Sing

60.

East of Bakersfield, seven hours later. I had spent the drive time working up a profile on Violet Hayes. I don’t recall her specifically from the raid, but she was one of the hackers, all seated in a pentagonal work area that would be the envy of NASA, that seemed more interested in what was taking place, its ramification, and perhaps even its guaranteed place in the history books. The other four, in the flash-bang of my entrance and take-over, seemed to only want entertainment and, I could sense, some form of revenge. There was one who’s desire appeared to be for my success, and not her employers. Might have been Violet, who at the time I did not correctly ID as female. I recall a similar assessment after their leader was down and they were being cuffed by local police. I did a very quick canvass asking if anyone had any up-chain information they would like to share in exchange for ‘sentencing considerations’ with similar negative results.

Seven long hours behind the wheel allowed me to put the intel from TOM alongside my upcoming initial meeting with Violet, her group and The Axis cell. A few elements added up with just as many subtracting from my working theory. The saying is that one only gets a single chance at a good first impression, yet I held out hope that it might be during our second encounter that we discover some meaning, a motive and the motivation causing our initial meeting. 

I arrive at the facility, a desolate and remote complex that might have been a WWII supply command. Immediately I feel its bleak raison d'être and consider the possibility that there might be some better way to accomplish its penal objective. I am ushered into an underground bunker about the size of a high-school gymnasium. There are no windows. The fluorescent lights emit a vibrating yellow light along with the standard sixty-cycle hum. There is a sign at the security checkpoint advising all personnel that this is a Women’s Facility and that No Men Allowed Past Checkpoint Without Female Accompaniment. I am greeted by a female officer who doesn’t appear very happy to see me. 

“You are here to see the Hayes girl?” she asks in a gruff, smokey tenor. 

“Yes.” 

“Follow me please.” She leads me out of the gym and down a long and narrow corridor. Past an intersection the rooms on either side have been converted to holding cells, small, sterile closets with a bunk bed, a metal desk and toilet as the only furniture. The toilet is stainless steel with a built in sink above the tank. I glance into the pens as we walk and note they are empty. The officer is silent but the echo of our foot-strikes precedes us like a bad reputation. At last we arrive at the end of the corridor where a slightly larger area signed Conference Room, hangs behind another officer seated at a small reception area. She is greeted by my guide and she opens the electric door with a few keystrokes on her desktop computer which looks like something Bill Gates might have built in his father's basement. The door opens like a WD-40 commercial. Violet Hayes is seated at a desk facing me. Her hands are shackled to the desk and her legs bound in chains attached to an iron bracket bolted to the concrete floor. I am appalled. 

“Please unshackle her,” I say trying not to show my indignation. 

The guards look at each other, resign, and the desk officer moves to open a key cabinet behind her desk, finds the right combination and slowly moves to do as requested.  

Violet acknowledges my empathy with a quick toothless smile. 

I sit across the desk from her and ask the guards for two bottles of water. As Violet is rubbing her wrists I scan the walls and ceiling for cameras. Satisfied, I ask the remaining officer to give us the room and she reluctantly complies without a word. 

I look across the desk at Violet. I see a frightened, abused, dehydrated yet apprehensive young girl. Her hair is brownish-blond, tied into a short ponytail. Her eyes are hazel and open wide. Her skin, although pale and sallow features an American nose above thick European lips. Overall, I access her visage as ordinary, with the caveat that she holds an odd, interesting gleam in her eyes. They suggest to me that she is willing to engage. 

“You remember me?” I open with as friendly and non-intimidating a tone as I can muster. 

“Yeah, fucking Jack Bauer,” she says a touch harsher than necessary. I chuckle at the comparison and wonder if she knows what a huge fan I am of 24. 

“They told me you wanted to talk.”

“Well, OK, that’s correct but first how about telling me who they are and who you are?”

“Violet…”

“Please call me Vi,” she interrupts with a correction, “like the sky.”

“Vi, at this juncture it is imperative that you understand that you are in what we call the scalding hot water of deep kimchi. We have all the cards, every one of them, and the only reason I came all this way to honor your request is in the hope of obtaining information on who you were jacking Phantoms for. Nothing else. So let’s address that elephant in this room, you sing, give me some actionable intel and I will do what I can to lighten your tenure in this luxury vacation resort. Is that something you would like to initiate, or should I fly home in the Gulfstream and finish the barbecue I was hosting?”

“Can we do it in B-flat minor?” She asks.

“Do what?”

“Sing.”

Talk Soon

59.

We touch down north of San Diego. My ‘ready for anything’ Expedition, apparently recently detailed, idles, ready. Once buckled, I tap the space bar on the laptop where the GPS coordinates inform me that we have a forty-five minute drive to the facility where a guy that is supposed to be dead miraculously and mysteriously breathes on, assisted and unable to speak or move, but nonetheless alive by the slimmest of definitions. The paradox of the situation is not lost upon me as we swing into action and immediately join a thousand others on I-5 south at eighty miles per hour. Life in the Fast Lane. 

It is a stark, ugly building looking more like an Amazon.com warehouse than a medical facility. I had stopped at a convenience store along the way to grab a cup of coffee, cheap plastic flowers and a cheesy Hallmark sympathy card. In the facility parking I jot my name and number on the card. I am ushered into the high security wing, pass through the scanner, put the Glock back in my shoulder holster and follow an agent down a dark hallway to a larger room nodding politely to the pair of agents standing there as sentries. As we enter I am appalled by the unmistakable smell of fear. All the ammonia, bleach and pine sol in National City cannot mask the odor of death scared shitless. There is one bed in the four hundred square-foot room with hoses, pumps, wires, cords and electronic machinery wizzing and humming, all with the singular mission of artificially prolonging the pathetic existence of one man. I am met inside by the doctor on shift. I ask if there is an update on the patient's condition.

“Not in any meaningful way, he remains stable, unresponsive, but we hope that over time some of the neural trauma will abate as well as motor function. Time will tell. Our job is to allow that process to play out,” he tells me in matter of fact monotone. 

“Can he see?” I ask moving to bedside.

“He responds to light and sudden movement, but we have no way of telling if his brain connects the dots into understanding or recognition,” states the doctor.

“Hearing?”

“With enough volume and pitch, generally at low frequencies he seems to hear, but again, hearing is not understanding.”

I place the plastic roses on the bed near his feet, my eyes unblinking and laser-locked onto his two bloodshot obsidian marbles which are surrounded by yards of wrapped gauze. I sense that he can see me as I make my dramatic presentation of the card.

“You remember me?” I ask, noticing a spike on the ECG display located just above and behind his head. “I brought you some nice roses and a card. The card has my name and cell number on it.” I point to them like a school teacher might point to an important line in a poem, finishing with, “If you ever want to see the light of day, the minute — the fucking nano second — you can talk, your first words had better be to me.” The ECG machine tells me all I need to know about his response. 

“Are we clear on that?”

There is no verbal response but the doctor is gently pinching my elbow as an alarm has sounded indicating metabolic change. 

I tuck the card between his left arm and torso. 

“Have a nice afternoon and talk soon.” 

The Usual Restrictions

58.

I nod my head in tacit appreciation keeping poker faced and neutral. There is a pause and TOM continues with his opening brief.

“The leader of the local Axis cell survived the takeover raid, albeit at a cost. He has undergone massive head trauma and medical procedures have been, to date, successful in keeping him alive, again at the bare minimum of the definition. He is paralyzed, remains in a coma and has yet to speak a word, BUT, the lead surgeon expects enough of a recovery to allow some form of communication in perhaps a month or two, assuming the trajectory of his recovery continues to be linear.” I am fascinated by this report and ask for more detail without speaking. 

“We think it might be a good play to have you pay him a visit and establish that while his chances of recovery are good his chances of exoneration are not. We feel that the connection of your continued involvement might be enough to force his flip. Take him a bouquet of flowers and a get well soon card. We think he is smart enough to connect the dots between his taking to us and a permanent vacation at Gitmo.” I continue to be amazed at this turn of events. It is a gigantic stroke of good fortune for us and serious bad news for the Axis. I press TOM with a question in that regard. 

“The only intel we have of recent activity indicates chatter regarding a resurgence in activity around Los Angeles, San Diego and Houston. We have two teams working it but so far, not much. That situation is, to a great degree, why you are seated where you are at this very moment. We need to press the people we have and squeeze them for whatever juice we can get.” TOM graphically states. 

“And the high-school hackers?” 

“Precisely. The one wanting to chat with you is in an off-book high-security juvenile detention center near Bakersfield. We know from legal they will try to keep the case in juvenile court despite the fact that the perp has now turned eighteen and could be tried as an adult. Then there is the enemy combatant issue. We think this is enough to bargain with. Be advised that we, as always, will get serious heat from the feds on any plea that includes immunity, exoneration or witness protection — unless we can trade up, substantially up.” 

“Understood.” I immediately recognize this as the standard response from both sides, the government, the intelligence communities and us. My job is to get the perp to talk, trading information on the who, what, where and how of the fledgling terrorist organization of which they have played a key part in several recent felonies, all crimes with the severity to levy something in the neighborhood of life behind bars, even as a juvenile, and all without the possibility of parole — in exchange for the proxy of freedom and a fresh start. I have been in this unenviable situation before. It is not fun. 

“Start immediately, you have official clearance to work your brand of interrogation magic, with the usual caveats and restrictions.” TOM says in closing. I agree to terms and ask if there is anything else.

“Yes, because I knew you would eventually get around to it,” he says again glancing at his watch for emphasis, “no other background on the teen hacker, all the usual; broken home, abusive father, alcoholic mother, brilliant student, quiet, withdrawn, aced the SAT.”

“Participation in activities, sports? I ask.

“Negative.

“Music, drama, art, anything resembling a social agenda?”

“Computer science, classic idiot savant.”

“Sounds like the typical profile of the troubled modern kid.” I say. Pause.

“What’s his name?” 

Pause.

“Her name.” TOM corrects my use of the pronoun. 

“OK, her name,” I return, mildly irritated at being caught in a sexist assumption. 

“Violet Hayes.” 

Glad You Could Make It

57.

Efficient, utilitarian, sleek technologies have always pleased me. The combination of art, science, necessity and even mythology creates a healthy faith that despite our propensity to do otherwise, our collective future is bright. Some call this a romantic and outdated approach; one where the universe is seen as an ally ready to assist in any way providing that a few simple criteria are first met as prerequisites. The criteria are intent, purpose, tactics and truth. One must be, riffing on this thread, one hundred percent committed to the cause. It also helps, experience has demonstrated, to have an honest appreciation for — and respect of — anyone or anything that might hold an alternative viewpoint. Beauty can be, as is often quoted, in the eye of the beholder, but truth lives in the heart.  And the ‘bigger picture’ purpose in the head. 

I am considering the challenge a poet (or songwriter) might feel as she scribbles rhyming couplets on a banana leaf. Or how the philosopher might spend a thousand sleepless nights in classification of a hierarchy of needs (or sleep aids). What color best suits the emotions of my truth? What turn of phrase or mathematical theorem solves this mystery of hope? What is the sound of fear? 

Since TOM did not specify any great urgency, I am enjoying the short drive with Ruby to the usual spot. She is, after all, at least partially responsible for this four-wheel segue across the philosophers cobble stones. I use the voice command to ask her to play some Rossini in the hope of sneaking in one final movement of relaxation, an overture with an inspiring crescendo. 

We arrive at the air strip where another marvel of technology patiently waits, the company Gulfstream G280. I had the rare luxury of making a quick stop at the cabin en route to properly pack so I grab my backpack, toss the keys on the driver’s seat and sing Ruby a ta-ta to the waning notes of The Thieving Magpie. 

Once aboard, seated in the fore situation room, backpack stowed properly beneath my cushy Lazy-Boy task chair, I take one final deep breath of freedom’s finest and with a snap of a finger (hearing Rossini’s finale), put my game face on. 

In a quick sequence of events, I do love the drama of takeoff, I am pushed by invisible g-forces back into my seat, informed that we are at cruising at altitude and offered a choice of a sandwich or a veggie roll with my pot of high-octane Arabica. 

I suppose after all these years I shouldn’t be so surprised at the dramatic change a successful rest and recovery period provides. With me it has always been more pronounced at the emotional level, but I can feel a powerful surge of vitality along with a more refined picture of what my meaning is. The purpose of me. My utility. My service. My mission. This is, I accept, who I am. And this is, for better or for worse, what I do. And I am ready to do. 

The giant video screen snaps to attention with a jarring bolt of light and I see TOM looking at me, or rather right through me. He makes a point by looking at his Breitling Aviator wristwatch before addressing me verbally.

“Glad you could make it.” 

Doesn't Really Matter

56.

“I trust that you are enjoying the flip side,” TOM opens with a touch more glibness than I had been expecting. 

“Readiness is next to Godliness, sir,” I return.

“Yes, well, an interesting option has come up, one over which I am at the proverbial decision making crossroads.” I find his admission both interesting and perplexing. If there is anyone more adept in the process of problem solving and making correct 3D chess moves, I have yet to sit across the checkerboard from them. I allow a pause to indicate my concern. Sensing this he continues.

“It seems that the raid on The Axis stronghold is still paying a return on your team's investment of valor. The cabal of high school computer wizards, capable of hacking into one of the most secure firewalls in the world and jacking a pair of million dollar Phantoms, each carrying enough firepower to cripple the entire West Coast, have been learning a few important lessons while in maximum security juvenile detention.” 

TOM has my complete attention as I hear the ambient background merriment fade, replaced with a sharp focus on this new backstory, the present reality and the future possibility. TOM continues. 

“It seems that your kill shot was short of the intended result. The cell commander survived and is now wanting to talk.” I mentally gasp at this update. I have never missed from that range. I am replaying the tape as TOM announces;

“Perhaps even more important is the fact that one of the teen-age hackers has apparently had enough of detention and is also ready to talk. I don’t think I need to say anything further about what a gold-mine this could be.” TOM says. 

“You will recall that at the time of the run-in with the old man and his pickup, Team Six was en-route to a rendezvous with the cell on the mission of inserting Saunders into deep cover.” My mind is whirling like a spinning top at this intel and I can feel my heart rate and senses increase their alert rate.

“We have a choice in our play here,” TOM announces, out of character, in an almost pleading tone suggesting that he might entertain, for once, my input. 

“Saunders is nowhere near ready for an assignment like that,” I offer, “she is making rapid progress with PT, but way too dangerous, in my opinion, sir,” I try, testing the waters. 

“I wasn’t considering Saunders,” he says, “The kid, apparently, will only talk to you.”

“Me? Why me?”

“If I knew the answer to that you would be in check.” TOM says, finally sounding like his familiar, always-in-control self. “Get to the strip, get out there and see what you can extract from the kid. He knows who you are and might be willing to play a supporting role in his salvation by flipping on The Axis, who we now suspect are back at their nefarious terrorism activities.” 

“Roger on that, sir.”

I press the end call icon and look upwards into a bright cobalt blue sky, already working the game plan. I hear a seagull screech and the final refrain from the outdoor speakers, “I guess it doesn’t really matter anyway.”

Feed the Artist

55.

In the five-seconds it takes me to grab the phone, read the caller ID and find a place to hold what was sure to be a private conversation of immediacy and urgency, a preview of coming attractions plays in my mind.  A trailer of the pending ‘life flashing before one’s eyes’ as the lights are about to eternally dim. After all, the R&R is working its special blend of magical rejuvenation as my latest contemplation was in regard to the purpose of art. This metaphysical analysis, instigated by my artist friend who innocently, and genuinely, shared with me her opinion on the delicate, misunderstood and altogether personal responsibilities of the modern-day artist. It was, I immediately assumed, another passion vs livelihood pot shot at my back side. She insists that time spent being an artist is, in and by itself, time well spent. And I agree. Good things take time to mature, season and develop. No argument here. Rome wasn’t built in a day and it took Schubert almost five years to write a full symphony. With this same - failed - tongue-in-cheek attempt at humor, I insensitively quipped one day that the reason she could spend an entire morning beautifully arranging flat stones on the sea-shore was due to her having too much time on her hands. WRONG. Even a last-ditch ‘I was kidding’ plea wasn’t bargain enough to declare a mistrial on this social felony charge. 

Worse, I was later the victim of an almost lethal touché when confronted about my cheesy little attempts a video production and what a waste of time THEY are since no revenue results from the abnormally lengthy process of media capture, editing, audio augmentation, music scoring and even the slimmest structure of a narrative. “Maybe you should get a real job?”

“Well,” I stammer fully aware of the trap I have incredulously tripped into, “I don’t do them for any commercial purpose, I do them because, like any hobby, I find value in the process, enjoyment in the creative experience and a great deal of satisfaction - up to and including the cathartic, in making something out of nothing. Even if no one was to ever watch one I would still do them because of the occasional moments of magic that unavoidably pop into existence when my mind, body and spirit are working as one. In other words, I find this effort enormously creative and a tool for stress management all mixed into one. Profit, royalties, shares or points on the back end are meaningless to me.” 

She is looking at me as if waiting for a punchline. 

“How, then, is that any different from me spending a morning on the beach stacking rocks?” 

“It isn’t. It is exactly the same thing. I am truly sorry for the immaturity of my knee-jerk comment. I was captured at a time when I had a million and one things going on and the concept of dropping even one of them to ‘make some art’ was an impossibility. My compulsive reactivity should have been muted at best and filtered at worst. I beg forgiveness.”

She looks at me and recognizing sincerity, moves in for a conciliatory hug. The fact that she has, by design and necessity, no idea whatsoever of my real life, allows her to warn, affectionately and lovingly; 

“Just because you’re starving doesn’t necessarily mean you’re an artist.” 

I see the appreciation and camaraderie in her eyes and I hope see sees the same in mine. 

The movie ends.

“Yes, sir?” I respond to the call. 

Life is Good

54.

Approximately half-way between the strident clamor and the appalling silence rests a single voice. As soft as goose down yet hard as snowy white Carrara marble. It is what I commonly refer to as B natural, not too sharp and not too flat, a note with pitch so precise and perfect that it can break not only crystal but concrete as well. It has been my self-assessed fatal-flaw, a hamartia the size and scope of which Socrates and Plato would surely stand in awe. It also keeps me honest. For I am the fist to admit that without this relentless reminder of my frailty and humanity, my runaway ego might never be caught. It it the compass that calibrates my realtime course correction along the straight and narrow path that deeply desires to be crooked and wide. Milton wondered if Satan was asking us that if being bad was more fun that being good, where is the problem?

The ‘Keep your cover and continue your practice’ order from TOM was beginning to take on a totally new meaning, one including the immense frustration of having to be patient as the world, with its myriad problems all needing immediate attention and problem solving, repeats its daily circumnavigation around its sun. So we wait. And prepare. And study, work, relax and enjoy the opportunity to participate in the freedoms we fight so hard to protect. For the warrior, this is a double-edge sword. Because we like the juice. We like the action and live for the moment when all our training and readiness is called upon to settle another nasty dispute between war and peace, between good and evil or between fear and freedom. The skirmish can be mano-a-mano, one-on-one, or our team against another, or as it sometimes plays out, our team versus another entire army. Our odds of success, with sometimes thousands of lives at stake, is dramatically increased by the way we are able to adequately dial the intensity down, rest, recover and learn the lessons from the past. The adage of the best teacher being one’s last mistake is one of the few in which we have unanimous agreement. Here, the margin for error, where one’s last mistake could introduce one’s last breath, and that of your partner’s and unit’s as well, requires a keen respect for the delicate balance between always on and occasionally off. It is in this reality that we truly test the depth of our combined character.

It is also a place where I once struggled and now seem to thrive. After all the years listening to Tom Petty sing about the waiting being the hardest part, I now harmonize with Paul & Art taking the middle part of ‘slow down ya move too fast you gotta make the morning last.’ This maturation wasn’t easy, it was a process filled with tension and self-doubt, the tiger that now hunts with experience and patience was once a caged animal snarling for a good fight.

Today is a rare off-day. Sore muscles relax, tensions fade and batteries re-charge. The sun shines, laughter mixes with chirping birds hanging to overhead wires as kabobs sizzle on the grill. Callahan has decided to spin the entire three-disk set of Europe 72 and we are currently hypnotized by Garcia’s six-string exploration of time and space during Morning Dew. Life as the saying goes, is good.

My phone vibrates.

Never Forget?

53.

Seems that it always comes back to betrayal and trust, or the lack thereof. In our chosen profession, and it is a choice, the depth of trust that I have for the members of my team, and they in turn for me, will not only determine the degree of our success but our longevity as well. If I cannot completely trust that an assignment will be carried out NO MATTER WHAT, it weakens the very fabric of our operation. Should history show a past betrayal in a person's file, one might naturally question or consider the odds of it happening again. Was it a one-off, or a character flaw hiding deep in the cellular shadows of the soul? What conditions might bring the possibility of another betrayal back to the reality of the intensity of the moment? What is my level of trust that time has healed this wound so completely that it will leave only an emotional scar? 

We are riding indoors today, a workout known as ‘spin class’ to many, with the difference between our set and a typical class being that we take it to extraordinary levels of intensity, what we affectionately refer to as Zone Ten. This is a place most people, perhaps upwards of ninety percent, choose to avoid. It is otherworldly difficult to convince the average Joe or Jane to voluntarily enter this arena of pain and suffering. But, of course, therein lies the gold. We recognize the degree of difficulty involved with the effort required to produce organic maximal power in short bursts, the uncomfortability of extended periods at sub-threshold and the demanding focused awareness necessary to endure these extremes over time, with little recovery and as much sensory deprivation as can be diabolically pre-arranged. This means into headwinds, in the cold and to the sing-along darkness of whatever version of aural hell we can pump into scratchy loudspeakers. The secret to this torture, we have come to agree, is in the near-impossible task of deciding that this is fun. Once this is accepted, the game changes altogether. 

In most situations, this Zone Ten exercise excludes the option for mental wandering. The chances are good that one does not emotionally trip to a picnic on the beach as a coping mechanism. It simply takes so much awareness to simply endure using every cell, fiber and electrode one can bring to the current assignment, which is that of making it through, that it leaves no margin for error, let alone escapism. One stays present or one goes home. It is strange today that I feel oddly empowered to allow a drift. I have done this drill a hundred times and today, after all the practice and growth that adaptation to the protocol produces, I am thinking about betrayal and trust - a moment Jung might call pleasure and pain projection. 

It seems reasonable to me, here and now, in complete control of the pleasure of pain amid the grotesquely evil demands of the drill, that if I can endure, even thrive, under these conditions that I should be able to allow Davis the opportunity to prove himself as worthy in my eyes, something he has done many times before in the heat of a firefight that makes this drill comparable to listening to Mozart while finger painting. 

I will not betray that trust. I will trust that one betrayal is not a trend. I will forgive. 

But never forget. 

Go Fishing?

52.

You would think with the volumes of history between and behind us that by now our relationship would be solid, or at least civil with some form of gentlemanly agreement to peacefully co-exist as standard operating procedure. Trust me when I spill the beans and confess that it is not. Not by a long shot. Making this delicate situation worse is the reality that the success of our team, the very lives of our mates, rests in the balance we are able to negotiate. A motivational speaker once claimed in a lecture we were forced to attend that we don’t get what we deserve — we get what we negotiate. It is my responsibility as well as my challenge to keep our relationship professional and efficient. It doesn’t have to be ‘all lovey dovey’ but it must not be a point of weakness, for much like the proverbial weakest link, this cannot become that rusty inflection point that might be exploited by the expert application of force. This is true with our adversaries equally as much as it is with our team. If leadership is in-fighting the message sent down the chain of command is compromised, weakened and sits dangerously close to implosion. 

Gene Hackman as captain of a nuclear submarine, The Alabama, spoke of this critical show of respect to his XO Denzel Washington in a pivotal scene from the terrific film Crimson Tide. As did Jack Nicholson to his XO, JT Walsh, warning him to ‘never question my commands in the presence of a junior officer again.”  Each of these instances points in the direction of the importance of a non-questioning team, be they sailors, Marines or the company softball team. Someone is in charge, a captain, one undisputed leader. When this code is broken, or shows the slightest hint of softening, rusting, or being second-guessed, the risk factor is exponentially pushed towards code red. This I hold to be true.

It is my personal challenge to never allow my, somewhat petty, histories with my current squad to negatively affect the rigid chain that makes our team the best in the business. This, I hear myself say aloud, will not happen. Not on my watch. 

It has always intrigued me that the backstory of why this is such an important point is a detail so small. I will admit to my shrink and to my favorite bartender, who happen to be the same person, that all this consternation, unnecessary drama and intrinsic turmoil, the detail that puts me at the doorstep of catastrophe, the one bit of sand in the vaseline, is about a girl. 

A girl I deeply loved and the one that son-of-a-bitch Davis, he who was once my best pal and pit buddy, stole like a shameless thief. One would think that after the quarter-of-a century since the heist, I would be ‘over it’ by now. My shrink, refreshing my mug, uses the analogy of there being more fish in the sea. “Go fishing more often,” he says with all the good intentions of a charter boat captain, “you'll catch something bigger one of these days.” 

He could be right. I might be wrong. I should be over it by now. 

But I’m not. Worse, I blame Davis for this. Totally unfair, I readily acknowledge, but there are some things that stick with a guy. I honestly intend to get to the point of forgiveness and trust that it will be sooner rather than later. Maybe tomorrow. 

But the guy stuck a knife in my back, stole my gal and then tossed me under the bus to die a slow and humiliating death. 

And to this day has never uttered a single word of contrition. 

I close the file committed to taking the high moral ground of forgiveness. 

Again. 

The Davis File

51. 

Today is a run day. A trail run. One of my favorites I admit as we prepare for the off-road jaunt. If ever there was an obstacle course to test one’s ability to gracefully maneuver through constantly changing terrain, maintain a balanced equilibrium and put the proprioceptors into play, running trails might be the comparative testing finals. One key element is cadence. Finding flow, breathing with a calm and efficient rhythm, letting go. It is not so much about speed as it is about presence — as there is nothing that will slow you down faster than a misplaced foot-strike, a knock on the head from a low hanging limb or a pulled hamstring from an unexpected and sudden hill. Another key element, at least for me, lies in the attempt to forget about both the path already successfully negotiated as well as the portion yet to come. An intense, yet relaxed, focus on the flow of the present moment, stride by stride, cut after cut, in harmony with the rise and drop of every change, provides a magical opportunity to sample life’s pure organic energy. As the Zen masters quote, “One forgets the self when becoming one with the task at hand.” Losing one’s self, the loss of ego, is a powerful step along the trail of enlightenment. Or, at least another mile in the light of 20/20 hindsight. 

We are pushing a hectic pace on the ten off-road miles, as I can sense s need to cool the engine, a biomechanical thermal dynamic utility now fully tasked with opening the spill gates of stored coolant to keep the parts from over-heating. The body is a miraculous machine, fully autonomous, capable beyond anything we currently accept or understand. I stop at a clearing to reach for my water bottle and count the seconds before I am caught by my teammates. They seem relieved to see that I have allowed this brief forest luxury. We wait, hydrate and rest as the last of the team arrives at the ad hoc aid station. 

As a way of illustrating the glaringly obvious I mention the experiences one might feel in the tractor-beam pull of this wonderful run, where we are as close to animal-like as we might ever get. “Sometimes I feel like a wolf, sometimes like a big cat. But most times I am just happy to feel like a fully alive and empowered me.” I try hoping for approval and reciprocality. 

“Most times I just feel like shit, slow, clumsy, lost.” Drysdale says. He has officially joined our unit, partially upon my request, and has admitted that the physical readiness training is the part of his game needing the most attention. 

“All attitude, my friend, one day you will glide through this course like a jaguar chasing dinner.” I comment. 

A corpus of harrumphs signals the end of the break and we are back at it before even a snack is enjoyed, let alone dinner. 

We are close to the completion of the run when I am drawn to an exercise I find useful. It is what I call a file check. I mentally pull the files of everyone on the team to review their status. I am running, cautiously, on auto-pilot as I update.

Cap has made considerable progress with his concussion protocol. The specialists expect a full recovery in, perhaps, as little as three months. Saunders is undergoing intense physical therapy for her hip replacement. She now sports titanium where a bone ball and socket joint once was. As much as it pains me to admit, this incredible new technology might be a slight improvement over the original. Calahan and Bromden are gaining strength and confidence daily, both enrolled in advanced SWAT training. TOM, Julie and the staff at HQ are operating at an inspiring level of efficiency and proficiency. 

We must be doing something right, I think, as our services for emergency counter insurgency infiltration has not been required in almost a month. 'Gee, thirty days of peace in this geo-political, non-stop war zone, did somebody declare a global cease fire?' I am distracted, and slightly ashamed, by my sarcasm as another, equally negative, thought pops up. 

The Davis file. 

Under What Conditions?

50.

The application is always the challenge. One would think that given twenty-four hours each and every day in which to exercise the body, cultivate the mind and nourish the soul one might create a satisfactory system of work, study, rest and play. The combination resulting in a state we call balance. I have always found it fascinating how a single pebble tossed into the calm waters of a balanced equilibrium can cause tsunami like waves, crashing into the placid stasis of our creation. But, I remind myself as we prep for a thirty-three mile bike ride, the test, the challenge always seems to be in our response. We can answer the question with another one, ‘Why is this happening,’ or worse, ‘why is this happening to me?’ Or we can ask the right question, ‘What am I going to do about it?’ I am considering this as I fill my water bottle with my secret formula of electrolytes and diluted fruit juice. The big question is always what. What do I do about it?

There are few activities that inspire such a broad range of opportunity as cycling. One gets the benefit of physical exercise, and today we are tackling one of our most known, revered and cherished routes, one the team loves to call gnarly, as well as the freedom to pedal, however momentarily, outside of the pressure cooker of the everyday banality of life, and into a magical world of endorphin flow and ethereal gamesmanship. I get to be whomever I choose as I push the limits of my physicality and ability to ride away from the negative, the unfair and the hurtful. There is no-one that can match my ability to sustain a relaxed focus in this state of dynamic flow. I challenge them to try knowing that their attempt will enhance my own effort creating a one-two punch of championship caliber. The lessons of riding, of sports, athletics and to another degree all physical activity where sooner or later the goal will be to discover one’s personal definition of winning and losing, of victory and defeat and the invaluable idea of intent, effort and practice towards the achievement of those goals, will manifest in the participant as character. This is a personality trait we have studied and chosen the acronym ACQ to better measure and manage. It is one’s Athletic Character Quotient that allows us to apply its only question to any effort. Our individual ACQ seeks a real-time answer to this question:

“Under what conditions will you quit?” 

The creative solution to this monumental ask is my personal study of self awareness. Everyone has a point at which they slow down, a point they will stop, a breaking point where the information they keep from an enemy will be revealed in exchange for the cessation of punishment. Knowing this, I have long considered it to be a particularly effective training tool to push to that very point. To get there, to that place where ninety-nine percent of the population would never consider going, and see what it is like, how it feels, test how long I can stay there. Many times the victory, success or any other of the more subtle forms of progress, comes down to the participant who can last the longest in this boiling pot of  intensity. 

As we start the first six percent climb I juxtapose this idea into other areas. Does it apply equally as well to the cerebral, the academic or the scholastic? Wouldn’t the student stand a better chance of success as a direct result of being able to maintain a relaxed focus as she studies? Could the curious answer to ‘How do we make love last?’ have its answer in maintaining emotional intensity well past the initial stages of infatuation? If our purpose is to find an personally acceptable answer to the question of life’s meaning, would not a pilgrimage to the mountain top of maximum intensity provided a clue or two? 

My heart is pumping close to maximum volume as we near the crest of the hill. I feel my lungs fill and empty with phenomenal efficiency. My core, glutei, quads and hamstrings are engaged in a harmoniously syncopated crescendo of power. We are taking this hill. Our flag atop it will soon be seen for miles around as a flowing symbol of our eternal quest for meaning. Our motto will be emblazoned across it in full caps: DO NO HARM. This is good. 

The idea that one’s ACQ might be secondary to one’s HCQ, Human Character Quotient flashes across my internal heads-up display. Suddenly and ironically I wish that this hill was longer, steeper, maybe even more gnarly that it already is. I hear the voice. 

Under what conditions will you quit? 

Keep Digging

49.

Any worthwhile analysis should lead to a conclusion. This, TOM once explained, is the basis behind the painstakingly tedious debrief process. Seeing this, after years of stubborn resistance, as an opportunity rather than a performance review, opens a new set of beautiful French doors for me. Naturally I took the same operational formatting for my personal use, because no matter the level of brutal honesty that I offer in the process, there remains a thousand more gems hidden deep inside the vault of my secret files. The files no one sees, are never discussed and are assessable only to me. In other words, were the good stuff is. 

All the years spent in practice, each and every mission, case, assignment or operation, presentes an unique challenge. Using the Borg scale of perceived effort, one being comatose and ten being absolute top end, it has become standard operating procedure to review my personal involvement after the formal debrief. A two rating, as an example, could be a straight-forward who-done-it, some garden-variety follow the money white collar fraud or extortion gig, where the suits had thought themselves smarter than, or above, the law. A nine, using the same rating system, could be the tracking of a web of International terror cells united for a common malicious cause. These situations call for specific training, weapons and tactics, the use of which we are considered elite. Here, with the stakes as high as they get, the risk is massive and the margin for error minuscule. This is where the big lessons are learned and applied. All the field experience, the ongoing training in new, modern and technological weapons and tactics, keeps us in a ready state. And as stressful state as well. The debrief helps in getting to the message and abandoning the rest. As they often quote in Zen studies, “You only lose what you cling to.” This is the starting place of my X marks the spot dig. 

The accumulated wisdom of a thousand missions provides a solid foundation from which to drive my shovel into the rich soil of the soul. The answer, or perhaps simply another clue, is down here, hidden, protected, elusive. I am familiar with this routine. Dig, shovel full by shovel full, deeper and deeper, until pay dirt is hit. The secret I have found in this effort, practiced to the point of needing gloves to protect blistered hands and bloodied fingers, is, perhaps paradoxically, this:

Barring the fruitful mining of gemstones, gold, oil, buried treasure or the former tenant’s coffee cans filled with a fortune in doubloons, and after the tactical wins, losses or draws are evaluated, the take away always seems to point in the direction of two seemingly tangential elements. Those of staying focused and present at all times with the fierce intention of putting forth best effort. Interestingly, this always seems enough. It may be that a gentle reminder is all it takes. It may not solve the crime, or salve the situation, but it sure helps in understanding the pragmatic purpose of everything leading to, and stemming away from it. 

Those growing piles of dirt next to my personal digs represent the emotional, doubtful, fearful and anxious metaphorical by-products of the message.

The conclusion always recommends that I sharpen my shovel and keep digging. 

The Best There Is

48.

“You know what your problem is don’t you?” I hear myself ask. 

“You mean the current state of acceptance in the perception versus reality debate? The one where weakness is identified, isolated and the process begun for its improvement? The problem of not being satisfied with mediocrity and wanting to counter any situation with an appropriate nothing-less-than-perfect response? That problem?” I inquire. 

“Yes, that one.” 

“Is it so egregiously counter-productive to strive for an ideal, even cognizant of perfection being impossible, at least by our standard definition? Where is the harm in the earnest attempt to continually improve?” I submit to the one person judge and jury. 

“Glad you asked. Because you are never satisfied. You consider it a failure when your impossible goals lie burning on the stovetop like scorched pancakes. The reality of six outstandingly delicious ones preceding them has no weight in the analysis because you fixate on the fire. You could have produced another perfect batch but you were called away to tend to something more urgent, an emergency code-red, while the responsibility of flipping cakes temporarily moved to the back burner. One fire is extinguished as another reaches flash-point spatula man. Trying to do too much often tastes like a flash flood in a flour factory.” 

“I have heard that one before. Yes. You are right,” comes my humble response. “But how could one ever know their limit if they don’t go there and see, try it for themselves? What good am I to anyone if I shy away from the very test that will add to my GPA? And please remember rule number twenty-two.” I offer, somewhat unconvincingly. 

“Rule twenty-two?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Could you please recite it for me?”

“In any given situation where the quality of response is less than the desired result, first look at the intent. Was the motivation to be perfect or to do the best that one is capable of doing? Intention is everything. With proper intent the outcome is irrelevant, leaving no message other than to pledge relentless dedication and desire to improve the consistency of focused effort — and to accept with humility the reality that no one has yet achieved absolute perfection,” I reel off like an umpire explaining the infield-fly rule to a little-leaguer.  

“That’s some rule, that number twenty-two.”

“It’s the best there is.” 

Trust That It Is

47.

In this search for balance, the knock-down-drag-out grudge-match that shows no signs of slowing down from aging up, I realize that there are just a handful of fundamental elements of which I can both control and cultivate. 

At the top of this illustrious list is the factual reality that in order to do my job I must stay fit, remain healthy and avoid injury or illness. We will call these things, and all that they connote as subsets, exercise. This one is pretty easy for me. It makes sense down to the cellular level that one of my most important responsibilities is to take care of my body. I say easy because at an early age I came aware of the cause and effect relationship joining the amount of sweat and muscular discomfort I produce in training or practice and the intended results of that effort. I found in one early experiment that the harder I worked the better my chances of success. Over the course of the next six decades I have repeatedly added to the sample size of that postulation, almost to the point that it is now repeatable ninety-nine times of a hundred. Additionally, the margin for error has been dramatically reduced, virtually eliminating the random element known as ‘luck.’ When one’s level of fitness is combined in a superior functioning living organism - what we casually refer to as health - the results are only limited by our brains ability, or inability, for flawless execution, total commitment and skill in the control of our focus. All this, its lifetime commitment to continual improvement and a clear mission statement, play the physical part in the power trio. Exercise, good health and optimal fitness shake this thunder down.

As powerful a tune as exercise plays — it is not enough by itself. It tires easily when soloing without the support of a solid nutritional compliment. Whomever suggested that ‘what you eat — you are,' came very close to a dead-solid perfect analogy, perhaps contested only by the computer-age warning of ‘garbage in — garbage out.” Dr. Michael Polan debated an idea that has generated enough misinformation to fill a thousand landfills when he proclaimed, “Eat food, not too much. Mostly plants.’ Every other diet, plan, routine or discipline printed on paper will — and sooner is better than later — end up in that landfill. You wouldn’t intentionally put gasoline cut with fifty-percent sun-tan lotion in your expensive new bright-red Ferrari would you? Yet we don’t give a second thought to ramming a quarter pounder with cheese when time and money are short. Diet is the drummer of this outfit. 

Lastly, I consider as I auto-correct a lazy hand position on the stationary bike, is the somewhat esoteric idea of stress management. I will tell you this, I warn the assembled body parts, one can have the best work-out routine ever created, eat organic, fresh and local produce and be miserable, handicapped and compromised as a result of not having the tools, the desire, the discipline or the character to deal head-on with the relentless stresses of modern life. We get it from all sides at all times. The empath feels this dramatically so. The suffering of others is suffering to us, creating in this world where the one percent have the shotgun and sing the song, an epidemic of stressful implications to the ninety-nine. We must find and develop methods to manage this stress in non-toxic ways. Personally I find solace in training, in study, in music and in the small role I play as a peacekeeper. Humorously I add to myself, 'and not necessarily in that order.'

These are the three. Exercise, diet and stress management. They hold the keys to a better, more productive, happier, faster flowing, meaningful and harmonious trot along this path. They comprise what we simply call the quality of life. 

I ponder this and consider if this is exactly what TOM means when he says, “Keep your cover and continue your practice.”

I trust that it is. 

Balance

46.

Can we peacefully coexist? As important a social question as this is on the global scale, it represents the struggle, the challenge and the opportunity I manage on a daily, sometimes hourly basis. On good days my management style, an interesting hybrid of drill instructor kick-ass intimidation and compassionate, soul-searching hand holding, is easy. There are the obvious situations where one of these textbook methods is the appropriate approach. And then, there are the gray areas, the cracks, the between the black and white. Character and experience should dictate which to try when facing a new or novel circumstance, but, much like our constitution, there are loopholes, interpretations and innuendo. As the oldie suggests, “Fools rush in where wise men never go.” My endless search for meaning, understanding and literal translation, can be, perhaps should be, rendered into a deeper, clearer, more utilitarian and precise definition of one word.

Balance. 

Can I, can you, can we all find a place on the consciousness scale that allows for two completely different personality types, along with their dominant characteristics, ramifications and manifestations, to find honor, respect and temperance in harmonious sharing of space and time? This, to me, creates both a mystical perception as well as a magical reality. For the balance I seek requires continual input from each side; The warrior side desperately seeking perfection and the shaman side patiently awaiting enlightenment. 

The result required to balance the pair is the scale. There is no doubt how far the scale tips when we are engaged in an operation. Ninety-nine percent is active, aggressive, focused yin, with a tiny margin for error or even doubt. Ah, but it is in that one percent that we hear the soft, nurturing, compassionate and awakened voice of the yang asking for a better, more advanced option. Same with the ninety-nine percent of the meditative, flowing, kindness scale that keeps an eye open to the one percent existence of power, strength and confidence. When asked which side of the scale is most important to the awakened warrior, the yin side or its shadow opposite yang side, the master correctly replies; Both. One simply cannot have one without the other. 

This is the balance we seek. I can be, I must be, an elite mercenary warrior standing between totalitarian fascism and a free functioning democratic republic. I must be at peace with death. I must be one hundred percent committed to my mission and my team, no matter what and no matter when. I must make sacrifices and concessions to this commitment that others are not willing to make. Yet, in the time between, what in exercise physiology we call ‘recovery’ I must flip the on switch and become the person who walks through the sands of time without leaving a trace. The bedouin monk in deep meditation with the wind and the water, becoming one with all sentient beings in the promotion of peace and loving kindness along the path to higher consciousness. 

It is, I consider again, much as night is to day. The darkness of midnight balances the extremely high probability of the sun’s joyous return. This yin/yang reality, where one celebrates the other- with natural flowing respect and appreciation - is the scale I seek to deeply accept as harmoniously balanced. I might be flawed. The scales might swing wildly to one side or the other, but my search to accept the imperfection of this imbalance is my practice. It is such a lovely paradox to balance.

OTOH

45.

On the other hand the flip side is equally compelling. If not for the demanding nature of our business I might have had a flourishing career as a Zen monk. That flip side of the warrior ethos is in continual play. As consistently as the moon rises each brutally honest assessment of my performance begs consideration and appreciation of the moon as it sets. It is the waxing and waning dichotomy of which War and Peace exemplifies. I am fully cognizant of the paradox. I know that to set my goals so ridiculously high, even to blaspheme them by use of the ‘perfect’ descriptor, is, perhaps - or perhaps not - missing the point. It should be considered that similar attempts at the impossible are sometimes seen as setting one’s self up for failure. I know this. We set bowling pins up for the sole purpose of knocking them down.

The flip side want’s me to accept my imperfections and stay anchored in the bliss of the present moment. It would like me to buy stock in the start-up whose tag-line is: “Nobody’s perfect - especially you.” The same humble marketing department of the same self-aware start-up wants me also to slow down, relax, breathe deep and smell the roses. They would like me to ride my bicycle with minimal effort and take in the bounty of beauty that surrounds us. They call life a symphony, a dance and a love story, when in our world it is rock ’n roll, a street brawl and a technical manual. Posters of an earlier, but equally conflicted, era were fond of suggesting that we make love and not war. But is the soldier, the sailor, the warrior subjected to their mutual exclusion? Is loving your enemy the epitome of foolishness or a practical oxymoron? I ponder these mini koans as I return to the proving grounds of focused training. 

It has been two days since our return from the field. One of them was entirely spent in deep REM. As we age, the body begins a deterioration process known as sarcopenia, the degeneration of muscle mass occurring at an average rate of 10-15% per year. If effective and consistent steps are not taken to face this physical reality head-on the condition worsens as physical exercise lessons and fat intake, usually in the form of comfort foods, increases. One soon ends up overweight, diabetic, with a reduced metabolism and lack of motivation. What I find particularly insidious is how the mind deals with the situation. We make excuses, compromise and argue on behalf of our limitations. “After all, I am retired and collecting social security,” we appeal, “I’ve earned the right to sit for an entire day, eat pizza and watch golf on the big screen.” Certainly the day will come when we are no longer able to run a mile in less than ten minutes, bench press a hundred pounds or swim across a river, but that day, for my purposes, is nowhere near. Additionally, there are things to be done. There will always be things to be done. In our line of work life is all about the things that need to be done. The stakes are higher today than they have even been in the history of our civilization. We have the technology, the industry and the tools required to create utopia or destroy the garden of Eden in which we currently reside. There has never been a time when we have so much to lose. 

I wonder where all this will end. What part in this natural progression I will play. I am a peacekeeper. The fact that it is more often than not necessary to employ a modicum of violence and bloodshed to make these peaceful ends meet is the paradox I internally debate on a daily basis. Recalling that the most loving and peaceful non-violent revolutionary to ever patrol this planet was convicted and hung on a cross to die a slow and painful death at the age of thirty-three reminds me that time plays a dramatic role in this. There are things to be done. And if we don’t do them, who will? If we don’t do them right now, when will we? 

“For the record,” I sing to myself, “riding my bike slow is beautiful, relaxing and stress-reducing.” I sigh with delight simply imagining this serene scenario. OTOH, “Sometimes we need to ride as fast as we can.”

Because It Does

44.

I compare notes. TOM has the final say. This is quality control. True, we were incredibly successful in the mission, one succinctly defined as ‘Stop the bad guys from blowing up innocent civilians using jacked US Navy aircraft’. Check. That was the strategy. The tactic, the pragmatic how we did it, is the subject of the executive summation, primarily based on Julie’s copious notes gathered in our debriefs. Because it is not always so much that we DID IT as it is - HOW WE DID IT. 

The factual reality of this exercise, lost on many, is our basis for continual improvement. It is, in a nutshell, the single most important element that separates us from them.  We analyze and address. What could we have done better? Different? Cleaner? And of course, to keep the bean-counters happy, cheaper. Most think in terms of more; more soldiers, more guns, more bombs, more moles. We think in terms of efficiency, being smarter, leaner and more complete. Simply stated, our eternally evolving mission statement now reads: Getting more done with less. In keeping ahead of these exacting standards I check my personal notes against TOMs. I have developed my own rating system with a pass/fail grading formula that keeps my head above the turbulent seas in which we tread water. It is like a dancer knowing not only her moves but those of her partner as well. Like the pianist able to both play and listen to the other members of the orchestra simultaneously. It is the nuance that establishes connectivity among team members engaged in dynamic flow. In this mind-set there is little difference between the artist and the art. 

The self analysis of my work, my leadership skills and choices, the means as well as the ends, all possible combinations considered, leaves the margin for error painfully small. Lives are in the balance. I am responsible. In the toxic cauldron of stress - amid this real-time live or die obstacle course - I find salvation in playing the part of the hero. That means 100% at all times, absolute best. Not just good or even great. BUT FUCKING PERFECT. That is where I start the process. From that impossibly lofty goal I work it backward with a half-dozen critical elements as inflection points. I remind myself of them:

1) Confidence. 

2) Strength.

3) Aggressiveness.

4) Discipline.

5) Motion and Movement.

6) Caution and Valor. 

Upon the completion, successful or partial, of a mission or assignment, the time that I spend in the detailed assessment of my actions is the most important tool in my kit, comparable to the warrior who, having five hours to prepare for battle, spends four of them sharpening and honing his sword. Sure, our abilities in areas of marksmanship, underwater demolition, martial arts, hand to hand engagement, orienteering, communications and emergency medical response are important, as are basic physical skills for endurance, speed, repelling, swimming, flying and tolerance to pain, but they are only a part of the total equation. For without an attitude, minus the power to make aggressive and decisive moves, the discipline to control motion and messaging, and the nuance to recognize the fine line separating caution from bravery, the odds of success diminish exponentially. Remember, I often tell myself, we’re talking about perfect here. Aspire for the highest. Self-Assess as if your life depends upon it. 

Because it does. 

Interestingly Similar

43.

I am considering the satisfaction whomever is assigned as editor must feel. Taking Julie’s deposition, the obligatory accounting of actual events as provided by six individuals, and noting the varying subjective differences among them, must be a fascinating psychological exercise. The degree of variance between Davis’ recounting and mine surely must be like comparing pineapples to bananas. Research has repeatedly demonstrated that any given event, say a dog getting hit by a car on a busy suburban street, will be witnessed, identified and remembered differently by as many people as are present at the scene of the incident. In our case, over the course of 48 hours, we witnessed enough carnage, drama, illegal activity, enemy action, criminal intent; mens rea, fire-fights, high speed chases, cries for help, subterfuge, deceit, hostage negotiations and felonious espionage to fill a hundred who-done-it true crime mass-market paperbacks. With the kicker being that each of the six testimonies are the result of each individuals combination of awareness, experience, comprehension and presence. Every one of the narratives will differ, sometimes substantially, as the process runs its obstacle course in the impossible attempt at total recall. 

This is where I snicker at the subtext. The paradoxical humor of Julie being assigned to debrief both Davis and myself is something that, as the trite parody suggests, something you can’t make up. The last time this scenario unfolded, what now seems like another lifetime but was actually less than six months, TOM immediately called to ask if I was OK.

“Sure, fine, why do you ask?”

“Your debrief indicates that you...are you sitting down?” TOM asks. 

“Sure, indicates what?”

“Well, that you display a chronic lack of empathy, guilt, conscience and remorse.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes and that’s the easy stuff. It also notes a tendency for shallow feelings, experiences and emotions.”

“Me?”

“You, and there’s more,” TOM continues with rare glibness. 

“Impulsivity and a weak ability to defer gratification and control conservative behavior.” 

“The report actually uses those words? Sounds more like a serial-killer than the bleeding-heart liberal snowflake that lives deep inside me.” I coyly counter.

“Yes, it occurs to me these traits, the very quiddity of their implications to a normal society, is exactly what makes you such a valuable asset.” 

“So I passed the test?”

“Aced it, as they say. Congratulations.”

“How did Davis do?” I ask, risking all street cred. 

“Let’s just say, interestingly similar.” 

Always a Possibility

42.

My flippant remark was partially true. Yes, we had orchestrated, by any measure, a successful sortie. Undermanned and overworked we were able to find, infiltrate and overpower a motivated militia, a terrorist group wanting to inflict as much pain and suffering on innocent civilians as possible in order to demonstrate their seriousness to violently engage with what they believed to be a soulless, evil and corrupt government. The seven members of Team Five, being the last line of defense between freedom and tyranny, had all courageously contributed to the effort. It is also true that we could have been better, and for that I assume full responsibility. 

It is my belief that wars, feuds, disputes, hostilities and aggressions should be fought in meeting rooms, behind closed doors, overseen by impartial judges and with tact and diplomacy replacing bazookas and bombs. Failing that I chuckle, a winner-take-all-sudden-death football game will act as tie-breaker. The stakes on the current nuclear-powered battlefield are simply too technologically impersonal. It is one thing to drop a nuke from a drone and another altogether to prod a blade into a man’s gut. That there exists elite tactical units designed to employ guile and stealth vice flash and bang as a first option, most always satisfies my relentless search for meaning. It is, I admit, why I do what I do, and we are who we are. 

When the occasional dark night of the soul questions the morality or ethical political appropriateness of our work, I am usually able to compromise the majority of the good with the minority of the not-so-good. If there was no one to do what we do, our freedom and our country would be something talked about and remembered in movies or in books checked out from the ever-shrinking library instead of a (semi) functioning form of living government. The flip side is of course a country endlessly at war, sending the poor to fight for political power and the resources of foreign countries. This is the paradox we all face. It is the fact that we are loyal patriots acting for the good of the country instead of simply hired mercenary thugs killing at the behest of the highest bidding corporation. The former have faces while the latter wear masks. 

When Julie had finished the debrief by asking if there was anything that I personally could have done better, this is the backstory, my consternation and my struggle. Because for every victory that we earn, we lose a small bit of our humanity. For every terrorist operation that we foil, those slain in the process, paying the ultimate price of war with their lives, are seen by thousands of others as martyrs. They die as heroes to their countrymen at our bloody hands, guns still smoking of greed and fear. This will certainly be far from the last act of terrorism that we will face. The chances are very good that the cells that we eradicated have already been re-staffed and are working on another plan, perhaps one taking the lessons from the defeat to add to their collective acumen and succeed where this plot had failed. The fine line between the failure of The Axis plan and the potential success of the next attack is microscopic. It could happen tomorrow. There is the possibility that the plan we ended, all our work, luck and success in its defeat was itself a diversion, with the real plan now being initiated as we head home to rest and recover, egos bulging in the afterglow of our great victory over evil. 

This is what I meant to imply with my remark. I wonder if Julie got it. I wonder if she will be able to diplomatically meld it into her report to illustrate the paradox and provide a return on our counter-terror investment.  

“Is there anything that you personally could have done better?” 

Yes, I re-think, I could have out-smarted them and known that this is always a possibility.

There is

41.

She knows the drill as well as I. Subjectivity, as important a part as it sometimes plays, takes the back seat to its un-emotional, non-philosophical, black and white binary partner, objectivity, or as TVs first star detective, Joe Friday, was fond of reminding his (female) suspects, “Just the facts (Mam)” 

Julie is wearing her game face, as she opens her laptop and begins the Q&A. 

“Good to see you, too” I can’t help but saying.

She offers a toothless smile but the hue in her eyes belies the relief and appreciation I suspect she inwardly feels. I appreciate the subtlety, nod in recognition of the shared emotive and bid her to begin. 

We have four hours and it would suit me just fine if we were to use every minute of it in conversation. I fight the temptation to segue into frivolity respecting the importance of the exercise. I do, however, tap the service button and request a pot of strong black coffee and two mugs. 

She asks about the interaction between myself and Davis. Was there hostility? Was the integrity of the chain-of-command faithfully followed? At all times? Was a connection between the driver of the truck, Floyd Cooper, and the terrorist group, now known to be a neo-Nazi, right-wing extremist group, AKA, The Axis, ever established? What role did Dr. Hamsten play in the hospital hit? Why did the two surveillance perps roll over so easily? Did we follow up with their GPS tracking? Why was the force used in their capture so excessive? Was there other ways information might have been extracted besides the enhanced tactics used? Was your use of local authorities and agencies optimal? Was there any point in the hostage negotiation that our superior intel might have been used to leverage a better result? What do you see, upon review, as the key inflection points in the taking of the leader and the high-school kids? In review, do you think that your decision to use the munitions and explosives were necessary to accomplish the mission’s objectives? What is the total collateral damage accrued in the process of completing the mission? How was the liaison between the governmental agencies, particularly the Navy, and our operation? How effective was the communications to and from TOM and your Team? Did you witness serious actions, of lack thereof, that may have jeopardized the mission by your Team, from ours, from the intel community or local agencies? What could we have done better?

I am answering her questions with as much integrity and honesty as I can. I always find it an interesting exercise to try to remove the hubris, attitude and fearlessness required in the process of our work from the capsulized results and subsequent analysis of the overall effort. Minus attitude the results aren’t worth even discussing. Without these critical emotions we would never stand a chance against a foe with legitimate fire-power and motivation. 

We have been in this important conversation for hours, alone and without distraction. We have covered all the elements that contributed to the uncontested success of the mission. The drill is not so much about finding fault, but making our future efforts a little better, cleaner, with a higher success rate and with fewer resources used in the process. 

She looks at me with compassion and respect as we near the end. The captain has announced the beginning of our initial descent. She is about to close her computer and call the debrief completed, when she risks one final question. 

“Is there anything that you, personally, could have done better?” 

I admit to her that there is. 

Debrief

40.

Disaster narrowly averted, Team Five; Davis, Neumann, Callahan, Bromden, Myself and a chair-bound Saunders board the Gulfstream. Cap has been moved to a specialty clinic specializing in head trauma, his prognosis improving on a daily basis. As the sleek, luxury aircraft lifts, every pair of eyes aboard drops. It has been a focused effort yielding dramatic results with the cost now manifest as extreme fatigue. I look at the resting faces as a proud father might after a little league baseball game. So many lessons, so many growth opportunities, such valor and commitment, a breathtakingly superb sampling of America’s best. I am filled with pride, satisfaction and gratitude. That I am a part of this incredibly courageous group of highly skilled warriors, risking their lives for ideals the general demographic consider their birthright, is simultaneously both humbling and tremendously satisfying. 

I am mentally preparing for the next phase for I know that immediately upon touch-down we will all be escorted to HQ for the tedious but necessary de-brief exercise. When they say that no job is complete until the paperwork is done, this is an appropriate example of the trite veracity in the adage. Over the years I have morphed from utterly detesting the drill, to actively participating in its process and potential. Over the course of the last 48 hours so much has taken place that not even a Zen Master could stay aware and present of the myriad details flashing by like a deck of playing cards in a hurricane. The debrief, usually administered by a professional third-party interrogator with insider information to the proprietary nature of our work, seeks to find details lost during the heat of battle when focus is, as should be, on the task at hand and not on the surrounding detailed elements contributing to the circumstance. I have found that sleeping, or even napping, prior to the exercise dulls my subconscious ability to recall specific fact, as if, with the mission still live, fresh in my mind, another completely deeper level of ‘vision’ is available for inspection and analysis. This has obvious value, often revealing otherwise missed opportunities. 

Inhaling deeply from the compressed cabin oxygen I start the review, playing back the time-line sequentially. Did we make mistakes? Yes. Could we have done things differently, with more stealth, efficiency or tact? Absolutely. Did we take unnecessary risks, make faulty assumptions, take too many ‘best guesses’? We did. Did we use our training, our technical advantages, the assistance of local agencies and the accumulated gathering of intel correctly? Maybe. Were we ultimately successful in the achievement of the primary directive? Yes. At what cost?

These ‘terrorists’ are not religious fanatics, communists or fascist aggressors in a geo-political power grab. They are the disgruntled fringe factor pushed to the edge by a vile totalitarian capitalistic division of the ‘haves” and the ‘have-nots.” Lost, rejected, exploited and squeezed like the proverbial bleeding rock until their pockets carry only IOUs from a greedy, racist and unsympathetic government, they fight back, fingernails desperately scratching for traction on an inverted playing field. This is the new face of revolt, I consider, and I fear it will get a lot worse before it gets any better. And isn’t it the paradox come full circle when the people we vow to protect, to ensure the fruits of freedom, the right to free speech, a free press, the right to peacefully gather, the ‘right’ to earn a living wage and send kids to school has been so compromised that we now fight the very people we set out to protect? For who? I shake myself back to the mental task at hand when the frightening idea that the United States is nothing but an oil company with an army flies across the heads-up display of my vibrating consciousness like a single-prop biplane carrying a sponsors logo on a steel string. 

There will come questions that are sure to be uncomfortable. We live in complex times where the answers are never easy or as obvious as they once were. Never before, I allow the thread to play, do we as a people have it so good. And likewise do we as a completely divided populace; red/blue, white/brown, entitled/disabled, educated/ ignorant, moral/immoral, truthful/deceitful, awake/asleep, loving/fearful, have it so bad. 

Begrudgingly I  consider a quick nap as Julie sits beside me and asks if I am ready to start my debrief.