Spirit Mission

by Ted Russ

  I didn’t say anything back to that, because if it happened, it would be a disaster.

  “Okay, Sam, good luck. See you on the PZ.”

  I stepped into the TOC to grab the rest of my gear and walked right into Rear Admiral Brick.

  “Avery. You’re back.”

  “Yes, sir, just grabbing my gear for tonight.”

  “May I speak with you for a minute in my office?”

  “Can it wait, sir? I’m in a bit of a rush.”

  “No. It can’t.”

  He walked to his office. I followed and shut the door behind myself.

  He gestured at a folding table covered with maps and target diagrams and sat at one end. I sat at the other.

  “Where were you today?”

  “Reconnecting with a couple classmates.”

  “West Point guys?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How did they know you were here?”

  “One of them is with Delta on a temporary assignment at the embassy. He seems to know everything.”

  Brick looked at me, not smiling.

  “That so?”

  “Yes, sir.” I smiled back at him nonchalantly.

  “And the other guy?”

  “Sir?”

  “You said you linked up with ‘a couple’ of classmates. Who was the other guy?”

  “He’s a PMC now. Actually, he owns the company. He’s working a contract down at the embassy. They linked up, thought of me, and decided to come say hi.”

  “Decided to drive a couple hundred miles through ISIS-infested territory to say ‘Hi’?”

  “They actually flew up on a Little Bird.”

  “That’s an expensive reunion.”

  “Like I said, he owns the company. They’ll be fine.” I was getting irritated. “Is there a problem here, sir?”

  “I guess I’m old-fashioned, Avery. When my battle captain leaves the TOC for a couple hours without telling me, my feelings get hurt. When my feelings get hurt, I can be a real dick.”

  “There was nothing going on, and Major Obrien took over for me. We had coms with each other the whole time, but I’ll keep that in mind going forward, sir.”

  Brick leaned back in his chair. “Look, Avery, I don’t mind you leaving to link up with old classmates. I would do the same if any of my Annapolis buddies were in reach. But I like being in the loop.”

  I nodded. I didn’t have time for this.

  The admiral looked back at me in silence. Brick and I had been at MacDill together for a few years. We were not friends but were familiar. He seemed like a good officer to me but a little uptight. This mission, in particular, had him wound up and on edge; that was understandable. We were the only JSOC quick reaction force in-theater, which meant his role as our commander was extremely high-visibility. He was on the secure video conference back to MacDill and Washington, D.C., several times a day, updating them on our aircraft maintenance status and aircrew readiness. When we flew off with one of his Chinooks, it was going to be a very high-level embarrassment that he wasn’t going to take well at all. I didn’t want to think about that right now.

  “We done here, sir?”

  “Actually, no. There is one more thing. Your promotion board results came in. You got picked up for colonel.” He actually smiled. “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you, sir.” I couldn’t believe it. Today of all days.

  “You don’t look happy.”

  “No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. I am happy, just surprised. I wasn’t expecting to hear today.”

  The admiral stood up and extended his hand. “Well, congratulations anyway, Avery.”

  I stood up and shook his hand. I couldn’t believe the timing.

  “Sir, you heard anything about a kidnapped American?”

  “Which one? You know we’re tracking about half a dozen now.”

  “A new one. A recent one in the Mosul area.”

  “No. Why?”

  “My buddies heard a rumor down at the embassy.”

  “It doesn’t surprise me, but if there were any Americans in that area recently, they were idiots. They’ve probably had their heads chopped off already. I’m sure we’ll see the video in a week or so.”

  SIXTEEN

  MARCH 1989

  By March, it was clear that Captain Eifer had set his sights on the Guru. The captain’s campaign against E4 seemed to have evolved into one directed at him in particular. He was getting dinged on a regular basis. Insufficiently shined hat brass at breakfast formation. Shoes improperly spaced beneath the bed during class. Improperly cleaned mirror and sink. The minor offenses mounted as the scrutiny increased. Captain Eifer was taking advantage of the fact that no one was perfect, and if you inspected any cadet often enough, you would find the imperfections. The Guru took it in stride.

  “Cadet Morris, tell me about the elections in Russia!” the Guru said cheerfully as he approached breakfast formation.

  “Sir, today in the New York Times it was reported that Soviet voters relished their freest elections in more than seventy years, choosing a new national Congress of Deputies. Boris N. Yeltsin, the deposed Moscow Communist Party leader, campaigned against party privileges and for greater political pluralism. Mr. Yeltsin appears to have beaten the candidate backed by the Moscow party machine.”

  “Interesting, eh, Cadet Morris?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The first nationwide election since 1917. You see, cadets, there is hope!” People within earshot of the Guru’s comments smiled and gave each other the “that crazy Guru” roll of their eyes. But as I watched him walk to his spot in formation, I noted that his hair was shorter than usual, his shoes were highly shined, and his gait was measured, not jaunty. I saw in these cues Eifer’s quarry, not the most cavalier cadet in the Corps. The Guru was under much more strain than he was letting on.

  That morning, I joined him for coffee. I found the post-breakfast time in the mess hall one of the most peaceful respites in my cadet day. It was strange, considering the scope and frenzy of the activity that kicks off instantly at the official close of the meal. The mess hall orderlies begin to reset the vast feeding machine for the lunch meal, only about five hours away. Four thousand dirty place settings and hundreds of serving dishes must get off the tables and into the massive dishwashing operation while fresh replacements are deployed. Giant mixing bowls, basters, dough scrapers, cooking sheets, and other oversized utensils are put to work as the ovens and grills are lit.

  Still, as a cadet sits with coffee after a meal, the furiously clanking dishes, scraping chairs, and hustling orderlies somehow recede. The massive space is full of noise and activity, but sitting at the table is quiet and peaceful. The window of calm lasts only about fifteen minutes, though, because the orderlies start slamming clean plates and silverware down on the table, signaling that any remaining cadets have worn out their welcome. It’s nice while it lasts.

  After breakfast, I walked over to the Guru’s table and sat down next to him. He looked straight ahead, not acknowledging my presence.

  “What do you want, Avery?”

  “Nothing. Just checking in.”

  He smiled. “Are you actually checking to see if I’m doing all right?”

  “I guess.”

  He nodded.

  “I’m fine. It does seem I have become Eifer’s special project, but no matter. It is the middle of March, and I graduate in about two and a half months. I could stand on my head for the rest of my time here if I had to.”

  “I know that, Guru. I just think it would suck to have that kind of constant heat.”

  “It’s not much fun, but, to be honest, I’m more worried about E4.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve heard rumors of a scramble.”

  My heart sank. “Scrambling” was an old academy practice of blowing up a cadet class after yearling year and reassigning each cadet randomly to a new company. It hadn’t happened in a long time, decades probably. It was constantly r
umored to be under serious consideration, particularly as company personalities had so drastically diverged. Like E4, some companies were on trajectories the tactical department disproved of. To me, A1 seemed like it belonged to a foreign military organization. I know those cadets felt the same about E4.

  “What do you mean, rumors?”

  “I have my sources,” he said without irony or mirth. “Eifer is making a big argument for it to the commandant. He thinks it’s the only way to bring all of the cadet companies to a uniform level of excellence.”

  Scrambling would mean that I’d lose Zack, Creighton, Turtle, and everyone else. We would be scattered to the four corners of the Corps. I shook my head; I couldn’t think about this right now.

  The Guru could see my concern. “It’s not a done deal yet, Avery. We just need a quiet end of the year, and we should be fine.” He seemed unconvinced himself.

  “I’m sorry I mentioned it,” he said. “By the way, I can’t help but notice that you and Bill Cooper don’t seem to be on great terms.”

  “You’re just a laugh a minute these days, Guru.”

  I didn’t know what else to say. Christmas leave had actually ratcheted up my anger at Bill and my guilt at what I had done. Bill and I had still not spoken since our fight.

  “Now, that is a sad face. You should see yourself.”

  “Well, I’m sure we’ll patch it up after a while.”

  “Real convincing. I hope you guys do patch it up. Good friends are hard to find, Avery. Especially here.”

  Good friends wouldn’t have done to me what he did, I thought. I looked at the Guru and began to explain what had really happened that night but stopped myself as soon as my mouth opened.

  “My Lord, Avery, you had better make peace with whatever is bothering you. Pass me the coffee, will you?”

  He warmed up his cup and resumed staring straight ahead. I did the same.

  A bowl of silverware clanged as it landed at the other end of the table. The mess hall orderly glared at us as she moved to her next station.

  “Well, Avery … onward.” The Guru stood up, put on his gray overcoat, and moved on.

  * * *

  “What is your friend Bill up to?” asked Colonel Krieger late the next week as he handed me a bratwurst. It was Saturday afternoon, and he had invited me up for a grill. When we’d spoken briefly on the phone, he’d made a point of telling me that Bill was welcome to join us. I had not mentioned it to Bill.

  “Same old.” We left the grill and I followed the colonel back inside. We sat in their living room and devoured our bratwurst.

  “He seemed like a good kid to me.”

  “Yeah,” I said as I played up the fact that I had just taken a big bite. I had zero desire to talk about Bill.

  Colonel Krieger shook his head. “I thought they taught you knuckleheads not to take big bites. The Corps has.” He winked.

  “You have no idea, sir.”

  “Oh, come on, Sam—you’ve got about six weeks left in yearling year and then a big chunk of leave coming your way, and it’s all downhill from there.”

  “Yes, sir. All downhill. For two more years.”

  “Did you get your final assignment for the summer?”

  “Yes, sir. Airborne School after graduation, then leave, and then Drill Cadet Leadership Training.”

  “Excellent. Where are you doing DCLT?”

  “Fort Benning.”

  “A Fort Benning summer!” He chuckled. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were an aspiring infantryman.”

  I rolled my eyes and replied, “No, sir. I put the bid in for Benning DCLT because it’s close to home.”

  “Good thinking. What are you doing for leave?” He was genuinely excited.

  “Europe, sir.”

  “Now we’re talking!” He just about came out of his chair in excitement. “Where?”

  “Germany and Austria. I’ve always wanted to see the Berlin Wall. I’m going to explore Berlin for a couple of days and then do some hiking in Austria. Clear my head for a while.”

  “Outstanding. You know, a classmate of mine is with the Berlin Brigade right now. JAG Corps. If you want, I can give you his contact info. Great guy!”

  Involuntarily, I shook my head. The colonel leaned back in his chair.

  “Only if you want.”

  “Honestly, sir, a commissioned officer is the last person I’d want to hang out with over there. I really want to get off the grid.”

  He took a swig. “Sure. I get it, son. When I was a cadet, I felt the same way.”

  We sat in silence. I didn’t know how to talk about it; I felt like a jerk. The colonel quietly watched the TV, giving me space.

  “I’m sorry, sir. It’s been a long year. I don’t have a problem with officers. To be honest, it’s my own classmates that have worn on me lately.”

  “It’s okay, Sam, really.” He held his hand up to stop my babbling and continued: “I don’t take it personally. It’s the never-ending cycle. Plebes are scared. Yearlings are depressed. Cows are mad, and firsties are just excited to graduate.

  “You’re an end-of-year yearling. Everything is rubbing you the wrong way. You need to get the hell out of here for a while.” He chuckled. “It’s such a funny thing.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “You guys start to drive each other crazy after a while. The stakes get so high. The differences between each of you seem so stark. The truth is, by the time you graduate, you guys are nearly identical.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “I’m sure you don’t right now, but, trust me, it’s like your DNA has been spliced with all of your classmates’. At this point, there is only about a two percent difference between any of you, even between the best and worst cadets. Right now, that two percent makes all the difference. It causes friction; it’s all you guys focus on while you swim around chafing each other in the fishbowl. After graduation, it’s that ninety-eight percent commonality that you will seek out. For the rest of your life, long after you take your uniform off, you will feel more at ease, more understood by other old grads than anyone else in your life. All of that rubbing will be distant memories.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “I swear. I don’t know why I bother,” he added, winking to let me know he understood.

  After dinner, I said good night to the colonel and his wife and declined their offer of a ride back to the barracks. It was a crisp spring evening, and it felt good to walk. As I passed the cadet cemetery, I realized how desperate I was for the summer to start. The feeling had come into focus at Colonel Krieger’s house and was now heavy upon me. The secret shame I had been swallowing for half the year was still heavy. So, too, was the feeling of loss and anger between Bill and me. Ladle on top of that the standard comic opera and pedantic idiocy of cadet life, and I felt like I was suffocating.

  It was getting close to 1800 hours when I took a right on Jefferson Road, the last stretch to the barracks. I walked by the supe’s quarters and was soon passing MacArthur’s statue. I paused and looked to the northeast, back over the Plain toward the Hudson River. It was a perfect evening, and, reluctantly, I admitted to myself that West Point would be a lovely place to visit. Zack greeted me breathlessly when I got back to the company.

  “Captain Eifer and the Guru just got into it. Holy shit, Sam! It was incredible. I think the Guru is fucked!”

  * * *

  For the next few days, E4 tried to digest the earthshaking news. The Guru had been suspended.

  His disciplinary cycle had been one of the quickest anyone had ever seen. Monday morning at 0800 hours, the Guru was in Eifer’s office. The regimental board was held Tuesday morning. On Wednesday, his suspension was finalized.

  The demerits and area tours the Guru had racked up under Captain Eifer’s grinding second-semester campaign had combined with Saturday’s incident of “gross disrespect” to create a narrative that doomed him.

  “You can’t g
et slugged that close to graduation,” I said to Zack later as we studied for exams. “The Guru knows that.” A cadet could not graduate with outstanding area tours. His ledger had to be clean. As a result, there was a practical limit to the size slug you could take as a second-semester firstie and still graduate. This ceiling ratcheted down as the academic year expired. During grad week, there was always a platoon or more of firsties madly walking off their final hours. There was a maximum to how much a cadet was allowed to walk off, though, and one had to get authorization to walk off more than that. This approval hurdle was an effective way to decide who could graduate. I was sure the Guru had requested to serve his tours prior to graduation, and I was just as sure Eifer had denied the request with pleasure.

  “You should have heard him go after Eifer,” Zack said. “I thought the captain was going to punch him.”

  “I bet the Guru wishes he did. I would slit my wrists if they pushed me back to a December grad.”

  “Knowing Eifer and how much he hates the Guru, I bet he pushed to have him kicked out completely.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “They are not going to do that to someone with the Guru’s pedigree: a third-generation legacy whose grandfather fought in World War II and father fought in Vietnam.”

  “I thought the Guru had this place totally figured out. I can’t believe he let himself get out of control like that.”

  “Sam, this place gets to everybody. Period.”

  SEVENTEEN

  1949 HOURS, 1 AUGUST 2015

  After preflight, Pete smoked a Backwoods cigar and we briefed the three crew members on the follow-on mission we would attempt if we had the chance. Pete had done a good job of crew selection; they were all in. Pete’s charisma and his relationship with them combined with the righteousness of our cause to make our bootleg mission irresistible. When we were done, Staff Sergeant Crawford, 458’s flight engineer, smiled and said, “Sounds like a big fucking hip shoot to me.”

  Crawford was a muscular twenty-nine-year-old from Ohio. Having joined the army straight out of high school, he was a veteran of over a decade of war and had been crewing Golf model Chinooks for eight of those years. As a longtime crew member in the 160th, Crawford was used to missions that were planned down to the gnat’s ass, much like the one we were about to undertake to get Abdul-Ahad. These tightly orchestrated operations involved multiple agencies internal and external to SOCOM and timelines that were planned and executed to the standard of plus or minus thirty seconds.