Chapter 6

MCAS Kaneohe Bay, Marine Corps Base Hawaii, Late Summer 2007

Ten Marines of O’Brien’s scout/sniper platoon walked down the C-130 cargo ramp, while two members of the platoon remained aboard the bird as gear security. O’Brien marched his people off the tarmac and next to the transient terminal.

“Drop your gear and stand fast.”

O’Brien approached the only counter inside the terminal that was staffed with people, all Hawaiian-native civilians and all very taciturn. “Ma’am, I’d like to call H&S Company 2/3 for pick up. Neither person behind the counter looked up or replied to O’Brien.

The female staffer placed a phone near O’Brien along with a base directory. O’Brien politely responded, “Thank you, ma’am.” The native Hawaiian female said nothing and continued to direct her gaze to her work space at the counter. Sgt O’Brien ignored her impolite disdain and searched the directory for a 2/3 contact.

“ ... Hello, corporal. I’m Sergeant O’Brien from 1/5. We’re on group travel orders to 2/3 H&S. I’m at the Kaneohe airfield. We have all members of the S/S platoon and five pallets of gear ... roger that, Marine. Standing by...”

O’Brien scanned the terminal while waiting for the H&S Company duty NCO to get his company gunny. O’Brien quickly noted a small coffee concession on the far side of the terminal. “O’Brien here, Gunny ... Yes, gunny, we were told that the S-2 would do the pick-up ... Aye, Gunny. We’ll standby.”

O’Brien, again, thanked the uncommunicative air terminal clerical workers and returned to his platoon to address his platoon with an obvious indifference. “We’re waiting for 2/3’s S-2 people to come get us. In the meantime, Valdez and Watson, go inside and get 12 coffees and blueberry muffins. Take shit out to the people standing gear watch.” O’Brien handed Bark a twenty.

O’Brien stepped out on the tarmac and was watching a formation flight of CH-53s when Pistochini joined him. “Sergeant? We know anyone in H&S or 2/3?”

“Talked to the S-2 chief earlier this week. Know a guy in the 1/3 S/S platoon from the schoolhouse. Otherwise, no, don’t know a damn Marine in 2/3 or a damn thing about 2/3.”

“Don’t think its practical to become part of the battalion or the two shop with just a few days before we mount out.”

“We all know. Already discussed with the top. Its not gonna happen, Pistochini. We probably won’t get to know anyone until we’re in-country. And if all we do is static over-watch and counter-sniper, lack of familiarity is not a big issue.”

“What if they do some complex mission stuff?”

“Then we take another serving of shit sandwiches.”

Crammer pulled out two decks of cards from his pack. A few moments later, most of the platoon was playing cards on the edge of the tarmac. When a small tropical cell parked itself over the airfield and dumped some water on O’Brien and his platoon, they generally ignored the warm and light cloud-burst and continued to play cards. O’Brien and Pistochini also ignored the rain and continued to observe the activity on the airfield.

When a C-20 landed and taxi’d to a stop not far from their C-130, O’Brien noted three officers, that appeared to be very senior, disembark from the VIP aircraft. Turning to his troops sitting on the deck, “stow the cards people, we have some heavy brass walking our way.”

As a Major General and two Colonels approached the terminal, O’Brien called his Marines to attention and saluted.

The general returned O’Brien’s salute and paused to look at the platoon. “Stand at ease, Marines. What’s your unit, sergeant?”

“One-five, sir. Now TAD to two-three.”

“What’s your job, sergeant?”

“Sir, 1/5 Scout/Sniper platoon sergeant.”

One of the colonels made an unheard remark into the general’s ear.

“Yes ... I see, Bob ... Carry on Marines.”

O’Brien saluted again and his troops returned to their card games while sitting on the deck.

At about 1645 local time, O’Brien decided that over four hours was more than enough ‘standby’. He re-entered the terminal to use the phone.

O’Brien was greeted with the voice of a somewhat cheery Marine, “H&S Duty NCO, Corporal Jameson speaking.”

“Corporal, this is Sergeant O’Brien. My platoon has been waiting about four hours for gear and personnel pickup. Is the first sergeant around?”

“Negative, sergeant. The company secured about 15 minutes ago. Want me to contact the battalion SDO?”

“Would definitely appreciate that, corporal. Also, please make an entry of this call in your duty log. And is there a logbook entry for my original call? It was about 1200 or 1230.”

“ ... I’m looking, sarge ... Yeah, I see it. The A-duty’s entry has your comm and says the duty called the S-2 and the first shirt. So do not know what the fuck happened. Let me see who I can roust away from their beer, sarge.”

“Roger that. Thanks. Bye...”

Pistochini intercepted his sergeant as he exited the terminal. “What did they say?”

“The duty does not know what the fuck happened. Looks like we’re gonna be here a while. Move them out of the area and next to that hangar, under the awning.”

Afternoon turned to evening. O’Brien noted the ‘weird’ late afternoon light of the tropics. “White, Hangnail. Relieve the gear watch. Have Bark or Gardener find a case of MREs. Should be at the top of the fourth or fifth pallet.”

After Hangnail and White left for the aircraft, the C-130 crew chief strolled up to O’Brien. “So what’s the word, sarge? Have you been abandoned?”

“Don’t know, staff sergeant. Called 2/3 several times, they say they are coming, but here we sit, broken-hearted.”

“I understand you have to keep gear watch 24/7 on weapons and munitions, but my boss will not allow the ramp to stay down. I’ll leave the forward crew hatch open.”

“Thanks, staff sergeant. When do need your bird cleared out?”

“Probably tomorrow afternoon. Our return sortie is in two days and we need to take it to the barn for some maintenance.”

“No problemo, staff sergeant. I saw a small Terex next to the transient hanger. We’ll try to unload the pallets tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll set that up for you, sarge. Got to go.”

As O’Brien watched the winger staff sergeant rapidly depart, His thoughts turned to the ongoing series of fuck ups by 2/3. O’Brien surmised that they would spend the night on the flight line. “Pistochini, make a duty roster for the next 18 hours. Two-hour watches. We can sleep on our packs.’

“Aye, sarge. You think this is intentional? Or are we about to go in-country with a battalion full of idiots?”

“Don’t fuckin know. Maybe both. Or maybe they’re just up to their ears in alligators. We’ll see tomorrow.”

O’Brien and Pistochni were watching the airfield come alive under the tropical morning sun when the C-130 crew chief and the Terex driver drove onto the ramp and made short work of unloading and staging the five pallets.

O’Brien had Cheeseburger retrieve his M9 from the weapons pallet so both watch standers would be armed. After placing some ‘found’ canvas tarps over the pallets, the S/S platoon had nothing to do other than stand watch over their gear and scratch their ass.

At 0830, the transient terminal doors were unlocked. The civilian was surprised to see the group of Marines still camped out next to the transient ramp. O’Brien immediately entered and used their landline to call the H&S company duty NCO desk.

As O’Brien exited the terminal, Pistochini again queried, “What’s the status, sarge?”

“They’re waiting for Motor-T to get some machines out here to transport our shit. Supposedly they will be here in less than two hours. Here’s a twenty. Have someone go inside and get coffee and muffins for everybody.”

“Aye, sergeant.”

“The fuckin detonators are fuckin Class A explosives. Didn’t H&S Company fill out a form for transport?”

The driver paged through at least a dozen forms on his clipboard. “Okay, here’s the itinerary, sarge ... Yep, the request states explosives are Class A and B ... No can do, sarge. No placards and we need a blocking escort vehicle. What about the other four pallets?”

“Nope. The pallets all go together and we have to stay with them. We have weapons and classified comm systems on the other pallets.”

“Sorry about this, sergeant. I have to talk to the Motor-T chief. And we may have to go to base G-4 to get transport approval.” The other driver followed his corporal back to their trucks, presumably in search of more benign loads that would comply with the base’s multitude of regulations.

O’Brien loudly intoned to the cosmos, “what the fuck, over? Isn’t this a Marine Corps base? Shit that goes boom is our fuckin trade. What the fuck is wrong with this place?!? How the fuck does Third MEF manage to send Marines to war!?” O’Brien’s exhortation and travel commentary to the heavens was heard by more than the members of his platoon, whom were all well entertained by their sergeant’s ‘minor’ outburst.

O’Brien decided to start a walk around the transient aircraft ramp. As he turned, O’Brien came face to face with a full-bird colonel. O’Brien recognized the Marine as part of the general’s entourage from yesterday. O’Brien took a step back to provide a respectful distance and saluted the colonel. “Good morning, sir.”

The colonel returned the salute and smiled at the young sergeant. “Tell me what is happening, sergeant.”

“Sir, can’t get transport to 2/3 for both my gear and my people.”

“What’s so special about your equipment?”

O’Brien reached into his pack and pulled out a folder then paged through the forms in the folder and extracted the itemized listing. “The actual bills are attached to the pallets, sir. But the complete inventory is here, sir.”

The colonel read through the materials and equipment listing. “Not that it should matter, sergeant, but why are you bringing all of this from Fifth Marines to the BLT?”

“Sir, the requirement is a complete transfer of the platoon’s personnel and equipment and supporting materials so that 2/3 will have no immediate support requirements for my platoon during our first 10 to 15 days in-country. We’re supposed to be an independent unit, ready to support the line companies outside the wire, sir. Also, sir, we’re on TAD orders, so we cannot use the battalion’s organic weapons.”

“What’s you name, son?”

“Sergeant O’Brien, sir”

Sergeant, let’s look at your orders.”

As O’Brien pulled out the group travel and TAD orders, the colonel pulled out a phone and punched in a number, put in on speaker phone and held it away from his face. “Harrison? This is Bergstrom. So what’s the status of your replacement scout sniper platoon?”

The officer on the other end of the conversation was tentative, “Uncertain, sir. They were supposed to have been on the H&S deck yesterday.”

The colonel, with an increasing level of irritation asked, “Does anyone in the battalion or H&S company know their status?”

“Negative, sir. talked to the H&S XO this morning. He said that their S-2 shop was preparing to leave without them tomorrow morning.”

“Harrison, I want yourself, Captain Doan and his first sergeant, along with the H&S duty log at the airfield transient terminal. You have 15 minutes, major.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Sergeant, have your people had chow?”

“Yes, sir. We have several cases of MREs on one of our pallets. We’ve also been getting stuff from the terminal’s gedunk, sir.”

“Good enough, Marine. Meet me inside the terminal in 15 minutes.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Pistochini re-joined his platoon sergeant as the colonel stomped away while talking on his phone.

“What was that about, sergeant?”

“Dunno. He called the 2/3 XO and told him to get the H&S CO and first shirt. I’m gonna guess that someone’s ass is in a sling. But that probably doesn’t improve our position. Looks like that there is a less than 50/50 chance of us getting out of here today.”

O’Brien continued to think about the odds for getting transport to the battalion and concluded that they may well be encamped at the airfield until the bulk of 2/3 deploys. “Corporal, mine, get those fuckers on their feet. Put packs on and walk/run around those two hangers for about 20 or 30 mike. We may mount out within the next 48 hours, so don’t want any bodies getting fucked up from sittin on their ass during the long ride.”

“Aye, sergeant.”

O’Brien hoisted his ruck gear and decided to fall in behind the last person in the column and walk with his troops. He had nothing better to do for the next 10 minutes.

Bark noticed his sergeant behind him after the first lap. “Hey, sergeant. You also getting bored?”

“Yeah. Need to get my circulation going. And enjoying the scenery.”

“Yeah, sarge. Spectacular views of hangers and aircraft maintenance ... Sergeant O’Brien? Wonder if the wingers think we’re crazies?”

“They’d be calling a spade a spade, Marine. We are fuckin crazy.”

Bark laughed and continued with the platoon’s circular ‘force’ march around various flight-line buildings.

After another lap, O’Brien realized that he was overdue for the officers’ gaggle and ran to the transient terminal, where he found the designated 2/3 personnel entering the building along with two lieutenants. The colonel smiled at O’Brien. “What’s with the pack?”

“Sir. Have my platoon doing circles around some hangers. We been sitting on the tarmac for about two days, sir. So needed to get them in motion.”

The major stood in front of the colonel. “Good morning sir.”

“Please give me the duty log.”

“Aye, sir.”

The major nodded to a Lt, whom handed the large green cloth-bound log book to the colonel. “Sergeant O’Brien, what was your arrival time and date?”

“Sir, yesterday at approximately 1125.”

The colonel thumbed through the logbooks pages to find the last two days of duty NCO entries.

“Major, I see a total of six calls requesting transport. Three reference the First Sergeant.”

The H&S first shirt gave a fleeting stern glance at O’Brien. O’Brien stared back at the 1st Sgt without a blink. “Sir, the company is on a 48-hour mount-out notice. There’s a lot of moving parts. It should not be an issue to this sniper platoon to hang tight at the airfield until we load aircraft. And the battalion has nowhere to billet this unit.”

“Captain, does the company’s deployment transport schedule account for this scout/sniper platoon?”

“Unknown, sir. Would have to ask S-4 or S-3.”

“Determine that immediately, captain. I’ll wait...”

The H&S C.O., almost frantically, called the S3 and S4 shops.

“Sir, we have eleven seats for the s/s platoon.”

“What is that eleven-seat requirement based on?”

“Unknown, sir. It was probably from the original platoon.”

“They have more than eleven Marines. They have five pallets of equipment, munitions, weapons, and supplies.” The colonel faced the battalion XO. “It was your BLT’s requirement that they arrive at 2/3 intact, with their own equipment, ready to support the battalion. So your battalion did not account for your own mandated requirements?”

“Uh ... yes sir. That would seem to be correct.”

“Captain, Major, the General moved heaven and earth, made a pact with the devil, and pissed off HQMC and I-MEF to get this platoon after your Marines failed to perform.” The colonel, in a sweeping gesture towards O’Brien, “ ... and these Marines jumped through hoops and changed horses mid-stream to support your incompetent machinations ... You people shut up and stand by...”

The colonel withdrew his phone from his brief and dialed with anger.

“Good afternoon, sir. Can the general spare a few, sir? ... Thank you sir. I am at the airfield with 2/3 H&S personnel and that scout/sniper platoon that was bivouac’d on the tarmac. And the situation is exactly per your previous comments. Sir, request that the H&S CO and first sergeant be immediately relieved and removed from their group travel orders ... Yes sir, I understand ... Captain, the general would have a word with you...” The colonel pointed his phone to the H&S company commander.

The conversation between the H&S company commander and the III MEF commanding general was obviously one-sided. “Sir, this is captain ... Yes sir ... understood sir ... Yes sir.” The captain forlornly returned the phone to the colonel.

The MEF chief of staff’s expression turned more dour as the conversation with his commanding general continued. “Disposition sir? ... Do not see any practical path, sir. The company will transport within the next two days. No spaces for platoon personnel or their equipment. What about the last advance party team, sir? Are they critical? ... Understood, sir. We’ll work the problem from this end, sir.”

With comtempt and disgust, the colonel returned his attentions to the H&S company commander and the company first sergeant. “You two are relieved. Your XO and company gunny will assume your billets. Your new travel orders will be sent tomorrow. Upon arrival in-country, report to MEB for assignments...” The colonel looked down the line of personnel and noted a junior officer. “Lieutenent, what is your purpose in life?”

“Sir, MEF G-two intel analyst, currently assigned to the BLT’s S-2.”

“Well, analyze this, lieutenant. Procure a space in one of these hangers to billet Sergeant O’Brien’s platoon and his gear for the next 24 to 96 hours. Get them at least one hot chow per day, and get them another replacement case of MREs. The platoon cannot leave their equipment due to weapons and explosives and some classified electronics. Sergeant O’Brien has handled equipment security and will continue to do so. Any questions?”

“No, sir. I understand.”

As the colonel was about to turn and leave, his parting comments were, “Captain, you and the rest of your group can go away. I do not want to see either in the battalion area once your orders are revised.” The colonel stomped away, leaving a bemused, but concerned second lieutenant and Sgt O’Brien in his wake.

The second lieutenant was a tall, gangly, pasty, ginger. He moved to stand in front of O’Brien, then thrust his hand towards the sergeant, “I’m O’Connell. Let’s see what I can do for your platoon, Marine.”

O’Brien shook the officer’s offered hand. “Sergeant O’Brien, sir. Your support is certainly appreciated, sir.”

“Please lead the way to your people, sergeant.”

“Aye, sir.”

Disregarding the fact that Lt O’Connell was a young 2d Lt, O’Brien had a good feeling about the man.

The young lieutenant’s afternoon of various expeditions in search of logistic solutions had not been fruitful. Lt O’Connell returned to the S/S platoon’s ‘bivouac’ with a less than grim, but stolid, face to find Sgt O’Brien.

“Yet another problem, sergeant. The C-17 intended for the advance party that had been rescheduled for your platoon was on its way, but with one problem. The bird is broke and stuck in Guam.”

“Well, shit, sir. Have you read the bible, sir?”

The lt raised a questioning eyebrow, “ ... uh, yes I have.”

“Just think of this is Odin’s interpretation of the Book of Job. Odin wants to determine our loyalty and if we are worthy of combat.” O’Brien was deadpan and did not avert his eyes from the lieutentent.

O’Brien’s comments left Lt O’Connell unable to determine if O’Brien was fringe religionist or if his humor was a side-effect of his job as a scout/sniper, at least until a hummer with a 3d Marines mess sergeant and a lance corporal in mess whites pulled up on the tarmac and into the hanger. O’Brien’s Marines immediately removed the insulated stainless steel food containers once the hummer came to a stop.

“You Sergeant O’Brien?”

“That’s me, staff sergeant.”

“Need you to sign for chow and the containers. We’ll pick up our shit when we deliver chow tomorrow.”

“Thanks, staff sergeant. We’ll be out of your hair in two days.”

“Not a problem, sarge.”

As O’Brien’s troops set up the mess gear, Lt O’Connell and Sgt O’Brien observed. O’Brien continued with the previous subject, “Sir, there’s a flaw in Odin’s testing of my platoon. He’s a fuckin amateur compared to remedies of a typical first shirt or of a sergeant major...” O’Brien waved his hand across the scene in the hangar, “and this is luxury compared to a typical day outside the wire, or a day of our pre-deployment training.”

Lt O’Connell shared the platoon’s chow from the ad hoc field mess in the aircraft hangar, enjoying the banter and comradery between O’Brien’s Marines. This encounter, being O’Connell’s first direct exposure to FMF infantry troops, caused him to re-evaluate his chosen intel MOS. He was abruptly returned to reality when O’Brien and Pistochini started a post-chow class on the ballistics and math of shooting up and down slopes. O’Connell’s updated realization was that these people were atypical for Marine infantry. O’Connell noted that there was nothing in any TBS syllabus about types and methods of enlisted training, other than to leave troop instruction to the staff NCOs.

Lt O’Connell was fascinated with the young sergeant that was flinging trig and calculus onto the white board with abandon. And his troops were eating it up. O’Connell had been a chemistry major, so the math was an almost mundane subject matter for the Lt. He was, nonetheless, impressed with the sergeant’s mastery of the basic math for exterior ballistics and his instructional methods.

“ ... so generally the quickest route to a downhill solution over 400 meters is one minus sine of theta, or use the cosine of theta as the range multiplier. The kicker is where the crosswind either blows up the slope, or directly normal to the slope’s ridge. Considering only the wind, we have the same series of second-order differential equations that are used for earth-normal trajectories. The only thing that changes with up and down slopes is our use of a ‘virtual’ distance for the line normal to earth. Let’s go back to our first example...”

O’Brien worked through the solutions to a few example equations. Lt O’Connell looked over the shoulders of O’Brien’s platoon members to view the class notes being recorded by the troops and was, again, impressed that the troops were following the math.

“ ... y’all can have one last question, people. Then let’s clean up the fuckin mess gear and work on our rifles.” O’Brien was momentarily off balance when he noted that Lt O’Connell was the Marine asking the question.

“Time derivatives, sergeant. Are they still effective for slope shooting?”

“Yes sir, they are for our general purposes and for the combination of ammo and rifles and ranges used. But that subject would be for future lectures based on partial derivatives, where we can play with multiple variables, one at a time, that influence the trajectory ... Let’s turn to, people...”

As O’Brien’s troops cleaned up the area, O’Brien approached Lt O’Connell, “Is the lieutenent interested in ballistics, sir?”

“Actually was more interested in your instructional methods. Why do scout/sniper platoons need to know this stuff? Doesn’t Quantico send tables with each ammo shipment?”

“Yes, sir. Quantico does. And their tables are excellent. But when we get a shipment from army stock or direct from an arsenal, there may be no QC and they do not publish corresponding tables for each batch of ammo. So we borrow a chronometer from SOI or WTB and empirically derive our tables for some batches of the army-sourced ammo. I am not certain if other S/S platoons use and test ammo from other than Quantico.”

The 2d Lt was perplexed. “Thought that all M118 ammo manufacturing was controlled per specs.”

“Two problems with that, sir. One, the specs suck. When you look at the components, even for recent M118LR, the resultant performance typically exceeds one MOA. Two, some arsenals have taken to re-labeling the newer mark-316 to M118LR to simplify FSN stocking numbers.”

“Does the new Mk316 ammo actually meet specs?”

“Yes, sir. And then some. Never tested a batch not having sub-MOA groups. Better bullet, better primer, better powder, better case, and almost 50 per cent more expensive.”

Beeman ran up to his sergeant and the Lt. “by your leave, sir. Sergeant, the lady behind the desk in the terminal said that you have a call from Gunner Chastain!”

“Excuse me, sir. My Quantico mentor beckons.”

“Sergeant O’Brien, here...”

“O’Brien, this is Chastain. Son, you need to know that a minor shit-storm happened when some idiot captain in WTB’s S-3 admin forwarded your school comments to the CG of TECOM, who sent the package to MCCDC. Last I heard, a cluster-fuck of senior officers and two flag officers are departing, 0630 east coast time tomorrow, to Hawaii. For whatever reason, the brass is doing this very low profile. And it seems that the head-shed people do not want any publicity.”

“Dunno about that, gunner. We may not be here past tomorrow. And why the fuck would the heavy brass wanna sneak out here to talk about my comments, sir? Its probably the same stupid shit you get from every graduating S/S class.”

“Maybe ... you’re not wrong, most of the same ideas and issues we get from most class leaders we got from you. But you had to pull an additional three-page treatise on scout and sniper tactics out of your ass. That and the brass probably wants to do a few rounds of golf in Hawaii.”

“What should I do, gunner?”

“Fucking hide. You sure as hell did that well during school out in the field. If they are able to find your dumb ass, be professional and be brief. Don’t say any shit that you’ve not already said. Nod a lot and pretend to be sage.”

O’Brien laughed. “Don’t know about acting sage, gunner. But this sudden deployment has really fucked up my platoon. If their weird shit make things worse for my people, I’ll find a way to fuck ‘em up, sir.”

“You hold onto that thought, son. And give me a call when you return stateside next year.”

“Aye Aye, gunner.”

Hangnail and Pistochini stood adjacent to the their sergeant listening to one side of the conversation. O’Brien noticed their interest, “That was fuckin wonderful. We may have some generals from HQ fuckin with us in the next 24 to 48 hours. Hopefully, we will be on our way to the sand box before they can find us. Fuckin vayamos a la pila de arena!”

Lt O’Connell re-joined O’Brien as he exited the terminal.

“Any help from your schoolhouse friends?”

“No sir. But if we’re not outa here by tomorrow, we may be visited by a gaggle of generals and senior officers.”

“Yeah? ... Sergeant, what happened with the bird that brought you here?”

“It was a C-130, sir. Last I heard they were doing maintenance before returning to the west coast. As you said, our would-be C-17 is dead-lined in Guam. And 2/3 has no room for our gear and no seats for my platoon.”

Lt O’Connell’s face turned dour. “What a damned mess! ... Let me see what can be done about that...” The Lt turned on his his heels and entered the terminal building while O’Brien went to brief his troops on the latest shenanigans and drama.

Surprisingly, the mess sergeant returned with evening chow. The chow, as well as the mess SNCO was, obviously, well received by the platoon. “Damn, staff sergeant. We really appreciate this.”

“Not a big deal, sarge. This all of your people?”

“No. Have three on various details and the LT is talking to the head shed. They’ll be here shortly.” O’Brien paused to change the subject. “How long have you been in Hawaii? What ya think about the area?”

“About 14 months. Hellofa lot better than Lejeune or the stumps - my previous two duty stations. If you fish or dive or surf, its paradise. The locals are hostile to mainlanders, so you have to be super cool and respectful.”

“Sounds reasonable. So what’s the word on...” Lt O’Connell suddenly appeared in the bivouac hanger, to stand in front of O’Brien. “Sir, have not introduced this good Marine yet, he is Staff Sergeant Poinder, the local mess sergeant. He’s been keeping the platoon fed with good stuff.”

“Thanks, staff sergeant, your chow does good for the troops ... Sergeant O’Brien, we have transport. The bird that brought you here will be returning from maintenance tomorrow morning, but they will not fly to Southwest Asia. So we talked to the Air Force. Probably sometime after 0830, we are getting another C-17 out of Hickman. So I now need all of the platoon’s orders. I’m going to III MEF to get some changes endorsed. And it looks like I’ll be going with your people.”

“Outfuckinstanding, sir. How did the lieutenant do it?”

“It seems that the MEF chief of staff is golf buddies with the CO of the 15th Wing at Hickman and their wives are buddies.”

“Life if fuckin good, sir ... staff sergeant, looks like we’ll be one less problem for you after tomorrow morning. Ya wanna stick around and sample some of my South Texas hot sauces?”

“Always like to hang out with the troops, sarge...”

As the last pallet was being secured by the Air Force crew chief, O’Brien ordered Pistochini to form up the troops and do one last gear check. Unseen by O’Brien or his people was the Navy C-37 that had stopped to the side of the terminal and was lowering its air-stairs to disgorge its complement of flag and senior field-grade officers.