Chapter 3

Texas to Deutschland

March ARB, Riverside County, Ca

Waiting for the C-17 to be loaded, three of Project Hornblende’s principles gathered to address the 800-pound guerrilla that had taken up residency in the unit. Carlton, Pistochini, and O’Brien had discussed, then subsequently rated Watson and Vera and Charles to be the most ‘at risk’ for recurring stress-related disorders. Carlton had pressed O’Brien to get these Marines fixed before they fell into a mental abyss.

O’Brien chose short-term avoidance of addressing of his Marines’ mental health, seeking distraction from the subject via focusing on flight-line activities. He observed the slow and methodical approach that Air Force personnel applied to aircraft maintenance and to the firelight walk-around; as compared to the manic, time-delimited approach of a Navy or Marine Corps ground crew. O’Brien’s simple observation reinforced his conclusion that the Air Force was analogous to a large, plodding, and newer corporation, devoted to the safety provided by the formalities and impedance of protocol, procedure, and policy. Conversely, O’Brien saw the Marine Corps, and a few army and navy units, as analogous to an older and small, family-owned and tradition-bound company, devoted to finding ways to evade and short-circuit rules and regulations, and otherwise survive and adapt to continually changing mission requirements and geo-politics.

O’Brien’s thoughts continued to drift as he observed the air force ground crew. His uneasy idleness amongst the surrounding activity did not go unnoticed by Captain Garza and Master Sergeant Hoerner and Staff Sergeant Carlton. Pistochini knew well of O’Brien’s thoughts and of his inner conflicts that had resulted in a convenient rationalization of his purpose. O’Brien particular form of rationalization was being self-assured that he was a ‘necessary evil’. But he was less certain of his long-term performance as a ruthless and feral assassin per the Machiavellian CIA requirements.

Southwestern U.S., Flight Level 330

O’Brien stood among the twenty supine or sitting bodies, spread amidst the many stacks of gear that had been stuffed into the large C-17 transport aircraft. After making his way forward through the pallets and lashed gear, he gently woke Vera and Charles, both sleeping close to Pistochni. He went further forward to find Watson, pointing him to the rear of the aircraft’s cargo hold, then handing a wireless headset to Watson.

Watson’s survivor’s guilt had continued to eat away at his mental health. Watson’s every idle moment was inflamed by his memories of the debacle in the mountains of eastern Afghanistan, and further fueled by his certitude that Lt O’Connell had sacrificed himself to enable his rescue. Watson’s self-doubt was further weighted by his misgivings as to his worthiness of O’Connell’s heroism.

Vera and Charles were convinced that their tactical negligence was the root cause of Pistochini’s injuries and near death. Much less sanguine at accepting Pistochini’s recovery, Charles and Vera were determined to make amends for their perceived deficiencies.

Pistochini, Watson, Vera, and Charles had taken a position to isolate themselves between the two aft pallets, all wearing wireless headsets. Pistochini started the session using the headsets.

“Now sit good? ... close eyes ... listen me...”

Watson was the first to see the virtual landscape built via the strengh of Pistochini’s unique mentative world, hearing Pistochini’s virtual words.

“Move closer, Bark. Tyjon, Charles, listen to us and watch our minds ... Bark, let me see your last firefight in the ‘stan. Show me. Let’s talk about it...”

The C-17 did a power descent to the southeast, rapidly traversing the sparsely populated trans-pecos region of west Texas. The large transport airplane cranked over into a turn to the south, while configuring for landing, making it obvious to O’Brien that there had been a change in destination.

“Where we landing, sir?”

“Loughlin air base. Harry Acorn changed the routing after we departed Miramar. The CIA does not want us landing in San Antonio.”

“Just so ya know, sir, its ‘bout 250 clicks from Del Rio to the site north of Hondo.”

“We know. Acorn says they will have people on the deck with ground transport when we arrive.”

“Who is ‘they’, sir?”

“Unknown. Whatever the Agency has arranged.”

Master Sergeant Hoerner quickly navigated between the twenty other passengers that were spread out among the fourteen ‘master’ pallets of gear, and, of course, the additional ad-hoc paddock pallets containing two donkeys. Hoerner had been impressed, although it had not been unexpected, that the Marines’ logistical efforts had moved heaven and earth and hell to ensure that the two animals would also be part of the PCS move to the project’s home base.

“Captain, Mr Acorn wants my people and Opie’s principles at condition one when we hit the tarmac. I’m belaying that pending your orders, sir.”

“Do it, top. Form a security team. Exit prior to our debark.”

Hoerner and O’Brien exchanged raised eyebrows before the army ranger went to gather troops.

Loughlin Air Force Base, Del Rio, Texas

The ground transport, formed from a convoy of vehicles out of Camp Bullis, sat on the tarmac waiting for darkness. Security was provided by by five soldiers and two Marines from The Project, all armed and determined to not succumb to boredom. At least until MSgt Hoerner foraged through the contents of a pallet, then handed a well-worn guitar to SSgt O’Brien. O’Brien strummed a G chord, frowned, turned on his hearing aid, then concentrated on tuning the old and worn and ugly musical instrument.

It was beyond the imagination of any of the troops that Staff Sergeant O’Brien was a musician. I was also beyond O’Brien’s imagination that he was a musician. He could read music, and he could play an instrument or two or three with technical accuracy. O’Brien had no aspirations of any artistic bent, nor was he desirous of any artistic sensibilities. O’Brien’s sole purpose for developing the technical skills of a musician had dated from his early childhood, and had been sole-purposed as a mechanism to soothe and allay the fears of horses during severe weather. Few people knew of O’Brien’s childhood musical endeavors, as they had never been intended for human consumption.

Seemingly apropos, O’Brien moved to sit next to the two donkeys’ mobile paddock pallet, mounted on the low-boy trailer, to play ‘On The Road Again’, followed by ‘Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain’, the latter song modified the term ‘rain’ to ‘desert’. O’Brien’s preference for outlaw-country music had been long established within the platoon. His graveled and unapologetically off-key singing, that voiced the Willie Nelson tunes had been an unknown to all except Hoerner and Pistochini. Troi snorted and murmured his appreciation of O’Brien’s serenade.

Captain Garza was a yankee, his only experience with southern ‘culture’ had been his two years as a MECEP at the Citadel, where he only frequented the confines of the campus or his shared apartment, never venturing out among the local populace. He had never developed an understanding of Willie Nelson’s cultural significance to the southwest and southern states, so knew not what he did when he interrupted the start of the third Nelson poem, commanding the troops to mount the transport vehicles. In particular, Pistochini ‘broadcast’ a sharp spear of anger at the discontinued concert, felt by most of the platoon, but more so by the donkeys.

The Convoy exited Loughlin Air Force Base under the cover of darkness to head east on US 90.

Hondo, Texas

At the west side of Hondo, the four lanes of US 90 converged into a two-lane undivided road that turned north to become 19th Street. Acorn directed the convoy to exit the main drag south onto 30th street, onto an extended dirt shoulder, where two humvees and an Air Force security force cruiser waited.

The soldiers driving the rigs were ordered out of their transport vehicles. The waiting air force security force officer directed the six confused soldiers into the hummers.

Garza watched the hummers and police cruiser continue through Hondo to return to the San Antonio area. Acorn nodded to Garza, whom turned to the Hornblende troops gathered with questioning faces.

“Top, Opie. Give me five drivers. Opie, you are in the lead vehicle; take us home.”

O’Brien decided to drive the lead dragon wagon himself, leading the convoy through Hondo, then turning north on 117.

Anderson Ranch, Medina County, Tx

“What the fuck is this shit!? Ya know ‘bout this Pistol?”

Pistol shrugged to indicate his ignorance of the matter as O’Brien jumped down from his horse to stomp up to the SeaBee supervisor.

“Senior Chief, this is not the layout that we sent the plans in for...”

“Hold your horses there, Marine.”

O’Brien did not find humor in the sailor’s pun.

“I’ve done this before. The drawing I received did not make sense. We have built ranges for JSOC snipers and for rangers. This is what you need...”

O’Brien turned away from the sailor’s irrelevant, and irreverent, discourse. With a smooth motion that exhibited no notion of any effort, O’Brien mounted his horse directly to a quick gallop to the southwest that left, literally, Pistochini and his horse, and two donkeys in his dust. O’Brien angrily directed his horse over two hills, blazed through a narrow break in a line of cedars and mesquite, sprinted his mount through the main ranch compound, then jumped his horse over the wood fence surrounding the main Anderson ranch house. Regardless of O’Brien’s anger, the horse, and the human bystanders, were impressed with the rider; the horse had enjoyed the full-tilt three kilometer jaunt.

Capt Garza and Lt Cdr Grayson bolted upright when SSgt O’Brien threw down the large design prints for the sniper range onto the large dining table.

“They built a fuckin 800 meter KD range, sir. A fuckin KD that’s oriented east/west. The design was for a no berms, minimal clearing, no range marks or flags, and fuckin north/south 1100 meters, sir. Commander, I want that senior chief off of this ranch. Two hours, sir. If that fuckwit is here after that, I’m gonna kill him and leave the body for the coyotes and vultures.”

The Seabee officer said nothing as he watched the big Marine angrily exit the ranch house, mount the horse, jump the horse over the fence in the opposite direction to egress the compound and continue west to the ranch’s main gate, then back south along the shoulder of 117, to his mother’s ranch, directly adjacent to the south.

O’Brien Ranch

Construction plans, material lists, and schedules covered the kitchen table. O’Brien methodically made notes and marked up the construction drawings as he grumbled while Mrs Sanchez fixed lunch.

“Is Peter coming to Lunch?”

O’Brien answered dismissively, “Dunno, ma’am.”

“Jacquelyn?”

“Dunno.”

“Sean Timothy O’Brien!?”

“Ma’am?”

“Look at me when we talk! Aerinn was a fine woman. This is her house. She did not raise you like that. Do not ignore me.”

O’Brien winced hearing his mother’s name mentioned as part of his rearing.

“He’ll probably be here in ‘bout fifteen mike. Haven’t seen Jake all day.”

“What? When is ‘mike’?”

O’Brien was saved from further scorn from the woman by the entrance of Juan Francisco Benevides, providing respite from her lecture. O’Brien received a greeting from the man he had known since elementary school, yet had never known.

“What’s up, man?”

“SeaBees fucked up a building and the rifle range.”

Rosalie Sanchez lightly smacked the back of O’Brien’s head.

“What the...?”

“Stop the nasty mouth. If I wanted to be around foul language, I would work at Jason’s bar.”

Frank Benevides ignored Mrs Sanchez, thankful he was not, at least for this instance, the target of her corrective ire.

“Ya mean that sailor guy runnin the construction?”

“Yep. Told his boss to fire his dumbshit ass.”

Mrs Sanchez punched O’Brien’s shoulder.

Frank came to O’Brien’s defense, “Damn, Mrs S, Sean is a Marine. He’s a combat vet. He’s our town hero. He saved my life. Sean has seen some major shit. These fuckers don’t talk like preachers.”

Mrs Sanchez’s only response was to provide a solid bap to Frank Benevides’ forehead.

Benevides and O’Brien chose to ignore the woman. Ultimately, they were, in turn, saved by the arrival of Garza, Carlton, and Pistochini. Rosalie Sanchez was conveniently distracted by their arrival.

“Captain Garza, Jacquelyn, Peter. So good to see y’all. Will you have lunch? I made Pozole.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Sounds excellent ... Opie, Commander Grayson sent the senior chief to San Antonio; left him at the travel office to wait for orders and to find himself a space-A back to Florida. Have you and Top Hoerner completed the inspections and audits?”

“Aye, sir. I’ve marked up five drawings for the buildings. As for the rifle range, the asshole ruined ten acres for fuckin nuthin.”

Mrs Sanchez considered smacking O’Brien, but refrained out of respect for the ‘fine young Marine officer’, and that they were conducting the important business of government. She admired the young officer, even if he did have a strange accent. O’Brien was pleasantly surprised upon not receiving further impacts to his head or body.

“We cannot re-work the land per your drawings?”

“No sir. He cleared the land to the bare dirt and put berms at 100 meter intervals. Can’t do stalkin or d-term training with that shit. And can’t use it because its gonna have obvious range marks; like a KD range. And we can’t shoot both directions with that layout.”

“Is there other land that can be used?”

“Don’t think so, sir. Nuthin that would be safe for a fifty. And I wanted it oriented to create a constant crosswind. The top and me are gonna look at maps and sat images later; maybe we can find a site.”

Garza scanned the topo maps that O’Brien had shoved over the table in his direction.

“Opie, it would appear that, at least for 7.62 mil, we can use it as an interim range, KD or not. Jake, work with Acorn for the use of Camp Bullis. I need to know ASAP for any other issues.”

“Aye, sir.”

O’Brien noted that Jake and Pistol were atypically quiet as they feasted on tea, root beer, and the traditional Mexican and south Texas soup. Their internal thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of O’Brien’s truck, followed by a single short honk from Sgt Hartman to announce his arrival. For somewhat obvious reasons, O’Brien was the only lunch-table member not surprised by the identity of Hartman’s passenger.

“Sir, the major is welcome to a room in my mother’s house until they complete your Q and dispensary. We’re using only two of four bedrooms, not to mention the best chow in the county every mornin cooked up by Mrs Sanchez. And congrats on your promo, sir.”

Major Borden nodded his appreciation at the offer for billeting, “thanks, but I need to stay with your troops. Need to finish reviewing records and get ready for the additional pilot and jump physicals.”

“You can sign off on all physicals, sir?”

“Before I was tapped for this, the 160th sent me to the aeromedical PA course. The MacDill flight surgeon certified me as a designated examiner. Where are the air crew billeted?”

“At that new building aft of the big barn. But no flyboys are on site, sir.”

“You’ve not seen the air crew?”

“We had two or three arrive at Pendleton for training. Don’t know where they’re being billeted now. Never met ‘em. Ask the captain, sir.”

The army officer nodded to O’Brien with a knowing smile, “You will approve of the aviators that the army has assigned ... I need to talk to yourself and Captain Garza about some remarks I found in the unit report by your previous medical officer.”

O’Brien gestured towards his CO, “See the captain, sir. He’ll give the major a background on Lieutenent Stevenson. Its damn good to have the major as part of the team, sir. Ya got some damn good corpsman. And y’all won’t have to be plugging up our holes this time.

Borden paused, “ ... almost forgot. The apes at MacDill wanted this hand-carried.”

Borden removed two file folders from his pack, placing them in front of Captain Garza.

Garza read the two-page command letter then shoved the folders to O’Brien with a single comment, “interesting, we now belong to TECOM, at least administratively. I am a direct report to its CG in Quantico.”

O’Brien read, then re-read the instructional letter of assignation. Returning the folder to his commanding officer with a nod, O’Brien chose not to discuss any particulars with Garza while in the presence of the two civilians, regardless of the clearance that had been granted per the CIA’s background investigations. The instructions, signed by the commanding general of TECOM, formalized what Carlton and O’Brien had known. Garza’s T/O line number would be the only Hornblende billet that could be seen by the Marine Corps Manpower office. The unit was funded and supported by, and operationally belonged to the CIA. O’Brien did not miss that the Letter of Instruction had no ‘CC’, no references, and had been single-signed by the three-star commanding general.

O’Brien laughed, not in derision but in joy, at Pistochini’s pasty white legs as he took the guidon from Sifuentes. When Carlton fell in at the ass-end of the morning PT formation, Hoerner and O’Brien knew the unit was complete and healthy.

After the first week of the Hornblende unit’s ‘occupation’, it became customary that the four civilian workers and the SeaBees to gather each morning, watching the soldiers, Marines, and sailors start their morning ruck-run prior to chow. Military regimen had changed life on the Anderson ranch for the few remaining civilian workers that had passed their BIs and that had been vetted by the CIA. Mrs Sanchez, in particular, appreciated the disciplined and orderly start of each day that had been enforced on both of the ranches.

Leon Springs Military Reservation, Bexar County, Texas

As two UH-60s approached from the southeast, the first bird hovered as as it disengorged three army rangers via fast-roping. The three soldiers disappeared into the cedar and scrub oak as the second aircraft slowed to a hover, allowing the vertical insertion of four Marines, also via fast-roping. The Marines ran into the brush, forming up on MSgt Hoerner, before the second bird had exited the perimeter of the LZ.

“Opie, take the ass-end. Mickey, take the point. Chandy, take the left flank and I’ll take the right.” Hoerner directly addressed the two soldiers, “Remember, people. We’re skirmishers only. Don’t do anything to reveal our shooters.”

Sifuentes and Everton took off to the sides, with a quick smoothness, wading through the brush while Malone, Hartman, and Mybar formed a loose column, waiting for Sifuentes to lead off. Hoerner nodded to O’Brien knowingly, before assuming his flank position. The seven-member team was well-loaded, with faces and arms painted. The rangers carried M25s (with the smaller Redfield scopes) while the Marines carried M40s. Hoerner and O’Brien had been training the rangers exclusively on M14s for several weeks.

After less than two kilometers of dense south Texas brush of scrub oak and cedar, Hartman clicked his headset’s PTT. All seven team members immediately laid low and quietly found brush for concealment. Malone glanced at Hartman. Hartman placed two fingers under his nostrils. Malone inhaled, nodding acknowledgment to Hartman. The smell of cologne or aftershave was feignt and intermittent, but obvious. The wind was intermittent and from their forward and to the port of the column.

Sifuentes returned from his point position, waiting for Malone’s attention. Malone responded when he heard the soldier’s approach with the same signal he had recieved from Hartman. Hartman signaled to Mybar to join the gaggle beneath the bramble of scrub oak.

“We got the first tango. Probably less than 200 meters. Crammer will take this one. Going to assume the others are northeast. Digger and me will go back around that first hill, find the next two targets from below the ridge. Do them together ... How you want to run security, Mickey?”

“I’ll stay with Crammer. Take Chandy to watch your ass. The top will know what you’re doing when you go past his flank.”

Mybar rolled upright to don his ghillie then headed towards the bottom of a limestone outcrop, with Sifuentes following about fifteen meters behind. Hartman and Malone did the same, heading in the opposite direction with Everton in loose trail.

The observation tower provided control of the range complex’s western valley and the three tactical ranges. Typically manned and controlled by JBSA cadre, the tower had only one ‘local’, an air force senior master sergeant PJ. The others assembled in the tower cab were two CIA officers, Captain Garza, and Lt Colonel Tisdale.

The army special forces officer was intently scanning the area, still quietly amused by the PJ team’s earlier display of bravado, but severely disappointed with the ease he was able to spot all seven of the PJ’s that lie in wait, acting as security for the three targets.

“Captain, its been over three hours. Less than two hours until sunset, which terminates the exercise. I am guessing that they were not able to acquire the targets.”

Garza did not bother with a reply to the air force PJ cadre.

Tisdale looked at his watch then frowned at the air force operator, “They have their targets. No shooter has been detected by your people.”

The certainty of his statement surprised the senior master sergeant.

“They probably cannot find a clear path that has cover and...”

A sudden staccato series of closely-spaced rifle discharge cracks echoed through the brushy limestone hills. It was obvious that there had been three separate discharges. The origin of the discharges were not obvious. Three radio reports to the senior master sergeant from the PJ training cadre immediately followed. The PJs reported that “no shooters detected, all targets acquired.”

The air force senior master sergeant PJ started to comment to the green beret officer, only to be silenced by a sharp bark of orders, “What are you waiting for? Do not delay, First Sergeant. Have your people pursue!”

O’Brien sighed to the heavens as he watched through the binoculars, noting that at least two of the three target dummies had received head shots. He was, although only mildly, concerned for the egos on display. He was both bemused and proud when he could not detect any movements from the extract evolution by his contact teams.

Hartman signaled down the slope to the ranger, to hold position as he watched the two air force PJs pursue directly up the slope. Hartman lay his rifle under the cedar break, rolled from under the thick brush, timing his exposure to match the passing of the two PJs running up the open area of the gentle slope in a determined pursuit.

As they passed, Hartman reached out and grabbed one would-be pursuer’s ankle while slamming his other hand into the back of the knee into the second pursuer. Both air force PJs face-planted onto the rocky limestone conglomerate. Hartman was immediately assisted by Everton in applying nylon tie wraps. Hartman and Everton were careful to not allow the air force PJs to see their face or to allow movement of their heads away from the dirt.

Everton pointed to the radio and the rifles. Hartman responded with a child-like grin and a short head nod.

Anderson Ranch, Medina County, Texas

“God Damn it, Captain! I want my rifles! And my radios!”

“What rifles, sir?”

“You know damn well. The six rifles and three radios that were stolen from my pararescue teams!”

“Sir, did any Bullis cadre member see someone take their rifles? Can they identify who took their rifles? Perhaps they simply lost their rifles during the training exercise.”

“You know damn well they cannot provide ID, Captain. Return the rifles or I will talk to JAG and the Fifth Army’s CID office.”

“I will ask my people, sir.”

Captain Garza verified his ‘magical’ CIA phone’s disconnect from the Chief of Staff of the 5th Army CG, smiled at the arc of surrounding people, then walked back to the command office, accompanied by Lt Chapman.

Carlton glared at the two senior enlisted members of Project Hornblende.

“Opie? Top? Please tell me you did not steal that shit! Did you?”

“Dunno Jake, didn’t see a damn thing. How ‘bout you Ray?”

“Me neither. We did not see anything, Jake ... Any of you boys see anything?”

The surrounding soldiers and Marines tacitly responded with smiles and shrugs. Carlton stomped to an exit, muttering to herself about the absence of adult supervision.

For the next ten days, the dissected component and sub-assembly remains of the rifles and radios were mailed to the 5th Army staff chief, via the CIA’s FedEx account, from various locations across North America. The army’s CID informed JBSA commanders that there was nothing to investigate. The army JAG further noted that there was no material witness, that there was no traceable physical evidence, that the USMC Manpower department had reported that there is no known ground forces unit in the FMF having a Captain Juan Garza, and that, in any case, only the CIA would have knowledge of that peculiar group’s location or roster.

Langley, Va

A meeting of LtCol Tisdale, Mark Cameron, and David Richmond, and with Harry Acorn in virtual attendance, came to agreement that further training with elements of SOCOM or JSOC, or for that matter, any DoD cadre, had become irrelevant; and that the most junior shooters of Hornblende had proven to be capable of forming independent contact teams; and that additional training areas and buffer zones would be essential to preserve the security and mission of Project Hornblende.

Their most pressing issue for the Hornblende project was logistics; that is, movement of contact teams in a manner that would reduce identifiable patterns and source their locations. It was asserted by Harry Acorn that their logistics problems could be mitigated via the Company’s planned acquisition of surrounding ranches and land parcels.

Tisdale, while aware of the Agency’s acquisition listing for the Hornblende project, had remained selectively and purposely ignorant of the process.

“How will the Agency provide cover for the two land-grabs?”

Cameron frowned in displeasure per the army officer’s phrasing of the acquisition, but immediately answered Tisdale.

“We have been working with the trust’s legal counsel. If we do not co-mingle the existing LLC account, neither the fund transfer nor the simple quitclaim will provide a legally traceable means.”

“A corporation has to publish its SEC filings, and those have names.”

“Generally correct, colonel, but the lawyer will establish another closely-held LLC, where the only name will be his and a secondary reference to the original trust, and there will be no FTC or SEC recordings and no reporting requirements. The company that holds title to the land will have no listing, other than the separate LLC registration.”

“Outside of my scope of knowledge, gentlemen. Does Staff Sergeant O’Brien know of this transaction?”

“Negative. His lawyer will inform O’Brien as soon as he can find him. Which leads to my next question, where is your man?”

Tisdale and Acorn inwardly smirked at the last status report of O’Brien per Captain Garza, “He’s somewhere on the Anderson ranch, living out of a tent. He has been riding and working the fence line for at least two days.”

Washington, DC

The Deputy Secretary of Interior discretely exited the C Street complex through a side door with her Chief of Staff. Crossing the street to the west, the two government officials waited next to a bench shrouded by emplaced greenery, adjacent to Virginia Avenue, until they were joined by the OPM director. The three government executives continued their late-morning walk up Virginia Avenue, entering Triangle Park after crossing 20th Street. Finding a bench under trees, the Deputy Secretary’s staff chief briefly surveyed the area before sitting.

“Madame, the department’s new systems-integrity program is based on the President’s Executive Order with extended privacy edicts. It is extremely difficult to search records in depth without triggering the monitoring system. In any case, your source at Quantico is an enlisted military member. How would such a low-level person have reliable knowledge of any such group? Is a second source available?”

“Mr Berry, we did have reliable embeds at both Pendleton, Lejuene, Little Creek, and 32d Street. Many are no longer in contact. Some simply disappeared, others were compromised by their illegal actions or misconduct. The remaining Quantico person has connections to both line units and special forces. He insists that an organization has been formed to find and neutralize our people.”