20 October 2004 – Bagram Airbase, Bagram, Afghanistan

The vivid primary colors in front of Jeff contrasted sharply with the dull tan of the walls surrounding him. He could hear the bustle of activity outside the chapel tent, though the rigid walls muted the sound. He didn’t know how long he’d been staring at the flag-draped casket in the room. He felt there was much he didn’t know at this point.

Ivan Gilchrist hadn’t been in Afghanistan a week before they loaded him on another C-17 headed back out of the country. At least he was alive. Emilio Reyes commented that he hadn’t even been in the country long enough to cast a shadow. Like many of Jeff’s fellow Rangers Ivan was an active person before joining the Army, and was always outdoors hiking, fishing, biking, or playing volleyball when he got the chance after joining. He planned to start doing all those things again after they returned from deployment. Depending on the kid’s attitude he should be able to do much of what he did before despite losing both his arms. Rangers weren’t the kind of people who gave up easily.

Norm Oteri’s leg wound needed a good cleaning, twenty or thirty stitches, and some antibiotics. What it really needed was for him to stay off of it, which probably wouldn’t happen. Ruben Montes, who’d been ahead of Terry Nauert when the explosion happened, suffered a broken left scapula and a severe concussion from impacting debris. Blow Blajewski’s position in the squad behind Terry shielded him from the blast because he hadn’t yet rounded the corner into that hallway. As for Terry, Rick hadn’t wanted Jeff to roll him over because his face wasn’t there any more. Within the past month almost a quarter of the Rangers deployed with his platoon were gone, in one way or another, as were their replacements.

The outside noise rose when the door opened, then dropped off again when it closed. Jeff didn’t turn to look at whoever just entered the tent. Mickey Kasperson lowered himself into a seat and sat silently next to Jeff.

“When’s the plane leaving for Dover?” Mickey asked after a few minutes of silence.

Dover Air Force Base’s Center for Mortuary Affairs receives all US war dead before they are released for internment.

“This afternoon,” Jeff answered in a monotone.

Silence wrapped itself around the room and those in it again. Mickey glanced at Jeff out of the corner of his eye. He saw the bloodstains spattered across the front of Jeff’s plate carrier and the legs of Jeff’s BDUs. Jeff still wore his equally-bloody combat gloves. Jeff’s weapons likely still held rounds in the chambers though Mickey could see the safeties set. Mickey quickly revised his opinion on that – Jeff was too much of a professional to forget to clear them. It was evident, though, that he hadn’t taken any time for himself since returning.

“Can I bring you something to eat? Get you some water?”

Jeff realized he hadn’t eaten anything since dinner the night before. His stomach growled. It sounded loud in the chapel’s silence.

“Maybe later. I don’t want to leave him, and I don’t want to eat in here.”

“I’ll stay with him while you go eat if you and your platoon would be okay with that. Wouldn’t be the first shiva I’ve helped sit.”

“Maybe later,” Jeff repeated.

Mickey said nothing. He heard choppers coming and going from the airfield in the distance, the scream of jet engines, trucks roaring by outside, troops calling cadence while they ran. Jeff didn’t respond to any of it if he heard it at all.

“‘One life for each to give,’” Jeff whispered.

“What’s that?”

Jeff looked down and shook his head, causing a tear to fall to the floor.

“The Sox won Game Six, by the way,” Mickey told him, trying to bring Jeff out of his funk. “Game Seven in the early hours tomorrow.” No reaction. “Jeff?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“What doesn’t?”

“None of it matters, Mickey. It’s all a damn game. They’ve got us over here killing and being killed, and for what? We’re tearing lives apart on both sides, sowing the seeds of future hate, future war. Put all of us down south, let us take the Taliban out, and send us the hell home. We don’t need fucking oil anymore, so pull us out of the damn Middle East all together.”

“They’d still come for us, Jeff,” Mickey reminded him gently. “Part of why we were attacked is they hate what we stand for, how we live, how we allow our women to live. If they leave us alone they probably feel like they’re condoning it.” He turned back to the casket and sighed. “My dad’s side of the family was almost entirely wiped out because they were different. It’s been that way down through history regardless of who the different ones were.”

Jeff stared blankly at Terry’s casket again. His was the look military folks call ‘the thousand-yard stare.’

“Twenty-one, Mickey. He was only twenty-one. Now his life’s over and we’re getting ready to ship him off to Arlington. A handful of people will be there for his funeral, but no one he knew. He’s got no other family, and almost all his friends are here. His best friend was the CLS we shipped home from Kandahar missing a leg.”

“You’re feeling guilty.”

“You’re goddamn right I am!” Jeff spat. “I’m the fucking medic! His ‘Doc!’ Where the hell was I when he needed me? I WASN’T EFFING THERE FOR HIM!”

“Jeff, you remember the combat medic’s three rules, don’t you?” Mickey asked. Again he received no reply from his fellow New Englander. “One: people will die in war. Two: Doc can’t save everyone. Three: Doc will personally lead a charge into Hell trying to change Rules One and Two.”

Jeff blinked his reddened eyes quickly but said nothing as he continued to stare off into the distance.

“What would have happened to Ivan?” Mickey sighed.

“What?” Jeff asked while turning to face Mickey.

“If you hadn’t been with your 2d Squad last night, what would have happened to Ivan Gilchrist?”

“Norm would have taken care of him.”

“Really? You think so?”

“Yes!” Jeff insisted. “He was right there!”

“Funny how Norm just told me Ivan would have bled to death if you weren’t with them. He said he locked up when the blast happened but you jumped right in.”

“You’re lying!”

“You go ask him yourself, then! He’s right outside!” Jeff turned away from the SF medic, his face a mask of angry defiance. “The fact is Jeff, whether you want to admit it to yourself or not, there’d have been two dead last night if you were with 1st and not 2d last night.”

“Get out,” Jeff growled, glaring at the man next to him again. Mickey didn’t budge. “EFFING GET OUT! GET THE GODDAMN HELL OUT OF MY FACE!”

Mickey stared Jeff down. Jeff eventually turned away with tears tracking down his face. It was only then that Mickey silently left the tent.

Army CID and 2d Platoon clashed over the subject of bringing the person or persons responsible for 2d’s ambush to justice. CID wanted justice but what 2d really wanted was revenge, and everyone knew it. For that reason the Army ultimately chose CID to raid the interpreters’ area. They took four of them into custody for passing information to the insurgents.

An understrength 2d Platoon went outside the wire the night after Terry Nauert’s death. Blow swapped out his M-4 for Terry’s Mk46. The machine gun made him look smaller than he was, but Blow didn’t show any difficulty in handling the larger and heavier weapon. Emilio Reyes became the platoon’s new point man, moving from 2d Squad to 1st to fill the hole left by Ruben Montes’ absence.

Jeff, despite his foul mood days earlier, kept his focus and watched the men closely for any signs of excessive strain. The platoon and the health of its members became Jeff’s sole mission. Where he used to have a smile for the Afghans, a kind if not understood word for them, that night he only gave them a cold, blank stare. He showed no emotion when they showed their fear and anger, just an impassive mask.

With a successful – though admittedly soft-ball – operation under their belt following their tragedy, 2d went back out again the following night, still reduced in strength by one fire team. Norm Oteri rejoined them for this operation, though he should be off-line because of his leg. More replacement Rangers were in the pipeline to get the platoon back up to strength, but they would be another week in arriving.

The theory in sending 2d back out right away was the old adage of getting back on the horse after falling off it: dust yourself off and take another ride. The platoon needed to continue rebuilding their confidence. There was no chatter in the Black Hawks speeding toward the target that night. Each Ranger reviewed the plan in their mind, visualizing themselves moving through and securing the objective. The choppers flared over their destination, ropes dropped, and the Rangers exited the aircraft.

The target chosen for tonight’s assault was a step or two below the level of the targets the platoon normally took on. The skill level of the insurgents on the ground shouldn’t be anything the Rangers would have difficulty with. One of the Rangers did have difficulty with a basic soldier’s task, however: running. Blow Blajewski tripped over his own feet while running to the objective, stumbled to the side trying to keep his balance, and went sprawling in the dirt. He dropped his weapon on the ground and tripped over it as he fell.

He’s not living that down anytime soon, Jeff thought, glancing over while running to the target building.

It took a second for Blow to realize what happened. He looked around through his VAD and saw Sergeant Dinkins motioning for him to get up. His squad leader pointed toward the objective building while yelling something. Blow’s cheeks reddened in embarrassment. The rush of the blood in his ears due to that, combined with the roar of the rotor blades above his head as the choppers left the area, meant he couldn’t hear his sergeant. He nodded anyway and picked himself up. His weapon lay behind him after he got to his feet. He turned and steadied himself with a wide stance before reaching for the machine gun on the ground.

Blow didn’t hear the muted <click> when his weight shifted to his front foot.

What overhead images from a reconnaissance drone couldn’t show were the reused, Soviet invasion-era anti-personnel mines buried throughout one section of the field where the Rangers landed – the section Blow stumbled into. Images taken on a bright overcast day meant the diffuse light cast no sharp shadows which might highlight hidden objects. Wind and weather erased those signs soon after the mines were placed. This low priority target meant a long gap between overhead flights, which also made photo comparisons difficult. Long exposure to the elements in various other places meant the pressure plates for the clustered mines didn’t work as well as they once did. The twenty-five year-old mines were clustered to offset any possible degradation of their explosives.

Trace Dinkins took a step toward Blow while the young private bent over to retrieve the Mk46 which lay between them. Blow disappeared behind a blinding wall of dirt which erupted from the field below him. Trace brought his hands up to shield his face, twisted, and tried to dive for the ground. His actions kept him from seeing the twisted machine gun cartwheeling out of the maelstrom. The heavy lump of plastic and steel smashed broadside into Trace’s chest, crushing the left side of his rib cage. Without his armor to attenuate the impact, or if the muzzle of the weapon had impacted first, Trace would already be dead.

Rick Mendoza recalled the choppers while Jeff sprinted to Trace and Blow. A glance at the shattered nineteen year-old crumpled in the dirt told Jeff that Blow was dead. Trace lay unconscious and seemed to be having trouble breathing. Norm Oteri arrived. Together they worked to get Trace’s plate carrier out of the way. Finally, they saw Trace’s injury once they had his shirt open.

“Flail chest?” Norm asked.

“Exactly,” Jeff confirmed.

The machine gun’s impact broke multiple adjacent ribs in two or more places creating a free-floating or ‘flail’ segment. That segment moved in opposite directions to Trace’s chest expansions and contractions, impeding his breathing. Jeff soon discovered another problem.

“His left lung’s collapsed.” Jeff molded a flexible aluminum splint into a wide, flat shape. Norm held it over the flail segment while Jeff taped it down tightly to ease Trace’s breathing. Jeff ran his fingers over Trace’s chest. “No sign of sub-q air...”

“What’s that?”

“Subcutaneous emphysema, what we sometimes call sub-q air or ‘Rice Krispies.’ It’s one sign of a pneumothorax which could develop into a tension pneumo. We’ll have to keep an eye out for that and other symptoms on the flight back.” Rather than wait for MEDEVAC in this case they’d bring Trace to Bagram’s hospital themselves, decreasing the time required to get him there.

Norm nodded, then looked over at Blow’s body. He looked back at Jeff and the older man nodded. Jeff took off his pack and pulled a thick, black object from it while Norm walked over to their platoon-mate. As gently as he could under the circumstances, Norm lifted Blow over his shoulder and carried him back to Jeff. Together they put the young Ranger in the body bag. The pair recruited others returning from the empty building to help carry Blow’s body bag while they carried Trace’s stretcher.

“What the hell did you idiots think you were doing?” Rick raged when they returned carrying the injured squad leader.

“What?”

“You could have been killed!”

“They were thrown clear by the blast. Plus you’re forgetting one very important thing, Sarge,” Norm said.

“And what’s that?”

“Never will I leave a fallen comrade,” Norm paraphrased to his platoon sergeant.

Rick had no answer for that as the choppers landed behind him. Every recruit learned the original phrase as part of the Army’s Soldier’s Creed. That phrase was especially true in units like the Rangers. 2LT Snow jogged over from the choppers.

“Let’s move! That building’s set to blow in ten minutes!”

Rick motioned the two toward the choppers with their burden.

Damn, he looks like shit, Jeff thought.

Trace Dinkins still lived – though he was deep in the weeds – as he lay in the small ICU at Bagram’s Role Three hospital. As soon as staff could stabilize him a little more they’d ship him out to a higher level of care.

“How’s he doing, Jeff?”

“He’s sick as snot, LT. They’ve got that lung re-inflated, but now he’s slowly bleeding into the fibrous sac that surrounds the heart. That sac doesn’t stretch so if they can’t figure out which part of the heart he’s bleeding from and stop it, the blood will smother it. They’ll have to continually drain that blood until it stops and, if it doesn’t stop on its own, they’ll go in to find where it’s coming from. They’ll probably ship him to Landstuhl later today, regardless. I doubt they want to crack his chest here if they can help it. What’s the word from on high?”

“We’re sidelined for at least the next two weeks or so, maybe longer. We’ve lost almost a quarter of our platoon over the past month, nearly a whole squad. This early in a deployment that’s not good. Even Norm will be almost a month in coming back since that leg wound opened up again. We’re going to reset, reload, and rest up. The five newbies will be here the day after tomorrow, and it’s going to take some effort to get them integrated. We’ll be at the range and practicing movement skills together a lot before we’re ready for missions again. Thankfully they’re experienced Rangers who volunteered to be replacements.”

Jeff nodded.

“Headed back to the tent?”

“No, sir. I’m gonna head over to the hospital library and try to catch up with a friend there so I can apologize to him.”

“Your buddy from 12th Group?”

“Yeah, I said some unfair things to him after Terry Nauert was killed. If he’s not there I’ll go looking for him. I’ll be back at our tent later this afternoon.”

“Let me know if you need help with anything,” the young officer said, resting his hand on Jeff’s shoulder.

“Thanks, LT, but I got myself into this mess, so it’s up to me to get myself back out.”

2LT Snow patted Jeff on the shoulder and stepped out of Trace’s semi-private ICU bay. Jeff sighed, took one more look at another wounded friend, and left. Jeff walked out of the ICU, heading through the attached step-down unit, and noticed a familiar face in a bed whose curtain was now open...

Mickey Kasperson.

Mickey’s color was good, and he looked healthy enough despite being in the step-down. He looked like he was simply asleep. Mickey’s eyes opened as Jeff scanned his monitor’s readout from the foot of the bed. He blinked a couple times and his eyes focused on Jeff.

“Hey,” Mickey said.

“Hey.”

“I heard you guys had a rough night again. Sorry.”

“Yeah,” Jeff sighed. “Mick, I owe you an apology.”

Mickey shook his head. “I went too far the other day. It wasn’t right for me to push you like that when you were hurting.”

“It needed to be said, Mick. Last night proved you were right. Blow had no chance. It didn’t matter I was less than fifteen meters from him. He died the moment those mines went off. We’d been thinking we were invincible up until DJ got hurt. Even then our mortality didn’t really sink in until Terry died. That’s part of what shook me up the other day.” Jeff shook his head. “What are you doing in here, by the way? It’s not like a snake eater to shirk duty like this.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re not funny?” Mickey asked while waving him to a chair.

“Only every day,” Jeff laughed as he sat down.

“If you must know, a hot appy landed me in here.”

“An inflamed appendix? You’re shitting me.”

“I shit you not, sir. You’re my favorite turd. I ignored some growing abdominal pain for a few days and I almost passed out in the team tent two nights ago trying to watch the World Series ‘analysis’ show. Game One’s only a day away now, but they’ll be hyping this one up until the first pitch is thrown. They can prognosticate all they want but there’s a reason you actually play the games. Anyway, the appy almost burst before they could take it out and they’ve been pumping me full of antibiotics ever since.”

“How long you on the bench for?”

“Should be out of here by tonight, or so they tell me. They want me up and around for a bit before my plane ride to avoid those pesky blood clots which might hinder my recovery. They’ll ship me home to rehab there in a day or two. After that it’ll be however long it takes me to get back into fighting trim.”

Jeff whistled.

“What about you and your platoon?” Mickey asked.

“We’re on a two week stand-down at a minimum. We’ve got five new guys coming in that’ll have to be brought up to speed before we go back out. Five wounded and two KIA since Kandahar, plus one injured who will be back. Almost a quarter of the platoon.”

Now it was Mickey’s turn to whistle.

“That’ll be a big job while you guys are deployed.”

“Charlie Mike, Mickey.”

“Hooah...”

“Good attitude, Sergeant,” someone new said. Jeff saw the newcomer’s rank and popped to his feet.

“Jeff, meet my team CO, Captain Arturo DeFusco. Sir, this is my friend from the 3d Ranger Battalion I told you about, Staff Sergeant Jeff Knox.”

“Good to meet you, Sergeant. Bravo Company, right? Your company CO and I were at West Point together.”

“Good to meet you too, sir. I’m afraid I haven’t run into Captain Miller much since we deployed. He’s been pretty busy checking on our company’s platoons while we’re scattered all over all over the map here.” Jeff turned back to Mickey. “I’ve gotta get back over to our platoon’s tent and start reading up on the newbies so I can help the chain of command get them integrated once they get here.”

“No problem, Jeff. Thanks for coming to find me. I’ll try and see you before I ship out.”

“Good enough.” Jeff turned and nodded at CPT DeFusco. “Sir.” He left the hospital.

“Seems like a good guy,” CPT DeFusco observed.

“Sure is, sir. He’s a Red Sox fan, after all.” CPT DeFusco, a New Jersey native, rolled his eyes. “From what I’ve learned about him over the last few months, he could be the answer to the team’s problem too, sir.”

Jeff sat on his bunk late that afternoon with the highlights of the new platoon members’ medical files spread out in front of him. Thankfully, there were no allergies or unusual medical issues listed for any of the five new additions. The full files shouldn’t be too hard to memorize once they arrived with the new Rangers.

“Hey, Bones?”

“Yeah, Rick?”

“They need you over at the office.”

“The CP? Why? What’s up?”

“Didn’t tell me that, just that they need to see you over there.”

“All right, then. Let’s go,” Jeff said, locking the files away.

Neither speculated aloud on the nature of the request on the way to the company CP. Given Jeff’s history with surprise meetings, Rick was aware that he wasn’t eager to find out. Jeff’s feeling of dread increased until he noticed CPT DeFusco and Mickey Kasperson standing next to CPT Miller and 2LT Snow.

“Sir? You needed to see me?”

“Yes, Jeff,” CPT Miller replied. “Now that the sergeant’s here, have a seat, everyone. Art?”

“Thanks, Toby. For those I haven’t met yet, my name is Captain Arturo DeFusco, team commander for Charlie-97, 12th Special Forces. Captain Miller and I were in the same class at West Point together. Sergeant Knox, Mickey says you two have struck up a friendship since your platoon’s arrival here?”

“Yes, sir?”

“As you know Sergeant Kasperson is one of my team medics, but he’ll be out of commission for some months rehabbing from his recent illness. What you and your fellow Rangers don’t know is that my other medic broke his leg playing basketball two days ago. My team has a rather important operation coming up and we now find ourselves without any highly-trained medical support. A few of my team are cross-trained, but that won’t really cut it for this mission.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but how does this involve Sergeant Knox?” 2LT Snow asked.

“I’ve come to ask Sergeant Knox to help out our team by accompanying us as our medic.”

Jeff looked at Mickey and raised his eyebrows.

“This your idea?”

“Seemed like a good one at the time.”

Jeff shook his head. 2LT Snow cleared his throat and addressed CPT DeFusco.

“Not to be blunt, sir, but our platoon’s taken a bit of a beating over the past month or so. Jeff’s earned a break, maybe even more than the rest of us have in some ways.”

“I’ll not argue either point, Lieutenant, but my team needs to leave on this mission tomorrow morning. Getting another SOCM-trained ATP medic here to fill in by then won’t be possible.”

“Sir, I’m sure you’re well aware that I’m not trained to the same level as Sergeant Kasperson?” Jeff asked. “The 18-Delta course starts with the SOCM course we both completed and builds on it from there. At best I’d be an extra rifle you wouldn’t have otherwise.”

“Our SOCM class should be enough training for this, Jeff. You shouldn’t have to do anything really involved,” Mickey said.

“I think you’re shortchanging yourself, Sergeant,” CPT DeFusco added. “I hear you’re due a Bronze Star with a ‘V’ in your time here already in addition to your Combat Medic Badge.”

“I’m not here for the bling, sir,” Jeff said with a bit of heat. CPT DeFusco held up a hand.

“I didn’t mean to suggest that you are, Sergeant. What I meant to say – though I muffed it – was that you’ve kept your platoon’s wounded-in-action from becoming your platoon’s KIA through your skill and bravery. I have no doubt that the two friends you’ve lost would still be alive today had they still possessed a single spark of life when you reached them. Everything I’ve learned, both from Sergeant Kasperson and Lieutenant Perry at the hospital, tells me you’re the right person at the right time to help us.”

“Jeff,” CPT Miller said, “speaking strictly of your medic skills Lieutenant Perry would rank you first among this battalion’s medics, let alone the company, as would Captain Blackburn. As a Ranger, you’re fearless and have never shown me an ounce of quit. You can hang with Art’s team and give them the support they need, of that I have no doubt. Lieutenant Snow is correct, however: you’ve earned a break. If you want those two weeks that you’re due, I’ll back you to the hilt and fight for you to get them.” Art DeFusco raised an eyebrow at his classmate. Toby Miller glared back, daring him to say something.

While the others bitched back and forth at each other, Jeff thought about the request. His first inclination was to tell the captain to go jump in a lake, if he could find one nearby. Every time Jeff thought of a reason to say no, however, he came back to one point. He looked at Mickey who’d kept himself out of the argument taking place around the two. Mickey shrugged.

“I’ll do it,” Jeff said.

“What?” Rick asked. The talking in the tent stopped.

“I’ll do it, sir. I’ll go on the mission.” The others from his unit stared at him like he had three heads.

“That’s great, Sergeant!” CPT DeFusco said.

“Yeah, great,” Rick parroted with great sarcasm. “What are you trying to prove?”

“Nothing, Rick. I made it to where I wanted to be when I reenlisted – to be a medic in a Ranger platoon. I’ve proven myself already. This? This isn’t a Ranger mission, Rick, but it supports the overall US mission here. I kept trying to think of a reason to say no, but the reason I couldn’t always came back to one simple concept: Charlie Mike.” Continue the mission.

“This could be a giant Charlie Foxtrot for you in the end, you know?” Rick glanced at CPT DeFusco. “No offense, sir.”

“A cluster? Sure, I know it. Our last couple of months have been one long cluster, if you think about it.”

Rick threw up his hands. “It’s your ass, Bones,” he sighed.

“Sir, I’ll help Sergeant Knox gather what he needs and bring him back to the team area in a bit.”

“Okay, Mickey,” CPT DeFusco replied. “No lifting, remember?”

“Shit, are you bringing enough stuff?” Rick asked.

“What? It’s only about sixty or seventy pounds,” Jeff replied.

“‘Sixty or seventy pounds,’ he says...” Rick muttered. “You’re an idiot, you know?”

“We’ve established this.” Jeff extended an envelope to his platoon sergeant. “Hold onto this for me, okay, Rick? It’s for Keiko.”

“Why? You’re coming back.”

“Murphy’s Law, Rick. My lockbox is packed, sealed, and ready to ship too, just in case.” Jeff shook Rick’s hand. “I’ll be back before the FNGs get here.” Rick nodded. Jeff shook hands with the rest of the platoon and left the tent.

“I must be out of my goddamn mind,” he muttered to Mickey while walking to Charlie-97’s tent.

“You’ll be in good company with my team.”

“Hrmm,” Jeff grunted in agreement.

“We’re about the same size, so you can borrow a couple of my BDU shirts for the mission.”

“I’m not a long-tabber, Mickey. I’m not SF.”

“It’ll be so you can blend in,” Mickey explained.

“If you and the captain really think I have to wear it, fine, but will I really need it? If the enemy’s close enough to see which patch I’m wearing, we have bigger problems.”

Mickey shrugged. When they reached the team tent, Mickey waved Jeff inside. “The bunk just inside the flap on the left is open. You can crash there tonight. The captain asked me to come get him over at the intel shop’s tent after I got you here. Go inside and get settled for the night. I’ll be right back.”

Jeff nodded before stepping inside. He shook out his poncho liner and laid it on the indicated bunk.

“Hey, dickhead!” was the greeting he received. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“What I was told,” Jeff sighed without looking up.

Jeff’s newest fan stepped up to him, trying to intimidate him by getting inside his personal space.

“Oh, really? And just what was that, asshole?”

Jeff didn’t answer. He sat on his bunk and untied his boots. His admirer stood over him, glaring. When Jeff went to swing his feet onto the bunk, the SF soldier shoved them back to the floor. Jeff let his legs swing him back around. He swept the man’s legs while grabbing the soldier’s arm, and drove him to the ground. Jeff soon pinned the man’s hand behind his back and between his shoulder blades.

“Nice takedown.” Jeff looked up to see CPT DeFusco and Mickey by the tent’s entrance. “What are you two numbskulls doing?”

“Discussing sleeping arrangements, sir.”

“I see. Would you care to let Sergeant Harvik up now?”

“Yes, sir.” Jeff rolled off Harvik. Harvik ignored the hand Jeff offered to help him up.

“Let me explain something to the rest of you,” CPT DeFusco called out. “Sergeant Knox is coming with us on the mission tomorrow. He is our medic at the moment. Yes, I borrowed him from the Ranger unit here. In point of fact, I signed for him so I’m on the hook if he’s lost or damaged.”

Most of the team chuckled. Commanders signed for their unit’s equipment, particularly the expensive stuff, and were responsible for it. Art DeFusco was only half-kidding in his statement. Toby Miller was their class’ boxing champ at West Point and threatened to take it out of Art’s hide if something happened to Jeff.

“Whether or not you want him here is irrelevant. Mickey recommended he be here and I want him here. We’ve been given a mission to do and, by God, we’re gonna do it. If any of you want to stay here, you can explain to the folks at SOCCENT why you refused a direct, lawful order from your team commander. I’m sure that’ll go well for you.” Art glared at everyone. “Any questions?” Wisely, there were none. “Sergeants Kasperson and Knox, you’re with me.”

“That was my fault, sir,” Mickey started to explain once outside. “I told Jeff to head inside without telling anyone why he was there.”

“I could have handled that better too, sir. The way your man greeted me kinda put me in a bad mood right away.”

CPT DeFusco waved off both explanations. “You know Harvik’s a bit prickly, Mick, and Jeff’s just learned that. Jeff, did Mickey fill you in on the mission?”

“We were either in the Ranger tent or walking here, sir. We didn’t want to potentially violate OPSEC.”

“Good enough, Mickey. This mission is important, Jeff, but it’s more good public relations than combat. We’re heading up into the mountains to meet with a local leader. He’s been fighting the Taliban since they started building their power base and we’ve been helping him since we’ve been here. My team inherited the mission from the team we relieved here and, hopefully, we’ll be in a position to hand it off when we rotate home. We’ll ride choppers into his general area but hike the better part of a day to get to his village. We’ll do this so we don’t encourage the Taliban to attack the choppers or village in force.

“While my warrant officer and I meet with this leader and his senior people, the rest of the team will mingle with the folks in the village looking for areas we can help them without attracting undue attention. In Mickey and Diego’s case that was to be running a small medical clinic to deal with any ailments his people might be having.”

“I helped Jeff pack his medical bag based on that, sir.”

“Good. Now, as to your uniform shirts...”

“Mickey mentioned something about that, sir, about me wearing some of his?”

“Right, to help you blend in.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I’m not SF and I’m not Mickey. The latter I can’t hide from your team or the villagers no matter what. The former might only serve to heighten tensions between myself and certain members of your team, especially if I wear patches I haven’t earned.”

“He does have a point, sir,” Mickey interjected. Art DeFusco nodded.

“I’m willing to bet your relationship with this village leader is based on a healthy trust of each other, sir?” Jeff asked. Art nodded again. “So tell him the truth. Your other medic is hurt, Mickey got sick, and you both asked me to fill in for them. Tell him I have your full confidence, if that’s not too much of a stretch, sir.”

“With Mickey’s endorsement of you it’s not, no. Okay, just wear your own uniforms, then. We’re wheels-up at zero-six-thirty tomorrow, so you’ll have to be ready to move by zero-five-forty-five for our final brief.”

“Roger, sir.”

“The rest of the night is yours. The guys will likely shut it down about twenty-two-hundred or so.”

“Roger, sir.”

After the captain left, Mickey briefed Jeff on the ailments he saw in the village, and the treatments provided, the last few times they were there.

“What’s the urgency with the mission, Mick? How come the team ‘has to’ leave in the morning.”

“Usually there isn’t any urgency in meeting with this group, but we hear they’re hosting another village after we leave. That village’s leadership will arrive a few hours after we leave. The other village doesn’t trust us yet, so right now it’s better if we’re not there.”

“Anyone else beside Harvik I need to watch out for?”

“No. Harvik’s not going to be an issue for you in the field. Even he’s more professional than that. He won’t be your best buddy, but you won’t have to look over your shoulder to watch for him coming at you.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you – what’s the scoop on your CO?”

“He’s a good one, certainly compared to others I’ve had along the way. He’s the Man In Charge, you don’t have to wonder about that. Our warrant officer, Chief Henderson, is no slouch either. The lines are a bit blurred at times when it comes to rank and familiarity in SF, but there are times when there’s no ambiguity. Stick to Ranger Regiment standards there and you’ll be fine, especially when you get back to your unit. It’ll be easier for you on that than it was at the end of SOCM if you do.”