Spirit Mission

by Ted Russ

  I had been able to get us a room in the small hotel on Governers Island, a Coast Guard base less than half a mile off the southern tip of Manhattan. A military ID was required to gain access, and a small, dedicated ferry worked its way back and forth between the island and lower Manhattan. There was not a lot of activity on the island, so it felt like our own personal bed and breakfast with access to New York City. Stephanie loved it. After adventures in Manhattan, we snuggled against the chill and alternated our gaze from the Statue of Liberty to the lights of the city as we crossed the water where the Hudson and East River came together.

  As perfect as it was, though, our impending separation stalked us all weekend. On Sunday, she cried as we packed to take her back to the airport.

  “Am I feeling too much?” she asked.

  “Not unless I am also.”

  “Why is everything so damn strong with you? Why are my feelings so urgent?”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “I think it is.” She stopped packing and sat on the edge of the bed staring at the floor.

  “Why?”

  “It’s going to burn us up. It’s not sustainable.” Tears ran down both of her cheeks.

  “I think parting is supposed to hurt, isn’t it?” I sat next to her and I wiped her tears with my hand.

  “I know that. This just feels so different. It’s too much. I mean, I’ve been in relationships before. I’ve had to say good-bye and do long-distance. This is different. We always seem to be saying ‘good-bye’ or ‘I miss you.’”

  “I feel the same.” I leaned in and gently kissed her forehead.

  “I’m not saying this to be reassured by you, Sam. I’m just saying what I feel. This doesn’t feel good to me. Doesn’t feel healthy.”

  She noticed the alarm on my face, reached out her hand, and gently stroked my cheek. “Don’t look so worried. I’m not winding up to anything. I’m just saying…”

  “Just saying what?”

  “I’m worried about us. That’s all. I don’t know what to do with all these feelings. I don’t trust them.”

  “You can trust me.”

  “I do. I just don’t think we know what we’re doing. It scares me.” She began to well up again. Her eyes glistened heavily for a moment and seemed to sink beneath the rising tears. She closed her eyes, and a heavy, sad teardrop broke free and ran slowly down each cheek.

  I didn’t know what to do, so I gave her a hug. She stifled a few sobs and then sat up, her nose running.

  “Damnit. Just the way I want you to remember me. Can you grab me a tissue?”

  I returned from the bathroom and handed her a box of tissues.

  “Could you find us some coffee?”

  “You got it.”

  When I got back, she was done packing and was standing at the window looking out across the water at the city.

  “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.” She gave me a kiss on the cheek and walked over to the sofa. Her eyes were red. But she was different. Colder. She had clearly been crying while I was on the coffee run. But she had finished and put on her armor.

  We took the ferry back to Manhattan, and I rode with her in the cab to the airport. We held hands and looked out the window in silence as we left the city. On the curb at LaGuardia, I hopped out and grabbed her bag from the trunk. The cab idled at the curb as we hugged and said good-bye.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  0144 HOURS, 2 AUGUST 2015

  “Elvis, this is Thayer 6. We’re set. Sitrep, please.”

  “Thayer 6, no changes.”

  “Bulldog, Thayer 6, what is your status?”

  “Thayer 6, Bulldog is in position,” I answered as we flew a wide left-turn holding pattern five hundred feet above the desert floor ten kilometers to the southeast. At this distance, we could get to the objective to extract Zack and his team in about three minutes. We had the drone video feed called up on our displays and were looking at the objective.

  “Roger that. Here we go.”

  The team broke down the door, threw concussion grenades, and stormed into the house in one fluid movement, like water rushing into a sinking boat. Even from a distant, monochromatic overhead angle it was an impressive display. It was the deadly economy of motion obtained only through tens of thousands of hours of repetition. In that moment, I knew they would get the Guru out.

  “That was smooth,” Pete said softly in admiration.

  We couldn’t hear anything, but we watched as window shutters were blown off in successive rooms as the team worked their way quickly through the house.

  “How many guys do we think are in there?” asked Pete.

  “Elvis says four.”

  “Shouldn’t take long.”

  I stared at the drone feed in silence. This was the moment in any mission I hated the most: waiting as the ground element executed. Waiting for the next radio transmission. The one that would reveal whether the operation would proceed smoothly or begin to unravel. Whether the fortunes of war had been kind or cruel. Once the call was made, the uncertainty was lifted. For me, it was always easier to know. Was it going to be a hot LZ? Would there be wounded? Was there something we had not planned for? I just wanted to know.

  I pictured Turtle and Zack working through the building together. Were it not so deadly a situation, the contrast would be humorous. Since his first day as a cadet, Turtle had been a dense, stout guy. His movements had a deliberate and insistent quality that reflected his stubbornness and the fact that he would never quit, ever.

  Zack was lanky and awkward-looking when stationary but graceful in motion. I had been on the ground with him on a few operations since 9/11. He still moved like a lacrosse player: fluid, sweeping, and decisive. I hoped he’d make quick work of things tonight.

  No one spoke on the aircraft. Chinook 458 was quiet except for her laboring engines and beating rotors. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Pete stretch his neck to one side and then the other, limbering up for the coming fight. Crawford was leaning into the companionway, staring over our shoulders at the drone feed on our cockpit displays. The entire aircrew stewed silently, considering all the scenarios that could be dictated by the next few minutes: some good, some bad.

  I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths.

  “This is Thayer 6. House clear. No Guru.”

  “What happened to all that intel you guys were supposed to be getting, sir?” Crawford said from the back of the aircraft.

  “Elvis, this is Thayer 6, you copy?”

  “Roger, Thayer 6. He should be there. Check again.”

  “Second fucking dry hole tonight. This is bad,” Pete said.

  He was right. We didn’t have the resources to conduct a search of the next house, let alone the adjacent block or the rest of Tal Afar. We barely had sufficient resources to take down the one target house.

  “Thayer 6. Elvis. Any enemy you can question?”

  “Negative. Wasn’t the profile.”

  It was a ridiculous question. Zack’s frustration came through over the radio. He and the team had gone in to clear and rescue. Not to capture anyone.

  “Tell them to check again,” said Pete.

  “No. They know what to do. Give them a few minutes.”

  “All the time in the world is not going to matter if your guy is not there.” Pete was getting frustrated.

  He was right. I was worried. To make matters worse, the assault had been loud. It would already have begun attracting attention. We would be screwed if a ground force found them. It would take too long. They should be back on the pickup truck headed to the PZ now.

  “I’m going to feel really stupid flying back empty-handed.”

  Pete’s statement hit my gut like ice water.

  TWENTY-NINE

  DECEMBER 1989

  The Monday after a loss to Navy sucks. The Corps is back facing exams, gloom period’s takeover of the cadet area is close, and the plebes, who have been hoping to “fall out” after a win over Navy, must cont
inue pinging against the walls and eating at attention.

  At dinner, I found myself sitting at a table with Bill and the Guru as table com. As the two cows, Bill and I sat across from each other at the head of the table. A month before, it would have been awkward, but we had thawed to the point that I almost welcomed it. I wondered if the Guru had orchestrated it.

  The Guru ordered the plebes to execute their duties silently. “I don’t ever want to hear announcements during dinner. Just get the drinks and food out and cut the dessert. Always assume eight pieces. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Get on with it.”

  It was a quiet meal. As soon as the announcements were made, the plebes and yearlings departed. Bill, the Guru, and I sat at the table and drank coffee.

  “What a fucking year, huh?” said Bill dejectedly. “Female first captain. Fall of the Berlin Wall. Loss to Navy by a damn field goal with fifteen seconds left.”

  “Are those all bad things?” asked the Guru.

  “I suppose they’re all both good and bad,” I said. Bill looked at me, puzzled. “Okay. Losing to Navy is all bad, but the other two depend on your point of view.”

  The Guru shook his head. “Always the philosopher.”

  “Well, my point of view is pretty simple,” said Bill. “It’s the Corps’ point of view. Having a female first captain is progress but is also a pain in the ass. This place is shitty enough without cause for even more scrutiny and political correctness.”

  “All progress comes from struggle, Bill,” the Guru said.

  Bill rolled his eyes and continued: “As far as the Berlin Wall is concerned, same thing. Sure, it’s progress for the world, depending on how things shake out, but for the Corps, the beginning of the disintegration of our ‘main enemy’? You watch, Sam: by the time you and I graduate next year, all people are going to be talking about is massive military budget cuts. What a wonderful time to be commissioned.”

  “You’d prefer that Berlin remain a divided city so the Corps can be happy?” the Guru asked.

  “Of course not,” Bill fumed. “But sometimes I think we’re just cursed. Unlucky. This has to be the most overly sensitive, wannabe-professional, watered-down time in history to have ever been a cadet.” Bill shook his head. He was dejected. He took a swig of coffee and sighed. “Fuck it.”

  It was strange to see him like this, if only briefly. To me, Bill had always seemed an indifferent force of nature. He did not get down. Even when walking off more area punishment tours than some entire platoons get in a semester, he had not gotten down. But the cocktail of events and the outside pressures weighing on the Corps this year had affected him in a way that other things had not.

  “You guys sound ready,” said the Guru.

  Used to his cryptic style, we turned our heads toward the head of the table and waited for him to continue.

  He warmed up his coffee from the steaming silver pitcher and added a single sugar packet. He stirred the drink slowly and continued:

  “For action, my young Percivals.”

  He held the steaming cup in his left hand as he sat back in his chair. He placed his cadet saber on the table in front of him, then laid his white gloves over his saber. With his props in front and the mural depicting the history of warfare on the wall behind him, he took a leisurely sip of coffee.

  “You guys know who Percival was?”

  “The knight who found the Holy Grail,” I said. “He saved Camelot.”

  “Correct.”

  “The Knights of the Round Table were the most glorious band of brothers the world has ever known. After their formation by King Arthur, they rid England of the tyranny and chaos that had plagued it for centuries. Imagine the impressions this group must have made on the young men of the kingdom as they rode grandly about the land, slaying evildoers and dragons, effortlessly seducing every young maiden in their path, and wearing impressive suits of armor when everyone else was dressed in rags.

  “One of these starstruck youths was a peasant named Percival. He followed the knights wherever they went, begging for ways to serve them. They scoffed at him. ‘Out of the way, peasant!’ the mounted knights would shout as they rode off to do their daring deeds. Despite repeated rejection, Percival continued to memorize their histories and grand accomplishments, and to secretly dream that he would someday be one of them.”

  The Guru took a sip of coffee and looked at us. Sensing that he needed to rope this tangent in quickly, he continued briskly: “Well, as you may know, there was a bad argument and misunderstanding between the king and Guinevere and another knight or two, which resulted in a trial by combat. Lancelot was out of town and therefore unable to stand for the queen’s honor. Percival volunteered, and King Arthur knighted him right on the spot.

  “As luck would have it, Lancelot rode up just before the combat could take place. So Guinevere’s honor was defended and Percival obtained his knighthood.”

  The Guru leaned forward. “But he was admitted into the brotherhood just as it entered the dark times. Camelot turned out not to be what he’d expected at all. Morale sucked. The brotherhood he thought he had seen from the outside wasn’t there; the table was rife with cliques that undermined its spirit of common cause. Arthur seemed unable to cope with the problems within his band of noble soldiers. Percival’s dream was destroyed in its realization. He was crushed and disillusioned.” The Guru paused for a long moment. He took a sip of coffee and nodded slightly as if confirming something to himself.

  “Yet he was the one who risked his life. It was his act of faith that saved the land. Disillusioned, he still found the Grail.” He looked at us. “Probably one of the most important spirit missions in history, don’t you think?”

  The Guru smiled. “Do you guys have it in you to seek the Grail?”

  Bill let out a loud sigh and pushed back from the table. “Guru. I love you, man. Anyone who tells Captain Eifer to fuck himself is good in my book. But you’re a nut job. I’ve got to get back and study.”

  The Guru smiled.

  Bill shook his head.

  “The goat,” I said.

  The Guru smiled at me. “Very good, Sam.”

  The Guru leaned forward and said over his saber, “It hasn’t been pulled off in a very long time, fellows. It needs to be done.”

  “We’d get hammered,” I said.

  “Don’t think of the cost. Think of the reward.”

  “Seriously, the commandant gets up at the beginning of each year and reiterates the agreement: the truce thing between the two academies. And then, in case you’ve forgotten, he reissues his command. He says don’t fucking do it.”

  “Even if we did get hammered,” mused Bill, almost to himself. “It would be worth it.” He was leaning forward now.

  As we sat in silence, I realized that the Guru was savoring this moment. Graduation was a week away for him. He was smart enough to realize that he would not exist in his current form after that day. They say there is no rank as high as that of first-class cadet. For the Guru, that would be doubly true. He had mastered this peculiar universe and was totally at home in the cadet area. He would never master anywhere else so well ever again. The moment after he was commissioned he would be just another dipshit butter-bar second lieutenant, unremarkable and unworthy of respect.

  “Tell me, Sam, what are the principles of war?”

  Only for the Guru would I recite plebe knowledge as a cow. “Objective. Offensive. Mass. Economy of force, maneuver, unity of command. Simplicity. Security and surprise.”

  “Very good. Bill, tell me which are the most important of those principles if one were to try to steal the navy goat.”

  “Surprise is definitely one.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Security,” I said.

  “Excellent. Lastly?”

  Bill and I thought for a moment. The Guru sipped his coffee.

  “Objective,” the Guru said gravely. “You must keep the objective in mind.”


  He set his coffee cup down. “What is your mission, Bill?”

  “To get the goat.”

  “Merely to get the goat?” His voice was heavy with disappointment. “Did Percival seek the Grail merely to find it? The Corps must see it. The Corps must receive it from you. Just to steal it from the navy means nothing.”

  “The tactical department would disagree with you,” I said.

  “Yes. They would burn you merely for the theft.” Involuntarily, and to my concealed shame, my chest constricted at his words. I had images of walking area tours until the turn of the century, of never seeing Stephanie again.

  “That is why security is so important. Once the word gets out that the goat has been stolen, the tactical department is going to go berserk. They will do everything possible to intervene and stop you before the rest of the Corps sees the goat. But that’s all right because we can predict what they will do.” He leaned back in his chair, the history of war spreading out on the wall behind him.

  “The tactical department’s tentacles will latch onto every possible lead. So if you leave anything real out there, anything at all that might lead them to you, they will find it. Even worse, the Corps would never believe that the goat had been taken.” This possibility hadn’t occurred to me: that the tactical department might intervene before the rest of the Corps could see the goat.

  “With a little forethought and attention to security, you won’t leave anything real out there for them to find.” The Guru smiled.

  “We’ll send ’em down some deep fucking rabbit holes!” said Bill, laughing.

  “As you should, but don’t overdo it. Use misdirection sparingly—otherwise it won’t be convincing. As the end approaches, they will undoubtedly be able to put a lot of heat on you … no matter how tight your security is. You must be ready for that.

  “Remember, you must avoid getting cornered. Do not give them probable cause to pose a justified direct question. Or, worse, the opportunity to give you a direct order to surrender or return the goat before the Corps has seen it.”