Fan Fiction ❯ Operators ❯ Close Quarter Battle ( Chapter 2 )

Hi there! Miya-chan's back and setting fire to the keys. I hate repeating myself, but I will do it because I do believe in tolerance. I want the readers to do two things: 1) Read my notes in chapter one. 2) Listen carefully to the commentaries on the BHD DVD. I AM NOT making light of this battle or of the men who have given their lives during it. War is shit, ugly and futile. The armed forces do have their place in the world and that is for protection and defense, even if it is notoriously linked to the RNC. I have already gotten blasted by a person who has not bothered to read this so those who feel uncomfortable reading this there is a reason why Mr. Gates put the back button on your browser.

There is also a reason why I am writing about a COMPOSITE character, SFC Jeff Sanderson doesn't exist per se, but as Mark Bowden and the screen writer Ken Nolan put it all of these actual soldiers were composites of themselves in the film. DiTomasso was Eversmann's commanding officer, by right he should be very insulted even though Scott and his people felt that "Sgt. Matt Eversmann" might make a more functional leader because of the man's real life strong personae. Grimes was technically the composite of a pedophile (the most disgusting thing to walk the earth besides Saddam and Bin Laden), do we jump down the throat of those who fancy Sgt. Danny Grimes' loveable dry wit and sarcasm or because McGregor portrayed him? And just who was PFC Todd Blackburn? Did his typical teen naiveté lead him into combat thinking he was Rambo as Bloom played him? How about Delta medic Sgt. Kurt Schmid who was demoted to a skinny kid Ranger? Do we make light of the fact that he so desperately tried to save PFC Jamie Smith's life? Absolutely not. So there will be blood, gore, angst, and guilt don't you worry.

The whole point of my story is that Sanderson is an indifferent vet who has seen so much horror and is jaded with the world and Elise is a cynical military brat that has seen men and women in uniform in her family unbelievably suffer coming out of battle so she has trained herself to be resistant to anything in fatigues. Then they have an encounter and change each other's lives, not "Soft-core porn"! So as a final note to all those narrow-minded why don't you read Bowden's book and pay attention to the film, then read some other entertaining BHD fanfiction before you pass judgment. You can also pick up a copy of The Heart of Darkness, rent Apocalypse Now, then read Reporting Vietnam Parts I & II and Ambushed you'll see what I mean.

~U.S. Army Headquarters, September 20 12:43 P.M.~

She wondered why the curtains hadn't been drawn. The Black & Decker stationary fan was going full blast but did little to alleviate the crushing humidity. Lise rolled her head around the cot since that was the only body part she had regained control of. She was certain that her head had been popped open and a few circuits were crossed because everything below the neck felt like wet cement. Lise's throat was filled with syrup and her eyes were so dry she thought they had been pasted shut. Things were a bit sketchy. She remembered she had been speaking to Jeanne, a pretty Alsatian who ran the front desk at the Red Cross before leaving for the market about the annals of drinking too much rum and too little Coke before dancing to M.C. Hammer. And somehow she ended up here, looking at funky grey cinderblock walls. There was a chain link patch over the barred windows. She may have been the winner of a luxury holiday to the Hanoi Hilton without even knowing it.

Feeling in her hands started to come back, and she was able to wiggle her fingers enough to jumpstart the blood flow up her arms and lifted herself up. Lise fell forward a little feeling the room spin, she put a hand to her head and felt the silky woven fibers of the gauze plastered down on her tender skin. Lise winced and remembered everything. She swung her legs off the cot and looked around, the room was clean and the only furnishings that were in it besides the cot and fan were a table and two chairs. Whatever this room was used for before the Americans took the airport over, it was clearly converted into a detention cell. She walked to the window, cautiously, keeping her face out of sight. On the airfield Lise could see two Black Hawks and scattered Mini Birds, humvees and jeeps screamed by and occasionally a Ranger would walk by dressed in a puke green T-shirt and camo pants with a floppy hat on his buzzed head. Already Lise was claustrophobic and needed to get the fuck out of there. She frowned at the steel gray door that stood between her and freedom and hesitantly reached out for the door handle. Lise was thrown for a loop when it opened easily. She looked out and saw an empty corridor, the exit to the airfield and an office adjacent of her. The only sounds she heard were faint type key clicking and power tools, the stench of sea salt and jet fuel was not helping her lethargic condition.

Lise weighed her options of either being shot if she ran out onto the airfield or sent to prison if she killed the General, and being where she was Lise had the means to do so. Besides, what was the sense of running since they had confiscated her purse which held her passport. And while Lise thought of it, the black shirt she wore was gone. Hugging herself for security she began walking to the office. She hadn't gone a few steps when she heard a long, pitiful groan. It came from behind a steel gray door that was ajar, she pushed it open all the way to see another cell like hers, but no one lay on the cot nor sat at the table. Another groan came from the floor and Lise saw Richard hog tied with flex-cuffs.

"Y'know… when I said 'Kiss mah grits' to that Oakley-wearing asshole, I really didn't mean it in a malicious way." Lise leaned against the door frame.

"They hog-tied you."

"Brilliant Holmes!" He snapped in a Surrey burr. Richard struggled to turn his head and looked at Lise's lackluster expression. "They pump you with Horse? You kickin'?!" He stifled when her infamous scowl returned.

"I'll be kickin' your ass if you don't shut your trap! Now hold on, let me see if I can break you out."

"Hurry up! I gotta pee…." Lise knelt by him and tried to slip her nails under the thin bands of plastic that were threatening to cut off his circulation.

"I need a pair of scissors. I can't break them!" Richard grunted painfully so Lise had no choice but to go to the office. The radio was playing softly and there was a lit cigarette smoking in an ashtray, other than that it was deserted. She ripped the scissors out of the clerk's pencil cup and backed away.

"' Limo' is a word Durant, I can't believe we're still talking about this!" Tramping around the corner was Chief Warrant Officer Cliff Walcott, Night Stalker pilot of Super 61. He lit a cigarette still fresh from his latest take off. Following him was fellow Night Stalker C.W.O. Mike Durant, pilot of Super 64, he was holding a pocket dictionary.

"It's coming off the board Elvis!" Walcott took the book and flipped through it.

"You see," he pointed to a page, "' limo' . ' Limo' is in the dictionary!" Mike shook his head.

"No, no. ' Limo' is not in the dictionary- look! ' Limo: see limousine' . Do ya dig it?" Cliff slapped his head.

"It is technically in the dictionary! When you got married, didn't you rent a limo to take you to the reception?"

Mike refused to back down. "Using slang is against the rules. Read the inside of the box."

"Using ' limo' isn't the same as using ' yo' , or something."

"It's coming off the board, or we start a new game." Cliff was going to further plead his case when Mike slapped him on the shoulder, not out of aggravation but to get his attention. "What the hell, man!" Mike pointed in Lise's direction. The two pilots were dumbfounded to see the CNN reporter standing by Grimes' desk.

"Hi." She said tautly, not knowing what else to say.

"Hi," they replied in unison and let her pass by watching her go into Richard's cell shutting the door behind her. They looked at one another. "Delta."

"It's still coming off the board."

"Touch my ' limo' and I'm wiping the hangar with you!"

"I'd like to see you try!" Lise listened by the door. Cliff and Mike's bantering continued until it drifted away, the pilots retreating to the hangar for chow.

"What the fuck was that about?" Richard asked.

"I can't be too sure, but I think it was Scrabble." Lise went to work cutting Richards bonds, taking care to slide the blade between plastic and flesh without drawing blood. There would be plenty of time for that Lise thought, Sanderson's face coming to mind. Grimes danced into his office pushing aside the stacks of files and paperwork to set his metal tray down. The company clerk rubbed his palms together congratulating himself for earning the first spot on the chow line. A buttery mix of vegetables, potatoes drizzled with gravy, and the choicest cuts of beef to plug into his roll.

"Grimesy, you are squared away!" He popped open his can of Schweppes and proceeded to unlock his drawer where his secret stash of Hostess cakes were.

"LATRINE!!!!" Richard's voice rose to the ceiling.

"AAAAHHH!!!!" Grimes flung his Twinkies packet across the room. Lise and Richard were standing in the office. Grimes' jaws worked furiously.

"You- you're-" He pointed at Lise.

"Yeah I know. Now where's the fucking bathroom, soldier?!" Lise barked. Grimes pointed to a door on the far left.

"Thank God!" Richard ran for it, Lise sat down.

"Please! Have a seat ma'am." Grimes stood until she was fully seated.

"Thanks," she said sarcastically. Grimes picked up his Twinkies and lowered himself slowly into his chair. "What time is it-" Lise glimpsed at the desk plate "-Sergeant Grimes?"

"Umm…" He looked at the digital wall clock. "A quarter after one."

"Thank you."

Grimes licked his salty lips nervously. "I mean you're really-"

"Uh-huh." Lise nodded.

"You're father-"

"Yup."

"Was your grandfather-"

"Yeah." Grimes shook his head in amazement.

"Wow! I mean, what a Davies family legacy." Lise rolled her eyes and wondered how old this kid was. Grimes pulled his seat closer and continued speaking, she speculated if this guy spent his afternoons humming the Army's famed jingle as he collated, undoubtedly the reason for him getting stuck in this outfit. After all she had been through, what Lise really needed was a good laugh. "…And for a while I just bounced around from station to station- I mean I got my degree- and they just weren't interested. As the more experienced journalist, how do you cope with the rejection?" Lise tilted her head looking at the half full carafe sitting atop the file cabinet behind him.

"I don't." She pointed to the carafe. "You mind?" Grimes blinked and looked over his shoulder.

"Oh!" He got up and fetched a clean coffee cup. "Cream or sugar? We have Equal lyin' around here… I think."

Lise grinned. "Black." Grimes pointed at her.

"As always, just pour it out the pot no trappings for the Davies men- WOMEN! Davies men and women. Believe me, we're not all Republican sexist pigs around here." Lise honestly didn't know if she wanted to hug Grimes or give him a shot to the jaw. He handed her the warm brew.

"Thanks." She sipped and licked her lips looking into the coffee. "This is very good." Grimes smiled proudly rocking on his boot heels.

"Thank you ma'am! Gold Cost blend, not too fine, not too coarse."

"Without a doubt, and my name is Lise, not 'ma'am'. Nothing's sagging down south just yet."

"Oh no ma'am, not at all!" Lise looked at Grimes pointedly. "I mean, you look great. You look terrific Lise." She raised her cup to him nodding. Grimes exhaled and returned to his desk and clapped his hands. "So, what is your father up to these days? I mean his book Headline: Vietnam absolutely kicked ass. It was on the required reading list for all journalism majors, it was under my pillow as I slept- it still is! So what's the Evan Davies up to these days? Enjoying his retirement? Working on another book… I hope?" Lise laughed along with Grimes and finished her coffee in no hurry.

"He fired a bullet into his mouth when I was 20." The rumble of the humvees on the beach were the only thing heard in that office for a few long minutes. "But if memory serves me, there are a few autographed copies of his book in the garage back home. I could send you one if you'd like?" Grimes gawped at Lise brusqueness. Evan Davies? Suicide? This was news! Like so many vets of that war, had a celebrated correspondent succumbed to their fate as well? Was it possible? Grimes looked into Lise's hazel eyes and saw that same glimmer in the hundred odd soldiers- and himself- every day: a hunger for combat. And during those twilight moments Grimes questioned himself as to what the fuck he was doing here. What was she doing here? What were the Somalis and Americans doing to each other? Grimes scolded himself for thinking, there was no place for debate on the front lines. This was a matter of saving lives and upholding freedom. He was a soldier and he does what he's told. Grimes was well aware as to what he was going to be subjected to when he enlisted. Questions would come later, but hot lead flew first as he recalled two of the Deltas, Hoot and Gordon chatting over the Mr. Coffee about the finer points of the Rangers' cavalier attitudes towards the rules of engagement during training exercises. Gordon attributed it to their age and inexperience, Hoot said that Fort Bragg should drag their asses back for a few more M.O.U.T. sessions. They'd go home whining to their mammas.

"I guess you'd like someone to talk to right about now." Lise massaged her scalp.

"That would be nice." Grimes made tracks to the mess hall. The toilet flushed and Richard reappeared.

"You might want to keep the door open." Lise sucked her teeth and crossed her arms.

"Go find the truck." Richard promptly left but had no idea where he would start. Grimes scurried into the mess eyes darting from one noisy table to the next. The General was nowhere to be found and he knew that Captain Steele opted to take lunch in his office, and under the penalty of death no one was to interrupt him. Seated with Staff Sergeant Struecker and Lieutenant Beales was Lieutenant Colonel Danny McKnight reading the paper, Grimes hoofed it right behind him and stood at attention.

"Colonel McKnight, sir!"

"Can I help you with something Grimes?" He replied from the corner of his mouth, stuffing it with more chili.

"It's urgent that I speak with you sir." McKnight returned to the funnies.

"Go ahead."

Grimes cleared his throat and bent toward his ear. "Privately sir." Struecker and Beales looked at each other but remained silent. McKnight folded his paper and slapped it on the table. He wasn't that upset just perplexed as to why Grimes, of all people, would make such a request. Had it been any other Ranger, they would be picking teeth out of their creamed corn, but since McKnight had never even spoken to the company clerk he decided to mercifully grant him some leeway. They walked to the open hangar door ignored by the raucous crowd and conversed quietly. McKnight pulled away from Grimes, goggling at the man. He looked toward the office, then back at Grimes who nodded and the office once again.

"MOTHERFUCKER!!" Utensils dropped and all noise stopped, even Pilla who was in the middle of doing his Lunch Lady routine wearing a hairnet he stole from the kitchen staff. McKnight dragged Grimes by the scruff of the neck to the office, everyone wondered at what Grimesy did so wrong to piss off the Colonel. "What do you mean ' She just showed up' ?" McKnight pushed Grimes ahead of him.

"That's exactly what happened sir. I looked up, Miss Davies was there!" The Colonel threw open the door and saw Lise who hadn't moved from her seat.

"Good afternoon," she said.

McKnight calmed some as he saw her skirt drift off one knee, as she crossed her legs. "Hello." /Hello legs./ McKnight shoved Grimes all the way in and shut the door softly. "Who exactly brought her here?"

"As I said before sir, she just showed up." Repeated the exasperated clerk. McKnight nodded planting his fists on his hips.

"Did you ask Miss Davies how she got here?" Grimes flushed recognizing his serious oversight. Looking at Grimes' face was an adequate enough answer, McKnight knew that the leeway he granted the desk Sergeant was a mistake he will not make again in the future.

"Permission to speak?" Lise said. McKnight shoved Grimes aside, a million dollar smile on the Colonel's face.

"Of course, permission granted." He shook her hand affectionately. "I am Lieutenant Colonel Danny McKnight, call me Danny, and this as you know is Sergeant Grimes." He spoke his name through clenched teeth.

"Yes I know."

"Now Miss Davies, there is nothing more I'd like to do than help clear up this misunderstanding."

"Thank you Colonel."

"Danny. I must say Miss Davies, you have quite a fan following, you're presence here is not unpleasant just complicated at the moment."

"Understood."

"So if you don't mind, telling me how you ended up in our base of operations." How stupid did they think she was? It was obvious that McKnight was caught with his RBA down, which would explain his sycophantic performance. But it was safe to assume being that she was the only female they have seen in an extended time period provided distraction, something to her advantage.

"Danny, I understand your position and your feelings about the mass media. I realize that my fellow journalists haven't getting their facts straight about what the Ranger presence here in Somalia is all about. And being the responsible journalist I am, I haven't broached the subject. I am not interested in the least as to what missions you are carrying out, but it is public knowledge that you are attempting to capture Mr. Aidid. I have been in Mogadishu for quite some time with a colleague from CNN to try to speak with Mr. Aidid to figure out why he's doing whatever he is doing, other than the fact that he is one sadistic son of a bitch." That earned a hearty laugh from McKnight and Grimes. "Please also understand that with my upbringing I realize diplomacy is something that's not on the whole accepted by someone in camouflage wielding an MP-5. You're just doing your job and I respect that."

"You are a very reasonable woman, Miss Davies." Uniforms were too damn predictable, sometimes.

"But I need you to respect the fact that I was also doing my job, when your shaved ape Deltas came along, terrorizing me and my cameraman in Indian country UNPROVOKED!! " McKnight did notice that Sanderson and his cronies were absent among the other operators in the mess. "Put me to sleep like a goddamned cocker spaniel and throwing me in the back of a truck! Do I look stupid to you? Do you know who the fuck I am?!" Twenty minutes later, McKnight exited the office with throbbing eardrums for the first time not from gunfire. Grimes was under orders keep her in the office and to serve her decaf, it was imperative that he speak with the General. The Rangers were quieter than usual spacing out in front of the televisions or listening to music trying to ignore the Colonel storm through the hangar. Eversmann sat at an empty card table writing his journal trying to listen in on the commotion that was coming from Grimes' office. It was about the same time yesterday that he saw something unusual taking place at the rear of the hangar. He was parking the land rover after an exhausting morning of drills and practice at the shooting range when he saw three vehicles pull up. Eversmann knew that the Deltas had two civilian vehicles brought in and knew better to question this, but when he saw this third white van he didn't recognize, he tensed. Gordon jumped out of the jeep and ran to the white van where Shughart was getting out from behind the wheel. Hoot banged twice on the side of the blue van and the back doors opened up. He saw Wex and Busch carefully carry out an American civilian male from the white van, then hurry inside and Hoot, Gordon, and Shughart in turn piled in. Sanderson gingerly carried out a female from the blue van, even from his distance Eversmann recognized Lise. But as strange as things were, neither made an appearance at dinner.

Curiosity won over common sense and he sought out Hoot at his usual spot behind the shed on the airfield. Eversmann hadn't rounded the corner when he heard: "What's on your mind, kid?" Matt sat down on the concrete beside the weathered vet. He shrugged.

"Nothing much." Hoot puffed on his cigarette concentrating on his book. Eversmann had wondered what he was so involved with until he finally managed to get a peek when Hoot fell asleep during a spin up to find out it was in a foreign language. Eversmann guessed Hoot was recruited from the Green Berets since it was a requirement to be fluent in second language. As he thought about it, there was little they knew about their resident shadow warriors save for their names, ranks (rather a distaste for them), and what they were in Somalia for. For all the hero worship that Eversmann and the other Rangers had for their big brothers it was the ordinary things about the Deltas that were astonishing.

Wex and Busch were the oldest members of the group and paired off for missions. Staff Sergeant Busch was a mellow character, easily identifiable by his baseball caps snoozing quietly on his cot or cleaning his weapon. He was also undefeated at Scrabble, not even Durant or Walcott survived a game with him. Busch laughed easy and always ribbed Wex over one thing or another. Wex was the family man, but even more astounding the man was artistic. Everyone drooled over how this quick draw blew away paper targets or the back of an unsuspecting skinny's head with his pistol, then at the end of the day you would find him on the beach with an easel painting the sunset in watercolors. It was fair to say that Somalia was his last hurrah and he would able to devote his time to his three daughters and his book. It was fun talking with Wex, Matt had read his manuscript during downtime, it was a children's storybook that featured his portraits of fantastic Arthurian battles- the White Knight versus the One Eyed Dragon, sorcery and discovery. It was his third draft under heavy revisions and the number of pages was at 68, getting thicker since his editors were his own daughters. One night over the satellite phone they were engaged in deliberation over the prospects of a princess. Love and marriage were on the table but his eldest, 12-year-old Libby persisted she had to do something besides dressing up a throne. Magic was a strong possibility but what he needed at the moment was a model.

Sergeant Shughart and Master Sergeant Gordon were always found together with their chessboard. Randy was married to Stephanie, every night at the same time he would call her and they'd talk about how much they missed each other, trivialities, redoing the kitchen, and the latest was a Halloween party they were invited to. He suggested going as Frankenstein and his bride, but what she had in mind were the King and Queen of Hearts. Randy was cerebral and subdued, while Gary was a smart ass always ready with a wise crack. He didn't mind showing off his sharpshooting skill, enjoyed a good challenge, and challenged others as well. Finally there was Hoot and Sanderson. Hoot's real name was Norm Gibson, but after hearing that a mental image of some middle-aged accountant would come up, certainly not a 6'4" career soldier with the physique of an Olympic gymnast. He was a professional and everything was strictly routine: get up, dress, eat, insertion, drop and shoot, then exfil to base bleeding as little as you can. He hung around with the same people and said little, but if you managed to pry anything from him he would be frank, and his honesty about many things didn't win him friendships. And that was fine by him. Sanderson was the unofficial ringleader. This dusky blonde soldier had an analytical if not impatient mind, possessed a cynicism that was camouflaged by his dry wit and an odd sense of humor that he used to get under Captain Steele's skin once a day.

All of these men, as well as the other operators were able to think and work on their own and enjoyed being alone. These were the qualities befitting Delta, you were put through the most arduous training the military had to offer and if you made it out alive and sane, it was just the beginning. Putting it simply, their objective was to kill and survive eschewing all fame, fortune, and recognition they did America's most dangerous and important work moving within the shadows. Delta were modern knights and true. But being removed so far from traditional army discipline gave the men a unique new angle on the brass seeing through their smokescreen of pomp and bullshit since the majority of these guys weren't above sergeant. And maybe their tactics pushed the envelope, used resources when it was inappropriate but they got the job done. What they resented were taking orders when none had to be given, the Delta culture was cliquey and outsiders were tabooed.

"So, what happened out there today?"

"Just a little extra credit project," Hoot replied disarmingly. "Nothin' y'all should worry about." Eversmann was able to make out a female shouting. The Deltas stirred up the hornet's nest with Miss Davies, and she was not liable to forget it even if they cranked the charm up to maximum. What he remembered reading about her family was her grandfather had been a conventional Green Beret colonel who had fervidly opposed Project DELTA in its inception during Vietnam. And it was apparent that his granddaughter was going to be less than tolerant of them as well. JOC was a knot of action, Garrison and Lieutenant Colonel Joe Cobb were at the heart of it slugging down caffeine watching the glaring monitors displaying Mogadishu's slowly moving rooftops directed from Orion. McKnight entered.

"Can I help you Danny?"

"We have a situation here sir." The older officer blinked and sighed.

"I know. I'll speak to Miss Davies privately."

"Yes sir." Risking a stroke McKnight decided to let it be, for now. Grimes escorted Lise to the General's office bypassing the hangar to evade any problems, he lifted the tent flap for her and went back to his desk. Lise walked around a bit, stretching her legs looking at the maps and photos, the tables were empty and she sat down. After a few minutes Garrison walked through the tent flaps.

"Miss Davies."

"General Garrison." The officer stood hands clasped behind his back looking at her as if one of his grandkids asked where babies came from.

"Miss Davies, I hope you will accept my humble apologies for the trouble you might have gone through."

"General Garrison, I hope you will understand when I say fuck your apology for the trouble I have gone through." She smiled beatifically. Garrison grimaced on tenterhooks of her attitude and what may happen next.

"Y'know I was familiar with your daddy and your granddaddy, Miss Davies so this is nothing strange." Lise shrugged unmoved.

"And what uniform hasn't come across them or any other member of my non-immediate family, General?" She folded her arms across her chest. "I'll tell you something though, you got a real interesting set up here in Somalia." She got up and walked around the tent. "So interesting in fact that find it stunning how the media isn't crawling all over this desert to get you on the front page."

Garrison chuckled fondly reminiscent of the glittering film ribbon that decorated the barbed wire fence outside the hangar. "Oh, we've had our run-ins with a few braver shutterbugs." Lise grinned acidly.

"Well I'm no shutterbug, and I'm no fool either General."

"I am well aware of that Miss Davies," his voice betraying his repose. "But you have to understand that I had to forcibly remove you and Mr. Kellner because we are in a highly sensitive region of the world where my people are conducting covert operations. So this isn't a personal strike against you, Miss Davies."

"A personal strike, doubtful. Covert ops, questionable." Garrison grinned tightly taking a step back from the table where Lise sat, flashbacks of news reports of the Rangers on a mission shot with infrared cameras. But he took comfort in the fact that the information on their activities were purely speculative or outright wrong. Miss Davies, Garrison knew, was aware of that fact and was going to use it as her Trump card. "General Garrison, I respect the fact that you are carrying out your orders and trying your damnedest to net Aidid. I also respect the fact that you follow my work, and were… concerned with my well being. So much so, that you went to extreme measures to get me out of- what you though was- harm's way. But here is my problem: I do not appreciate the fact that you abducted me and my colleague while we were carrying out our orders speaking to the Somali people, especially in the violent manner you did. And on a personal note, I do not appreciate being shadowed by your Deltas! You do know that alone could've gotten me killed. These people aren't simple as you think. Besides… I don't find it attractive." Garrison strayed off course after she made that final comment but would make it his business to question his operators at a later time.

"I had hoped we might have discussed the matter at hand instead of slinging insults."

"Maybe you're asking the wrong questions." Garrison was dubious. Davies looked as if she might play ball, but if he was going to get something he had to make a few sacrifices reading into her contemptuous smile. "Let us be frank, I can imagine what state my truck is in after your," Lise smirked, "' operators' did to it. But they will discover that my filing system is rather unique and will take longer to decipher than they think. But whatever they find has either been broadcasted or relayed to D.C. where my station manager is chewing things over. So why don't you just ask me about Salad? Or is it Awale- one of them, at least? Atto? Aidid? Chances are what I know, you already knew."

"That is a possibility." Garrison was a strong believer in capitalism and his prospects were broadening.

"So then General, here's how I see it: you're having a communications spot with your new commander-in-chief since there's no real response out there over this confrontation, unlike Iraq. On top of which, you might be getting criticized for us getting involved in the first place. It may be war General but these people don't seem to be appreciative of our help, if you get familiar with the mentality, which I might point out that on some level is my expertise." Garrison sat down, his feet felt raw in his jump boots. "So what is this crazy woman's point, you're wondering? Quite simply it's this: I want to help you General. But you know that in our great democratic system you don't get something without giving something in return." Garrison didn't need subtitles nor a psych degree to pick up on Lise's cunning. He also noticed that in the 98° degree heat there was an absence of perspiration on her skin, he'd have Wilkie brought in to look at her.

"I will have to confer with the other commanding officers about your proposal, Miss Davies." She smirked confidently.

"I trust that you will." Before Garrison stepped out he saw the faint freckles sprinkled on the backs of Lise's arms were less noticeable. She sighed and wondered where Kellner wandered off to in all that time, even if he did find the van Richard would fly into conniptions upon the discovery that their work would be in the hands of the U.S. military. And presumably never to be seen again. Despite the conditions, Lise had never seen cleaner beaches. The sand was immaculate, perfectly white and because industrialization was virtually nonexistent fishing on the shore was safe. Lise passed through the bug net mesmerized by the roaring horizon but was dismayed when black storm clouds closed in. "That would so totally fuck up the view…." Lieutenant John Beales and Private John Waddell walked in the shadow of the camouflaged Boeing 747 to catch Lise standing in the middle of the airfield. Waddell grasped Beales' arm.

"Hey Beales, isn't that-" Then she toppled to the sand. The two Rangers stood frozen for a moment before Beales' brain kicked in.

"Holy shit!" They ran to the unconscious woman's side. "Medic! MEDIC!!!!" Beales shouted across the road to the infirmary. Waddell gingerly rolled her over from her side wary of keeping her feet elevated when her body began to rack with hacking coughs.

"It's OK! I got it. I got it." Technical Sergeant Tim "Wilkie" Wilkinson, one of the PJ's callously dubbed "shake-and-bake" commandos by the Deltas considering that was the quickest route into the special ops community. But this avid outdoorsman was a hardened risk taker who proudly made it through the army's nightmarish Special Forces SCUBA training because of his years dropping into combat zones, performing difficult rescues. Schmid walked out of the tents after hearing Beales' cries and saw four men all round Lise. "Keep her hair out of the way," Wilkie instructed Sanderson, he held a metal pan under her face as she vomited.

"Jesus!" He leapt into action fetching a saline IV bag. Lise's palette was sandpaper and she tried to scream seeing the vultures circling her above. Something closeby hissed and Lise saw a king cobra slithering along the hot rock zeroing in on her. Her jaw dropped but no sound came watching it corkscrew up her left arm and sunk its fangs into her flesh. She felt the poison branch into her veins, boiling away the blood. Schmid struggled trying to feed the IV into her bloodstream but met resistance as Lise tensed her muscles pushing the needle out. He would leave a nasty bruise being forced to puncture her twice. Lise lay dying, her remaining energy taxed from trying to wring the hellish creature from her arm. But the more she exerted herself her left hand contorted with rigor.

/C'mon, stop it now. That's not exactly cute./ Sanderson spoke to her softly, holding her hand as Wilkie and Schmidt tried to ease Lise into bed as she thrashed. The voice coaxed her from continuing to cling, losing the battle until she ultimately complied, peacefully expiring. Wilkie diffidently pulled the cotton sheet to Lise's waist watching the slow rise and fall of her chest, Schmid hung the saline bag captivated by the bulbous, distorted world within the plastic and wondered if that echoed Lise's dreams. But this wasn't a good time for thinking, Eversmann was jogging across from the road.

"Schmid?" Matt lifted the tent flap and beckoned to the medic. Kurt nodded and motioned for Sanderson to step aside as he pulled a pair of screens around Lise's bed, he followed Eversmann outside leaving the Delta staring at her silhouette. They stopped before the General's tent where Beales and Waddell waited. "Alright, they're getting restless in there," Matt said thumbing to the hangar, "and they know something's up."

"We can't afford any agitation right now." Beales added. "So as long as it's only us that know she's here, we keep a lid on it for now."

"Sir," Waddell interjected, "what about the cameraman? He found the truck with our humvees. Everybody knows now." Eversmann shook his head.

"He hasn't said anything, so he's worried about the situation getting out of hand as we are. He's been confined to his cell until further orders. So as far as the other men are concerned, he's the only civvie here. Hoo-ah?"

"Hoo-ah." They chorused. Eversmann and Beales retreated back into the tent and Waddell slapped Schmid on the shoulder a couple of times then headed for the beach. Kurt was unsure and for a split second he thought of alerting Captain Steele, but seeing how he liked having all four limbs in working order, Schmid refrained. In all that time he was conferring with his fellow Rangers, he didn't see Sanderson leave the infirmary. As tempting as it was to watch Sanderson and Miss Davies battle it out which would ultimately end on somebody's cot made things even more complicated, though would relieve some of the tedium. Schmid was about to turn back when a glint in the corner of his eye caught his attention. The medic stepped back where his shadow would not obstruct the twinkling, and knelt down to discover something was partially buried in the sand. On a lengthy gold thread a pendant hung, the shape was unusual resembling an arrowhead or spear tip, in the blinding sun Schmid wasn't certain. He entered the infirmary and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Sanderson's metal folding chair empty then went for the sinks to scrub what was seemingly Miss Davies' necklace. Drying it with a clean hand towel Schmid held it up to his eyes just able to make out the inscription.

"'Second Battalion, Seventh Special Forces Group Airborne'." When Schmid's eyes adjusted he got a better look at the bauble and recognized it as something he'd seen hundreds of times. It was an exact replica of one of the Special Forces patches Green Berets don on their fatigues, the insignia depicted a drawn sword with three lightning bolts streaking down the blade. "What's she wearing it for?"

"Whatcha got there, kid?" Schmid spun round fisting the chain behind his back. Randy Shughart happily chomped on his toothpick, Sanderson was back in his seat sipping coffee, a freshly showered Busch followed Wex, then Gordon, and shuffling behind him was Hoot.

"Nothing… not really." Schmid was slow to see Gary behind him.

"That's a pretty nothing you got there." The blonde operator easily yanked the chain from his loose fist. Gary dangled it from his index and middle fingers the sunlight flashing off the pendant's flat surface. "That looks familiar." Wex yawned.

"What is that?" He rubbed his forehead taking his hand away from his head in time to catch the chain. Busch leaned over for a closer look.

"That's cute." Wex turned the pendant in his sun-roughened fingers.

"This is quality craftsmanship," Hoot couldn't stifle a laugh exchanging looks with Jeff. "You can't find this anymore. I love my wife, but hate jewelery shopping for her. It's like I waste my money getting her something that looks like gumball machine crap." He handed it to Busch who gave it to Randy, and it ended up with Hoot. Gibson thought it interesting how he didn't notice something as insignificant as a decal every time he walked through the doors of Fort Bragg.

"It belongs to Miss Davies." Schmid piped up.

"Yeah, I know." Hoot said off-handedly earning a frown from the medic. Lise made some small noise and the men stiffened until she relaxed. Gordon parted the screens enough to look, Lise's mouth had a faint imprint of red from the last time she applied lipstick giving it the semblance from the aftereffects of rough kissing, the silky spill on the flat pillow dappled silver and gold in the sun, one hand flung palm upward on the mattress. His brows lifted.

"Can we keep her?" Sanderson stayed cool.

"Somehow I don't think Captain Steele will approve." Wex quipped.

~U.S. Army Headquarters, September 20 5:21 P.M.~

The screens were removed and Schmid kept a lookout taking his dinner back to the infirmary as the Deltas were still in the mess. He hoped they would call it a day and not show up for Miss Davies sake at least, and of the fact he was wary of them more than ever. Medics were not the hardened battle types, when the Somalis would launch mortars near the gate he and the rest of the personnel would join hands and sing prayer songs while his crazy hoo-ah friends in the hangar cheered as if it were Super Bowl Sunday. Schmid pondered this over his bowl of New England clam chowder and decided to close the day with some filing.

Lise heard the tide roll out but vacillated to lift her head from the pillow since her temples snapped like a rubber band. The distant banging of Schmid going through file cabinets told her that he would be busy and slid from beneath the sheet stepping into her slingbacks. Schmid threw Galentine's physical forms into a yellow file folder and retrieving his half-finished chowder he saw Lise's bed empty.

"Oh shit!" The bowl landed face down on the ground as he flew out of the tent. Lise ducked under windows around the hangar hearing the rowdy dinner crowd, fortunately the airfield was vacant and her van was within view parked with the humvees. She sprinted for it and so far, had not been spotted. The doors were unlocked but no sign of the keys, either in the ignition or under the sun flaps. Lise also noticed how the van accumulated much more space in the time she had been away. Then it clicked. The cameras, monitors and technical equipment weren't bothered, the glove compartment was hanging open as usual and the crap was untouched, the horrid purple and green fuzzy dice dangled from the rearview mirror, but everything else was gone. The audio and video tapes, notes, files, her laptop, Richard's photos and the satellite phone vanished. It confirmed her earlier suspicions, but when she looked under one of the built-in tables and didn't see one particular trunk that should have been returned Lise's temperature rose.

Nelson wandered into the parking lot after a befuddling visit to the detention cells. Shawn honestly felt a little sorry for the cameraman, all Kellner kept asking for was his passport back, but if the rumors circulating were true that the D-Boys had brought him here, there was nothing that the Specialist could do. He was searching for Twombly to see if he was up for some Stratego. Nelson had no such luck with Yurek, he was spending quality time with his feline kinfolk- he had adopted a cat and her litter abandoned in the hangar after their occupation. Maddox was turning in early, and Smith opted to re-watch The Jerk, so that left their SAW gunner. Going past the humvees Nelson would have ignored the CNN van had he not seen its rear doors open and Lise standing there. He froze in midstep, unsure if the oppressive heat was inducing a mirage, or if a woman was really there. Lise was seething so hotly that she didn't see Nelson approach her from behind.

She felt Nelson tap the back of her shoulder lightly and made the decision that she was not having any of it anymore. "Excuse me ma'am, but you're not-" Before his brain could catch up, Lise took his wrist in a death grip and proficiently hurled him over her shoulder and onto his chest. Her cousin always said she was an apt pupil. Durant and Walcott dragged the Scrabble board and an unenthusiastic C.W.O. "Bull" Donovan back to the cooking trailer where Durant bunked when they heard Nelson's cry.

"I don't even want to know," Walcott said. On cue, Delta came running in time to hear Nelson's pitiful moans as Lise wrenched his arm the wrong way in his socket. She said nothing but pushed her foot into his armpit, Hoot grimaced knowing that if they let her go on she could do some permanent damage to the kid. He stuck both pinkies in his mouth and blew off a shrieking whistle that could have split their eardrums. Lise threw Shawn's arm to the floor putting her hands over her ears.

"What the fuck is this this?!" Nelson scrambled to his feet, back ramrod straight.

"Sorry Sergeant." During his years in the deeply covert, Hoot's patience had been finely honed to the point of desensitization. There was little left in this world that could surprise or frighten him, but this was taking its toll. To spare himself the court martial, Hoot just glared at Nelson. Lise had the heels of her hands digging into her ears though it did nothing for the residual buzzing. It brought up fond memories of her Uncle Walt, an SF major who went by the nickname "Brick" coined from his ability to break bricks with his forehead, he was also referred to as "Shitbrick" by the SEALs and Deltas in the family. It was also a bit of a joke around Fort Bragg. There was no love lost between the conservative soldiers and those who were more adventurous. Every 4th of July, her parents would pack up the Dodge and make the long haul from Baltimore to Fayetteville, North Carolina for the big family barbeque. All the kids would run like chickens with no heads around the lake behind Uncle Walt's town house raising hell, no one would hear Aunt Flora screaming for them to eat until Brick came stomping out in his ' FOUR STAR CHEF' apron slapping the spatula against one meaty thigh, stuck his index finger and thumb in his mouth and let off a screech that sent everyone diving.

Recovering from her fainting spell and the rohypnol shot did wonders for Lise's thought processes, and ceased spinning her wheels. "Well hi there!" Hoot announced. Lise flinched putting a hand to her temple. When she looked at Sanderson smiling at her and Gordon wiggling his fingers at her Lise thought how she spent her nights patting herself on the back for getting the career she wanted, doing what she pleased, the new apartment in D.C., she wondered why she kept running into the wrong men.

TBC