by Bob Mayer
"Of course I want to know," Boomer said.
The sergeant major looked at him hard. "You know the saying 'let sleeping dogs sleep?' or something like that."
"Yeah."
"Maybe you don't want to know what happened to your dad."
Boomer returned the sergeant major's look, his body stiffening. "I want to know."
Skibicki nodded "OK. You're going to be here a while, right? We'll talk. Right now, we need to finish PT."
8:45 a.m. LOCAL/1845 ZULU
"Sir, there's an encrypted message for the commander in here," Boomer held out the one-inch binder that he'd picked up from the Fort Shafter Secure Communication/Intelligence Facility (SCIF). The binder contained all the classified messages for the TASOSC received during the past twenty-four hours. "All the rest is routine traffic decoded by the SCIF and I've Xeroxed copies and put them in the appropriate boxes."
Lieutenant Colonel Falk looked up from the mound of paperwork that always covered his desk. He turned around and pulled open the drawer of a secure file cabinet behind him. Falk removed a small pad and tossed it to Boomer. "Break out the message and give me a hard copy to put in the CO's reading file." He noted Boomer's surprise. "I know that isn't the way it's supposed to be done, but Colonel Coulder's time is too important—or at least that's what he thinks—to be wasted on breaking out messages, and he delegated it to me, and I'm delegating it to you. Like you said yesterday, you do have a TS Q clearance. He's got a briefing at 0900 in the conference room and I don't have time right now."
"Yes, sir," Boomer said, taking the one-time pad with him to his desk in the next tunnel. Sergeant Major Skibicki wasn't in from PT, and Boomer was anxious to talk to him.
Boomer sat down and matched up the page number on the pad to the indicator at the start of the message. A one-time pad consists of sheets of six-letter groups. Boomer took the unintelligible six-letter groups on the actual message, matched them with the randomly generated groups on the one-time pad and, using a trigraph which had standard three-letter combinations, he was able to decipher the message. Despite all the advances in technology, a one-time pad was still the most secure way to send a message because there were only two copies of the pads in existence—the sender had one and the receiver had one. Because the pad letters were randomly generated by a computer, there was no "code" involved that could eventually be broken down.
The only problem, thus Boomer's surprise, was that the owner of the one-time pad was supposed to be the one decoding the message. Having someone else do it was a breach of security. Boomer knew that on A teams, detachment commanders sometimes gave the team pads to their communications sergeants to make message sending and receiving easier because commo men had the three letter groups on the trigraph memorized, but he'd never agreed with that policy. He also wondered why the TASOSC commander was even using a one-time pad given the sophisticated transmitting and receiving machinery available at the Fort Shafter SCIF. An A Team used the pads because they only had a limited capability to carry encrypting machinery—thus the code itself had to be unbreakable. At fixed stations like Fort Shafter, the encryption usually was in the sending and receiving technology.
The letters flowed out under Boomer's pencil and the message slowly took form. He was surprised to see a Javis report appear—a format for a water drop zone report used by Special Forces.
tocomm
askfor
zeroon
rkbbbf
rfivee
anderf
cereap
esixfo
ourtwo
ightei
ourthx
erjavi
urthre
echoju
ghtzer
xtasos
smessa
eaaagu
lietse
occcon
cfromt
gecite
mbosha
venfou
eeight
sixdeg
ightki
sevent
eeeone
erozer
twozer
krpiii
onnelt
ronetw
coastg
lomete
wozero
twozer
osixde
omount
infilt
wobund
ozeroz
uardli
rsdddo
axisze
odashe
ggggei
ainshh
ration
lejjjd
erozul
ghtone
nezero
rozero
ightze
ghtzer
hirstr
fourte
tgtwod
uxxxxx
pointe
zeroby
sixdeg
rofffz
otoone
obemar
enpers
ecembe
Boomer took the deciphered six letter groups and made sense of them on another sheet of paper:
to: commander fourth tasosc
from: task force reaper
javis
message cite zero one six four three
aaa gumbo shark
bbb four two echo juliet seven four five eight eight zero
ccc one eight six deg coast guard light one point
eight kilometers
ddd one zero zero by seven two zero axis zero zero six deg
eee one two zero dash eight zero
fff zero zero six deg
ggg eight zero to one two zero mountains
hhh ir strobe mark rp
iii infiltration fourteen personnel two bundle
jjj dtg two december one two zero zero zulu
As Boomer finished, a shadow appeared over his desk. He looked up into the cold gray eyes of the full-bird colonel he'd glimpsed at a distance during PT. Boomer glanced down at the nametag on the man's starched fatigues and confirmed the identification: coulder
"What are you doing, major?" The voice was the same high-pitched one he'd heard coming from Coulder's office the previous day.
Boomer snapped to his feet, holding out the piece of paper on which he had just written the formatted message. "Breaking out a message received this morning, sir."
Colonel Coulder snatched the message out of Boomer's hand and looked at it, then his eyes swiveled back up. "Who told you to decrypt a message addressed to me?"
"Colonel Falk, sir. He said to—"
"When my name is on a damn message, major, I want to see it immediately. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Who the hell are you anyway?" Coulder demanded, slipping the message into a file folder under his left arm.
Boomer was very glad he had gotten his hair cut yesterday afternoon and shined his boots right after physical training. "Major Watson, sir. I'm here TDY."
Coulder searched his mind. "Are you the fellow Falk told me about yesterday?"
"I don't know, sir."
"From Bragg?"
"Yes, sir."
"Why are you here?" Coulder demanded.
"Area orientation, sir," Boomer answered.
Coulder stared at him for a few seconds, then held out his hand. At first Boomer thought he was offering to shake hands, but his next words corrected that assumption. "Give me the pad," Coulder ordered.
Boomer passed over the one-time pad. Coulder glanced at it, then turned and walked away, going into the glassed-off conference room at the end of the tunnel. Boomer sank into his chair. The original copy of the message he had transcribed with its six-letter groups was still on the pad of paper.
He now understood Wilkerson's anger and frustration yesterday. The last person he'd want to talk to after getting relieved of command was Coulder. Boomer hurriedly tore the top page off and stuffed it into his fatigue pocket, not wanting to risk another encounter with Colonel Coulder over the message.
Sergeant Major Skibicki had walked in
while Coulder was addressing Boomer. The old NCO slowly sank down into his squeaking desk chair after the colonel departed and kicked his feet up on the scarred desktop. "Finally met the boss, I see."
"Is he always so friendly?" Boomer asked.
"You caught him on one of his good days," Skibicki said. "Normally he would have locked your heels."
"I'm getting a little too old for that kind of crap," Boomer said.
"I am too old for that crap," the sergeant major said. "He tried to do it to me once, right after he came here and took over. Right in front of the troops at an inspection formation. Talk about unprofessional. I told him he could shove that shit up his ass. We haven't had too many discussions since then."
"What did he do?" Boomer asked.
"He tried to get me relieved, but SOCOM told him he could shove that. I was the only Special Forces sergeant major on the island and they were damned if they were going to PCS another one here just because he couldn't get along with me." Skibicki grinned. "Besides, the sergeant major at SOCOM, Billy Lucius, owes me one, and I want to retire here. Don't need to be getting shipped back to the states and turn right around."
"How many years do you have in sergeant major?"
"Twenty-nine." Skibicki gestured around the tunnel. "I came on active duty in 'sixty-four; then had a two-year break in service after coming back from my third tour in 'Nam in 72. Back on active duty in '74, so I seen it all."
"This assignment is my last hurrah. Baby-sitting a bunch of headquarters pukes and making sure the police call outside the tunnel is done properly. I've got more time in uniform than any other person on this entire island. I've got more time in grade than Sergeant Major Finley up at the 25th Infantry Division at Schofield. Yet here I am."
"How did you—" Boomer halted as Sergeant Vasquez walked in and handed a folder to Skibicki.
"Here's the duty roster, sergeant major." She gave Boomer a smile as she exited the tunnel.
The gesture hadn't been lost on Skibicki. "Damn Army sure has changed. You saw her at PT?"
"Yeah. Made me feel out of shape," Boomer said.
"Well, be careful of her," Skibicki warned. "We get a lot of people through here TDY, and Vasquez likes playing with 'em. Don't matter if it's officer or enlisted as long as it has a hard dick. Get your head between her thighs and she'll crush it like a melon."
"I'll keep that in—" Boomer froze, his eyes locked on a figure that had just walked out of the middle side tunnel and was heading for the glassed-in conference room. Boomer slid his seat back until he was hidden from view by the bank of classified filing cabinets.
"What's the matter?" Skibicki asked, his eyes following Boomer's. "You know that guy?"
"Yeah, I know him," Boomer answered. The door to the conference swung shut and through the glass, Boomer could see the backs of the people attending the meeting, all facing Colonel Coulder who stood at a podium, a map of the island of Oahu pinned to the easel to his left rear. Sergeant Vasquez walked in, handed a folder to Coulder and left the conference room. She gave Skibicki and Boomer another smile as she exited the tunnel.
Boomer, still hiding himself from direct view of the people in the room, watched as Coulder started talking, wishing he could read lips. "What are they talking about in there?" Boomer asked.
The sergeant major shrugged. "Don't know. I'm the senior enlisted man in the tunnel and no one tells me shit."
"Who are they?"
Skibicki looked and checked off people with a glance. "As you know, the full bull at the podium is our exalted leader, Colonel Coulder. The guy with the thinning blond hair works in J-3, Operations, up at USPACOM. I don't recognize the major or the other colonel who"—Skibicki threw a questioning glance at Boomer—"you apparently know, but I don't."
"That colonel is from the JCS. He's the Special Operations liaison. His name is Decker," Boomer said.
Coulder was slapping his pointer on the blue marking ocean, off to the west of the island. Suddenly Coulder stopped and looked straight through the glass at the sergeant major. He snapped something and the major stood up and drew the curtains on the far side of the glass, blocking off the view.
"Assholes," Skibicki said angrily. "That's fucking insulting. I've served in this man's Army since Christ was a corporal, and they're hiding things from me like they don't trust me." He rubbed his grizzled chin. "Special Ops liaison from the JCS, eh? There's some weird shit going on around here lately."
Boomer relaxed slightly now that he couldn't be spotted, but he was anxious to be out of the tunnel before the meeting broke up and Decker came out. He was absolutely the last person Boomer had expected to run into here.
Boomer turned his attention to more personal matters. "Hey, sergeant major, is there some place on post where we can go get a cup of coffee and a donut?'' Boomer asked, wanting to get the story about his father out of the old man as much as he wanted to avoid Decker.
"Yeah." Skibicki stood and grabbed his green beret, squashing it down on his iron-gray hair. "Let's go talk. It stinks in here."
The snack bar Skibicki took Boomer to was an old World War II structure. One of thousands of "temporary" buildings, constructed during the war at dozens of Army posts and then used for the next fifty years by the military, another curious example of the spending practices of the defense establishment. Billions could be spent on a new airplane, but purchasing a new boot or better living quarters for the actual soldier was usually very low on the priority list. Boomer figured it was more a question of contractor and politician than soldier needs.
Inside the building, Boomer grabbed a couple of cups of coffee and a plateful of donuts and joined Skibicki who was joshing with the little old woman who worked the register.
"Boomer, meet Maggie Skibicki, my mom," the sergeant major said. "Mom, this young fellow is Boomer Watson. I served with his dad."
"Well, you are getting old, aren't you, Ski? I don't want to think what that says about me," she joked. "Pleased to meet you, Boomer," Maggie said as she took his money. Her face was wrinkled with the years, but her eyes were a piercing blue that had lost nothing over time. They gazed at Boomer, and he felt that look cut into him.
"Nice to meet you," Boomer replied.
Skibicki led the way to a corner table where he sat down, his back square in the corner, facing the empty room. "Mom's been here at Shafter for over twenty years. She used to work up at Schofield Barracks."
"My dad was retired Navy. Mom's what they call a Pearl Harbor survivor. She was living out by Pearl back in 'forty-one. Dad was on board the Enterprise, so it's one of those strange twists of fate that she was here for the attack on Pearl Harbor and he wasn't. They used to joke about that all the time. He spent thirty years in the Navy. He died about four years back. Mom's past mandatory retirement age, but she's got a special exception from the post commander to work. She likes to get out and be around people. You ever need to know anything about this island, you ask her."
Boomer glanced across the room at the old woman with slightly different eyes. All he knew of the attack on Pearl Harbor were news clips and boring lectures at West Point.
"You need to go out there to Pearl," Skibicki continued. "It's very interesting. Ask Maggie about it if you get the chance."
"You said you served with my dad?" Boomer prompted.
Skibicki nodded. He reached into the breast pocket of his fatigues and pulled out a piece of cardboard and carefully unfolded it, revealing a faded picture inside. "You ever heard of Projects B-50 or B-57?"
Boomer nodded. "We used their after-action reports when I was in 10th Group to help write our team SOPs. B-50 and B-57 were the cross border operations 5th Group ran during the war to gather intelligence."
Skibicki laid a photograph on the table top. A very young-looking Skibicki wearing tiger-stripe fatigues and sporting a CAR-15 stood next to another American, also wearing the distinctive fatigues and holding a short-barreled grenade launcher in one hand and an AK-47 in the other. Four indigenous soldiers,
dressed in fatigues and carrying AK-47s stood in front of the taller Americans. Boomer instantly recognized the second American as his father.
"There weren't that many of us in SF at any one time, although this was in 'sixty-nine when they were taking any Tom, Dick, and Harry and giving them a beret and shooting them across the borders because we were taking such high casualties," the sergeant major explained. "I was in the 173rd Airborne during my first tour, and when I went back for my second, they were hurting for bodies so they were taking even non-SF people into the recon teams. Any idiot that was dumb enough to volunteer and had combat experience was accepted. So that's how I became Special Forces-qualified in 'sixty-eight."
He tapped the photo. "This was recon team Kansas. Each team was named after a state. This picture was taken a week before we went on our last mission."
Skibicki took a sip of coffee, then continued. "Let me give you some background so you understand what happened.’Sixty-eight and 'sixty-nine were bad-ass years in the war. It was after Tet, and, despite what those pissant reporters said, we were kicking ass. The fucking NVA had run for the hills and was licking its wounds across the borders in Laos and Cambodia. The only time they showed up to fight was when they were sure they could hit us by surprise. So in order to not be surprised, in October of 'sixty- eight, the Blackbeard Collection Plan was instigated by some Intelligence dink in Saigon. The idea was to coordinate all surveillance and reconnaissance assets running operations near or over the borders."
"Project Gamma, of which project B-57 was a part, was the Special Forces' contribution to the Blackbeard effort. And even though we only supplied six percent of the total flow of information to MACV, our stuff turned out to be over half the good intel. That was 'cause we went in on the ground and put our beady little eyeballs right on the shit. We didn't fly over at thirty thousand feet and guesstimate or drop in sensors that fucking deer could set off and the Air Force would waste a couple of hundred thousand dollars worth of bombs on making venison. When we said something was there, it was there right in front of us."
"Anyway, we would work off of humint—human intelligence—about possible enemy locations. We'd get some info, then go in and verify. Well, in early 'sixty-nine our sources started drying up. And the info we were getting was tainted. We lost several teams. They just went out, and it was like they disappeared into a black hole. We later found out what was happening: there was a double-agent at Nha Trang turning the teams." Skibicki waved his hand "I'll get back to that."