Chapter 8: The Gauntlet

The flight to the Army FOB was not eventful. During the 90 minute flight, O’Brien thought about the insanity swirling around the battalion for the last year. He still had yet to understand if these infiltrators were but a few small groups of people, desperately clawing for power, or if this was truly representative of a larger American political and cultural sentiment, perhaps fueling an organized back-lash against the perceived liberal socialism of the current administration.

O’Brien thought of the fools inhabiting the American political scene, and how the ‘liberals’ had praised the election of the current president. O’Brien emitted a short laugh thinking about POTUS military policies, at times believing that this supposed socialist was a ‘liberal’ in name only, as the man seemed as hawkish as he was.

His thoughts, though, always returned to Pistochini. Why had not he felt something? Were Vera and Charles wrapping themselves in wishful thinking? What had he missed? O’Brien wondered if he was losing his logic to religious mambo-jumbo.

The two Ranger staff sergeants asked O’Brien to stay in the bird as they checked out the UC-12, marked only with an American flag and registration number on the tail, sitting on the hard-packed dirt. The rangers boarded the twin-engine turbo-prop, shortly re-appearing with a civilian wearing dockers, a tan shirt, worn boots, and an M9 pistol.

“You know this man? He claims that he worked with one of your teams.”

O’Brien had heard that the idiot CIA officer from Ethiopia had been ‘rehabilitated’ and assigned to Pistochini’s team. The man appeared significantly different, both physically and in attitude.

“Please keep your hand away from your weapon and provide ID, sir.”

O’Brien looked at his passport and government ID. O’Brien verified that this was, in fact, the CIA field officer that was in Pistochini’s last last mission report and had picked him up in Sudan.

“Mr. Acorn, why are you on that aircraft?”

“Staff sergeant, I need to talk to you about Sergeant Pistochini, and warn you about the navy SEALs that you ‘encountered’. Your MEF and battalion commands do not know that I am here, and only my boss knows. Mark Cameron has instructed myself to accompany you to Germany. I have weapons for us, so we’ll be prepared before arrival in Germany, and we can watch each other’s back.”

“Who else is on the plane?”

“The two pilots. A Marine lieutenant and an Air Force Major. They have a copy of your orders, and a copy of a NATO authorization to carry a weapon.”

“Your stuff on the plane, sir?”

“My bags are, and a bag and a Glock 26 for you.”

“Why will we need to be armed in Germany, Mr Acorn? And how do I stay out of jail if I carry a firearm?”

“The aircrew has your NATO ID card with a weapons endorsement code. Why? Because I do not think we have this problem fully identified and under control. I think your Navy and Marine JAG people are mistaken and are over-confident. And Germany has a long history of intelligence operations that date back to the cold-war era. Germany has always been a messy playground for spies and such of their ilk. And, probably by habit, Germany remains that way.”

O’Brien was reticent to board the small commuter airplane with the man that had lied and set him up in Ethiopia. Harry Acorn was a man that still, literally, bore the scars of his previous experience with O’Brien. O’Brien saw no reason for this man to be trusted. And O’Brien saw no reason to not be honest with the CIA officer.

“Mr Acorn, I know that there is a shitload of craziness coming down on us right now, but that doesn’t give me one good fuckin reason to get on that aircraft with someone that may be hitting for both sides.”

The Marine’s last statement raised the awareness of the two rangers assigned to assure safe passage for O’Brien. Both soldiers assumed ready positions with their rifles in an overt show of support.

“Staff sergeant ... it will have to suffice to say that I was under the supervision of a person that was operating extra-legally and not within the intents of the director. I have a larger view of the situation. I stood behind Sergeant Pistochini; I will stand by you.”

Acorn noted that the two ranger NCOs had taken an aggressive posture. As the two soldiers brought their rifles to bear, the CIA officer stepped back, but was careful to keep his hand away from his pistol.

O’Brien did not reply. His transit to Germany was imperative, that he must get to Pistochini.

“Does Lieutenant Garza know you??”

“I do not know him. My supervisor is your lieutenant’s friend and his Company contact.”

“Fuck it. Let’s go. We’re burnin daylight.”

O’Brien extended his hand to the soldiers.

“Sergeant, thanks much for the ride. Please take care of yourselves.”

“You do the same, O’Brien. We’ve enjoyed working with you. We’ll take care of your troops.”

Harry Acorn led the way, while O’Brien followed him to the aircraft. Immediately after O’Brien boarded the UC-12, the Marine lieutenant pulled the air ladder up and secured the hatch.

“Staff Sergeant, please provide ID.”

“Aye Aye, sir. No crew chief today?”

“Nope, the General wants minimum personnel on this flight...”

The Marine aviator handed O’Brien a plain brown, legal-sized, envelope.

“This is your NATO ID, orders, and additional instructions. I am told that they are specific and shall be followed literally and to each detail. Those were the words of the MEF chief of staff.”

“Aye, sir. Thank you sir.”

“Another item of interest, there are a set of charlies and alphas hanging in the head in back. You are supposed to be wearing one of them when you de-plane in Germany.”

The lieutenant smirked, “where you put your pistol is your problem, but it cannot be exposed. Oh, by the way, Marine, damn impressive ribbon rack.”

“Length of trip to Germany, sir? When should I get into UDs?”

“It is over 3000 miles to Germany, and we are certainly not going to do it in this crate. We will go to Bagram, where a C-20 will take you two to Germany. Depending on what the friendly Afghan skies offer us today, we’ll be back on the deck in 30 to 80 minutes. Water and coffee in the back gents. Strap in when you get it all stowed.”

“Aye, sir.”

The turbine engines were spooling as Acorn and O’Brien sat down. The aircrew taxied down the dirt strip, started advancing power levers as the plane was turning to line up, then accelerated to rotation speed in a few seconds. A deep bank to port, and they were pointed towards Bagram.

O’Brien got two cups of coffee and handed one to Acorn.

“Seeing that Pistochini decided not to kill you during the mission, I am assuming that you did not fuck up anything for his team.”

“Wouldn’t say that. I did screw some things up, but nothing onerous enough to get someone else or myself killed.”

“Why does your boss want you to be with me?”

“JAG and the Agency have long-range plans for your platoon. We cannot mitigate the risk of leaving you or your people under the direct control of any Marine or Navy command just yet. So we will remove you from any Navy command to keep you and your people alive, and we need to learn more about and understand your group’s tactical considerations and other skills.”

“Well, how about my people back at the battalion CP? They are under Marine command. Where is their security?”

“They’ve been very good at providing their own security. But, none of the remaining members of that team is part of your platoon.”

“The fuck they are not! Corporal Vera and Lance Corporal Charles have been part of the scout/sniper platoon since the BLT work-up back at Pendleton. The platoon trained them and took them through much of the scout and spotter syllabus. They are my people and are commonly known to be part of my platoon.”

“Understood. We’ll work on a roster. What is total count?”

“Counting Sergeant Pistochini and myself, we were at seventeen, sir. But I’m thinking the future roster will probably be twelve to fourteen.”

“Damn, staff sergeant, quit calling me sir. You’re probably older than me, and probably smarter than me. Captains Karel and Andrews think you’re a genius.’

O’Brien laughed derisively.

“Faint and damning praise. The problem with company-grade officers is that, at least some of them, they are rich in book-knowledge and poor in experience. Do not mistake a competent and skilled craftsman for a man that creates new knowledge. My platoon are all skilled craftsman. Ever heard of Clarke’s third law?”

“Who is Clarke?”

O’Brien’s delayed reply was accented with an incredulous stare. Not knowing to whether to judge the man to be another member of the disinclined and unwilling ignorant masses or someone that has been purposefully kept ignorant by ‘the system’.

“Arthur C. Clarke was one of the founders of modern Science-Fiction literature. Did some seminal work on radar systems during World War II, but you probably would know him is the writer of the story that the 2001 Space Odyssey film was based on.”

“And his third law?”

“‘Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic’. My corollary to his third law is that ‘any sufficiently advanced skill set is indistinguishable from genius’. That is why the general population regards medical doctors and their supporting personnel as genius. Few physicians are other than slightly above average intelligence. While they may possess drive and determination and a good memory, they tend to be not as smart as your typical engineer or scientist. Doctors are seldom able to solve a problem unless they have ‘blue-print’ type knowledge of the condition or disease. It is also why I go to Germany with a some major fuckin trepidation, I’m gonna be dealing with medical staff. I’m gonna be dealing with people that are essentially skilled craftsmen that have big egos, but have marginal intellect.”

“Why is your presence required for Sergeant Pistochini?”

“I am listed as his next of kin. I have to make a decision on whether or not to pull the life-support plug.”

“Damn ... That is so ... that sucks. Staff sergeant, you need to know that the Company has a list of doctors that are considered the best in their field and are on call. I could get a neurologist out here for a second opinion.”

“No, sir. Because then I am left with dealing with another person with yet a larger ego, that may have even less rationale and logical problem-solving abilities than the attending physician. Looks like we are descending, Mr. Acorn. We need a plan for this fancy mil-spec corporate jet. I’m an enlisted peon. You are ‘Mr CIA Field Officer’, so will need you to take the lead with me in tow.”

“You are concerned about the crew and security? I am assuming an Air Force crew, so that reduces risk. If there are too many attendants or what looks like too many officers to staff the crew, I will order you to remove them from the airplane. You toss them to the tarmac, and then I order the crew to fly.”

“Sounds good. Is there any reason we have to have any flight attendants?”

“No good reason, as we are not a civil flight. Throw them onto the tarmac. And one other thing, I want to be in the cockpit when they are issued their clearance and release. We will know from that if they are not taking us directly to Germany.”

“How will you understand what they say?”

“Do you not remember? I flew us out of Sudan. I have a private pilot certificate with an instrument rating. So we got the basics covered.”

Bagram Air Base, Afghanistan

O’Brien put the loose parts of his uniforms in his two bags next to the port, then retrieved his uniforms and laid them across the adjacent chair. Acorn did the same with his clothes bag and equipment duffel. They returned to their seats for landing. The UC-12 pilot did a hard turn to the right base leg and then sharply banked into a short, steep final. After about five minutes of taxi time the turbo-prop pulled up next to a sleek Gulfstream jet with no markings other than ‘U.S. Air Force’ and a small American flag. A fuel truck was completing its servicing of the C-20.

The Marine aviator opened the hatch. “That’s your ride to Germany.”

“Sir, if okay with the Lieutenant, we’re gonna leave our bags on your airplane while we talk to the crew of that fancy jet.”

“Not a problem, Marine. We’re not going anywhere until we refuel.”

Acorn approached the C-20 crewman with his clasp to his M9 rig not latched.

“Hello, airman. Where is the pilot or crew chief?”

“I’ll be right back with one of them, sir. Please stand by.”

O’Brien stood back so he could watch the whole aircraft and all of the people mulling around or servicing the jet. An Air Force major walked down the steps and shook hands with Acorn. Acorn offered his ID and orders to the major. A few words were exchanged, then a Marine captain walked down the air stair, with his eyes on O’Brien. The captain and Acorn exchanged a few words, when the captain’s right had reached behind and pulled a small pistol from his waist-band. O’Brien immediately pulled his Glock out of his front pocket, pointed it at the portion of the captain’s body that was not blocked by Acorn, and waited for Acorn’s lead. Acorn was in the process of drawing his M9 and moving away from the Marine captain. Acorn got off a single round towards the Marine captain, but got hit in the lower leg by the captain’s panicked shot.

As soon as Acorn was on his way down to the asphalt, O’Brien put two rounds into the Marine captain’s chest. O’Brien shouted orders at the Air Force major.

“Hands out to your side, away from your body, sir! If you move, I will shoot you! If a member of your crew approaches, I will shoot you! On your knees, sir.”

Acorn dragged himself to a sitting position and pulled out his fancy blackberry.

“The flight to Germany is compromised. Tell the JAG idiots that nothing is under control. I was shot by a Marine officer, that was embarked on the C-20 ... O’Brien killed him ... No, sir, this occured as we disembarked the UC-12. We have not talked to anyone other than an Air Force major and the dead marine ... no sir, the MPs would just introduce another unknown risk. But I do need a medic ... No sir, just a flesh wound in lower leg. O’Brien is not wounded.

O’Brien stepped away from Acorn and searched the Air Force officer.

“Sir, please stand up. Do you know the dead Marine?”

“No, sergeant. We picked him up in Iraq. His orders indicated that he was to accompany the passengers to Italy, then to Germany.”

“Why Italy?”

“The orders stated we were to stop in Italy to meet another pax.” We had originally planned to fly direct to Germany.”

“How many crew, sir?”

‘Including myself, five.”

“How many are not essential, sir?”

“Uh, the attendant, I guess.”

“What are the other aircrew, sir?

“Comm and engineer.”

“Do you know them?”

“Yes. All aircrew currently aboard have been with the squadron for a year or more.”

“Are there any weapons on board, sir?”

“None that I am aware of, sergeant.”

“O’Brien, looks like that the medics are driving up. You want to check them out?”

“On it, Mr Acorn.”

A navy corpsman exited from the passenger side of the hummer ambulance while an Army medic came out of the driver’s hatch.

“What’s up, staff sergeant?”

“Howdy doc. This man was shot in his lower leg. The other man on the deck is probably dead, but please check, anyway.”

The navy corpsman nodded to the medic. The medic felt for pulse and looked at the dead marine.

“He’s dead. Mike, whatcha got there?”

“Not too bad. Not bleeding much. Bullet exited clean. Let’s set him up for transport.”

“Negative doc. We need to go to Germany ASAP. Please bandage the man so that we can safely fly to Germany, where he will receive treatment.”

“Staff Sergeant, I cannot do that...”

“Wait one, doc. Mr Acorn, please use your magical phone again.”

The CIA officer made two calls then asked the medic, “What is your call sign?”

“Huh? Uh, we’re 92 alpha and bravo.”

After several minutes, the base medical facility radioed and gave instructions to the two medicos, who were then told to call the MPs after the C20 departs.

The flight attendant and the communications guy were left standing on the tarmac next to the dead body as two MP hummers carefully approached. The CIA officer had provided contact information to the comm guy to placate MPs, whom were nonetheless generally frustrated that the shooter was flying to Germany, and that the four erstwhile aircrew, standing on the asphalt, had not witnessed anything useful, other than the fact that the shooter had de-planed from the UC-12, currently being fueled.

The MPs were in the process of detaining the UC-12 crew and the two airman that operated the fuel truck when when they received a radio call from their PMO. The conversation was short. The MP put the radio down.

“Shit, this is freaking weird. The major told us say nothing to anyone else. The corpsman are supposed to put the marine officer in a body bag. We’re supposed to get the names from all people on site, then bring the body to a supply yard on the east side. Nothing else. Period.”

The other MP shrugged and walked over to the medic’s hummer to start the process.

The Gauntlet - In Transit

O’Brien figured out the coffee machine and served the two remaining aircrew. The pilot stood up to flick a switch on the comm panel that was aft of the pilots, then queried O’Brien.

“Your man okay to make this flight, sergeant? Depending the mood of the various international controllers, it will be somewhere between seven and nine hours. If the Turks or whoever else are having a bad day we may have to take the long way and would have to make re-fuel stop; the trip could exceed 12 hours.”

“I do not think there will be problems, sir. The medics dosed him up with several drugs and gave me enough antibiotics and no-painers to last 48 hours.”

“I probably should not ask, but who are you people?”

“No problemo, sir. I am Staff Sergeant O’Brien. My unit is an infantry battalion, and I’m a grunt. That is Mr. Acorn. He is a CIA Field Officer. You saw his ID. I do not know him well, but he has worked with my people.”

“And you are not attached to one of those three-letter organizations?”

“No sir, the Marine Corps is a four-letter organization.”

“There has been too much unusual activity during the last two or three months. Know anything about that?”

“Sir, I would suggest talking to Mr. Acorn. I am not a spook or an intel guy, so I do not know what can and can’t be said.”

“Fair enough, Marine. Thanks for the coffee. There is a pantry container and a refrigerated container next to the coffee machine. You people help yourselves.”

“Thanks, sir. If y’all want me to get you something, feel free to yell at me ... Uh, stupid question, sir. Are pilots allowed to fly that many hours?”

“Whomever authorized this flight mission, gave us dispensation from many regulations and requirements. So will be per my decision. And most of the time we’re on autopilot. At this time, I am trying for a direct route that will result in a total time of about eight hours. We’ll let you know as it happens. You might see one of us take a nap in back.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m gonna tuck in Mr Acorn and give him a bedtime story.”

The Air Force pilot laughed and returned to the cockpit.

The Gauntlet - Italy

As O’Brien was hanging his uniform, he noticed a gun case in the closet. Pulling the weapon out, he identified rifle as an M16A2 with a civilian 4x scope, and noted five magazines in the gun case. More interestingly, he noted the non-standard Select Fire, where there were choices for full auto, burst, and single. Pistochini cleared the rifle and replaced it into its gun case.

Acorn was apparently more tough than what O’Brien had pre-judged per his appearances and mannerisms. He re-calibrated when he recalled the mission reports where Acorn had been outside the wire with Pistochini for an extended jaunt in the Afghan mountains. After a two-hour nap, Acorn refused further pain medications.

“What food is available?”

“Dunno, let me look ... looks like a fuckin deli in here. Plus all sorts of commie-lookin California-style pre-wrapped snacks.”

“So what are the snacks?

“Fuck if I know...”

Grabbing two trays, of whatever it was, O’Brien put one tray on his adjacent seat, and presented the other tray.

“So take a look, Mr. Acorn, you tell me what this shit is...”

“That ‘shit’ is probably a thousand dollars a tray. Holy crap. Screw all of that caviar, let’s try these cheeses and pates. Put that communist caviar back, staff sergeant. This other tray is some primo stuff. And look for some crackers.”