Chapter 12

Base Hospital, Camp Bastion, Helmand Province, Afghanistan; January 2008

Valdez and Garbo had never fully returned to a conscious state, and having developed complications per the quantity of flunitrazepam ingested per their body mass, remained in the hospital, along with the two combat-wounded platoon members. Both Pistochini and O’Brien were becoming concerned and perturbed that Valdez and Garbo were still not ‘there’ and had not noticeably improved. That Garbo and Valdez had been subject to over two days of chronic breathing problems increased the consternation of Pistochini and O’Brien. Conversely, the medical personnel never voiced any particular concerns and appeared to biding time and marching in place for all medical issues for the two semi-comatose Marines.

With the hatch left open, Pistochini noted the gathering of medical officers in the adjoining passageway. Most of the there fores and wherefors and why-fors and henceforths were poorly understood, but when Pistochini over-heard the medicos talking about intubation, his internal alert systems spiked his metabolism and situational awareness. Although not a corpsman, Pistochini knew enough that being plugged into a ventilator typically indicated that your shit was quickly heading south. Touching both barely conscious troops on the shoulders, he quietly promised his Marines that he would shortly return.

Pistochini pushed his way past the line outside the chow tent to find Carlton, O’Brien and Gunny Morales talking and stuffing their face. Pistochini ignored the acceptable norm for the interruption of conversation among superiors; there was no reason for a delay just to be civil and reasonable.

“Boss, we got to find someone to talk to. The local quacks are saying they will put Garbo and Valdez on respirators.”

“What?! ... What the fuck happened to them?”

“Don’t know, boss. But their breathing is really fucked up. A corpsman turned them on their sides this morning. Didn’t seem to help much. Then I heard a group of officers talking outside the room. Don’t think they’re telling us everything.”

Carlton had studied drug interactions as part of her intel training for interrogation. “Opie, what drug did that nurse use?”

“Don’t know. But it was some weird shit. Never felt like that before and...”

Pistochini was frustrated when he could not recall the exact name. “I heard them say it was flunitrap-something...”

Jake Carlton immediately knew what they had used, “did they say ‘flunitrazepam’?”

“Yeah, sarge, I think that’s what they said.”

“Damn, Opie. That shit is not even legal in the U.S. Its a date-rape drug. And it can really fuck you up unless administered by an anethesiologist.”

“So some fuckin air force nurse decides to pump us full of a fuckin illegal narcotic and they all think that it’ll be just fuckin wonderful? Is the whole fuckin universe tryin to kill us!?”

“Opie, listen to me...” Carlton waited for O’Brien to make eye-contact. She knew she had but a short time to prevent another PTSD flare-up. She had seen the same ‘ramp-up’ in her husband. “I know a master chief corpsman in Kabul. He knows most of the biggies in the medical units. Let’s make a call ASAP.”

Gunny Morales was an experienced and competent logistics man that knew how military systems functioned and failed, and he had first-hand experience with fuck-ups by medical officers. Military doctors and nurses were protected from the concerns and complaints by the riff-raff and were never held accountable in any meaningful manner. And this fuck-up was of a blatantly obvious nature, such that Morales decided that he would go to the major and force the issue.

“O’Brien, let’s go to my office and have Carlton make that call. I’m going to talk to the major ASAP. This is bullshit.”

“Aye, gunny.”

The full-bird U.S. army colonel, standing to the side of the table in the ad-hoc conference room, displayed no emotion as he returned the folder of medical documents to the table. The colonel had remained standing for the previous three hours of witness questioning. The Combat Medic Badge and Flight Surgeon Badge and Parachutist Badge on the colonel’s BDUs did not escape the notice of O’Brien and Pistochini. The colonel’s questions and proceedings were abrupt, precise, and efficient, as would befit the commanding officer of the Landsthul Regional Medical Center.

The initial questions had been directed, in tandem, at Maj Dawson, L/Cpl Hartman and Sgt O’Brien; immediately followed by the three medical personnel that had witnessed the mixing of the solution and had placed the two canteens at the pick-up point. The questioning of the Norwegian and Canadian physicians was too technical and full of medical jargon for either Pistochini or O’Brien to fully grasp the content of what was being said. But they did notice that Jake Carlton was taking copious notes. O’Brien guessed that intel dweebs record and collate any information they could get their hands on, so did not think further about Sgt Carlton’s rapt and intense focus given to the proceedings.

The hearing was all moot to O’Brien; he had lost another good Marine. O’Brien had been present when Garbo’s seizure started, then subsequently ushered out of the room as Garbo went into respiratory and cardiac arrest. The death of his junior-most Marine was yet another deep slash from the ‘knife of life’ unto his soul. Garbo had just turned nineteen when he told O’Brien, prior to the loss of Lt O’Connell, that he could not imagine ever being in a better unit or having better leadership. Both Pistochini and O’Brien believed that they had failed their troops.

O’Brien was determined to remain under control, and not only because he was aware that he was being closely monitored. He felt he had an unfathomable and abiding debt to pay to his remaining troops. He owed them his leadership and protection. And he had made a pact with Odin and Jesus and the Prophet and Buddha that he would service these obligations and debts in exchange for nothing else going to shit. O’Brien did not want wealth. Neither did he crave fame or power or any other largess. He simply wanted bad stuff to not happen to his people.

It was uncertain if the universe would ever agree to a simplistic deal such as this.

Langley, Virginia

“Let’s contact CENTCOM. We need to get them the heck out of that hole and into CONUS. Those people survived the most damned, improbable, and hellish battles, then get killed by our own incompetence. And did you see the profile on that intel sergeant? Whats her name?”

“She is Sergeant Carlton; her GT is off the scale, well above the 99 percentile. She and our sergeant are more similar than different. And her spouse is also a sniper. Birds of a feather and all of that probabilistic crap. But the problem is that our CENTCOM guy is gone. He’s back at MacDill.”

“What about the MEF?”

“We have two, but they are civilians and not influential with the Chief of Staff. And both the MEU and the MEF commanders were spitting nails when they finally tracked down the location of their missing scout/sniper platoon.”

“We will lay low until we can get O’Brien. We will have to wait and let things calm. But at least get that intel sergeant sent back with them. She won’t balk leaving her unit if it gets her closer to her spouse.”

“We can do that, boss.”

Hickam Air Force Base, Hawaii; February 2008

Two hummers, a short white bus, and three dragon wagons were parked, arranged in parallel to the ramp marker lines, on a vacant ramp at the north side the joint air base. Two C-17s slowly lumbered around the taxi-ways, taking a convoluted path past the civilian terminals, then to the hangers and ramps to the north for the military portion of the joint air base.

Malone and Watson stood next to the ramp of the first bird as seven Marines exited the second bird. A navy lieutenant commander and a Marine captain stepped out of the hummers, waited about 30 seconds, then headed for the group of seven Marines, six of which had slung G3 rifles to their front and M82 rifles attached to their rucks, the seventh was bearing a 9 mil rig. The two officers exchanged glances upon noting the Marines were heavily-armed and kitted as if ready for combat.

Seeing the two officers approaching the group, O’Brien stopped to wait. As they approached O’Brien called the group to attention and saluted the two officers with the mundane, but proper greeting.

The Marine captain was the first to speak, “Sergeant O’Brien?”

“Aye, sir.”

“I have papers for you to sign.”

“Sir?”

“Extension. Stop-Loss by direction of the CG of I-MEF, as approved by the SecNav.”

Pistochini intoned a ‘holy shit-stain’ to himself, waiting for his sergeant to say something to the captain that would liven his day. To Pistochini’s disappointment, nothing interesting came from O’Brien.

“Don’t understand sir. Stop-Loss is an involuntary extension. What’s to sign?”

“It is your second extension. As such, you need to read the attached instructions and sign for receipt of orders.”

“Uh ... Aye, sir. Uh, we have weapons, explosives, and classified gear on that bird. Can this wait, sir? What about the international inspections, sir. And animal quarantine?”

The Marine officer pointed to the Navy officer. “Customs approval and animal certification has been arranged per the JAG commander. He has also provided for quarters and storage of your gear. Let’s go to my hummer.”

O’Brien was reasonably certain that there was no path available around impound and the search of returning troops equipment. It immediately became evident that this evolution had a large paw-print from spooks and/or the dabbling by the Department of State. Remembering that the gunner had warned him as such, he virtually under-lined the mental note he had made to call CWO5 Chastain.

Entering the Navy Legal Services Office earned a start and stares from the occupants as the big Marine walked through in full gear, bearing multiple weapons. The Captain knocked on an office door with signage indicating Commanding Officer, Pear Harbor Judge Advocate. The captain opened the door and stood aside, motioning for O’Brien to enter.

The office was large and all polished wood. O’Brien figured that he could make a damn fine workbench out of the Navy captain’s large desk, and guessed that it was of an oak tree. O’Brien thought it an insult to the oak tree’s spirit to have given its life to be a lawyer’s desk. The universe was mean and spiteful and disrespectful in that way. O’Brien’s meta-cognition flashed the thought the he really needed to reduce his Buddhist readings.

O’Brien stood at attention, somewhat awkwardly, while bearing his gear, in front of the oak tree’s sacrifice. O’Brien’s meta-mind, again, told his mind to stop this weird shit.

“Please, sergeant. Unload and take a seat.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

O’Brien dumped his ruck gear next to the nearest chair, re-positioned his G3 rifle, and without grace, plopped down into a plush leather chair. Sitting erect, O’Brien’s back did not contact the chair. The navy captain had no visible reaction to O’Brien’s weaponry.

“First things first, sergeant. May I see your orders? ... Yes, this is interesting.”

It was beyond O’Brien’s imagination as to how or why TAD and group travel orders could be ‘interesting’. Albeit a senior naval officer, this was a lawyer, which could explain some things.

“Captain, please allow Sergeant O’Brien to read the EL.”

The Marine JAG captain cautiously handed a folder to O’Brien with a large Department of Navy emblem on the cover. As O’Brien opened the folder, the fancy emblem on the letterhead was the first item to draw his attention, as he read the embossed ‘Office of the Under Secretary of the Navy’.

EYES ONLY

Sgt Sean P. O’Brien, 449-23-1796 Acting, Platoon Commander, 1/5 Scout/Sniper

1. Commanding Officer, JAG, Pearl Harbor, shall provide access verfication.

2. USMC Intel personnel attached to subject scout/sniper platoon shall direct material and site security considered appropriate by the JAG.

3. Senior personnel of subject scout/sniper platoon shall be available for instructional aid and debrief, as required, to members of the Special Activities Division, CIA. Non-disclosure blanketing shall not apply.

4. Subject scout/sniper platoon shall provide cadre to AFSOC personnel assigned to SOCPAC, Camp Smith, Hawaii. This assignment shall not conflict with the tasking per Item three.

5. Deadly force authorized at project site, to include perimeter. Implementation policies shall be reviewed by Intel rep and approved IAW facility JAG.

6. PEBD shall not change. Pay grades, associated retention, and promotion schedules shall follow through until separation from active service. Section 12305, Title 10 shall apply to following SNM for duration of project.

Sgt O’Brien, S. Cpl Pistochini, P. L/Cpl Hartman, M. L/Cpl Malone, M.

Dionel Aviles Under Secretary of the Navy

DEN/ANJ

“Questions, sergeant?”

O’Brien had read the instructional letter twice. He assumed that the single page was in lieu of endorsed orders. “How does this affect the platoon’s existing orders, sir?”

“It does not supersede. This is a clarification and an addendum.”

“Item two, sir. Is that a reference to Sergeant Carlton?”

“If that is the G-2 Marine that traveled with your people, yes.”

“Sir, my people still gettin TAD pay?”

“Yes. Any you will continue to receive the monthly stop-loss allowance.”

“This ‘cadre’ stuff, sir. I do not understand.”

“I am also uncertain as to the Under Secretary’s exact intentions. Although I did talk to the SOCOM staff chief. They are aware of your location and are desirous of your people to train the local Air Force special forces people in your trade.”

“One more, sir. This interrogation by spooks. I will respectfully request legal advice. So we’re gonna need our own lawyer, sir. Someone having T/S and SCI, sir.”

The navy captain approved of the Marine’s forbearance in the matter. If half of what he had heard from the local intel people was true, the questioning would be, without doubt, a trove of evidence for a military prosecutor.

“I have no control over the intelligence agencies. A third-party presence will be per the determination of the senior intel officer.”

“Then I shall respectfully defer any further conversation and advise my Marines to not talk to these people or to JAG, sir.”

“As you wish, sergeant. If no further questions, then you will return to your unit. The captain will liaison with my office.”

As the Marine captain and Sgt O’Brien walked to the hummer, the Marine JAG officer addressed O’Brien without turning towards him.

“Sergeant, allow me to give you some perspective. Did you know that only one person being held at Gitmo has been brought to trial?”

“No, sir.”

“Any I do not see how any of them will be indicted, much less convicted. It is not because of poor evidentiary quality. It is because of opsec. The DoD and the intel community would have to reveal too much to enable any reasonable prosecution. Your people would be shielded per the same limitations.”

“That’s really wonderful, sir. So that means those fuckers can take the easy path and lock us up for the duration. Either way, sir, my people are fucked.”

“I understand. I can empathize...”

“No, sir. The captain cannot! Sure as fuck don’t see anything on your stack that would indicate you understand shit goin on in Southwest Asia. My people have been lied to, fed shit-sandwiches, and been used as fodder. The captain hasn’t seen shit outside of a fancy wood-paneled court room ... sir.”

The JAG captain said nothing further as he drove O’Brien about two kilometers to a mostly open three to four hectare area where the inner hectare was surround by an eight-foot security fence topped with concertina and flood-light posts. The fence enclosed two modified conex structures and what appeared to be a new, high-tech, inflatable tent. A smaller, fenced-in area with a small canopy in the corner of the enclosure was behind the tent. The low-boys were mostly unloaded as White stood guard with an M4 at condition one. O’Brien said nothing to his Marines, instead making a direct path to the inner-most fenced-in area. He needed to have a meaningful conversation with Troi and Spock, and see how they were recovering from being sedated after a long trip.

“Geezus fuck, people. They’re not your pet dogs.” Jake was both amused and disconcerted that O’Brien’s Marines had chosen to allow the two donkeys admittance into their tent quarters. “Where is O’Brien?”

Pistochini smiled at the entrance of latest Marine to have been hi-jacked into their shit-show by the various nefarious and hidden machinations of spooks. “Its fucking pouring out there, sarge. The vet said to not let them stand in water or on wet ground. And they were lonely.”

Carlton rolled her eyes as she removed her rain gear. “So where is O’Brien?”

“Gone to the main island. He was picked up by an air farce LT. I’m guessing they’re queer for his gear.”

“When will he return?”

“Said he didn’t know. Probably in three days ... You see this shit, sarge?”

Pistochini handed Carlton the single-page letter from the Navy Under Secretary.

Carlton, nodding as she read, “Yeah. Sums up what my boss said when they cut orders for me. Did O’Brien give instructions for security?”

“Yeah. Its cool. We get to shoot anyone we feel like.”

“Bull shit. What did he say?”

“The boss said if someone gets inside the fence that does not belong, to not bother with challenging and to cap his ass. He also said that you’ll come up with the RoE and be the control for access.”

Carlton nodded an acknowledgment, then walked to the opposite end of the tent to greet Troi and provide a good scratch of his muzzle and head. “Hello, baby. Doing okay? ... How’s life with these stinky Marines? ... Let me know if they get too stupid.”

Troi responded with his strange guttural squeak and the typically ridiculous wag of his small tail. The troops were amused and not surprised that the donkeys had quickly taken to the intel sergeant. She was well on her way to becoming an older sister to O’Brien’s troops and less of being one of ‘them’.

Pohakuloa Training Area, Hawaii

In hand-lettering, probably intended to be satirical, on the building’s front entrance was labeled “Det Bravo, 353d SOG, Don’t worry, crash it. We will rescue you.”

The main area of the Air Force PJ detachment was strewn with jump gear, dive equipment, weapons, and various forms of load-carrying gear from standard mill-issue rucks to high-tech backpacking impedimenta of extreme system modernity. The first thing that O’Brien would notice was that there was no gear watch for the weapons and ammo boxes laying about. At the rear of the building, in the corner, was small classroom setup with two large chalk boards and about a dozen plastic chairs.

At the rear hatch was a gaggle of air force personnel that had an impressive collection of enlisted rank stripes - three senior master sergeants and two chief master sergeants. The uncountable number of stripes for the senior air force enlisted ranks has always been a source of amusement to O’Brien. In contrast to their almost comical rank insignia, these senior airman had the multiple badges of the long and varied qualifications and schools, and the air of experience and competence, with the typical operators’ touch of arrogance.

The air force second lieutenant stood back after O’Brien’s intro to the five airman, then departed, knowing his presence was not required, nor desired. The five airman had faces that were engraved from years of tough service in a demanding job. The training pipe-line for air force PJs typically took over two years.

“You have your lesson plan, sergeant?”

“Uh ... no, chief master sergeant.”

“Screw that shit. I’m Joe, this is Jim, and those three reprobates are Juan, Hank, and Terry ... We were told that your people would be ready to go. We were hoping to start tomorrow.”

“Huh, just found out about this yesterday, about an hour after we arrived at Hickam. And was told this morning that I needed to go to the main island ASAP for an orientation. And I do not have a fuckin clue about what y’all want or need for instruction. And to be honest, chief master sergeant, I’m not sure that I can teach you people anything ya don’t already know or have done.”

A grizzled senior master sergeant, that spoke fluent South Texican, grunted his disapproval and loudly spoke, “well ain’t this a load of horse-shit. I told ya that navy commander is full of shit. We are so fucked, Joe. We could’ve stayed state-side a while longer...”

“Geez. Just can it, Hank. We’ll go with whatever we can get from these boys ... sarge, looks like we have have both been screwed. So tell me about your people.”

“Can’t say much, as we were workin for spooks; mostly in the mountains. We typically engaged at 800 meters and more. And did some close-up shit.”

“What weapons were used?”

“M82, M40, G3, M4.”

“What was length of your missions”?

“Anywhere from under three days to about two weeks.”

“Level of support?”

“Varied. Sometimes none. Sometimes we had some birds to help out.”

“Anyone jump qualified?”

“Nope.”

“Any training outside of the Marine Corps?”

“Some from the army rangers. Some from the navy. Nothin formal.”

“So you had a little bit of luck? Heard that you had 100 percent success rate?”

O’Brien did not understand the direction that the ‘orientation’ had taken. His dismay at these seemingly irrelevant questions were a disappointment.

“We were not 100% successful. And no such thing as ‘luck’.”

“Some missions were not successful? That’s not what we were told.”

“We did not consider our missions to be 100 per cent successful.”

“We? Who is that?”

“Me and my Marines.”

“Why?”

“I fucked up. I lost three Marines ... and other reasons.”

“Uh, hmmm. Jim?”

“Sergeant. What is the mental state of your unit?”

“I will not comment on that. Opsec. These questions are irrelevant. If no one will provide training requirements, I’m gonna return to Pearl and report this situation to my acting commander and request cancellation of this. Sorry for wastin y’alls time. Should I contact that lieutenant to arrange for transport?”

The chief master sergeant knew PTSD when he saw it, and did not see a good reason to not release the Marine. He figured that his people could get shooting instruction elsewhere.

“Yes, he would be the POC. Terry? Please get the LT.”

O’Brien was not looking forward to another four to five hours in an old beater army bird. And the crew chief still did not appear to have recovered from a presumed hangover. O’Brien paced around the tarmac waiting for the bird to serviced. Noting the broad sloping plain of a lava flow surrounding the area, O’Brien scanned up the Mauna Kea mountain, wondering about the date of the last eruption. As the volcano was well into its post-shield period, O’Brien guessed that its days of excitement and maximum eruptive glory were done. His thoughts further extrapolated on the usefulness of a super-volcano eruption in Afghanistan, figuring it would send the region back into the stone-age, where they belong.

O’Brien rationalized that it had not been a total waste of time and fuel, he had seen a sunrise, and he would see a sunset in less than an hour over the Hawaii islands. The crew-chief could not be bothered with the scenery as his monster hangover had not significantly improved.

About 10 to 15 kilometers northwest of Kailua Kona, a loud pop, followed by two explosions, had the pilots performing the emergency procedures for engine fires and preparing for an auto-rotation. O’Brien was not impressed with the crew-chief upon seeing the look of panic as he wildly donned his his flotation device and frantically searched for the non-existent life raft.

Strangely, or perhaps typically, O’Brien remained stoic, if not a little bit amused with the crew-chief’s theatrics. At less than 300 meters off of the water, O’Brien spotted flickering dots to the southeast that appeared to be varying in brightness. He guessed that this was that western-most point of the main island. As the pilot played with the collective to decrease the descent rate while still maintaining rotor speed, O’Brien surmised that this auto-rotation was going to be less than text book due to low-light conditions.

O’Brien unlatched the side door and kicked it open, then went aft a few steps to lay flat on the deck plates, hoping to evenly distribute the energy of the impending ocean impact. And it almost worked perfectly, if it had not been for the flailing crew-chief landing on top of O’Brien when the bird pitched nose-down just prior to hitting the water. The crew-chief’s head slammed into the deck plates, to the side of O’Brien at an awkward angle, jostling the soldier’s brain enough to induce a hazed, barely-conscious state. The bird remained upright long enough for O’Brien to inflate the soldier’s vest and push him out the collapsed side door.

After O’Brien took a few quick steps forward, the bird rolled to its port, then back as O’Brien reached the cockpit. He found the pilot to be crushed between the instrument panel and a caved-in bulkhead. O’Brien was reasonably certain that the man was dead. The co-pilot was moving, but his left leg and arm seemed to indicate that his left side had been bashed inboard. O’Brien struggled with releasing the aviator’s harness, gave up, and cut off the restraints with his handy little Gerber folding knife. Pistochini had referred to the Gerber is his ‘therapy knife’. O’Brien would sharpen the knife, to a precise bevel, almost every evening while thinking various evil and/or tactical thoughts.

Dragging the groaning co-pilot back into the cabin then grabbing his small day-pack, O’Brien yanked the soldier’s vest inflator then pulled the man into the Pacific Ocean. Uncertain about the fate of the bobbing bird, O’Brien towed the two soldiers directly away from the CH-47. After about 15 to 20 meters of a hard and fast swim. O’Brien paused to watch the bird roll over and listened to the various noises associated with a sinking vessel. As the last of the flames were extinguished by the Pacific Ocean, O’Brien shouted an angry, but sincere, ‘fuck you, Odin’ to a universe that remained uncaring.

With the bird sunk, and not knowing if the pilots had been able to transmit a mayday, O’Brien could think of no good reason to stay at the crash site. His best guess was that he was less than 20 clicks from the island, but probably more than 10.

Taking almost 30 seconds to acquire at least one cardinal direction, O’Brien tied the crew chief’s and the co-pilot’s buddy lines together, then proceeded to methodically swim to the east/southeast. While swimming, the Marine’s thoughts ranged from morbid to satirical to resignation, but mostly satirical. O’Brien had decided that if a shark happened by, he would serve fresh crew-chief to the shark and not be offended if the shark did not tip his service.

Through the night and early morning, Brian’s only company was the intermittent groans of the crew-chief, and the occasional arm thrashing of the pilot. O’Brien was actually thankful that neither soldier was fully conscious as he would have probably forcibly drowned a garrulous survivor.

O’Brien considered providing the other two survivors water from his camel, but as neither was conscious, it would likely not go well. He occasionally sipped a small mouthful from his pack’s camel, thinking that they could be on the water for two or three days.

Around 0330, O’Brien realized that he had been swimming non-stop for at least seven hours. Partially inflating his vest to rest a few minutes, O’Brien realized that the prevailing ocean current had changed from the south, to a southeasterly flow. This was almost perfect. Perhaps Odin felt bad about the crash and gave him a good current. Relaxing in the warm saltwater, O’Brien drifted into a short nap.

Feeling a rush of changing water pressure, O’Brien awakened with a thrash to look around. Not able to see much in the darkness, but listening, he sensed another quick pass of a large animal. Then hearing a strange high-frequency series of short squeaks, O’Brien smiled at the presence of dolphins. O’Brien re-established his sense of direction then deflated his vest before resuming his swimming chores. Four dolphins continued to play around the three slow-moving humans, wondering why these idiots are swimming at night in the middle of the ocean, but the dolphins had learned long ago that the stupidity of humans was boundless, and that an understanding of their ways may well be impossible. Nonetheless, humans could be fun, so they continued to swim around the three men.

O’Brien laughed at the dolphins, thinking that if not for the atrocities of humanity heaped on the water mammals, they would have the most perfect life of any animal on the planet. They travel to the best fishing spots in the world, fish, eat, play, and fuck. It was obvious to O’Brien that dolphins, not Conan, knew what was important in life.