Walkin around the middle of the airstrip at night? Ya want one of those noisy birds to land on your head?” O’Brien scratched Spock between his ears and down his nose. The donkey appreciated and readily accepted the attentions of his favorite human. Pistochini did the same for Troi as the animal leaned into ‘his’ human.

“Boss? They must be smelling something.”

“Yeah. Or maybe they were able to see or hear somethin.”

“How good is their distance vision?”

“Better than most humans, but don’t think their distant vision is good as a horse. Why?”

“I’m thinking they are as good or better than a watch dog. Would be sorta cool if we could take them outside the wire again. And how are we going get them back to the battalion?”

“Yep, already thought of that.”

“The use as watch animal or their transport?”

“Both. Obviously we can’t take ‘em on a vertical insert, but we could use them as part of a company over-watch. And the LT said he would look into truckin ‘em back to Kabul.”

“The LT sure the fuck is a stand-up guy.”

“Yep. Was thinkin about that. Wonder if we could get the 2/3 Two-Shop to take him as the two-alpha. That would make him our de facto platoon commander.”

“That would be so cool...” Pistochini put his arm around the Tro’s neck in another attempt to settle his donkey down. Pistochini decreased his voice volume. “What the fuck, boss?”

Pistochini and O’Brien quietly walked across the small corral to retrieve their two M4s, borrowed out the ‘armory’ in the hangar. The two Marines kneeled, one at each end, of the steel conex box that formed the north end of the paddock.

Listening, smelling, and visual scans did not reveal the reason for the animals’ unrest. They heard the distant sounds of typical evening off-duty activity for a FOB, and the smells of of the plain to the southeast of Jalalabad. The moon had not risen, so other than ambient lighting from building fixtures, there was nothing readily observed. But the animals were uneasy despite the assurances of their two trusted humans.

O’Brien was convinced that the donkeys were doing their level best to provide a warning. So he remained tactical and ready. Pistochini alternated between a broad over-watch of the buildings and the airfield, while straining to determine the direction of Troi’s concern. Per his donkey, Pistochini limited his scans to the east, directly across the airfield, and to the cluster of buildings to the northeast.

A sudden wash of light from the north, followed by the whine of turbine engines turning also brought O’Brien’s attention to the Northeast, about 400 meters in a diagonal distance. The strobing flash of the admiral’s UC-12 tail beacon provided an intermittent ghostly red illumination of the hangar directly to the rear of the plane. After the fourth or fifth strobe of red light, O’Brien noted two blurs of running shadows, armed and turning towards the oblivious aircraft.

“Have two tangos behind the bird, each side!”

After a quick pat on Troi’s flank, Pistochini sprinted to O’Briens side, noted where he was aiming, and confirmed to O’Brien, “I have starboard.”

O’Brien’s silent plea to Odin was for, at least this one time, to let the M4 be accurate past 300 meters. “Pistol! After the second red flash! Go!”

The tail beacon strobed once more, revealing that the tangos were still there. By the next strobe, the tangos had raised their weapons when Pistochini and O’Brien each filled a 10 by 10 cm square with three bullets. The tangos dropped, but a grenade, or some other fragmentation explosive fell from the left tango and sprayed the airplane empennage with coarse shrapnel.

Pistochini and O’Brien took off running across the airfield towards the small UC-12 transport aircraft. An MP hummer arrived as the two Marines sped across the airfield. The hummer then turned onto the tarmac behind the two Marines.

“Get that fuckin light off of me, asshole! Shine it behind that bird! Fuckin now! The stunned MP fumbled the light as the resultant shadows danced around the area, making it almost impossible to resolve any detail. The second MP ran up to Pistochini, kneeling dead center on the runway, his M4 pointed to the right of the aircraft, while the pilots were focused solely on the process of performing an emergency shutdown. When the MP turned on his bright police flashlight, it was directed almost into Pistochini’s eyes. Pistochini rose up, butt-stroked the incompetent MP, then resumed his kneeling position, unsure if he had seen additional movement behind and to the side of the aircraft.

O’Brien, on a flat-out run, sprinted around the left side, then dropped when he was aft of the aircraft’s right wing. When a previously unnoticed shadow changed angles, O’Brien fired two rounds into the locus of the shadow’s edge. The shadow quickly disappeared as a body dropped into the illuminated area. Hearing three 5.56mm shots by Pistochini, but not able to see his point of aim, O’Brien chose to remain in his current position.

As O’Brien and Pistochini held their positions, eight more Marines, some not fully dressed, armed with a random mix of M4s and M9s, joined their NCOs. Hartman dropped into place next to O’Brien.

“May have more tangos, Cheeseburger. Grab two and go behind one side of that hangar, have Digger take two and do the opposite side. And don’t forget to watch the topside.”

“Aye, boss!”

Six Marines sprinted to both sides of the adjacent building. O’Brien looked behind to see whom he had with him on site.

“Bark, Garbo! Cover me! Gotta get the brass outa that bird!”

The air-stairs had been previously deployed by some idiot, so O’Brien bounded up into the cabin in a single leaping step. The red cabin lights were on and the two pilots, a Marine captain and a Navy lieutenant, stood in flight suits with functionally useless cross-draw shoulder holsters bearing 9 mils. The naval aviators looked at the big Marine with questioning and confused expressions. O’Brien whistled out the hatch to Pistochini.

“Pistol. Get these fuckers back into the conference room. Have Major Tisdale baby sit them. Sir, need you two to closely follow the Admiral and the Colonel. Do what my Marine says. Probably more shooters on the airfield.”

O’Brien jumped back down onto the tarmac, taking off into another sprint to follow his troops behind the hangars.

Pistochini immediately took command of the four officers. “People, you need to stay on my ass and stay low. Don’t stop for shit. Once we get back inside that room, Major Tisdale becomes the boss. The navy lieutent started to babble something.

“Shut up, sir. This ain’t flying a crate. This is fucking war ... Is the Admiral ready, sir?

“Let’s go, son. How many did you get?

“Four down, sir. Maybe two more. We’re chasing them now. But we don’t know, sir.”

When all had exited the aircraft, Pistochini led the officers at a dead run to the south, careful to stay in shadows, never far from the buildings.

The Major, being an experienced operator, was waiting with his always-worn 9 mil rig, but also carrying an M4 at ready.

“Status, corporal?”

“We took down four, sir. Not certain, but we’re looking for two more. The bird is fucked up, sir. An explosive was set off aft of it and put the ass end of the bird full of holes.”

“How did you know about the tangos?”

“Troi and Spock, sir.”

“Say again, corporal.”

“The donkeys, sir. They’re good as dogs. Maybe better.” Pistochini turned to his LT, “see why we want to keep them, sir? Better sensory systems than doggos, and they can carry a load.”

The Marine pilot chimed in, “So what are we waiting for now?”

“Its up to Major Tisdale, sir. My boss said the major is in charge. But we’re waiting for Sergeant O’Brien to hunt them down.”

“Hunt them? How long?”

“Maybe an hour, maybe a day or two. Sergeant O’Brien won’t stop until he gets them...”

The admiral turned to his staff chief and gave him some unheard orders, who in turn commandeered Major Tisdale’s ad hoc desk to make phone calls while writing notes. The Admiral then huddled with the Major, discussing the things that officers choose to discuss - typically these discussions allow the ‘leadership’ the self-assurance that they are running things and that things are getting done, while the troops are out actually doing these ‘things’.

Pistochini posted the remaining troops around and atop the building, careful to return the three medical personnel to the barracks hangar with instructions not to shoot at anything. Pistonchini walked the three medicos back to their hangar, than returned to the building with the conference room, carrying an M82, and stationed himself topside. The officers spent the night in the conference room or walking around the adjacent unused storage space, that comprised the bulk of the building.

For the next nine hours, Pistochini scanned the area with binoculars and the rifle scope, pausing only to drain his bladder over the side of the building.

“Corporal, did you look at the dead tangos?”

“No. Why?”

“I looked at the one under the bird. He’s fucking Asian, maybe Flip.”

“Filipinos?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit. The fucking FOB has probably been compromised by contract workers. Yep, makes sense. The Philippine and American governments have been fighting the Moro Muslim tribes for over 100 years. The boss was telling me about the Moros. He said ISIS is now the active Moro element in the Philipines, and when they’re not fighting the government, they’re killing each other...”

“We got movement. Eleven o’clock. 300 to 400.”

Pistochini transported his .50 caliber rifle to be adjacent to Beeman. “Hangnail? ID?”

“Still too dark, but looks like one person carrying another.”

Pistochini found the target at 360 meters. At just under 300 meters, Pistochini made the ID. “Looks like they found one.” Pistochini shouted down to Malone, “Digger, tell them to check fire. Looks like Crammer is coming back carrying a body.”

Mybar dropped the body in front of the conference room’s window that viewed the south half of the airbase. The action roused the officers in the conference room from their early morning lethargy. Lt O’Connell and Corporal Pistochini joined Mybar outside the conference room.

“Where is Sergeant O’Brien?”

“About 15 clicks south, sir. Outside of a farming community. There’s one more, sir; and the fucker went into one of the mud farmhouses. The boss says he’ll get him and ordered me to take this fucker back. Seems to still be alive. And boss said that last tango is probably the leader.”

Major Tisdale had followed Lt O’Connell out to the edge of the tarmac, listening to the Marines’ conversation. Pistochini yelled around the side of the building, “White, get Captain Borden. Let him know that he has a customer.”

Cpt Borden noted that in addition to a gunshot wound in his leg, the failed representative of the Local Moro Amalgamated ISIS bore the marks of impacts to his face and upper body. Borden was not surprised at the extent of the small man’s injuries and with a virtual nod to O’Brien’s practical solutions, questioned, to himself, why the Marine had returned with a live body.

The FOB had been in lock-down since shortly after 2300 of the previous evening. So the admiral, whom had recently decided to add his importance to the other spectators on the tarmac, became surprised when an Air Force colonel, accompanied by two young female officers, graced the soldiers and marines gathered in a semi-circle around the prone, short Filipino male. The Air Force officer, supposedly the FOB commander, determined his command presence was required. As the colonel stepped into the circlet of spectators, he recognized the wounded man as one of the contract DFAC workers.

“Did you people shoot this man!? What the heck are you people doing?” The colonel methodically looked at each member of the circular gathering, wondering why he had never seen most of these troops.

Cpt Borden addressed the admiral, “We can transport any time, sir.”

“Negative, captain. We need to wait for the sergeant to return.”

The air force colonel, quite perturbed that his command presence was ineffective raised his voice to spew some, otherwise, ignored gibberish until he saw three stars adorning the admiral’s camo uniform.

Admiral Olson, unused to being interrupted, simply ordered, “shut up, colonel. Corporal, can you estimate your sergeant’s arrival?”

“No sir. Am assuming, because the last tango was ID’d as the leader, that Sgt O’Brien is taking him alive, which will not be quick. But, I would count on the boss returning by twilight.”