Chapter 17

Special Operations Compound, Camp Lemonnier, Djibouti

For over 1000 meters, the three Marines walked to the east end of the American encampment without verbal exchange, threading their way to the special forces compound. The unspoken knowledge, per the nature of the questioning of the CIA field officer, weighed on Sgt Jake Carlton. The thoughts of Malone and O’Brien, conversely, were not on the violence that Major Tisdale had allowed to be inflicted on the errant agent. The two infantrymen’s thoughts were weighted only by the revelation that the American intel and justice systems were, with the literal effect of the word, at war, and on opposing sides of said war.

As O’Brien and Malone approached the sliding fence gate, they remained unsure of their safety among the special forces personnel. Sgt Pistochini, without words, greeted Sgt O’Brien with a slight head nod as the the electronic lock was actuated. O’Brien’s first observation was that a mix of US Army rangers and his Marines were scattered about the compound in groups of two, armed with an M4 and a pistol and wearing body armor for the upper torso. O’Brien’s second observation was that the operators’ bivouac was of an unusually sparse and quiet nature. There were significantly less personnel about, and the non-U.S. personnel that were present conducted their actions in subdued manner and were, writ large, not bearing firearms. The situational environment found in the compound certainly was not in the norm.

Pistochini shot a questioning glance to Carlton as she followed Malone and O’Brien into the compound. Carlton responded with a curt negative reply via a brief shake of her head. The situational awareness of Malone and O’Brien kicked up a notch to a level typically not reserved for secured areas. O’Brien, without conscious thought, freed his right arm from his pack sling, placing his hand on the butt of his pistol. Malone, walking with O’Brien to his left, noticing his sergeant’s action, repeated the same, but doing it with conscious intent. All of O’Brien’s troops had learned to follow their sergeant’s lead, at all times and for all places. Pistochini gripped the rifle slung to his front in response to the actions of O’Brien and Malone.

Rounding the corner of the conex that served as the SOCOM office, two British Royal Marines, a colour sergeant and a captain, stepped directly to the front of Malone, with the commando officer to the side of O’Brien. The commando colour sergeant, supposedly to avoid an inadvertent collision, shot his hand out and snagged Malone’s molle gear. Malone instinctively reacted to the large size and bulk of the Royal Marine, surging forward to take the colour sergeant down, with a resultant landing on top of the commando’s now prone body.

O’Brien immediately reacted to Malone’s take-down of the commando colour sergeant by pulling out his pistol while kicking the legs of the British officer to put him on his back. Hartman and a ranger, and Carlton and Pistochini converged on the minor conflagration with weapons at ready. O’Brien stood back a step with the 40 caliber muzzle covering the horizontal officer. The level of stress in the compound had been taught, it was now nearing the limits of its tensile strength for the local social fabric.

A familiar, but not necessarily welcome, voice yelled for the American Marines to stand down. O’Brien was not full of joy when his memory matched that familiar voice to that a Captain Olsen, and his sudden arrival from elsewhere in the compound. If not for the Marine sniper platoon’s continually-stoked paranoia and the sharp-edge of PTSD, Olsen’s attempt at a command voice would have been considered somewhere between comical and ludicrous.

“I said to stand down, sergeant! ... Corporal, get off of the Colour Sergeant.”

O’Brien yanked the officer’s handgun from an absurdly-designed shoulder holster, methodically placing the pistol in his belt. O’Brien returned his own pistol to his leg holster, but with the right hand remaining on the weapon, and only then acknowledging his S-2 officer.

“Aye aye, sir.”

Malone, with a blatant demonstration of malice, raised himself off of the British Marine, roughly using the Brit’s body to push himself up. Malone stepped away, standing to the side of O’Brien when he did not see any obvious firearms on the colour sergeant.

The British officer began to arise with a mid-level tirade until Captain Olsen stepped over the man, sternly warning,

“Please shut up, captain! Remain on the deck or you risk being shot!”

Captain Olsen’s response to the British officer led to O’Brien’s sudden and surprising realization that the captain may have evolved into a reasonable Marine during the last year. O’Brien briefly considered that they may be hope for the man he had considered to be a liar and untrustworthy. That inkling of hope was O’Brien’s first optimistic thought for at least a week. It would not last.

“Corporal Malone, why was this Marine handled in such a manner?”

Malone was quick to note that his captain did not use the terms ‘assault’ or ‘attack’.

“Sir, when I was grabbed, thought that we were being attacked.”

“Colour Sergeant, did you grab this Marine?”

“Yes, sir. I did not intend to provoke. We simply ran into each other.”

“Corporal, help the man up ... Sergeant O’Brien, please give me the captain’s weapon.”

With his eyes never leaving the British officer, Captain Olsen cleared the weapon, slowly and with purpose, pushing each round out the top of the magazine with his thumb, allowing them to fall into the dirt. Olsen returned the pistol and the empty magazine to the now-standing Royal Marine officer.

“Sergeant Pistochini, the captain was leaving the area. If he re-loads his weapon while within your field of vision, please shoot the man.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

The colour sergeant returned to present his large and stout body to the Marines, in a proud but not menacing manner. As an experienced operator and career royal Marine, the senior sergeant was well aware of the Americans’ current mind-set; he remained quiet, following his commander out the gate, escorted by Pistochini and an army ranger.

Facing his two returning Marines, Captain Olsen looked his Marines up and down, stopping at their furry faces.

“Interesting beards. Get cleaned up. Your gear is in the tent. Chow formation at 1730. All hands platoon meeting at 1815. Your sidearms are to be condition one at all times, in or out of this compound. Carry on...”

O’Brien saluted Captain Olsen without expression then beat feet to their tent with Malone and Carlton in close trail. Dumping their molle gear on their racks, O’Brien paused in thought.

“How much ya know about the interrogation, Jake?”

“I heard. You got what you wanted; you always seem to find a way to get what you want, Opie. I wouldn’t push it.”

“Yep. Sorta disappointed. I really wanted to kill that fucker.”

None of the Marines within hearing range doubted O’Brien’s statement.

“So what is this shit ‘bout chow formation?”

“For the near and foreseeable future, we don’t eat with the other SOCOM people and we are supposed to avoid contact with all personnel in the compound, other than the rangers. Major Tisdale and Captain Olsen and that navy commander are still sorting things out. So you’ll be marching the troops to the chow hall.”

“Shit, Jake. That’s one or two clicks. Waste of time just for chow. Fuck that. We’ll just do MREs.”

“Don’t fuck around and try to run your private show, Marine. Follow the captain’s orders.”

“Yes, mommy.”

Jake looked to the heavens for support as O’Brien and Malone swiftly walked away to hit the showers to wash away several thousand kilometers of dirt accumulation and to scrape their hairy faces.

“Forward, yarch!”

Thirteen marines walked out the compound’s gate on O’Brien’s command.

“Double time, yarch!”

The Thirteen Marines trotted past the south circumference of the CLU farm, closely watched by the resident POGs and contractors. Other than the sound of boots hitting the dirt at a double-time cadence, the platoon was atypically quiet, at least for jarheads. As they arrived at the ‘Dorie Miller’ galley, the long lines did little to impress the platoon of the command’s attempts at competent base logistics. A navy chief messman and an air force staff sergeant cook were ready to greet the small Marine unit, to the confusion of O’Brien.

“O’Brien?”

“Aye, chief. What’s up?”

“An army master sergeant called us earlier to schedule your people in. No can do, Marine.”

“Uh, sorry chief. Just got back inside the wire today. Don’t know what you’re talkin about”

“You special forces guys normally run a self-serve mess, so we just provide materials. But we can’t support any reservations in this galley for a while - too many contractors and heavy-duty brass coming and going that get priority.”

“No problemo, chief. We’ll just wait in line with the POGs.”

“I’m guessing it will be thirty minutes in line, sarge.”

“Understand, chief.”

“Jake? Any other chow hall?”

“I’m told there’s smaller one at the west side of the base. Don’t know where it is.”

O’Brien pulled his watch Velcro cover to get a time check.

“Looks like we’re fucked, people. No hot chow tonight. The skipper is doin an all-hands at 1815. Cheeseburger, y’all use up all of that sauce I gave y’all?”

“Negative, boss. We got two or three more bottles.”

“It’s fuckin MREs tonight, or we come back later. Your choice, people.”

“Boss, if you tuck us in tonight with a bed-time story, another glob of shit won’t kill us. Fuckit, let’s go back.”

Murmurs of approvals from the platoon and a nod from Pistochini, to the confusion of the surrounding listeners in the chow line, gave O’Brien an affirmative answer.

“Ya got it, sports fans. Fall in people. Take us home, Pistol.”

O’Brien fell in with Carlton to the rear of the two columns as Pistochini marched the Marines to the east. Carlton knew the meaning for ‘bed-time story’; she wanted to obtain and master their unique meditative skill set per her husband’s statement that these mental disciplines were an essential ingredient in the platoon’s secret sauce. The troops were looking forward to their sergeant taking them to that special place in their minds.

Major Tisdale, Captain Olsen, and the navy lt commander SEAL sat across a table that was more of a large plywood work bench, covered with maps, sat images, and printed matter. The work surface was between the comm center and the command office space, and had been considered Carlton’s work space for the previous month. Their discussion was heated but never deviated from the decorum expected of professional officers.

Captain, let us keep focused on your Marines. How well do you know Sergeant O’Brien?”

“Obviously not that well. Certainly not after today, sir.”

“Do not be quick to judge. And what you may conclude for O’Brien will equally apply to all other Marines in the platoon, including Warren and Carlton.”

“Shall I take your meaning to be of a Machiavellian nature, sir?

“That would be too simplistic. Commander, what can be said?”

“SOCOM would rather I not say anything, major.”

The navy SEAL officer paused to type onto the small computer embedded into a suit-case sized pelican case, lined with copper foil and beryllium RF finger gaskets. The commander rotated the computer box towards Olsen.

“These are the un-redacted citations for Sergeant O’Brien’s first silver star, and the associated recommendations written by his first battalion commander and company XO. That is, when O’Brien was an 18-year old E-3 in a rifle company. The second set of documents are the original write-ups for his second silver star.”

As Olsen began to scroll through the documents, Tisdale faced the SEAL to project a pointed look of concern. The commander responded with a knowing nod, which Tisdale translated into a message that the CIA supervisor had informed the SEAL of his plans for this young Marine intel officer.

Brent Olsen had been, through his education and from his training as a post-grad researcher, to think logically and practically as per an applied scientist. Among his many intellectual skills was the ability to rapidly read, analyze, and make conclusions using large non-colinear data sets, and to draft reasonable solutions using incomplete data sets. Olsen pushed the computer system back to the SEAL officer. Tisdale studied the captain’s face, not able to derive a reaction from Olsen’s blank non-expression. The commander continued to type commands into the secure computer system.

“I will remind you, captain, that is T/S, SCI. To say that this is restricted to ‘Eyes Only’ should be quite obvious.”

The computer was, again, rotated and pushed back towards Olsen. Olsen read the analysis and after-action reports of the platoon’s last mission in Afghanistan.

Captain Olsen, was internally organizing the descriptors and views and temporal placements of the various mission reports as he forcefully returned the computer to Cameron. Olsen’s only comment was not what the green beret officer or the SEAL officer had expected. He offered no conclusive comments; his statement was even and simple and firm.

“The major has been remiss in his duties, sir. Lieutenant O’Connell’s write-up should have been properly formatted and presented for the Medal of Honor. I am further disappointed, sir, that the major has not done follow-up on any platoon members for my Marines. Does the major understand that my orders from the XO of the Third Intel battalion are to evaluate the purpose and use of all non-Raider Marines that support SOCOM?”

Major Larson has so informed me. What is your point?”

“There are flag officers pressuring the commandant to go to the secretary for permission to secure the withdrawal all Marine personnel, not in statutorily-required billets, that do not directly support the FMF.”

“That was also indicated by Major Larson.”

“Then you would be able to deduce the objective of my orders from Major Larson, sir?”

“I understand. Further questions, captain?”

Yes, sir. What was the purpose of the assigning my Marines as their over-watch, and why were the French and British mission commanders ordered to leave the two scout/sniper teams in place at their AORs?”

“SOCOM specifically ordered the use of teams from your platoon; the admiral himself so requested. In Sergeant Pistochini’s case, the French squad was told by their commanding general in west Africa to leave the Marines in place for use by another unit flying in from Chad. We are not certain why they canc’d that troop movement.”

Major Tisdale knew the next explanation for the second team would not be well received.

“We have not been able to determine why the British left Sergeant O’Brien’s team in place, as the commando commander has been ordered to not discuss the operation. It was a command decision on our part to delay extraction when local intel was able to provide proof of their safe status.”

Hit by the incredulity of their decision, Olsen could only ask the obvious.

“Your people decided to let my Marines wander around east Africa?”

“Let us call it a scouting mission and a test of reconnaissance skills. Call it an opportunity to extract critical intel and engage certain groups, while being able to convince the UN that we screwed up and lost contact, so no foul.”

“Critical intel, sir?”

“Well beyond what we had hoped for. O’Brien’s team identified two different weapons supply routes and the associated infrastructure for Islamist rebels and other state-sanctioned groups. We were able to identify and offer proof of munitions-source countries. We were able to identify previously unknown tribal factions and alliances, and the most unexpected was the identification and origin of the organized north Sudan and Chad Arab factions that are attempting to influence the coming Sudanese vote by moving the split further south and harassing the southern tribes.”

“This new schedule, sir. It would appear that we are no longer supporting special forces operations?”

“Not directly. Based on the success of Pistohini and O’Brien’s teams, we will do long-range insertions to set up OPs, where no or minimal contact will be the rules of the game.”

“What is the CIA’s influence on these coming missions, sir?”

“We intend continued use of their UAV intel, but I do know that the agency is currently reviewing whoever are the controlling officers in the field. I do not expect your Marines to encounter people from the intel community that are problematic.”

“Aye, sir. Understood.”

Olsen grabbed his small green bag, paused at the hatch to turn to the navy officer.

“Sir, the commander should know that if you lie to my Marines again, I will offer no formal intervention nor will I otherwise interfere with any remedy that members of the platoon may judge appropriate.”

Pistochini called the Marines to attention upon Captain Olsen entering the platoon’s tent.

“Stand at ease, Marines. Where is the board, Jake?”

“Aft end, sir.”

Parking their ass on the last four racks, the troops gathered facing Olsen and the white board. O’Brien, after a hard day of traversing Ethiopia in hot and leaky bird, then beating the unholy shit out of a CIA officer, had an empty, grumbling stomach.

“The two teams deployed during the last week had reasonable success as scouting and reconnaissance operations. Based on this success, the platoon will be deployed for long-term over-watch and tracking activities. As such, we will employ two or three man teams, kitted for 150 per cent of the scheduled mission. It appears that is being done.”

Olsen placed three maps, with overlays, across the two-meter wide white board. As the schedule was discussed and the briefing progressed, it was obvious to all that these scoop and scoot missions would all be flown in during the night. O’Brien speculated that this would mean night-time in-flight refuels; not an event he wanted to be part of.

“Each mission will be proceeded by satellite map runs and real-time drone imagery. During most missions, drones will available for cover and for AO comm relay. The first two missions will be two or three person jobs. Pistochini and O’Brien will take these missions. Both will be in Chad. All movement will be at night. The AOs will have, at times, a French paratrooper unit, a British LRP, and various Chad National Army units.”

Olsen drew over the clear plastic overlays to indicate the areas projected to be occupied by military units and tribal peoples and known insurgents.

“Boko Haram insurgency has been spilling over from Niger/Nigeria here and here and here, and shared Chad intel says that these two villages have been abandoned to Islamic extremists, both groups of insurgents having ties to Boko Haram and al-Qaeda. Chad has requested surveillance of the border area in support of its army. Per these intel requests SOCOM wants at least two of these four OAs, outlined in red, to have eyes on the deck. We will start here and here, within eleven days, 24/7. The first insertion is tentatively scheduled for...”

O’Brien internally declared Captain Olsen’s academic monotone to be the most tedious in-country briefing he had ever heard, and lamented that, as a physicist, the captain could take as an example, the charisma of Feynman. O’Brien’s internal smile, revealed externally as only a fleeting glimmer of amusement, resulted from O’Brien’s wandering mind imagining Olsen playing bongos at a bar. [writer’s note: look it up.]

“Sergeant O’Brien, come see me in 10.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Pistochini look across the group at O’Brien, with a speculative glance, then towards Carlton. O’Brien shrugged in resignation, being further separated in time from having chow.

“Sergeant O’Brien, it is my understanding that Lieutenant O’Connell allowed you to run your own program. That will not continue. I was ordered here with the sole purpose of being the platoon commander.”

O’Brien’s remembrance of the shit that Farmer and the captain had pulled the previous year remained an ignition point for the fuel supplied by O’Brien’s mistrust and paranoia via his previous chains of command. Several months ago, he would have gritted his teeth and shouldered the large bag of bullshit to protect his troops. Having Warren and Pistochini running things gave him the freedom to choose a path for himself that would make him a disposable asset. O’Brien, nonetheless, remained centered and circumspect.

“Understood, sir.”

I am not certain that you do understand, sergeant. Africa is for real. Unlike southwest Asia, we have a chance to extinguish the flames before we have wildfire. The next 9/11 could be from the central band of Africa. I will not tolerate your independent self-styled diversions. You will run each mission per your orders. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Dismissed, sergeant.”

To the captain’s surprise, and to his less than honorable sense of disappointment, O’Brien’s equanimity was unbroken. Olsen cogitated and mentally regurgitated the brief encounter until Major Tisdale entered through the side hatch that adjoined the comm center.

“Brent, I do not intend to interfere with your command. But as you are a direct report, I will evaluate your leadership.”

“Does the major disagree with my instructions to O’Brien?”

“In absolute principle, I do not. I do disagree with the practicality of your style and your apparent estimation of Sergeant O’Brien and the unit. In general, at least outside the wire, he has only gone off the reservation upon the literal desertion by his command. And your orders to O’Brien is a contradiction of your stated support for your people and the ‘any remedy the platoon may judge appropriate’ comment that you gave to our SOCOM commander.”

“I understand, sir.”

“To repeat your own words, I do not think that you do understand, Brent. You have done nothing to earn the unit’s trust, and I believe that any respect your recieve will be resultant of the due given your rank and your billet. Given that this is your first in-country command, it would be wise to take a similar leadership style to that of their previous officer. Warren and O’Brien have the tactical acumen that you may lack.”

“That will be considered, sir.”

“Jake, when the fuck is Cooker gettin back?”

“Two, maybe three days. Why?”

“The captain thinks I’m unreliable. Don’t wanna have to deal with that asshole.”

“You’re misinterpreting the man.”

“Yeah? Let me quote him, ‘I will not tolerate your independent self-styled diversions. You will run each mission per your orders. Nothing more, nothing less.’ Pistol? Did he read you the riot act?”

Pistochini had not wanted to take part in discussion about their newly assigned platoon commander, but listening to O’Brien, his command-bullshit detector had become pegged.

“Yeah, but not like that. He said that I should stay close to tracking the mission requirements. When he said that, I wasn’t certain of his exact point. But whatever, as long as no one gets fucked up, we’ll play his stupid games by his rules.”

“Don’t fuckin worry ‘bout it Pistol. We’ll let Cooker handle the captain. Whatever staff sergeant says, we do. Let’s get some chow ... Who the fuck has the sauce, dude?”

Having hit the rack before 0930, and with only Carlton having to stand a watch, the platoon starting stirring at the insane hour of not much past the leeward side of 0330. Jake Carlton’s response to the other Marines early activity was to pull the bag liner over her face and ignore the platoon.

The platoon was on the road outside the gate by 0400, in boot and ‘utes, doing pushups and crunches. The marines had been invigorated by O’Brien’s ‘mind’ session of the previous evening. The two rangers standing post at the gate envied and enjoyed watching the Marine’s early morning enthusiasm.

The next twenty minutes was essentially a five kilometer sprint around and through the southern portion of Camp Lemonnier. Upon their return, O’Brien kicked Carlton out of her rack to get ready to join the morning chow formation. Within twenty minutes after their PT and sprint, the platoon was trotting in formation to the Miller Galley. The chow line was of a reasonable length at 0500.

“We got the PT done. Kit inspection at 0900. Weapons at at 1000. Rangers giving a class at 1400. Didn’t see shit for anything else Jake. What does the captain got on the schedule, Jake?”

“They were working on a schedule when I got off watch. I don’t know either.”

“This place have an armorer?”

“Navy has a decent-sized armory. So it follows that they have armorers. What’s the problem?”

“Digger’s G3 went full-fuckin auto on him. I played with the selector, but could not feel if it was properly locked into the sear set; but it did feel different than my rifle.”

Jammer’s curiosity got him into the conversation, “Yeah? So what happened when it went full auto, man?”

Malone leaned into his platoon, smiling like a teenager sharing a dirty joke with his best friends.

“Killed more people than I intended. It all worked out; Fuckit man, didn’t matter, we would’ve killed them all anyway.”

The few people in the mess facility paused to look towards the laughter flowing from the group of Marines, considering that such levity was inappropriate this early in the morning. Jake Carlton’s two-faced thoughts were to admonish O’Brien on the troops’ cavalier attitude, while being envious of their experiences enabled by their significant amount of time outside the wire.

“Where was Opie while you were shooting at the local population?”

“Hah! The boss was assassinating the spook’s airplane.”

Carlton vividly recalled the scene per the ambush’s aftermath, the vulgar grandeur of bloodied bodies, and vehicles torn asunder. Her observations during the bird’s approach to the farm houses was not a scene that could be forgotten. Looking down the table of Marines shoveling chow into their faces, her certainty was that O’Brien was among the most important of the key ingredients to their secret sauce. O’Brien, in Carlton’s estimation, was the one thing that buffered and filtered the crass reality of their barbaric acts, and made it all appear to his Marines that all they did was well within the norm, yet somehow managed to keep them from the precipice of mayhem and disciplined and under control.

“Wait a few, Opie. the captain said he will do PT with the platoon.”

“Yeah? Whatever. Forgot to ask last night. Cooker comin in today?”

“Probably tonight.”

“Fuckin-A. Don’t think that I could take another day dealing with his shit. The only thing he hasn’t talked to me about is how I make a head call. The asshole is probably gonna watch me takin a crap by the end of the week. I ain’t paid enough to deal with shit from zeros.”

“Damn, Opie. Be cool. The captain is making an honest attempt to understand our shit.”

Facing Carlton, O’Brien discreetly grabbed his crotch through his desert cammie trousers, “yeah? well he can understand this...”

O’Brien had Pistochini take the platoon on its morning run as himself and Carlton fell in at the rear of the two short columns as they started to make their obligatory circuits of the main camp. The PT run itself was mundane, except for Captain Olsen. For reasons unfathomable to O’Brien, the captain thought that running backwards was a Good Thing. O’Brien shrugged to Pistochini’s WTF expression, as if to say ‘whatever’. O’Brien figured that if it tripped the captain’s trigger, he was willing to go along with just about anything to avoid listening to yet another officer’s harangue. For all O’Brien cared, the captain could make the platoon do the whole fucking PFT backwards.

The Platoon ended the run, adjourning to the pull-up bars. The ‘ritual’ that the platoon had developed was that everyone do the same number of pull ups done by their sergeant, then attempt one more. It was one of the bazzilions of little things that Carlton had taken careful note of; as she was determined to, literally, document everything about the behavior of this small unit. O’Brien introduced an unexpected change-up to their ritual, he did 10 pull-ups with his left arm, then 10 pull-ups with his right arm. When Carlton observed the grinding exchange of looks between Olsen and O’Brien, she was able to confirm that O’Brien did it for no other reason than to troll his captain.

After showers and chow and gear maintenance, the remainder of the day was consumed by more soul-crushing classes given by ‘experts’ on east and central Africa. Pistochini and O’Brien rated the current day’s classes as only slightly more tolerable than the previous day’s classes on communications systems, which had been conducted by a bespectacled, droning, monotonic engineer from Motorola.

After several days, residents of the CLU ghetto had become accustomed to the small Marine unit trotting to and from morning and evening chow. The occasional cat-calls, mostly from females, had ceased, and the Marine formation was always carefully directed by one of their sergeants to take paths clear of pedestrian traffic. It became obvious to the camp that the small group of Marines wanted nothing to do with anyone else. Their bivouac was separate, they did not frequent the camp gym, they were never were seen at the wi-fi hot spots or other socialization spots, and were careful to quickly eat, self-isolated to the side of the galley, being certain to always remain separated from all others.