17 January, 2001. 1645 hours.
The wind whistled through the crags in the rocks around them as the two men lay motionless observing the cave opening six hundred forty yards to their southeast. Their camouflaged “ghillie” suits providing insulation against the cold mountain winds but, more importantly, masking them from the prying eyes of sentries, scouring the peaks of the surrounding mountains of eastern Afghanistan.
They made the High Altitude-Low Opening (HALO) jump into the Nurestan region during the new moon. The insertion point was near the village of Khamdesh Ghar, barely twenty-six kilometers from the border of Pakistan’s Northwest Territory.
They had taken off from Dushanbe Airport in the city of Dushanbe, the capital of Tajikistan. Their ride had been somewhat different than the men were used to. A Soviet era IL-76 transport plane codenamed “Candid” by NATO during the cold war. Roughly the same size as an American Lockheed C-141 “Starlifter”, it was now owned and, usually operated by Atlant-Soyuz Airline in service as a freighter. This particular aircraft had been rented by a Russian flight crew and flown the, roughly two hundred fifty miles at thirty-six thousand feet to the sniper teams insertion point, twenty-two kilometers north of their current position.
The cave was so well hidden that it had taken the men five days using Global Positioning System satellites to find the entrance, and another six to find the best combination of location and cover from which to shoot, should the “kill” order be issued. Their position gave them both an unobstructed view of the entrance while offering them concealment from the many lookouts in the area. They had evaded those lookouts no fewer than fourteen times during those days, one of which came within twenty feet of their position. However, none of the locals had been alerted to their presence.
It was rumored that their target might appear at this location within a twelve day window so they had spent the past nine days doing what a SEAL sniper team does second best.
They watched.
Their quarry was an elusive character that, ironically, the government of the United States through it’s operatives within the Central Intelligence Agency, had provided aid to in countless ways only a decade earlier during Afghanistan’s war with the Soviet Union.
Osama Bin Mohammed Bin Awad Bin Ladin, a Saudi Arabian national had taken up the cause of the Afghans against the Russians. He was a brilliant tactician in the Afghan countryside and a ruthless warrior against the communists. But more recently, his undertakings made him the enemy of the U.S. Now he was wanted by the Federal Bureau of Investigation in connection with several U.S. embassy bombings in 1998.
That was not the reason for the SEAL teams incursion into the area.
Three months earlier, on October 12th 2000, the al-Qaeda terrorist organization, used suicide bombers piloting a small boat packed with an estimated one thousand pounds of explosives to attack the U.S. Naval Destroyer USS Cole (DDG 67). Seventeen sailors lost their lives and thirty-nine were injured in the assault. The international intelligence community had unconfirmed evidence that Bin Ladin had been the mastermind of the operation.
It was time for some payback.
Lieutenant Robert “Rot” Tyler peered through the lens of the AN/PVS-10 Day/Night optic mounted on the M82A1 .50 caliber, “Light Fifty” sniper rifle aimed at the cave entrance at his 1200 position and about two hundred fifty meters below. The sun had long since set on the mountain pass making his view one of twilight. Activity around the entrance was just starting to pick up as a single individual revealed himself from behind some rocks just to the left of the opening.
There were only foot trails in this part of the mountains. No vehicle short of a helicopter could gain access to the place and only the smallest of those aircraft could fly any lower than fifty feet in the narrow passages. A perfect hiding spot for the terrorist camp.
But, satellites were a different story. Nothing could prevent those watchful eyes in orbit from finding anything as small as a pack of chewing gum in a proverbial hay stack, provided that the orbital schedule of the craft remained a mystery to those on the ground that the camera operators wished to observe. Yes, the satellites provided the whereabouts but they couldn’t do the “wet work” of the operation. For that, you had to have boots on the ground.
And there were no better “boots” than those of the U.S. Navy SEALs.
“…twelve…” Petty Officer First Class Stacey “Sack” Connery said as he counted off the list that Rot was making. He was also observeing the opening in the mountain face through the standard issue M49 spotter scope that he assisted Rot at acquiring targets with.
“That was thirteen.” Rot protested.
“It was twelve.” Sack corrected the Lieutenant.
“Thirteen.” Rot insisted.
“It was twelve. You already said Cleveland.” Sack said, his gravely voice was even, patiently playing the all too familiar game.
“I did?”
Sack didn’t answer.
“Okay, twelve. That just leaves two, right?”
“Yup.” the Petty Officer answered.
“Okay…” Rot paused as he adjusted his view to a group of three men who had just emerged from the cave. They took great lengths to stay out of sight during the mid-day sun. But when the sun set, the SEALs could get a good view of the people hiding within as they came out to stretch and get some fresh air. They had counted seventeen individuals so far, but had not identified their target as of yet.
“Did I say Jacksonville already?”
“That’s thirteen.” Sack stated as he followed the three newcomers as well.
Rot frowned as he glanced to his right where Sack was laying two feet away under his “ghillie” suit. They both wore the same gray and black camouflage paint on their faces and Sack was laying prone on his stomach just as Rot was, but that was where the similarities ended.
The man was big. At 6′ 4” Sack was three inches taller than Rot. But, where Rot weighed in at 195 pounds, Sack was eighty pounds heavier and built like a linebacker. His great Barrel chest and tree trunk biceps and forearms were almost legendary features of the man. Rot had seen the him lift the rear end of a small four by four single handed. His emerald eyes spoke of the mans intelligence and intensity as they surveyed the area. And no amount of camouflage could hide the thick, handle-bar mustache that he wore under those piercing eyes.
“The Panthers?” Rot asked tentatively.
Sack looked over at the Lieutenant briefly and then back through his scope. “They’re in the NFC. Ain’t you from South Carolina? You ought’ta know that one.” he chided the lieutenant.
Rot’s expression turned to one of innocence. “They’ve only been in the NFL since the expansion in ’95. I’ve only been back there a few times since then.”
“More than a few.” Sack corrected him again.
“Not during Football season. Anyway…” Rot turned his attention back to his scope, “…who’s left?”
Sack kept silent as he watched the men in his telescope. It wouldn’t be long before the sun dipped below the peak to their west and the temperature would start dropping. The fact didn’t affect the men so much as their equipment making it difficult for them to keep the lenses of their scopes from clouding over.
Sack had begun scanning around the perimeter of the area and he spotted a group of seven men moving toward the cave from the southwest. “One o’clock.” he stated.
Rot adjusted his view and quickly picked up the men thirty yards away and moving toward the entrance. “Hello. Who do we have here?”
“Is that him?” the big man asked evenly.
Rot adjusted his sight and after a moment he saw the two groups greet each other with hugs and kisses on the cheeks. “I do believe we have a winner.”
The man in the middle of the larger group stood nearly head and shoulders above the others. His thick growth of beard and turban obscured his face a bit, but Rot had seen enough video to know how the man stood, moved and gestured to say with confidence, “Contact ‘Method’ and inform them that ‘Paper’ has been printed.”
Sack was as sure of what he was seeing as Rot was and complied with the order without hesitation. “’Method’, this is ‘Wyvern’. The ‘Paper’ has been printed. I repeat, the ‘Paper’ has been printed. Request instructions. Over.”
As he heard Sack attempt to contact the Mission Support Center, he zeroed in on the tall figure’s center mass. Head shots were for the movies. His right index finger was pressed against the bottom of the trigger guard, eager to do it’s work. The standard Ruafoss MK 211 explosive armor piercing round would be more than effective to eliminate the target in his sites.
It was mere seconds before Rot could hear the response through Sack’s earpiece. “’Wyvern’, this is ‘Method’, ‘Flypaper’, I repeat ‘Flypaper’. Over”.
Sack’s disgust was evident, “Method’ says we hold. Can you believe it? We hold…again.”
“I heard.” Rot said as he watched the man, his cross hairs trained on the tall man’s chest. But, Rot was feeling more relieved than he cared to admit. “Confirm your last.”
Sack looked back at the target through his telescope and pressed the transmit button on the radio that was strapped to his neck. “”Method’, ‘Wyvern’, I repeat, ‘Paper’ has been printed. Please confirm your last. Over”
“Confirmed, ‘Wyvern’, ‘Flypaper’, repeat, ‘Flypaper’. Over”
Sack laid his head on the rock that was the platform for his scope. “Confirmed, Lieutenant.”
Rot sighed as he thought, She was right.
The group of men didn’t remain in the open for more than a minute. Rot watched as they all disappeared into the cave.
There was silence for what seemed like hours before Sack hit his head, hard, on the rock and looked over at Rot. “What are we doin’ here, man!” his voice low but intense.
The Lieutenant could see blood trickling from Sack’s forehead and down his right temple. “Relax.” was all he said.
“But, this is the second time!” Sack protested. “First in Somalia and now here!” He looked, again through his telescope only to see that the men were gone. “Well, that’s just great! He’s in there now. All of this…” he looked around their immediate area and scoffed, “…fer nuthin’.”
Rot knew that Sack was referring to the entire operation. Flying commercially from Japan to Moscow and then on to Tajikisatn. The Russians, the plane, the jump, weeks in the desert, everything had been for naught.
“Three weeks, man! Three weeks!”
Rot ignored the rest of Sack’s rant. The Lieutenant’s relief was growing now that their mission was apparently over. But, for Rot an even more difficult task loomed before him. A task that he was dreading even more than the prospect of completing the mission that they had been sent there to accomplish, only to be called off. Killing the terrorist leader.
They stayed there for two more days observing the cave but knowing that once Bin Ladin was out of sight and in the labyrinth of tunnels below the mountains, that they wouldn’t likely see him again.
Upon confirming their orders, they packed up in the dead of night and, with the aid of night vision goggles and the light of the waning moon, began the long trek back to their extraction point. It was in the same river bed in the mountain pass where they had concealed their parachutes and assorted jump equipment within the rocky crags.
Communication was reduced to hand signals for the next two days as they made their way north.
On the third day, after their morning MRE, Rot’s eyes widened and he said, “The Titans!”
Sack was used to the Lieutenant spouting the answer to a question that had been asked hours or, as in this case, even days earlier. “Congratulations. It only took you four days this time.”
Rob smiled if only to himself, “I always forget the expansion teams.”
“It’s been five years, Lieutenant. And the Titans used to be the Oilers. They just changed their name when they moved to Tennessee.” Sack complained.
“I know.” Rot conceded. “Hey, Sack. Who’s playing the Giants again?”
“The Ravens.” Sack answered, amazed at Rot’s lack of football knowledge. “How can you call yourself a football fan and not know who’s playing in the fu…” Sack stopped himself. The Lieutenant’s ears had recently become more and more sensitive to bad language. “Sorry, sir. The freakin’ Super Bowl.”
Rot knew that Sack and the other members of SEAL team six thought him a hypocrite for his change in attitude. Since he had gotten married three years before, his demeanor had mellowed quite a bit and he had let the men know it. In fact, Rot had noticed a reciprocal change in attitude from nearly every member of the team as they grew more and more distant, even a little hostile at times.
Except Sack.
Sack was his observer, his partner, his friend. Ranks not withstanding. Rot and Sack were a team within a team. They were the elite of the elite. Snipers and their observers were the cream of the cream.
And that was making the task that the lieutenant now found at hand even more difficult.
“Well, at least we’ll be back home in time to watch it.” Rot commented.
Sack had been oddly silent for the remainder of their journey. Only communicating verbally when necessary. They had nearly reached the extraction point by midnight and knew that it would be about an hour and a half until the choppers showed up after they radioed the center that they were in position. Although they had no contacts with enemy personnel for the past two days, they took up a position where they could have a clear view north and south of the riverbed for at least several hundred yards. More than an hour had passed while they remained still and silent, watching for any movement amongst the darkened peaks.
Not wanting to wait until their return to base, Rot mustered the courage to tell the big man what he had been dreading for the last several weeks.
“Um, Sack?”
The Petty Officer gave Rot his attention from the rock on which he was sitting as he cradled his MP5 sub machine gun in his burly arms. “Sir?”
“I’m leaving six.”
Sack had no reaction.
Rot was sure he spoke loud enough for Sack to hear, but he said it again.
“I’m leaving six.”
Sack didn’t move. “Copy that, Sir.”
Rot was taken back for a moment. He had removed his night vision goggles, but couldn’t see Sack’s eyes from under his bush hat. He quickly realized that he had underestimated the mans visceral skills. “Walsh?”
The big man simply nodded once.
Lieutenant Commander Benny Walsh was an officer that Rot had served with aboard the USS West Virginia early in the lieutenants career. Sack had met the man when SEAL team six was launched from “The Silent Mountaineer” for a training exercise in the Mediterranean after Rot had joined the SEALs.
“Why…”
Sack cut him off. “I guess he figured that somebody ought’ta let me know that my partner of six years was…” he searched for the appropriate words, “…torpedoin’ me.”
“Sack…”
Rot started to explain but the Petty Officer held up a hand to silence him as he said, “Just tell me that it’s ’cause of missions like this one.” He paused for effect. “Where we get called off for no good reason at all.” The big man looked for some agreement in Rot’s expression. “That at least, I could understand.”
Rot tapped his fingers on the barrel of his rifle nervously, an unusual feeling for Rot, but said nothing.
Sack continued, “Not ’cause you went and got married and you let yer wife drag you off to church and you found religion.”
Rot ignored the man’s disrespectful tone, “I can’t do it anymore, Sack.” Rot stated evenly. He had heard that the other men said that he went soft after he married Carol. And it was true that she was part of the reason, but not the only part.
“Can’t do what?” Sack demanded.
Rot knew that he owed the big man an explanation, but he didn’t want to say the words.
“Can’t do what?!” Sack yelled it. Unintentionally, but his frustration with the entire situation was getting the best of him.
Paying no attention to the fact that Sack could’ve just given away their position, Rot simply said, “Kill.” just loud enough for the Petty Officer to hear.
“What?” Sack had been unprepared for that answer. Three days before, his friend had been poised to do just that. To kill the terrorist leader where he stood. To shoot him down like the dog that he was. And, Sack had absolutely no doubt that the Lieutenant would have followed the order if it had come.
Rot suddenly lost the guilt that he had been feeling about potentially disappointing Sack.
“I got baptized.” he said finally.
The words hit Sack squarely in the forehead and he literally rocked back where he was sitting. “You did what?”
“At the base chapel. Right before we left. I got baptized.”
Sack was confused. Of all the scenarios that he had envisioned, this wasn’t one of them.
There was an uncomfortable silence that lasted for at least a full minute and then Sack said, as softly as he could muster, “I thought you were Catholic.”
Rot, seeing his friend relax a bit, relaxed as well before he spoke. “I am. At least I was. I don’t know what I am.” he paused before concluding, “I’m a Christian.”
“Well, what’s up with the…” Sack made the sign of the cross with his right hand but, instead of finishing with the left shoulder and then the right as he had seen Catholics do, he went right to left.
Rot smiled, “Catholics are Christian, Sack.” He could see the big man’s face screw up into another question but at that moment, they both heard the familiar beating of the air that the rotors of the aircraft coming to pick them up made, even when in whisper mode. They looked to the north and the silhouettes of two Balckhawks rounded a bend in the pass at no higher than twenty feet. They were flown by crews of the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment based out of Fort Campbell, Kentucky
The “Night Hawks” were a team of Army Aviators that trained specifically for high speed, low altitude operations at night. Widely regarded as some of the finest helicopter pilots in the armed services, their formation was the direct result of the disastrous Operation Eagle Claw. The ill fated attempt to rescue American hostages held in Tehran, Iran in the early 1980′s that resulted in the deaths of eight American servicemen.
Sack reached in his ammo pouch and produced a three by three inch square pouch of chemical hand warmer. He squeezed, shook and threw it as close to the middle of the riverbed as he could. Although it was small, it was more than enough for the sensitive infra red equipment on board the choppers to identify.
Rot watched as the two helicopters slowed. One came to hover over the pouch on the ground and then started to descend as the other climbed to about fifty feet to provide high cover for the two men as they began moving toward the bird.
The lieutenant was almost to the chopper when he heard the the unmistakable sound of automatic weapons fire from behind him at first and then all around.
Ambush! His mind screamed at him. “God help us!”
He turned and saw Sack, on one knee, his back to the lieutenant, firing into the shadows of the rocks with his MP5. Rot’s own close quarter weapon was slung under his “ghillie” suit as he was still carrying his sniper rifle. He cursed himself for having let his guard down. He knew that something like this could happen at any time during the mission. He turned, dropping the M82, and reached for his other weapon just in time to see a flash from behind some boulders on the Blackhawk’s port side, opposite him. He saw the explosion of rocks and dust as the aircraft’s weapons went to work on the area of the flash. Above him, he could hear the telltale buzz of the M134 minigun as it opened fire, it’s muzzle flare lighting up the area around him.
Danger! Move! Run! were the words he heard inside his head.
He produced the MP5 just as the sound of a ferocious explosion came from above. He looked up as the aircraft began to shudder violently and fall strait down, a shower of sparks, shrapnel and bits of helicopter followed closely behind. Scrambling, he back peddled away from the crippled aircraft. He watched as the helicopter crashed and heard the sound of metal twisting, groaning in protest. The gunner lost control of the minigun during the violence as it tore up a swath of ground in an arc to Tyler’s immediate left. He tripped and fell, landing on to his back.
Go, now! His mind shrieked at him over the din of battle.
The battered crew were shouting and jumping from the copter and Rot could see that the Blackhawk was on it’s belly. It’s landing gear had collapsed and it was leaning to starboard, toward him, it’s rotors leading the way as the high pitched turbines were still attempting to lift the crippled bulk. The blades began chopping up the ground furiously to his right, throwing sand and rocks up in a huge, blinding cloud. He tried to roll over and find some footing in an attempt to dive to safety. Somehow, he avoided the spray of the rotor blades as they shattered into a thousand pieces.
He found himself standing near the cockpit of the downed Blackhawk which was laying on it’s side now. He looked around to assess the situation and then he saw Sack, silhouetted by an explosion, go down in a heap.
“Saaaack!” he screamed. He was enraged. His friend was down. He tried to pick out a target.
And then came the pain. Something hit him hard on the head. His vision blurred and he lost his footing. He planted his knees in the ground and tried to focus. The sounds of battle were all around him. He saw images that he was struggling to understand. Angry faces that he didn’t recognize. Voices that he had never heard before shouting at him. And all the while a voice inside his head kept repeating, Danger! Run! Go!
This went on for what seemed like an eternity. He forgot where he was, what he was doing.
He felt his body moving. Twisting and contorting, the movements were familiar but disjointed from any rational thought. There were flashes of light around him. His ears were ringing from a deafening sound that came from his right.
Am I dreaming? He asked himself, barely able to formulate the coherent question in his mind, as the sounds and images of faces flashed all around him. His body was sending his brain signals that he didn’t understand. His hands hurt. His legs hurt. Most of all, his head hurt. There was a sharp pain in his right side. And then in his back.
Was it real, he wondered.
Then suddenly, there was quiet. He knew that he was standing but he couldn’t see. The involuntary movement of his body had stopped. In front of him appeared a light shining on a familiar image. Not a face but, colors, olive green and black, stripes and stars. There were voices, but he couldn’t understand them. The words were familiar, but made no sense. His strength left him and he felt himself on the ground, unable to move.
Safe, the voice in his head said.
And then, darkness.

Three weeks later, Lieutenant Rob Tyler awoke at Landstuhl Regional Medical Center located near Landstuhl, Germany. His head ached incessantly from what the doctors had told him was a severe contusion and concussion resulting from blunt force trauma, probably from flying debris during the “skirmish” that he and Sack had been involved in. He had also suffered several minor lacerations and one gunshot wound that narrowly missed his right kidney caused by a 7.62 millimeter round fired from an AK-47 assault rifle wielded by one of his assailants. The nurses assured him that he would make a complete recovery and return to full duty, but it would take time. The doctors were most concerned about the head wound and insisted on countless tests before allowing for any extended visits. Therefore, he had been unable to find out what had happened after he blacked out during the battle.
A few members of SEAL team six trickled in and out during the healing process. They hitched rides on transports in and out of Ramstein Air Base. Rob had tried to get some information from them about their mission, but either they didn’t know anything or they had been ordered to keep quiet.
Sack had been there as soon as he was able after Rot woke. He ignored doctors orders and kept a silent vigil at the lieutenant’s side. He was anchored to a wheelchair with both of his legs bandaged with gunshot wounds of his own. One of which had shattered his left tibia requiring a titanium rod to be inserted to replace the bone. Two screws protruded from his shin six inches apart which were periodically adjusted to ensure proper healing.
Rot had been in a coma and therefore, extremely hungry when he finally regained consciousness and Sack, despite his injuries, had insisted on being Tyler’s errand boy for the duration of their stay. Rot tried pumping the big man for information, but for the first week after he awoke, Sack would only smile and say, “I’m not supposed to tell ya.”
Finally, when the docs were satisfied that the head wound would have no permanent effects, they, along with SEAL team six’s commanding officer gave Sack the go ahead to tell the Lieutenant what had happened. Sack had pleaded with the brass to allow him to give Rot the news.
“Hey! Somebody said that the puss bucket in this room wanted some ice cream.” Sack shouted as he rolled into the room cradling two bowls of what appeared to be either chocolate chip or cookie dough in them.
“What? They didn’t have Neapolitan? Variety is the spice of life, my friend.”
Sack thought about making a rude comment but quickly decided against it. He was far to anxious about telling his teammate what had happened, now that he had the green light. He regarded the lieutenant seriously as he sat at his bed side.
“What?” Rot asked after a moment. “You gonna tell me that you love me?”
Sack tilted his head to one side and asked, “Tell me what you remember about our last mission.”
Finally, Rot thought. “I remember everything up to when the choppers came in.”
The Petty Officer paused for dramatic effect. “That’s it?”
Rot thought about it for a minute. Images of the helicopter on the ground in front of him flashed in his mind. “Did the choppers crash?”
“One of ‘em went down.”
Rot was growing frustrated. He folded his arms across his chest and asked, “Are you gonna tell me or…” he let the sentence trail off.
“It got hit in the rotor by an RPG.” Sack said.
“Okay.” Rot said. A vague image appeared in his mind of the chopper landing only feet in front of him. His expression grew to one of concern. “Did the crew…”
Sack cut him off. “They made it. The rag heads only hit it hard enough to knock it down. It only dropped about fifteen feet. The co-pilot got his ankle broke and a couple of guys got shot up but, nothin’ serious.”
“Go on.” Rot prodded.
Sack handed a bowl of ice cream to Rot and then looked down at is legs. “Right after that, I got my legs shot out from under my…” he stopped out of respect for the lieutenants sensitive ears, “…you know what.”
Rot laid his head back on his pillow, looked at the ceiling and said, “Could you, I don’t know, maybe tell me the parts that I don’t already know?”
Sack smiled. As much as he wanted to tell Rot, he also wanted to torture him, just a little.
Tyler looked back at Sack and seeing that maddening smile, he shouted, “What?!”
“You, man.”
“What. What do ya mean, ‘me’?”
Sack sampled his ice cream as he winked at the Lieutenant. “I mean that you saved the friggin’ day. That’s what I mean.” The big man couldn’t contain a chuckle.
“Huh?” Rob was confused. He couldn’t remember anything after the crash.
Sack continued, “After the bird went down, those desert rats came scurrying out of their holes. There must’ve been fifty or sixty ‘em. They shot off three or four more RPG rounds and I think I heard a heavy machine gun open up. Now, I don’t know how they took the chopper down ’cause they couldn’t hit the left cheek of my grandmother’s…”
“Uh huh.” Rot interrupted him.
Sack cleared his throat, “Anyway, I was down and one of the choppers was down but the other one worked just fine. They probably waxed twenty of the camel jockeys in the first two minutes with their minigun. The next thing I knew, there you were.”
“Me?” Rot was stunned. He had assumed that he was out of commission during the encounter.
“Yeah, you. You were standin’ over me and the Hadjis were comin’ in…you took ‘em one, sometimes two at a time.”
It didn’t make any sense to Rot. “I took ‘em?” he said skeptically.
“With your bare hands. You beat those Pakkis down, man. Killed nine of ‘em with your bare hands before they ran off. Still had yer 9 mikemike on your hip when they got us to the other bird.” Sack shook his head and smiled. “You really shook the sh…” he caught himself. After a moment, his face turned serious. He looked at Rot and said, “You saved my life, brother. Probably the lives of that Blackhawk crew, too.”
Tyler looked at Sack doubtfully, “C’mon.”
Sack stared at Rot and said nothing. The Petty Officer was serious.
Rot smiled and, raising hi arms, he laced his fingers behind his head, “How could I do all that and not remember it?”
Sack’s eyes narrowed, “Training, brother. It’s all about training, skill and desire.”
Rot’s smile faded. He could see flashes of images but he couldn’t remember doing any of the things that sack described.
“There’s more.” Sack stated gravely.
“What?” Rob asked, his level of concern rising.
“The chopper pilot.” Sack made a distasteful face as he went on, “I guess he’s the sentimental type.”
“Oh, please…” Rot started.
“He’s puttin’ ya in for a commendation.”
Rot’s arms dropped to his sides. SEALs weren’t in it for the money, the glory or bragging rights. They were in it for love of country and the brotherhood shared by their teammates. Medals winners were regarded as show boaters among their ranks. Unless they were awarded posthumously. “No.” he said, his voice equally grave.
“What can I tell ya. He’s an Army puke.” Sack said as he held his palms up innocently. Then he smiled a half smile and added, “The’re talkin’ Silver Star. Maybe even the Navy Cross.”
Rot’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, no.”
Sack pushed himself a bit closer and said, “No good deed goes unpunished, brother.”
Rot took a spoonful of ice cream, cookies and cream, into his mouth and reflected on their mission for a moment. He then remembered that before they left Japan, his wife, Carol and he had a discussion after he had gotten baptized about the upcoming assignment. Carol was aware of what Rob did on his deployments and had seen the concern in him when the orders were issued. She knew that her husband couldn’t discuss the details with her, but she offered him some encouragement as best she could.
He had already made the decision that he would leave the SEALs because he no longer wished to take lives for a living. It went against the grain of his new found beliefs, however new they were to him. And yet, God had seen fit to send him on one last deployment that would, in all likelihood, require him to do just that. To take another life. He remembered that Carol had said to him, “If the Lord doesn’t want you to kill, then it won’t happen, regardless of you orders. But just remember, David killed Goliath and many other men in the name of the Lord.”
When the stand-down order had come, he felt relief that God had lifted the burden of murder from him. That he would go home and not carry the blood of another human being on his shoulders. Even if it was the blood of the evil terrorist leader.
And then, Sack told him about what had happened at the extraction point. That he had killed not one but nine more people. People who’s faces he couldn’t remember. Who’s names he would never know. He wasn’t sure whether it was better that he couldn’t remember the event or not.
Taking another spoonful, the ice cream had lost some of it’s sweetness as he dwelt on the facts.
Why did I have to kill again, God? he wondered knowing full well that he would probably never know the answer.

18 June, 2010.
Sergeant Kelly Mueller glanced at the clock on the dashboard of his Ford Crown Victoria as he drove west down the loneliest part of highway 96 in Houston County, Georgia. It was 5:47 am, just a little over an hour until the end of his shift. He looked at the the drivers side mirror. With no other cars on the road either in front or behind, he was able to see light just beginning to appear over the horizon behind him. Turning his attention back to the road, he continued making a mental list of things that needed to be accomplished before he would be able to go to bed.
“Time for some coffee.” he said out loud.
It had been a quiet night for the twelve year veteran of the Houston County Sheriff’s Department. He had pulled over a couple of speeders. One, he let off with a warning but the other, a man who was being a major pain in the neck, he not only gave a ticket to but, he also took up an hour and forty-five minutes of his time by conducting a search of his vehicle. And when the man continued to complain, Kelly called for a K-9 unit (which was already engaged at the time he called) to be dispatched to his location in an effort to be as thorough as possible.
He stopped one other vehicle that night. At first he thought the driver might have been intoxicated because the car was traveling at a hair under twenty miles per hour and had crossed the center line a number of times before it’s driver noticed the blue lights behind her and pulled over. It turned out to be an 83 year old woman, Mrs. Juanita Johnson, who was out only because she had forgotten to buy milk for the kittens that one of her many cats had given birth to a few weeks before. She told the Sergeant that she hated to drive after dark and apologized for “driving like a maniac”. The Sergeant escorted her home with the promise that he would go to the store for her and bring back some milk.
He could see the lights of the convenience store ahead. It was just across the railroad tracks. He often stopped there during his patrols. It was nice to have the place in this remote area of the county for snacks, drinks and bathroom breaks. The Lightning Quik Mart had opened up there just about six months before on January 2nd. He had seen every stage of the, months long construction during his patrols and had looked forward to it’s opening.
As he pulled into the large, well lit lot and snaked his way through two of the four islands containing four gas pumps each, he took note of the Mayflower tractor trailer that was parked next to the eastern side of the building. It had been there all night, which wasn’t at all unusual. Since before the store opened, there had always been a truck of some kind parked in that spot. It had seemed unusual to him at first that every time he passed by the convenience store, a truck was always parked there. He had asked the manager, Cindy was her name, about it after the first few weeks that the store was open and she set his mind at ease. She said that she had encouraged several of the truck drivers that she knew to stop and park there. She told Kelly that she felt that it was just one more layer of security against anyone who wanted to do something they shouldn’t at her store. He was satisfied with her answer but it took a few months for that “I’m just not sure about this” feeling that all cops have to go away because he had, literally never seen the space empty.
Other than the Mayflower moving truck and a Budweiser delivery truck on the opposite side of the building, the lot was quiet. He pulled up and parked in the front of the store. Inside, he could see Jackie and Stan, two of the graveyard shift employees finishing up their mopping and other cleaning duties before the end of their shift.
Why do the stay open all night? He wondered. There’s never very many people here until after 6:00 am.
He turned the engine off and opened the door to step out just as he noticed the new pearl colored Cadillac CTS pull into the lot and around to the east side of the building, disappearing behind the Mayflower truck.
“I’ve told her not to park back there when it’s dark.” Kelly said under his breath. “Out here in the middle of nowhere. Anybody could be hiding in those woods.” Closing the door, he walked around the back end of the truck and waited. It had been a warm June night and it’s engine was running to provide the driver occupant with power and air conditioning. He watched the car as it parked next to two others, a blue nineties model Honda Accord and a gold, early two thousands model Nissan Pathfinder that he knew belonged to the two employees. Placing his hands on his utility belt he waited for the driver to emerge.
He saw how dark this area was in contrast to the rest of the lot. He looked up at the lamp post in the northeast corner where the employees vehicles were parked. He hadn’t noticed before that the lamp there was dimmed, flickering occasionally.
The Cadillac’s driver’s side door swung open and a petite black woman stepped out. Cindy Lattice was the store’s manager. She was wearing blue jeans, a white blouse, NIKE shoes and a red Lightning Quik Mart vest.
I am in the wrong line of work, Kelly thought. “Woman, what’s it gonna take for you to start listening to me?” he shouted over the truck’s engine.
“What?” the woman asked innocently.
“Some redneck with a gun is gonna come out from behind one of them trees and take that flashy car from you. And maybe that ain’t all their gonna take.”
“No they won’t.”she laughed as she replied while walking towards him.
“Do you have any idea how many times I’ve heard that from folks right before it happens to them?”
“I can take care of myself.” she said as she patted the oversized handbag that she was carrying.
Kelly shook his head. He was reminded that she was a retired police officer from somewhere up north, he couldn’t remember where, but by her thick accent, he thought New York. She had told him that she carried a 9mm Beretta with her for protection. But he still thought that she was being reckless by parking so far away from the building when it was dark. “Okay, Quick Draw McGraw. Just remember, even retired cops ain’t bulletproof.”
“Ahhh…”she said, waving him off as she walked past him.
Looking back at the dimmed lamp post he said in a serious tone, “You need to get that light fixed back there. Especially if y’all are gonna keep parking in that corner of the lot.”
Cindy glanced over her shoulder and said, “Oh, they’re supposed to be out today to fix it.”
Satisfied with the answer, Kelly followed her.
The two walked around the building and into the front of the store, it’s automatic doors opening for them.
“Good morning!” she exclaimed as she did every morning. “How are you guys?” as Kelly followed her in.
“Mornin’.” It was Stan who spoke first. The man was in his thirties which made Kelly wonder what he was doing working in a convenience store.
You gotta do what you gotta do, he concluded.
“Hey, mama.” Jackie answered. She was a sweet looking young girl of twenty-one. Kelly had demanded to see her I.D. when he first met her because he didn’t believe she was old enough to sell alcohol. “You’re late.” she joked.
“I am?” Cindy checked her watch, “I am not.”
“Hey, officer Mueller!” she added. She always seemed excited to see him…or anyone for that matter.
Kelly was already walking toward the coffee machine in the back of the store. He knew that Stan had brewed a pot just minutes before. Cindy insisted that a fresh pot be brewed every thirty minutes on the fifteenth and the forty-fifth minutes of the hour whether it was needed or not.
Just then, in the back right hand corner of the store, a man wearing dark shoes, navy blue Dickies pants and a navy blue shirt with a red and gold Budweiser patch on the left breast came through the cooler door with a silver hand-truck and made his way toward the front door. “Mornin’, officer.” he mumbled as he nodded at Mueller who nodded back at him. Kelly reached for a paper cup with his left hand and the pot of coffee with his right.
“Black and bold.” he stated, referring to the coffee.
“You got that right!” Cindy said enthusiastically.
Mueller chuckled at the joke as he took his first tentative sip of the piping hot liquid. He turned back to face Cindy where she was busily doing something he couldn’t see from his angle. “Well, I got to get back to the barn.” he said as he checked his watch.
“Okay, sweetie.” Cindy said without looking up from what she was doing.
With that, Kelly said, “See y’all next time. Thanks for the coffee.”
“Take care Officer Mueller.” Jackie shouted from the other side of the store. “See ya next time.”
He walked out of the store and over to his vehicle. Then, he looked over at the rear doors of the Mayflower truck again. There was just something not quite right about that truck. He had no idea what was “not right” but, there was something. He considered it for a moment and then, remembering that he had a bit of paperwork to do before he could go home, he dismissed the thought.
Cindy ain’t worried about it and it’s her store, he reasoned, why should I worry about it?
Opening the patrol car’s door, he climbed in and started it up. He checked the rear view and backed out of the space turning to the right as he did so he could exit the lot to the west, toward town. He was almost to the exit when that feeling returned to him about the truck. He stopped the car and looked back at it again for a moment and then turned the wheel to the left and circled around the gas pumps again to the east side of the lot. He pulled close to the truck, rolled his window down and drove slowly past the studying it as he did. There seemed to be nothing unusual about it.
He stopped next to the passenger side of the cab and opened the door again to get out, leaving the car running. One thing about the truck that Kelly couldn’t have seen from the road was a refrigeration unit attached to the front of the trailer. At first, he was confused by the fact. Why would a moving van need to be refrigerated? he asked himself until he noticed that the side of it was emblazoned with the words ‘Climate Controlled’ in bright yellow letters. More and more storage facilities were going ‘climate controlled’. Mayflower must be jumping on that bandwagon, he concluded.
Walking around the cab, he was startled a bit when the tractors driver’s side door opened.
This guy must be a light sleeper, he thought. Must’ve woke him up when I yelled at Cindy.
He placed his left palm on the handle of the Maglite halogen flashlight that he had hanging from his belt but, not wanting to alarm the driver, he didn’t pull it out.
The man stepped down from the cab. He was dressed in a pair of dark colored boxer shorts and a tank top undershirt. He was in his fifties, thin, six feet tall in his bare feet and his salt and pepper hair and beard were in disarray. His eyes showed the man’s need for more sleep as he asked, “Is there a problem officer? The boss lady inside said that it was okay for me to park here.”
Kelly eyed him for a moment. What the heck am I doing, he asked himself. “It’s fine, it’s fine. I was just takin’ a look. I thought I saw a coyote run up under yer truck, that’s all.” He lied. He didn’t have a clue what he was looking for. But, that feeling remained as he stood there in front of the Volvo sleeper cab. “Go on back to sleep, partner. I’m sorry I woke you up.” Mueller looked at the truck once more and back at the driver and then turned and walked back around to the patrol car.
“Is everything okay?” It was Cindy. She was standing near the rear end of the truck,
Kelly, startled, put his hand on the butt of his Glock as he looked at her, not immediately recognizing that it was her in the dark. “Cindy? Is that you? Girl, don’t do that! Not to a cop! Especially in the dark! Jeez! You could’ve given me a heart attack, fer cryin’ out loud!”
“I’m sorry.” she apologized.
“I might’ve shot ya.” he added more for effect than anything else. He was far to disciplined with a firearm to ever make a mistake like that. But, he wanted to make a point. “What are you doin’?” he asked.
“Well, I saw you come around here and I wanted to make sure everything was alright.” she stated simply.
“Well, everything’s fine.” he said speaking sternly to her. “Now go on back inside.”
She stood there and watched as Kelly climbed back into the cruiser.
He drove around the back of the building, past the Budweiser truck and out on to the highway.
“That was weird.” He was speaking out loud again. “Now, why’d she come out there like that?”
As he drove, he could see that the sun had risen and he looked at the time again.
It was 6:18.
Great! he berated himself. Now I’m gonna be late.
He had things to do.