Chapter 11

Sergeant First Class Adrianakis was intelligent and respected and competent. SFC Adrianakis was an idiot. Having spent over eleven years working on broken bodies, she hated war and despised those that espoused war as ‘an extension of politics’. Despite that, she was smitten with this group of Marines that craved life outside the wire. Even worse, she had allowed herself to become strongly attracted to a particular Marine that reveled in, and approved of, violence as a reasonable solution for most day-to-day problems. Addy was the worst type of idiot; she was in idiot in love or lust or, perhaps a neurotic fascination, with an efficient killer.

“Opie, tell me about Pistol.”

O’Brien knew what Addy was asking. O’Brien was not wont to walk past any chance of gross and crass entertainment having scenic value.

“Well, he’s an Okie, was the honor grad of his boot camp platoon, still has standing records from the Pendleton scout/sniper schoolhouse, he has two bronze stars and one silver star, on his last fitness report that I drafted for Lieutenant Garza, I rated him F or G in all of his traits, and...

“What the heck are you talking about, Opie?”

“I am tellin ya ‘bout Sergeant Pistochini...”

“I want to know about him as a person.”

“Uh, he’s male, 23 years old, above average intelligence...”

“Damn! Never mind...”

The army medico departed the area in a frustrated huff, exiting the adjoining room, past Pistochini without acknowledgment, and into the passageway. O’Brien joined Pistochini to jointly revel in another successful troll.

The following two weeks of brain ‘re-wiring’ sessions, physical therapy, and examinations, were were punctuated by the internal laughter between Sanders, Pistochini, and O’Brien. Their level of amusement increased each day with Addy’s attempts at the typical human mating rituals, as directed at Pistochini by Adrianakis. Addy was not able to understand that Pistochini did not posses, nor had he ever possessed, a brain that had been wired for a socially-acceptable response to mating entreaties. Which made the process all the more entertaining, at least to O’Brien and Sanders.

Staff Sergeant Jake Carlton was more that a woman. More than a warrior. More than a 99th percentile intellect. She was a devout pragmatist. Which is why she was careful to relegate herself to observer status in the ongoing hunger and lust games.

Carlton had once participated in human mating games. The difference was that she entered into The Games as a sentient, aware, and goal-oriented participant. Very few ‘modern’ humans were able to see what nature was forcing them into. Most humans that engaged in these primitive mating rituals were riding a forty-ton diesel rig, barreling down a curving mountain road, without any driver.

Carlton saw no reason to offer advice to Adrianakis. She did not care if the woman crashed and burned. Carlton’s concerns and efforts were directed to the survival of O’Brien and his Marines, and ensuring that the rehab of Pistochini stays on track.

The latest of the many mundane and tedious physical exams abruptly ended when Pistochini ‘saw’ two non-benign entities enter his sphere of awareness. O’Brien had not understood the strength and breadth of his connection to Pistochini. Until now.

Pistochini suddenly tensed and pulled on his shirt, and ‘talked’ to O’Brien. O’Brien stared with intensity into a virtual mist for a second, drew his pistol, and made a quiet gesture to get Sgt Hawkin’s attention. O’Brien signaled to Carlton to get all others into the adjoined room. Hawkin pulled out a small radio, pressed a button twice, then drew his pistol. O’Brien went into the main room as others went in opposite directions into and adjoining room, then quietly stepped about a meter to one side of the door and crouched behind a small desk, while Hawkin went into the head and crouched next to the shower area for the direct line of sight it offered to the suite’s main door.

Carlton grabbed the ‘guard’ M4 and flicked the safety off, then pointed to the deck behind the counter for the three to take refuge. Pistochini pointed to the weapons rack, but Carlton shook her head no. Denied a firearm, Pistochini closed his eyes and concentrated, using the only weapon available to his person.

The main door’s dead-bolt lock rotated. A man in dark green coveralls opened the suite’s main door with a semi-auto handgun pointed down and to his front. O’Brien wanted both intruders, so he delayed any actions. The man in coveralls stopped about a meter inside, with the door open. O’Brien’s line-of-sight did not include the passageway, thus choosing to further delay a take-down. When a hard noise from down the passageway was heard, the intruder turned to step out. O’Brien, not wanting to lose the advantage of surprise, put a round in the man’s head behind his right ear. The would-be assailant dropped, blocking the door. O’Brien and Hawkin listened, but could hear nothing, until three beeps were emitted by Hawkin’s radio.

“That’s the Clear Signal, O’Brien. I’ll pull the door open. You ready?”

O’Brien nodded and stepped out quickly over the body, and into side of the passageway when Hawkin pulled the hatch open. He saw nothing, then did a short recall. Poking his head back in the door, O’Brien loudly announced, “Sarge, the fuckin nurses’ station!”

Hawkin said nothing as they both immediately reacted, running down the passageway, coming to a stop upon seeing the two other green berets standing over another dead body. O’Brien and Hawkin continued, turning left down another passageway. They slowed down to approach the nurse station, but saw nothing. Looking behind the counter and desk, nothing was to be found. It was late, but there should have been at least two nurses on duty.

An older man wearing a bath-robe with two stars bumbled into the passageway. O’Brien was briefly amused that there was rank insignia on a bathrobe. The flag officer walked out into the passageway. O’Brien growled at the star-bearing fool.

“Get into your room and lock the door, sir.”

The man’s only response was to remain standing where he had stopped, with a blank expression.

“Fuckin now, sir! Back in your room our we’ll throw you into your room!”

The alleged flag officer rapidly ambled back into a suite.

O’Brien whispered to Hawkin, “Where the fuck are they?”

“Do not know; maybe not any more? We’re sure as shit not going to search this whole deck and piss off these generals and admirals. I’ll call the captain and Acorn. Let them handle this shit.”

Hawkin and O’Brien trotted back to the corridor intersection where the other two green berets waited over the dead body.

O’Brien looked at the body with the pool of blood beneath the head.

“Damn, Norton. That’s fuckin impressive. How far?”

O’Brien was staring at the knife embedded deep into the back of the man’s upper neck.

“About five meters. Didn’t shoot. Didn’t want to alert the other guy...”

Hawkin harrumphed then ordered the soldier and Marine out of the mutual admiration of the deadly handiwork.

“Quit screwing around and search the body ... We need a plastic bag.”

“Wait one, sarge.”

O’Brien trotted back to the nurse station, looked over the shelves behind the counter and found some large resealable bags. Grabbing some bags, O’Brien beat feet back to the soldiers.

They had piled some stuff to the side of the body, so O’Brien filled one of the bags. They pulled the Browning-type pistol out of his hand and gave it to O’Brien. O’Brien paused to look at the weapon, then cleared it and put it in the bag.

“Leave the body there. Let’s get back to the suite and wait for the adult supervision.”

They repeated the body search of the other dead man after it was dragged out of the doorway.

“Drag it to the other side of the passageway and leave it. Put those keys stuck in the deadbolt into the bag ... Now lets get back inside.”

Jake and Sanders were helping Pistochini up from behind a desk when O’Brien and Hawkin walked in to get coffee. She helped Pistochini sit down on a small sectional sofa. Assuming it was now relatively safe, she had some burning questions.

“Pistol, you sensed the bad guys, didn’t you?”

Pistochini looked at O’Brien drinking coffee. O’Brien shrugged his shoulders, gave a slight nod, and gave the coffee the his sergeant, apparently in reply to an unvoiced request, then went to make another cup.

“Yes...”

“Then you communicated that to O’Brien, non-verbally?”

“Yes.”

“Can you sense every one around you?”

“Not know.”

“Is O’Brien the only person you can communicate with like that?”

“No. Doc talks ... Not many ... We must close.”

Carlton literally stomped the few steps to face O’Brien.

“Damn it, Opie. Don’t you think you should tell us this shit? This is stuff that could keep us alive. And we need every fuckin iota of advantage we can scrape together.”

“Shit, Jake. I thought it would just naturally develop within you along with, eventually, the rest of the platoon. I dunno how the fuck it happened with doc and me and Pistol. It just happened. Sorta fuckin organically. None of us know what the fuck is going on or why. Jake, you and Pistol are the two that are most close to me. I just thought it would develop in you. Then we could we sit around telling silent dirty jokes about Lieutenant Stevensen and Mr Acorn, with none the wiser.”

Pistochini sputtered some coffee in reaction to O’Brien’s revealing statement. Lt Stevensen was not amused.

The next day, the group stayed inside the hospital suite and discussed prognostic medical issues and tactical options. Acorn had been writing a report and had the contents of the evidence bags spread out over two tables and a credenza in an adjacent unused suite. Hawkin and O’Brien and Carlton had also examined the objects. Jake had entered the passport and ID info into her logbook and was waiting for Acorn to finish reading the papers that were in Arabic and German.

Acorn began his summary to the principals, namely Carlton, Pistochini, and O’Brien.

“We’ve been telling Europol and member states for years that they have dozens of sleeper cells. And those two were part of one. They were both software engineers that have been in Germany for about eight years. And these notes in Arabic correspond to these notes in German by another unknown party. At this point, it is obvious that the Russians, Taliban, Al-Qaeda, ISIS, and probably Al-Shabaab, have established and linked their networks with groups of western anarchists and nationalist fascists. Moreover, I have noted an important item, reinforcing the growing international efforts that are indicated in these and other later documents. We are seeing the term ‘Ummah’ more often than sha’b.”

Carlton recognized the two forms of ‘community’, but did not understand the difference.

“They both refer to community, what’s the significance?”

“They are not synonyms. Ummah is more of a meta term. It has international meaning. Sha’b is based on the tribal or national commonalities. This probably represents the formation an international network of like-minded religious fascists. My guess is that we are looking at a network of organizations that have united with the intent to form Islamic and Judaeo-Christian caliphates. I am not necessarily using ‘caliphate’ per the Sunni meaning.”

A sudden realization struck O’Brien.

“Mr. Acorn, has the CIA been able to construct a time-line for the globalization of these networks?”

“A few weeks ago, we thought we understood the formational sequencing and design intents for the structure of the cells and groups in North America. As of two days ago, my supervisor and his boss indicated the original NSA data and reports that we have built the intel base on are probably missing the first 10 to 15 months of these groups’ insurgency and formation.”

Carlton was intensely concerned, almost despondent, when she realized the point of O’Brien’s question. She voiced her concerns.

“Then we have nowhere to go. They are everywhere. Even if in small numbers, but fucking everywhere, and they are all aware of us ... What the fuck, Opie? Our assumptions for security was based on us all getting back together and re-grouping at Pendleton. No matter our location, there would be a pile of shit for us to step into.”

O’Brien sat down with solid thump into the chair. Jake recognized the glassy stare, the look of being directly linked in non-verbal communication. O’Brien abruptly stood up after a few seconds.

“Pistol has it. He fuckin has the solution, Jake. We have a secure place. I know the people and the area very well. We can fuckin do this, Mr Acorn. Fuckin-A-Skippy. We got a way to hide from those assholes...”

Jake Carlton was exasperated with O’Brien. Good friend though he may be, she was ready to inflict pain on the man.

“Holy shit-stick, Opie. Just fucking say it.”

O’Brien paused in the revelation of the self-evident, but brilliant, solution proposed by Pistochini.

“Lets get doc in here. I need to hear everyone’s tactical and logistical thinkin on this shit. Sergeant Hawkin, you’ll speak for SOCOM.”

As Doc Sanders entered the suite, he immediately sensed the strong ‘broadcast’ from Pistochini. Jake had commandeered the desk and placed her computer and two logbooks, then her sidearm was placed on the desk after a moment of discomfort in the chair.

As all were getting set, Acorn announced loudly across the room.

“It’s your show, O’Brien. If this is what I think, we have a major logistics effort coming up. You have the floor, Marine.”

“We’ve been bouncin around the world evading these assholes too fuckin long. Jake’s correct. While they are small groups, there are too fuckin many, and they may have started to form and become embedded all over the federal government long ago. So their formation pre-dates our detection and the CIA’s counter-insurgency efforts by about a year.”

O’Brien paused and looked at Jake, wanting to project reassurance to his friend.

“The effect of this time-line is that an enemy known to these assholes has no safe location because the good guys can never know where all of the bad guys are located. And I mean can only know fuckin nada ‘bout any given site; except one. I propose a location that could be more safe, with some civil engineering. It cold have more security than being back at Pendleton, and definitely more than MacDill. That location is my mother’s ranch and the adjacent ranch that was bought by an LLC controlled by a lawyer that had done work for me. The total area is over 1500 acres. The largest nearby city is San Antonio, about forty kilometers by air.”

MSgt Hawkin saw possibilities.

“Is it in a built-up area? Defensible?”

“It rural, all ranches. With proper OP placement and lane control, depending on which area, all approaches are observable and defensible with LOS ranging from about 100 meters to over 500 meters. The two ranches are mostly undeveloped, and are surrounded by other large ranches.”

“Interesting. Local population? Infrastructure? Log-train support?...”

The most close town having complete services is Hondo, about 8k to 9k population, and is less than 20 kilometers by road, south of these ranches. Hondo has a relatively large airport about two or three clicks to its west, don’t think its controlled. A four to six-lane highway, US90, travels east/west through Hondo. The road north to the ranches, from US90, is a two-lane road, state route 173. It is designed to support large ranching and farming equipment and big rigs. They only infrastructure is power. Phone land-line only if you are under 100 meters of state route 173. Power tends to be reliable, but every other year an ice storm knocks down the power lines, or some idiot drives his truck into a power pole. Most people have back-up generators. All water is from private wells. The first water table, at least for the Carrizo sands geologic formation is about 20 meters depth, is mostly for cooling buildings and irrigation and livestock use, the second water table, about 100 to 500 meters depth, is for irrigation and depending on the local geology, human consumption. Most of the area to the north is karst; that is, limestone in the hills, and secondary alluviation and calichie and sands in the flat valleys south of the hills. Hills are moderate, typically under 200 meters from base to top; and most relief is under 100 meters.”

Acorn was stroking his imaginary beard, in a knowing, Gandalf-like manner.

“Tell me about the local law enforcement, staff sergeant.”

“They have had serious problems in the past, along with the county DA and other county agencies. The screwed the pooch one too many times and earned the wrath of the Texas attorney general, who subsequently shut down and re-organized several county agencies, to include the sherrif’s department and the DA’s office. I was, at most, age 9 or 10 when this happened, so I do not know all that was done. As for the Sheriff’s department, I have had run-ins with some of the rank-and-file officers, but I was on the right side and the offending officers were kicked out of the county. I also have an ace up my sleeve. The man that was my legal guardian after my mother died, is a lieutenant in the Medina County Sheriff’s department, but he is thinking about retiring. And the family lawyer has several friends in the Texas AG’s office.”

“Weather, staff sergeant?”

“Humid and mostly subtropical, same latitude as central Florida. I’d reckon that MacDill people would feel at home, but its warmer in the summer and colder in the winter, and with no sea breeze. But no hurricanes.”

Pistochini never missed an opportunity and blurted with his broken staccato speech, “Texan classes? Translators?”

O’Brien slowly rubbed the bridge of his nose with his middle finger while the other members of the group laughed.

A four-day storm of voice and electronic messaging, and texting via satcom, ensued. CIA leadership liked the idea of an isolated site in south Texas having no previous affiliation with military, federal law enforcement, or the intelligence communities.

Acorn’s boss attempted to talk the Marines into using one of their few ATARS-equipped F-18s to do a few passes over the area, but the Miramar jets were either down or not available, and the Marine Corps’ east coast recon-equipped jets were scattered through out eastern Europe and Southwest Asia, or were at sea aboard a carrier. So the CIA sent an UAV, or two, to map the area, as part of a ‘training’ mission.

“Captain Miller is studying reports on the area now, and I am looking at budgets and schedules. Captain Olsen said that platoon members are being pulled inside the wire now. I told him that priority should be our people at the Battalion CP, so they they will be sent to the ranger’s AO today or tomorrow.

Carlton, Pistochini, O’Brien, and Hawkin spent 40 of the following 48 hours in planning. The increasing friction between O’Brien’s requirements and special forces’ requirements had become more evident to Carlton and Pistochini. O’Brien was adamant in his material and personnel requirements, dug in, thus delaying a significant portion of logistics planning. O’Brien and Carlton jointly decided to await the arrival of Lt Garza.

Harry Acorn entered the adjacent room with a manner of purpose. He interrupted the meeting with a somber statement.

“Captain Olsen will stay with the battalion for now. But what is concerning is that Lieutenent Garza was ordered to ISAF. No one knows why.”

“Can we see his orders? Do we know his direct report? How about a set of contravening orders from CENTCOM? ... Its a fuckin kidnap, sir.”

“His orders were administrative for the ISAF headquarters. They were not PCS and was a general order to simply report to ISAF headquarters, report date in three days. Our contact in the ISAF staff has not responded to questions on origination of these orders.”

“Sergeant Hawkin and myself can go get him. CENTCOM will send an aircraft. We can meet at Bagram, or we go get him forcefully. Mr Acorn, we will not abandon our platoon commander!”

Acorn was probably the least experienced CIA field officer in the wild. But he had grown such that he was not a total fool. He knew these Marines would not abandon their lieutenant. O’Brien’s ability to evaluate people had not diminished. As Acorn had know that the Marines would insist on recovering their leader, O’Brien knew that Acorn would have considered this and have already planned for such an evolution. Conversely, Sgt Hawkin had no thoughts on this and was ‘along for the ride’.

“Give me a few hours to figure this out and get transport. I will want to see a plan for contact and extraction with support requirements. We have less than 6 hours to launch this caper because you will have to be there in less than 30 hours. Much of this depends on what is sitting on the tarmac at Ramstein.”

Jake, Hawkin, Pistochini, and O’Brien found yet another empty hospital suite to conduct the planning. The back of a roll of 40-cm wide wrapping paper became the planning canvas, and progressively covered the two walls with diagrams and notations using something akin to the critical path method. O’Brien thought that MBAs would be proud of this shit. The method did seem to work well in visually mapping their plans.

The actual planning for contact with Garza was exacerbated by Jake’s initial inability to establish comm with Lt Garza. After multiple contact plans and critical paths were documented, the planners had already consumed over two hours. Extraction, theoretically, per Sgt Hawkin would be ‘trivial’; he considered Bagram to be a rich environment of equipment and materials, providing a virtual jungle for cover and concealment.

They agreed that finding and getting Garza to the airfield should be done slowly, one step at a time, and be subject to any multiple number of paths and methods. If they could get Garza on an aircraft without detection, the exit flight would be low risk.

Jake exclaimed, “I got the lieutenant. Looks like side-band SMS? What the fuck? ... He’s in transit, out of Leatherneck, in a CH-53.”

“How do we know its him?

Jake scrambled through some folders in her pack. Separating a single file folder then shuffling through about 20 loose pages, she acquired her target document. Letting the other papers and folders drop to the deck, Carlton sent another text message.

“It’s him. Can’t be 100% certain, but I think its our LT.”

Jake read the message.

“He says, ‘Multiple stops, probably at Bagram after 1730’.”

“We do not know how much longer we will have contact with the LT. Tell him possible pick-ups are the supply yard southeast of the airfield. Another is the small motor pool just to the south of the main flight-line for large transports, and another could be whatever dark ramp we can find that is close to the transport.”

“What did you use to authenticate, Jake?”

“Weapon serial number. Said that we’re doing inventory. That should cover for anyone looking over his shoulder. It also let’s me know if they’ve taken him as a prisoner.”

Hawkin was not able to connect the dots, “How would you know that?”

Carlton and Pistochini and O’Brien looked at the special forces soldier as a teacher would deal with the class idiot.

“Uh ... someone in custody will not be allowed a weapon, sergeant.”

MSgt Hawking looked at Carlton and O’Brien for a few seconds, then sat next to Pistochini. Pistochini’s ‘new’ capabilities had been difficult to understand, and more difficult to accept as a norm. Hawkin, while dogmatic per army regulations, was an example of special forces ‘version’ of versatility and adaptation. Hawkin considered Pistochini as a weapons system. As such, he would use whatever tactical tools were made available, however uncomfortable and unconventional.

Sgt Hawkin doubted the physical veracity per the thousands of kilometers of separation, but it rated to be tried.

“Sergeant, is it too far? Can you feel anything about Garza? Can you sense anything that we should know about?”

The question, coming from the older soldier, surprised both Jake and Opie, but they remained quiet, waiting for the answer.

“Not any is bad. No feels sure. I dunno.”

“That’s about the best we can hope for. Let’s move it people. Let’s see what the spook has found for us. Bring our lists.”

Acorn had three phones in front of him. He was texting on one, and talking on another, when the third phone rang.

“I authenticate seven one five fox eight. Okay, I accept ... Yes, sir? ... They are ready to go now ... Two members from the Marine battalion’s S-2, one army operator, and five rangers waiting at the airfield ... Thank you, sir.”

“We have a green light. Your plan, master sergeant?”

The plan was simple. The subsequent follow-up questions consumed another 15 minutes. Sergeants Norton and Agew were waiting at the south entrance with the hummers. Carlton, to the surprise of the CIA officer, stepped into his face.

“No, sir. Unacceptable security. There will be only yourself and Doc Sanders.”

“I would typically agree. But we have an edge. Sergeant Pistochini’s ‘enhanced’ brain. Plus we have Lieutenant Stevensen sitting at the nurse station with an M9 and a radio. The two elevators in this wing are now locked down, and the two new nurses are not idiots and are more compliant to our requests. It will be less than two hours for Norton and Agew to return.”

Carlton put her hand on Pistochini’s upper arm.

“Pistol, how does it feel?”

Pistol was having some difficulty, but his speech was getting incrementally better.

“Same. No good, no bad. No one there.”

O’Brien agreed with the green light from Acorn’s bosses.

“We’re burnin daylight. What’s our ride?”

“KC-135. It is a regularly scheduled sortie, so will not garner the additional attention that would result from a pop-up mission. You’ll get to watch in-flight re-fuels over the Med, then on to Bagram. ETA is 0410 to 0550 local. You will have one to four hours to find Lieutenant Garza. Your time on ground at Bagram depends on what else is in the air that needs fuel along the way. They were scheduled for an immediate turn-around, but we begged enough to extend ground re-fuel, even if they do not need it.”

Acorn handed a large envelope to Carlton.

“These are Lieutenant Garza’s new orders, cut by CENTCOM. We’ll have a diplomatic passport waiting when you return to Germany.”

The three picked up packs and weapons and headed out. Pistochini locked eyes with O’Brien before stepping out into the passageway. After Pistol’s non-verbal message, O’Brien softly acknowledged their unheard communication.

“I know, dude. Talk to doc.”

Ramstein Air Base

The rangers were standing in front of the number two engine, and out of the way of the swarm of airmen performing pre-flight duties. The special forces master sergeant introduced the five rangers.

“Team leader is Sergeant O’Doherty, team members are sergeants Abramov, Mulberry, Kenneth, and Harby. Abramov is the team medic.”

O’Brien was happy to see that these were all experienced soldiers. In fact he was certain that he recognized Abramov and Harby. An Air Force captain climbed down the hatch ladder that was on the port side below and aft of the cockpit.

MSgt Hawking saluted the captain. The captain returned with the absent-minded salute of a man having a task list that was much too lengthy.

“Your people are completely assembled, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir. Are we in the way of anything?”

“Nope.”

The air force Captain was looking at the numerous bags and equipment cases. He signaled to an air force sergeant, whom promptly took to organizing a loading party.

“Let’s get your equipment aboard and secured. We’ll have to use the personnel access. The cargo hatch has been secured. Can’t be opened when we’re taking on fuel.”

The twenty-something bags were rapidly passed up the hatch and back into the aircraft. The three large containers were picked up by O’Brien and shoved into the waiting hands of two army rangers at the top to the aircraft hatch.

Hawkin was doing a half eye-roll at O’Briens single-handled push of the large containers up into the hatch to the two waiting soldiers. MSgt Hawkin sarcastically remarked to the ranger sergeant first class.

“There’s always a good reason to have a jarhead on the team...”

The ranger team leader smirked, but said nothing. He was certain he had previously encountered this man.

O’Brien and Carlton moved to the starboard front of the aircraft to watch the numerous actions required to get a large tanker prepared for a mission. O’Brien was surprised that there were at least 15 ground crew running around performing various unknown acts on the aircraft. He compared that to his frequent observations of Marine KC-130 tankers, where two or three did the pre-flights and prep. Thinking that it was because the KC-130 is smaller than a KC-135. But when scaled for either complexity or size, the ground support numbers made no sense. O’Brien figured that the Corps was too cheap to pay for more people or buy a larger aircraft, and the Air Force simply had more people than they really needed so made more of them do the same thing.