Operators

Hi there!
Saoirse’s back and setting fire to the keys. I hate repeating myself, but I
will do it because I do believe in tolerance. I want the readers to do two
things: 1) Read my notes in chapter one. 2) Listen carefully to the
commentaries on the BHD DVD. I AM NOT making light of this battle
or of the men who have given their lives during it. War is shit, ugly and
futile. The armed forces do have their place in the world and that is for
protection and defense, even if it is notoriously linked to the RNC. A person
who has not bothered to read this so those who feel uncomfortable reading this
ther a r a reason why Mr. Gates put the back button on your browser has already
blasted me.

There is also a
reason why I am writing about a COMPOSITE character, SFC Jeff Sanderson
doesn’t exist per se, but as Mark Bowden and the screen writer Ken Nolan put it
all of these actual soldiers were composites of themselves in the film.
DiTomasso was Eversmann’s commanding officer, by right he should be very
insulted even though Scott and his people felt that “Sgt. Matt Eversmann” might
make a more functional leader because of the man’s real life strong personae.
Grimes was technically the composite of a pedophile (the most disgusting
thing to walk the earth besides Saddam and LadeLaden), do we jump down the throat
of those who fancy Sgt. Danny Grimes’ loveable dit ait and sarcasm or because
McGregor portrayed him? And just who was PFC Todd Blackburn? Did his typical
teen naiveté lead him into combat thinking he was Rambo as Bloom played
him? How about Delta medic Sgt. Kurt Schmid who was demoted to a skinny kid
Ranger? Do we make light of the fact that he so desperately tried to save PFC
Jamie Smith’s life? Absolutely not. So there will be blood, gore, angst, and
guilt don’t you worry.

The whole point of
my story is that Sanderson is an indifferent vet who has seen so much horror
and is jaded with the world and Elise is a cynical military brat that has seen
men and women in uniform in her family unbelievably suffer coming out of battle
so she has trained herself to be resistant to anything in fatigues. Then they
have an encounter and change each other’s lives, not “Soft-core porn”! So as a
final note to all those narrow-minded why don’t you read Bowden’s book and pay
attention to the film, then read some other entertaining BHD fanfiction
before you pass judgment. You can also pick up a copy of The Heart of
Darkness, rent Apocalypse Now, then read Reporting Vietnam Parts
I & II and Ambushed you’ll see what I mean.

~U.S. Army Headquarters,
September 20 12:43 P.M.~

Sk'>She wondered why
the curtains hadn’t been drawn. The Black & Decker stationary fan
was going full blast but did little to alleviate the crushing humidity. Lise
rolled her head around the cot since that was the only body part she regained
control of. She was certain that her head had been popped open and a few
circuits crossed because everything below the neck felt like wet cement. Lise’s
throat was filled with syrup and her eyes were so dry she thought they were
pasted shut. Things were a bit sketchy. She remembered speaking to Jeanne, a
pretty Alsatiao rao ran the front desk at the Red Cross before leaving for the
market about the annals of drinking too much rum and too little Coke before
dancing to M.C. Hammer. And somehow she ended up here, looking at funky
grey cinderblock walls. There was a chain link patch over the barred windows.
She may have been the winner of a luxury holiday to the Hanoi Hilton without
even knowing it.

Feeling in her
hands started to come back, and she was able to wiggle her fingers enough to
jumpstart the blood flow up her arms and lifted herself up. Lise fell forward a
little feeling the room spin; she put a hand to her head and felt the silky
woven fibers of the gauze plastered down on her tender skin. Lise winced and
remembered everything. She swung her legs off the cot and looked around, the
room was clean and the only furnishings that were in it besides the cot and fan
were a table and two chairs. Whatever this room was used for before the Americans
took the airport over, it was clearly converted into a detention cell. She
walked to the window,tioutiously, keeping her face out of sight. On the
airfield Lise could see two Black Hawks and scattered Mini Birds, humvees and
jeeps screamed by and occasionally a Ranger would walk past dressed in a puke
green T-shirt and camo pants with a floppy hat on his buzzed head. Already Lise
was claustrophobic and needed to get the fuck out of there. She frowned at the
steel gray door that stood between her and freedom and hesitantly reached out
for the door handle. Lise was thrown for a loop when it opened easily. She
looked out and saw an empty corridor, the exit to the airfield and an office
adjacent of her. The only sounds she heard were faint type key clicking and
power tools, the stench of sea salt and jet fuel was not helping her lethargic
condition.

Lise weighed her
options of either being shot if she ran out onto the airfield or sent to prison
if she killed the General, and being where she was Lise had the means to do so.
Besides, what was the sense of running since they had confiscated her purse,
which held her passport. And while she thought of it, the black shirt she had
on was gone. Hugging herself for security she began walking to the office. She
hadn’t gone a few steps when she heard a long, pitiful groan. It came from
behind a steel gray door that was ajar, she pushed it open all the way to see
another cell like hers, but no one lay on the cot nor sat at the table. Another
groan came from the floor and Lise saw Richard hog-tied with flex-cuffs.

“Y’know… when I
said ’Kiss mah grits’ to that Oakley-wearing asshole, I really
didn’t mean it in a malicious way.” Lise leaned against the doorframe.

“They hog-tied
you.”

“Brilliant
Holmes!” He snapped in a Surrey burr. Richard struggled to turn his head and
looked at Lise’s lackluster expression. “They pump you with Horse? You
kickin’?!” He stifled when her face twisted with her infamous scowl.

“I’ll be kickin’
yous ifs if you don’t shut your trap! Now hold on, let me see if I can break
you out.”

“Hurry up! I gotta
pee….” Lise knelt by him and tried to slip her nails under the thin bands of
plastic threatening to cut off his circulation.

“I need a pair of
scissors. I can’t break them!” Richard grunted painfully so Lise had no choice
but to go to the office. The radio was playing softly and there was a lit
cigarette smoking in an ashtray, other than that it was deserted. She ripped
the scissors out of the clerk’s pencil cup and backed away.

“' Limo' is a word
Durant, I can’t believe we’re still talking about this!” Tramping around the
corner was Chief Warrant Officer Cliff Walcott, Night Stalker pilot of Super
61. He lit a cigarette still fresh from his latest take off. Following him was
fellow Night Stalker C.W.O. Mike Durant, pilot of Super 64; he was holding a
pocket dictionary.

“It’s coming off
the board Elvis!” Walcott took the book and flipped through it.

“You see,” he
pointed to a page, “‘limo’. ‘Limo’ is in the dictionary!” Mike shook his head.

“No, no. ‘Limo’ is
not in the dictionary- look! ‘Limo: see limousine’. Do ya dig it?” Cliff
slapped his head.

“It is technically
in the dictionary! When you got married, didn’t you rent a limo to
take you to the reception?”

Mike refused to
back down. “Using slang is against the rules. Read the inside of the box.”

“Using ' limo'
isn’t the same as using ‘yo’, or something.”

“It’s coming off
the board, or we start a new game.” Cliff was going to further plead his case
when Mike slapped him on the shoulder. “What the hell, man!” Mike pointed in
Lise’s ctioction. The two pilots were dumbfounded to see the CNN reporter
standing by Grimes’ desk.

“Hi.” She said
tautly, not knowing what else to say.

“Hi,” they replied
in unison and let her pass by wing ing her go into Richard’s cell shutting the
door behind her. They looked at one another. “Delta.”

“It’s still coming
off the board.”

“Touch my ‘limo’
and I’m wiping the hangar with you!”

“I’d like to see
you try!” Lise listened by the door. Cliff and Mike’s bantering continued until
it drifted off with pilots retreating to the mess for chow.

“What the fuck was
that about?” Richard asked.

“I can’t be too
sure, but I think it was Scrabble.” Lise went to work cutting Richards
bonds, taking care to slide the blade between plastic and flesh without drawing
blood. There would be plenty of time for that Lise thought, Sanderson’s face
coming tod. Gd. Grimes danced into his office pushing aside the stacks of files
and paperwork to set his metal tray down. The company clerk rubbed his palms together
congratulating himself for earning the first spot on the chow line. A buttery
mix of vegetables, potatoes drizzled with gravy, and the choicest cuts of beef
to plug into his roll.

“Grimesy, you are
squared away!” He popped open his can of Schweppes and proceeded to
unlock his drawer where his secret stashes of Hostess cakes were.

“LATRINE!!!!”
Richard’s voice rose to the ceiling.

“AAAAHHH!!!!”
Grimes flung his Twinkies packet across the room. Lise and Richard were
standing in the office. Grimes’ jaws worked furiously. “You- you’re-” He
pointed at Lise.

“Yeah I know. Now
where’s the fucking bathroom, soldier?!” Lise barked. Grimes pointed to a door
on the far left.

“Thank God!”
Richard ran ft, Lt, Lise sat down.

“Please! Have a
seat ma’am.” Grimes said.

“Thanks,” she said
sarcastically. Grimes picked up his Twinkies and lowered himself slowly
into his chair. “What time is it-” Lise glimpsed at the desk plate “-Sergeant
Grimes?”

“Umm…” He looked
at the digital wall clock. “A quarter after one.”

“Thank you.”

Grimes licked his
salty lips nervously. “I mean you’re really-”

“Uh-huh.” Lise
nodded.

“You’re father-”

“Was your
grandfather-”

“Yeah.” Grimes
shook his head in amazement.

“Wow! I mean, what
a Davies family legacy.” Lise rolled her eyes and wondered how old this kid
was. Grimes pulled his seat closer and continued speaking, she speculated if
this guy spent his afternoons humming the Army’s famed jingle as he collated,
undoubtedly the reason for him getting stuck in this outfit. After all she had
been through, what Lise really needed was a good laugh. “…And for a while I
just bounced around from station to station- I mean I got my degree- the they
just weren’t interested. As the more experienced journalist, how do you cope
with the rejection?” Lise tilted her head looking at the half full carafe
sitting atop the file cabinet behind him.

“I don’t.” She
pointed to the carafe. “You mind?” Grimes blinked and looked over his shoulder.

“Oh!” He got up
and fetched a clean coffee cup. “Cream or sugar? We have Equal lyin’
around here… I think.”

Lise grinned.
“Black.” Grimes pointed at her.

“As always, just
pour it out the pot no trappings for the Davies men- WOMEN! Davies men and
women. Believe me, we’re not all Republican sexist pigs around here.” Lise
honestly didn’t know if she wanted to hug Grimes or give him a shot to the jaw.
He handed her the warm brew.

“Thanks.” She
sipped and licked her lips looking into the coffee. “This is very good.” Grimes
smiled proudly rocking on his boot heels.

“Thank you ma’am! Gold
Cost blend, not too fine, not too coarse.”

“Without a doubt,
and my name is Lise, not ’ma’am’. Nothing’s sagging down south just
yet.”

“Oh no ma’am, not
at all!” Lise looked at Grimes pointedly. “I mean, you look t. Yt. You
look terrific Lise.” She raised her cup to him nodding. Grimes exhaled and
returned to his desk and clapped his hands. “So, what’s your father up to these
days? I mean his book Headline: Vietnam absolutely kicked ass. It was on
the required reading list for all journalism majors, it was under my pillow as
I slept- it still is! What is the Evan Davies up to? Enjoying his
retirement? Working on another book… I hope?” Lise laughed along with Grimes
and finished her coffee in no hurry.

“He fired a bullet
into his mouth when I was 20.” The rumble of the humvees on the beach was the
only thing heard in that office for a few long minutes. “But if memory serves
me, there are a few autographed copies of his book in the garage back home. I
could send you one if you’d like?” Grimes gawped at Lise brusqueness. Evan
Davies? Suicide? This was news! Like so many vets of that war, had a
celebrated correspondent umbeumbed to their fate as well? Was it possible?
Grimes looked into Lise’s hazel eyes and saw that same glimmer in the hangar’s
hundred odd soldiers- and himself- every day: a hunger for combat. And during
those twilight moments Grimes questioned himself as to what the fuck he was
doing here. What was she doing here? What were the Somalis and Americans doing
to each other? Grimes scolded himself for thinkinherehere was no place for
debate on the front lines. Thas aas a matter of saving lives and upholding
freedom. He was a soldier and he does what he’s told. Grimes was well aware as
to what he was going to be subjected to when he enlisted. Questions would come
later, but hot lead flew first as he recalled two of the Deltas, Hoot and
Gordon chatting over the Mr. Coffee about the finer points of the
Rangers’ cavalier attitudes towards the rules of engagement during training
exercises. Gordon attributed it to their age and inexperience, Hoot said that
Fort Bragg should drag their asses back for a few more M.O.U.T. sessions.
They’d go home whining to their mammas.

“I guess you’d
like someone to talk to right about now.” Lise massaged her scalp.

“That would be
nice.” Grimes made tracks to the mess hall. The toilet flushed and Richard
reappeared.

“You might want to
keep the door open.” Lise sucked her teeth and crossed her arms.

“Go find the
truck.” Richard promptly left but had no idea where he would start. Grimes
scurried into the mess eyes darting from one noisy table to the next. The
General was nowhere to be found and he knew that Captain Steele opted to take
lunch in his office, and under the penalty of death no one was to interrupt
him. Seated with Staff Sergeant Struecker and Lieutenant Beales was Lieutenant
Colonel Danny McKnight reading the paper, Grimes hoofed it right behind him and
stood at attention.

“Colonel McKnight,
sir!”

“Can I help you
with something Gs?” s?” He replied from the corner of his mouth, stuffing it
with more chili.

“It’s urgent that
I speak with you sir.” McKnight returned to the funnies.

“Go ahead.”

< sty style='font-family:"Palatino Linotype";color:black'>Grimes cleared his
throat and bent toward his ear. “Privately sir.” Struecker and Beales looked at
each other but remained silent. McKnight folded his paper and slapped it on the
table. He wasn’t that upset just perplexed as to why Grimes, of all people,
would make such a request. Had it been any other Ranger, they would be picking
teeth out of their creamed corn, but since McKnight had never even spoken to
the company clerk he decided to mercifully grant him some leeway. They walked
to the open hangar door ignored by the raucous crowd and conversed quietly.
McKnight pulled away from Grimes, goggling at the man. He looked toward the
office, then back at Grimes who nodded and the office once again.

“MOTHERFUCKER!!”
Utensils dropped and all noise stopped, even Pilla who was in the middle of
doing his Lunch Lady routine wearing a hairnet he stole from the kitchen staff.
McKnight dragged Grimes by the scruff of the neck to the office, everyone
wondered at what Grimesy did so wrong to piss off the Colonel. “What do you
mean ‘She just showed up’?” McKnight pushed Grimes ahead of him.

“That’s exactly
what happened sir. I looked up, Miss Davies was there!” The Colonel threw open
the door and saw Lise who hadn’t moved from her seat.

“Good afternoon,”
she said.

McKnight calmed
some as he saw her skirt drift off one knee, as she crossed her legs. “Hello.” /Hello
legs. / McKnight shoved Grimes all the way in and shut the door softly.ho eho exactly brought her here?”

“As I said before
sir, she just showed up.” Repeated the exasperated clerk. McKnight nodded
planting his fists on his hips.

“Did you ask Miss
Davies how she got here?” Grimes flushed recognizing his serious oversight.
Looking at Grimes’ face was an adequate enough answer, McKnight knew that the
leeway he granted the desk Sergeant was a mistake he will not make again in the
future.

“Permission to
speak?” Lise said. McKnight shoved Grimes aside, a million dollar smile on the
Colonel’s face.

“Of course,
permission granted.” He shook her hand affectionately. “I am Lieutenant Colonel
Danny McKnight, call me Danny, and this as you know is Sergeant Grimes.” He
spoke his name through clenched teeth.

“Yes I know.”

“Now Miss Davies,
there is nothing more I’d like to do than help clear up this misunderstanding.”pan>

“Thank you
Colonel.”

“Danny. I
must say Miss Davies, you have quite a fan following, you’re presence here is
not unpleasant just complicated at the moment.”

“Understood.”

“So if you don’t
mind, telling me how you ended up in our base of operations.” How stupid did
they think she was? It was obvious that McKnight was caught with his RBA down,
which would explain his sycophantic performance. But it was safe to assume
being that she was the only female they have seen in an extended time period
provided distraction, something to her advantage.

“Danny, I
understand your position and your feelings about the mass media. I realize that
my fellow journalists haven’t getting their facts straight about what the
Ranger presence here in Somalia is all about. And being the responsible
journalist I am, I haven’t broached the subject. I am not interested in the
least as to what missions you are carrying out, but it is public knowledge that
you are attempting to capture Mr. Aidid. I have been in Mogadishu for quite
some time with a colleague from CNN to try to speak with Mr. Aidid to figure
out why he’s doing whatever he is doing, other than the fact that he is one
sadistic son of a bitch.” That brought out an energetic laugh from McKnight and
Grimes. “Please also understand that with my upbringing I realize diplomacy is
something that’s not on the whole accepted by someone in camouflage wielding an
MP-5. You’re just doing your job and I respect that.”

“You are a very
reasonable woman, Miss Davies.” Uniforms were too damn predictable, sometimes.

“But I need you to
respect the fact that I was also doing my job, when your shaved ape Deltas came
along, terrorizing me and my cameraman in Indian country UNPROVOKED!! “
McKnight did notice that Sanderson and his cronies were absent among the other
operators in the mess. “Put me to sleep like a goddamned cocker spaniel and
throwing me in the back of a truck! Do I look stupid to you? Do you know who
the fuck I am?!” Twenty minutes later, McKnight exited the office with
throbbing eardrums for the first time not fronfirnfire. Grimes was under orders
keep her in the office and to serve her decaf, it was imperative that he speak
with the General. The Rangers were quieter than usual spacing out in front of
the televisions or listening to music trying to ignore the Colonel storm
through the hangar.

Staff Sergeant
Eversmann sat at an empty card table writing his journal trying to listen in on
the commotion that was coming from Grimes’ office. It was about the same time
yesterday that he saw something unusual taking place at the rear of the hangar.
He was parking the land rover after an exhausting morning of drills and
practice at the shooting range when he saw three vehicles pull up. Eversmann
knew that the Deltas had two civilian vehicles brought in and knew better to
question this, but when he saw this third white van he didn’t recognize, he
tensed. Gordon jumped out of the jeep and ran to the white van where Shughart
was getting out from behind the wheel. Hoot banged twice on the side of the
blue van and the back doors opened up. He saw Wex and Busch carefully carry out
an American civilian male from the white van, then hurry inside and Hoot,
Gordon, and Shughart in turn piled in. Sanderson gingerly carried out a female
from the blue van, even from his distance Eversmann recognized Lise. But as
strange as things were, neither made an appearance at dinner.

Curiosity won over
common sense and he sought out Hoot at his usual spot behind the shed on the
airfield. Eversmann hadn’t rounded the corner when he heard: “What’s on your
mind, kid?” Matt sat down on the concrete beside the weathered vet. He
shrugged.

“Nothing much.”
Hoot puffed on his cigarette concentrating on his book. Eversmann wondered what
he was so involved with until he finally managed to get a peek when Hoot fell
asleep during a spin up to find out it was in a foreign language. Eversmann
guessed Hoot was recruited from the Green Berets since it was a requirement to
be fluent in second language. As he thought about it, there was little they
knew about their resident shadow warriors save for their names, ranks (or
rather a distaste for them), and what they were in Somalia for. For all the
hero worship that Eversmann and the other Rangers had for their big brothers it
was the ordinary things about the Deltas that were astonishing.

Wex and Busch were
the oldest members of the group and paired off for missions. Staff Sergeant
Busch was a mellow character, easily identifiable by his baseball caps snoozing
quietly on his cot or cleaning his weapon. He was also undefeated at Scrabble,
not even Durant or Walcott survived a game with him. Busch laughed easy and
always ribbed Wex over one thing or another. Wex was the family man, but even
more astounding the man was artistic. Everyone drooled over how this quick draw
blew away paper targets or the back of an unsuspecting skinny’s head with his
pistol, then at the end of the day you would find him on the beach with an
easel painting the sunset in watercolors. It was fair to say that Soa waa was
his last hurrah and he would able to devote his time to his three daughters and
his book. It was fun talking with Wex, Matt read his manuscript during
downtime, it was a children’s storybook that featured his portraits of
fantastic Arthurian battles- the White Knight versus the One Eyed Dragon,
sorcery and discovery. It was his third draft under heavy revisions and the
number of pages was at 68, getting thicker since his editors were his own
daughters. One night over the satellite phone they were engaged in deliberation
over the prospects of a princess. Love and marriage were on the table but his
eldest, 12-year-old Libby persisted she had to do something besides dressing up
a throne. Magic was a strong possibility but what he needed at the moment was a
model.

Sergeant Shughart
and Master Sergeant Gordon were always found together with their chessboard.
Randy was married to Stephanie, every night at the same time he would call her
and they’d talk about how much they missed each other, trivialities, redoing
the kitchen, and the latest was a Halloween party they were invited to. He
suggested going as Frankenstein and his bride, but what she had in mind were
the King and Queen of Hearts. Randy was cerebral and subdued, while Gary was a
smart ass always ready with a wise crack. He didn’t mind showing off his
sharpshooting skill, enjoyed a good challenge, and challenged others as well.
Finally there was Hoot and Sanderson. Hoot’s real name was Norm Gibson, but
after hearing that a mental image of some middle-aged accountant would come up,
certainly not a 6’4” career soldier with the physique of an Olympic gymnast. He
was a professional and everything was strictly routine: get up, dress, eat,
insertion, drop and shoot, then exfil to base bleeding as little as you can. He
hung around with the same people and said little, but if you managed to pry
anything from him he would be frank, and his honesty about many things didn’t
win him friendships. And that was fine by him. Sanderson was the unofficial
ringleader. This dusky blosoldsoldier had an analytical if not impatient mind,
possessed a cynicism that was camouflaged by his dry wit and an odd sense of
humor that he used to get under Captain Steele’s skin once a day.

All of these men,
as well as the other operators were able to think and work on their own and
enjoyed being alone. These were the qualities befitting Delta, you were put
through the most arduous training the military had to offer and if you made it
out alive and sane, it was just the beginning. Putting it simply, their
objective was to kill and survive eschewing all fame, fortune, and recognition
they did America’s most dangerous and important work moving within the shadows.
Deltas were modern knights and true. But being removed so far from traditional
army discipline gave the men a unique new angle on the brass seeing through
their smokescreen of pomp and bullshit since the majority of these guys weren’t
above sergeant. And maybe their tactics pushed the envelope, used resources
when it was inappropriate but they got the job done. What they resented were
taking orders when none had to be given, the Delta culture was cliquey and
outsiders were tabooed.

“So, what happened
out there today?”

“Just a little
extra credit project,” Hoot replied disarmingly. “Nothin’ y’all should worry
about.” Eversmann was able to make out a female shouting. The Deltas stirred up
the hornet’s nest with Miss Davies, and she was not liable to forget it even if
they cranked the charm up to maximum. What he remembered reading about her
family was her grandfather had been a conventional Green Beret colonel who
fervidly opposed Project DELTA in its inception during Vietnam. And it was
apparent that his granddaughter was going to be less than tolerant of them as
well. JOC was a knot of action, Garrison and Lieutenant Colonel Joe Cobb were
at the heart of it slugging down caffeine watching the glaring monitors
displaying Mogadishu’s slowly moving rooftops directed from Orion. McKnight
entered.

“Can I help you
Danny?”

“We have a
situation here sir.” The older officer blinked and sighed.

“I know. I’ll
speak to Miss Davies privately.”

“Yes sir.” Risking
a stroke McKnight decided to let it be, for now. Grimes escorted Lise to the
General’s office bypassing the hangar to evade any problems; he lifted the tent
flap for her and went back to his desk. Lise walked around a bit, stretching
her legs looking at the maps and photos, the tables were empty and she sat
down. After a few minutes Garrison walked through the tent flaps.

“Miss Davies.”

“General
Garrison.” The officer stood hands clasped behind his back looking at her as if
one of his grandkids asked where babies came from.

“Miss Davies, I hope
you will accept my humble apologies for the trouble you might have gone
through.”

“General Garrison,
I hope you will understand when I say fuck your apology for the trouble I have
gone through.” She smiled beatifically. Garrison grimaced on tenterhooks of her
attitude and what may come.

“Y’know I was
familiar with your daddy and your granddaddy, Miss Davies so this is nothing
strange.” Lise shrugged unmoved.

“And what uniform
hasn’t come across them or any other member of my non-immediate family, General?”
She folded her arms across her chest. “I’ll tell somesomething though, you got
a real interesting set up here in Somalia.” She got up and walked around the
tent. “So interesting in fact that find it stunning how the media isn’t
crawling all over this desert to get you on the front page.”

Garrison chuckled
fondly reminiscent of the glittering film ribbon that decorated the barbed wire
fence outside the hangar. “Oh, we’ve had our run-ins with a few braver
shutterbugs.” Lise grinned acidly.

“Well I’m no shutterbug,
and I’m no fool either General.”

“I am well aware
of that Miss Davies,” his voice betraying his repose. “But you have to
understand that I had to forcibly remove you and Mr. Kellner because we are in
a highly sensitive region of the world where my people are conducting covert
operations. So this isn’t a personal strike against you, Miss Da.” <.”

“A personal
strike, doubtful. Covert ops, questionable.” Garrison grinned tightly taking a
step back from the table where Lise sat, flashbacks of news reports of the
Rangers on a mission shot with infrared cameras. But he took comfort in the
fact that the information on their activities were purely speculative or
outright wrong. Miss Davies, Garrison knew, was aware of that fact and was
going to use it as her Trump card. “General Garrison, I respect the fact that
you are carrying out your orders and trying your damnedest to net Aidid. I also
respect the fact that you follow my work, and were… concerned with my well
being. So much so, that you went to extreme measures to get me out of- what you
thought was- harm’s way. But here is my problem: I do not appreciate the fact
that you abducted me and my colleague while we were carrying out our orders
speaking to the Somali people, especially in the violent manner you did.
And on a personal note, I do not appreciate being shadowed by
your Deltas! You do know that alone could’ve gotten me killed. These people
aren’t simple as you think. Besides… I don’t find it attractive.” Garrison
strayed off course after she made that final comment but would make it his
business to question his operators at a later time.

“I had hoped we
might have discussed the matter at hand instead of slinging insults.”

< sty style='font-family:"Palatino Linotype";color:black'>“Maybe you’re
asking the wrong questions.” Garrison was dubious. Davies looked as if she
might play ball, but if he was going to get something he had to make a few
sacrifices reading into her contemptuous smile. “Let us be frank, I can imagine
what state my truck is in after your,” Lise smirked, “' operators' did
to it. But they will discover that my filing system is rather unique and will
take longer to decipher than they think. But whatever they find has either been
broadcasted or relayed to D.C. where my station manager is chewing things over.
So why don’t you just ask me about Salad? Or is it Awale- one of them, at
least? Atto? Aidid? Chances are what I know, you already knew.”

“That is a
possibility.” Garrison was a strong believer in capitalism and his prospects
were broadening.

“So then General,
here’s how I see it: you’re having a communications spot with your new
commander-in-chief since there’s no real response out there over this
confrontation, unlike Iraq. On top of which, you might be getting criticized
for us getting involved in the first place. It may be war General but these
people don’t seem to be appreciative of our help, if you get familiar
with the mentality, which I might point out that on some level is my
expertise.” Garrison sat down; his feet felt raw in his jump boots. “So what is
this crazy woman’s point, you’re wondering? Quite simply it’s this: I want to
help you General. But you know that in our great democratic system you don’t
get something without giving something in return.” Garrison didn’t need
subtitles or a psych degree to pick up on Lise’s cunning. He also noticed that
in the 98° degree heat there was an absence of perspiration on her skin, he’d
have Wilkie brought in to look at her.

“I will have to
confer with the other commanding officers about your proposal, Miss Davies.”
She smirked confidently.

“I trust that you
will.” Before Garrison stepped out he saw the faint freckles sprinkled on the
backs of Lise’s arms were less noticeable. She sighed and wondered where
Kellner wandered off to in all that time, even if he did find the van Richard
would fly into conniptions upon the discovery that their work would be in the
hands of the U.S. military. And presumably never to be seen again. Despite the
conditions, Lise had never seen cleaner beaches. The sand was immaculate,
perfectly white and because industrialization was virtually nonexistent fishing
on the shore was safe. Lise passed through the bug net mesmerized by the
roaring horizon but was dismayed when black storm clouds closed in. “That would
so totally fuck up the view….” Lieutenant John Beales and Private John Waddell
walked in the shadow of the camouflaged Boeing 747 to catch Lise standing in
the middle of the airfield. Waddell grasped Beales’ arm.

“Hey Beales, isn’t
that-” Then she toppled to the sand. The two Rangers stood frozen for a moment
before Beales’ brain kicked in.

“Holy shit!” They
ran to the unconscious woman’s side. “Medic! MEDIC!!!!” Beales shouted across
the road to the infirmary. Waddell gingerly rolled her over from her side wary
of keeping her feet elevated when her body began to rack with hacking coughs.

“It’s OK! I got
it. I got it.” Technical Sergeant Tim “Wilkie” Wilkinson, one of the PJ’s
callously dubbed “shake-and-bake” commandos by the Deltas considering that was
the quickest route into the special ops community. But this avid outdoorsman
was a hardened risk taker who proudly made it through the army’s nightmarish
Special Forces SCUBA training because of his years dropping into combat zones,
performing difficult rescues. Schmid walked out of the tents after hearing
Beales’ cries and saw four men all round Lise. “Keep her hair out of the way,”
Wilkie instructed Sanderson, he held a metal pan under her face as she vomited.

“Jesus!” He leapt
into action fetching a saline IV bag. Lise’s palette was sandpaper and she
tried to scream seeing the vultures circling her above. Something close by
hissed and Lise saw a king cobra slithering along the hot rock zeroing in on
her. Her jaw dropped but no sound came watching it corkscrew up her left arm
and sunk its fangs into her flesh. She felt the poison branch into her veins,
boiling away the blood. Schmid struggled trying to feed the IV into her
bloodstream but met resistance as Lise tensed her muscles pushing the needle
out. He would leave a nasty bruise being forced to puncture her twice. Lise lay
dying, her remaining energy taxed from tryio wro wring the hellish creature
from her arm. But the more she exerted herself her left hand contorted with
rigor.

/C’mon, stop it
now. That’s not exactly cute. / Sanderson spoke to her softly, holding her hand as Wilkie and
Schmidt tried to ease Lise into bed as she thrashed. The voice coaxed her from
continuing to cling, losing the battle until she ultimately complied,
peacefully expiring. Wilkie diffidently pulled the cotton sheet to Lise’s waist
watching the slow rise and fall of her chest, Schmid hung the saline bag
captivated by the bulbous, distorted world within the plastic and wondered if
that echoed Lise‘s dreams. But this wasn’t a good time for thinking, Eversmann
was jogging across from the road.

“k'>“Schmid?” Matt
lifted the tent flap and beckoned to the medic. Kurt nodded and motioned for
Sanderson to step aside as he pulled a pair of screens around Lise’s bed, he
followed Eversmann outside leaving the Delta staring at her silhouette. They
stopped before the General’s tent where Beales and Waddell waited. “Alright,
they’re getting restless in there,” Matt said thumbing to the hangar, “and they
know something’s up.”

“We can’t afford
any agitation right now.” Beales added. “So as long as it’s only us that know
she’s here, we keep a lid on it for now.”

“Sir,” Waddell
interjected, “what about the cameraman? He found the truck with our humvees.
Everybody knows now.” Eversmann shook his head.

“He hasn’t said
anything, he’s worried about the situation getting out of hand as we are. He’s
been confined to his cell until further orders. So as far as the other men are
concerned, he’s the only civvie here. Hoo-ah?”

“Hoo-ah.” They
chorused. Eversmann and Beales retreated back into the tent and Waddell slapped
Schmid on the shoulder a couple of times then headed for the beach. Kurt was
unsure and for a split second he thought of alerting Cin Sin Steele, but seeing
how he liked having all four limbs in working order, Schmid refrained. In all
that time he was conferring with his fellow Rangers, he didn’t see Sanderson
leave the infirmary. As tempting as it was to watch Sanderson and Miss Davies
battle it out which would ultimately end on somebody’s cot made things even
more complicated, though would relieve some of the tedium. Schmid was about to
bac back when a glint in the corner of his eye caught his attention. The medic
stepped back where his shadow would not obstruct the twinkling, and knelt down
to discover something was partially buried in the sand. On a lengthy gold
thread a pendant hung, the shape was unusual resembling an arrowhead or spear
tip, in the blinding sun Schmid wasn’t certain. He entered the infirmary and
breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Sanderson’s metal folding chair empty
then went for the sinks to scrub what was seemingly Miss Davies’ necklace.
Drying it with a clean hand towel Schmid held it up to his eyes just able to
make out the inscription.

“' Second
Battalion, Seventh Special Forces Group Airborne’.” When Schmid’s eyes
adjusted he got a better look at the bauble and recognized it as something he’d
seen hundreds of times. It was an exact replica of one of the Special Forces
patches Green Berets don on their fatigues; the insignia depicted a drawn sword
with three lightning bolts streaking down the blade. “What’s she wearing it
for?”

“Whatcha got
there, kid?” Schmid spun round fisting the chain behind his back. Randy
Shughart happily chomped on his toothpick, Sanderson was back in his seat
sipping coffee, a freshly showered Busch followed Wex, and then Gordon, and
shuffling behind him was Hoot.

“Nothing… not
really.” Schmid was slow to see Gary behind him.

“That’s a pretty
nothing you got there.” The blonde operator easily yanked the chain from his
loose fist. Gary dangled it from his index and middle fingers the sunlight
flashing off the penda fla flat surface. “That looks familiar.” Wex yawned.

“What is that?” He
rubbed his forehead taking his hand away from his head in time to catch the
chain. Busch leaned over for a closer look.

“That’s cute.” Wex
turned the pendant in his sun-roughened fingers.

“This is quality
craftsmanship,” Hoot couldn’t stifle a laugh exchanging looks with Jeff. “You
can’t find this anymore. I love my wife, but hate jewelry shopping for her.
It’s like I waste my money getting her something that looks like gumball
machine crap.” He handed it to Busch who gave it to Randy, and it ended up with
Hoot. Gibson thought it interesting how he didn’t notice something as
insignificant as a decal every time he walked through the doors of Fort Bragg.

“It belongs to
Miss Davies.” Schmid piped up.

“Yeah, I know.”
Hoot said off-handedly earning a frown from the medic. Lise made some small
noise and the men stiffened until she relaxed. Gordon parted the screens enough
to look, Lise’s mouth had a faint imp of of red from the last time she applied
lipstick giving it the semblance of the aftereffects of rough kissing, the
silky spill on the flat pillow dappled silver and gold in the sun, one hand
flung palm upward on the mattress. His brows lifted.

“Can we keep her?”
Sanderson stayed cool.

“Somehow I don’t
think Captain Steele will approve.” Wex quipped.

~U.S. Army
Headquarters, September 20 5:21 P.M.~

The screens were
removed and Schmid kept a lookout taking his dinner back to the infirmary as
the Deltas were still in the mess. He hoped they would call it a day and not
show up for Miss Davies sake at least, and of the fact he was wary of them more
than ever. Medics were not the hardened battle types, when the Somalis would
launch mortars near the gate he and the rest of the personnel would join hands
and sing prayer songs while his crazy hoo-ah friends in the hangar cheered as
if it were Super Bowl Sunday. Schmid pondered this over his bowl of New England
clam chowder and decided to close the day with some filing.

Lise heard the
tide roll out but vacillated to lift her head from the pillow since her temples
snapped like a rubber band. The distant banging of Schmid going through file
cabinets told her that he would be busy and slid from beneath the sheet
stepping into her sling backs. Schmid threw Galentine’s physical forms into a
yellow file folder when he went to retrieve his half-finished chowder he saw
Lise’s bed empty.

“Oh shit!” The
bowl landed face down on the ground as he flew out of the tent. Lise ducked
under windows around the hangar hearing the rowdy dinner crowd, fortunately the
airfield was vacant and her van was within view parked with the humvees. She
sprinted for it and so far, had not been spotted. The doors were unlocked but
no sign of the keys, either in the ignition or under the sun flaps. Lise also
noticed how the van accumulated much more space in the time she had been away.
Then it clicked. The cameras, monitors and technical equipment weren’t
bothered, the glove compartment was hanging open as usual and the crap was
untouched, the horrid purple and green fuzzy dice dangled from the rearview
mirror, but everything else was gone. The audio and videotapes, notes, files,
her laptop, Richard’s photos and the satellite phone vanished. It confirmed her
earlier suspicions, but when she looked under one of the built-in tables and
didn’t see one particular trunk that should have been returned Lise’s
temperature rose.

Nelson wandered
into the parking lot after a befuddling visit to the detention cells. Shawn
honestly felt a little sorry for the cameraman, all Kellner kept asking for was
his passport back, but if the rumors circulating were true that the D-Boys had
brought him here, there was nothing that the Specialist could do. He was
searching for Twombly to see if he was up for some Stratego. Nelson had
no such luck with Yurek, he was spending quality time with his feline kinfolk-
he had adopted a cat and her litter abandoned in the hangar after their
occupation. Maddox was turning in early, and Smith opted to re-watch The
Jerk, so that left their SAW gunner. Going past the humvees Nelson would
have ignored the CNN van had he not seen its rear doors open and Lise standing
there. He froze in mid-step, unsure if the oppressive heat was inducing a
mirage, or if a woman was really there. Lise was seething so hotly that she
didn’t see Nelson approach her from behind.

She felt Nelson
tap the back of her shoulder lightly and made the decision that she was not
having it anymore. “Excuse me ma’am, but you’re not-” Before his brain could
catch up, Lise took his wrist in a death grip and proficiently hurled him over
her shoulder and onto his chest. Her cousin always said she was an apt pupil.
Durant and Walcott dragged the Scrabble board and an unenthusiastic
C.W.O. Donovan “Bull” Briley back to the cooking trailer where Durant bunked
when they heard Nelson’s cry.

“I don’t even want
to know,” Walcott said. On cue, Delta came running in time to hear Nelson’s
pitiful moans as Lise wrenched his arm the wrong way in his socket. She said
nothing but pushed her foot into his armpit, Hoot grimaced knowing that if they
let her go on she could do some permanent damage to the kid. He stuck both
pinkies in his mouth and blew off a shrieking whistle that could have split
their eardrums. Lise threw Shawn’s arm to the floor putting her hands over her
ears.

“What the fuck is
this?!” Nelson scrambled to his feet, back ramrod straight.

“Sorry Sergeant.”
During his years in the deeply covert, Hoot’s patience had been finely honed to
the point of desensitization. There was little left in this world that
surprised or frightened him, but this was taking its toll. To sparmselmself the
court martial, Hoot just glared at Nelson. Lise had the heels of her hands digging
into her ears though it did nothing for the residual buzzing. It brought up
fond memories of her Uncle Walt, an SF major who went by the nickname “Brick”
coined from his ability to break bricks with his forehead a trick he learned
during his Vietnam tours, he was commonly referred to as “Shitbrick” by the
Special Ops family members. Delta and SEALs mostly. This was a bit of a joke
around Fort Bragg. There was no love lost between the conservative soldiers and
those who were more adventurous. Every 4th of July, her parents would pack up
the Dodge and make the long haul from Baltimore to Fayetteville, North
Carolina for the big family barbeque. All the kids would run like chickens with
no heads around the lake behind Uncle Walt’s town house raising hell, no one
would hear Aunt Flora screaming for them to eat until Brick came stomping out
in his ‘FOUR STAR CHEF’ apron slapping the spatula against one meaty thigh,
stuck his index finger and thumb in his mouth and let off a screech that sent
everyone diving.

Recovering from
her fainting spell and rohyrohypnol shot did wonders for Lise’s thought
processes, and ceased spinning her wheels. “Well hi there!” Hoot announced.
Lise flinched putting a hand to her temple. When she looked at Sanderson’s
overconfident smile and Gordon wiggling his fingers at her, Lise wondered why
she kept getting mixed up with wrong men.

TBC