“The men are armed,” I said, wasting no time on niceties or re-introductions.

“No live rounds issued,” Marcinko laughed, looking back at the men with grave expressions, as if such demonstrations made any difference should armed conflict unfold.

“We’re in training, as you’re well aware but it’s good to give the feeling of reality.”

I didn’t say anything further as I worked to relax and control my breathing. The man in front of me had a unique talent for getting under my skin and also for strange, almost Yogi Berra kinds of comments. The concrete-floored giant hanger with a huge Starlifter cargo plane sitting only a few yards away was about as far from any reality the men were likely to face in any armed contact.

“Put the men in the truck and head back to the training center,” I said, more as an order than anything else.

Marcinko stared at me before nodding to one of the men. The man got the drift of Marcinko’s subtle direction and went to work ending the dramatic performance, none of them having any idea that just yards away sat a Range Rover with real predators inside, probably deciding whether to shoot or wound all of them if the situation merited.

I breathed a sigh of relief when Marcinko walked away and headed back toward the Army six-by. What his point was in coming down to the hanger to meet me, much less how he could know that I might be there, was left to mystery.

Erhard climbed the steps into the waiting jet and then stopped before entering the cabin. He stared back across the heated tarmac and then surprisingly waved toward me. I gave him a small wave back, although it seemed a strange goodbye for either of us to make at that point. I knew down in my center that I wasn’t done with the man. That he was an asset and therefore under Agency control and responsibility no doubt, once whomever his control was found he couldn’t much work with the man, I would get a call. I’d brought Erhard in, and I knew from talking to Mack that it was sort of like giving birth. You might not get along with the result but it was still going to be yours.

The business jet taxied away only to be replaced by a larger plane that looked every bit to be a small commercial airliner but I knew it wasn’t. The plane had no markings, not even a number, and was totally white. Not dull white but highly polished white. It had the kind of shine that only expensive paint and then heavy waxing could give.

I waited as the bigger plane settled into the same place vacated by Erhard’s smaller version. When the engines spooled down this time, they shut off instead of remaining running, as Erhard’s had. Whoever was aboard was planning on staying for a while, I presumed. Mack came down the Starlifter’s ramp to stand beside me as we waited.

The stairs protruded out from the jet, and the stairs and rails unfolded.

John McCain walked down the stairs, waving back to nobody I could see behind him. The stairs retreated into the side of the plane, but it remained where it was, and the engines didn’t restart.

McCain smiled and waved a small wave, very similar to the one Erhard had made only a few minutes earlier. This time, I remained motionless, even though only Mack and I were standing anywhere in the man’s approaching view. That was until Marcinko’s Army truck came back onto the scene. I smiled to myself. No wonder Marcinko had come to the airport, He hadn’t known that I’d be there at all. My accidental visit was either going to be ignored or worse I thought. Whatever was going on between the two men was almost strictly between them. Why they were together on any project was hard to imagine, as McCain was cleverly involved in labyrinthian politics and different plans while Marcinko was a drama expert, but not with much seeming substance to him. The truck show with ‘armed’ stormtroopers, even though they were only boys in my training command, was all show and no go. Seal Team Six, Marcinko’s main claim to fame also seemed to be cut from the same cloth.

Marcinko climbed along from the passenger side of the truck, the men in the back remaining inside under the canvas.

I walked over to the truck’s driver as McCain was slowly making his way toward the interior of the hanger where it was not as bright nor heating up like the tarmac was in the hot sun.

“Get the men out of the truck and walk them over to the other side of the plane,” I said. “I don’t know how long you are going to be here, but the sun is going to make the inside area under the canvas an oven in very short order.”

“Aye aye, skipper,” the man said, nodding with a grin on his face. I took his words and expression as a compliment, although it wasn’t something I could inquire about.

I met Marcinko on the way inside, both of us following McCain. McCain didn’t go far past where the plane sat. He turned and waited as we walked to him.

The man was dressed in a blue suit with a white shirt and red tie, holding a Burberry raincoat over one bent arm, as if he was expecting some cold draft or rain. It did give him a look of respectable formality compared to the semi-military costume Marcinko wore and my plain white “T” shirt with Levi jeans.

“I didn’t invite him,” Marcinko said when we got close. “He’s known for being where he’s supposed to be.”

“It doesn’t matter,” McCain said to Marcinko, like I wasn’t there. “The mission’s in jeopardy, or at least changing before all of our lives.”

“What?” was all Marcinko could say in reply. The mission was his baby and not mine. To him, the whole operation was one of charging into glory, even though he had enough combat experience to know that there was no glory at all on the field of real combat.

“The Vietnamese, after due consideration, and somehow figuring out that we might attempt to get the POW’s out, have decided to reveal the identities and the remains of all those who have not been returned.”

“That’s bull,” Marcinko said, his voice rough and nearly out of control.

“They’re lying and how would they have found out about the mission in the first place?”

I smiled to myself, letting nothing show in my facial expression. McCain was a magician, as far as I was concerned. He’d figured out a way to kill the mission without killing the mission. Nobody was going to have to die. My sense of relief almost overcame me.

“They want a delegation to come over of combat troops to review everything and walk the fields and places where the veterans are interred or talk with the villagers who were there when some of them died.” McCain’s words hit Marcinko hard as the man rocked back and forth, seeing his fighting force disbanded before it even got started.

“They want a combat-experienced officer to lead the delegation,” McCain went on.

Marcinko was he perfect man for the role. He had all the credentials and the dramatic willingness to make the whole event one of international notice and final acceptance of the POW issue that still resounded across the nation. Black flags with sad prisoners on them still flew from most governmental buildings.

“I don’t want the job,” Marcinko said. “I don’t want to lead some anemic force on an anemic effort to cover the whole POW issue up.”

“Actually, I wasn’t thinking of you. I’m sorry the mission isn’t going to go as planned, and you’re justifiably upset by that. I would be, too. I was thinking of your training officer.”

His comment hit me like a blow to my solar plexus. I slightly leaned forward, feeling a faint wave of nausea sweep up and down my entire body.

“He’s got the wounds, the decorations, and the right kind of attitude,” McCain said, as if having to convince Marcinko, or maybe knowing that he had to somehow convince me to go if he extended the offer as anything more than that I might just be the right man for the job, which I most certainly wasn’t from my perspective.

Even if I weakened there was no way I was going to be such a role, especially since Mary was so sensitized to exactly what was happening, and she didn’t want me near Vietnam ever again in my life.

I said nothing, allowing the man to run on for a bit longer before Marcinko blew up and began swearing and yelling about McCain being a two-faced son-of-a-bitch. The flareup didn’t seem to bother McCain at all, though.

“I spoke to Herbert before arriving,” McCain said, “I don’t think your handlers there will have any problems with the new plan.”

Mack approached us, coming from behind the plane as Marcinko’s protests could no doubt be heard throughout the entire cavernous area.

“You with the crew?” McCain asked, no doubt forgetting he’d see the man before.

“Cargomaster,” Mack replied, stopping to stand next to me, joined by Nguyen and Kingsley, who’d come from the Rover.

“I don’t think we’ll be needing the plane as planned,” McCain said to Mack, his voice apologetic.

Mack stepped forward and attempted to comfort Marcinko, who was still raring but not making any sense at all. I wasn’t sure he was so angry about the mission being cancelled, the weak excuse given for the reason, or that I was being set up to lead the special delegation that would come to no conclusions that anyone would likely allow on either side of the POW issue.

I moved to caution Mack and have him step back, but Marcinko wasn’t about to be consoled by anyone. He swung around, twisting backwards with his right elbow protruding and hitting me in the stomach as he turned. Suddenly, without any warning, I went down, landing on my butt and crouching forward to protect and hold together my stomach.

I looked up, holding my old incision with my left hand and putting on pressure while I tried to gain my feet, using my right arm for balance on the pavement.

In front of me, as I failed to gain my feet, Marcinko and Nguyen went down, Nguyen coming to his knees and leaning forward with one hand on Marcinko’s chest.

The men from the truck had unloaded and, with the driver were running toward us while McCain stood frozen in shock.

“Stop,” I hissed over at Nguyen’s back, and I saw him do just that while slowly coming to his feet. He did not turn to face me as he guarded Marcinko.
Kingsley knelt at my side.

“Help me up,” I said, grabbing his sleeve with my right hand, my left putting pressure on my incision to keep the pain from overwhelming me.

The men from the truck arrived.

“Get him into the Rover,” Kingsely ordered. “We’re going to Lovelace Medical Center Emergency Room. He’s bleeding and that needs looking at.”

I realized I’d lost control of everything. I looked down at my left hand, and it was seeping blood. I was no stranger to the fissure reopening from time to time, even all these years later. Mary would be upset, I knew, as she preferred to throw away clothing I’d bled all over rather than laundering it. The men lifted me and began moving me slowly toward the Rover while Kingsley ran to climb into the driver’s seat. As I was pulled low past Marcinko, he looked at me and took in the damage.

“I didn’t know,” he whispered. “Please call off your dog.”

“Di voi toi,” I said the Nguyen, telling him in Vietnamese to come with me as he still hovered over the downed Marcinko.

Once laying on the back seat I whispered to myself, “he speaks English pretty damned well, you know.” I looked once more as the desert began to pass as before on the trip to the airport, but everything had changed.

Kingsley drove faster than I’d ever known him to drive, although I wanted to tell him to slow down, that the injury wasn’t that serious but I knew it would do no good. Everyone at the scene had acted out roles, either of complete FNG inexperience with violence, like Mack, or even McCain, while Nguyen and Kingsley had done exactly what was called for and were still doing so.

The emergency staff was waiting outside for our arrival, which told me that somebody had made a call to say we were coming in. I knew it would do no good to minimize my injury as they would ignore everything I said as they came to their triage conclusions and then, after stabilizing, come to me for advice on how to proceed. I had to lie back and shut up, which was hard. I needed to call my wife, but that had to wait as I was pulled from the Rover and placed on a gurney.

The trip inside to a room was rapid and quietly efficient. As expected, the only comment was a question from one of the emergency room nurses about whether I was in pain or not. I was, but I said I wasn’t. The last thing I needed was to be medicated to the point that I could not communicate. The decision to make me the leader of that doomed delegation was on the table, and I could not let it stay there without doing something about it. I felt no ill will toward Marcinko. As far as I was concerned, we were even. I was probably still ahead as I’d intended to hurt him while I knew full well his hurting me had been strictly accidental.

The emergency crew ran through their routine, inserting an I.V. and taking all my vitals, including blood. My stomach was laid bare, and the intersecting scars of old surgeries and bullet holes shocked the doctor.

“Where have you been and where are you going?” the young man asked, debriding the wound, which I could see was only about two inches long.

“Far down the valley and making my way back,” I answered, as truthfully as I could.

“Not just any old valley,” I’m going to presume,” he went on. “Your old incision reopened because of some trauma. I can glue that shut and you can be on your way. It’ll heal again, but it’s likely to do this again from time to time. Surgery to slice up and down and bring the edges together after removing all the old scar tissue that keeps breaking down is the solution, but I have a feeling you’re not going to opt for that.”

“No, sir,” I replied, wondering how long it would take for them to let me go.

“I’d like to hold you for observation, but, in truth, I’d be doing that just to hear your story. We don’t get many world-class adventurers in here unless they’re astronauts.

“Not bad company,” I said, smiling at the rather unintended compliment.
It took some minor bandaging, not dissimilar from what Mary would have done, before I could check out. Two hours had gone by, and I hoped that McCain was still in town or at the airport. I needed to talk to him badly about releasing me from the leader’s role.

Hunched over, I was able to walk out of the hospital and into the waiting Rover.

“Home, Ben,” I said. The walk out from the emergency room to the Rover, almost no distance at all, had taken everything out of me. I was propped into the passenger seat, or I would have likely passed out in the back.

We arrived home half an hour later. The day was moving fast, but I couldn’t keep pace with it, I knew. The house was locked up, and neither Mary nor the children were there, which surprised me.

“The code for the garage door is 4416, I said to Kingsley.

“Not too bright for a spy of your caliber,” Kingsley replied, walking over to punch it in and gain access.

“I get lonely and wait for somebody to come buy and enter,” I replied, half joking. “Then I can spend some time finding out what’s inside he mind of a home burglar in my neighborhood.”

“That’s a bit sick,” Kingsley replied.

“Her car’s gone,” I observed as the three of us went into the kitchen through the open garage door.

“Yes, I called her from the hospital,” Kingsley said, surprising me.

“Thanks, but why in hell did you do that? And if she took the call, where is she? On her way to the hospital while we’re all here?

“Well, no, that’s not where she is,” Kingsley answered, opening the refrigerator door to see what was inside without asking.

“You could ask, you know,” I said, shaking my head, before getting back to the question I’d been sidetracked from asking.

“Where did she go?”

“Why we need the ice,” Kingsley replied, pulling out the ice tray.

“Are you going to tell me?” I asked, my tone one of pure exasperation.

“To the airport to see McCain,” Kingsley replied, gathering some cubes and then seeing a kitchen towel which he grabbed to wrap a bunch of them in.

“We’re ready,” he said, with a big smile, holding the package.

“We’re going to the airport right now,” I said, nearly shouting.

“Yes, the kind young doctor said that ice would slow the bleeding if you had to move around a lot.”

I staggered more than walked back through the garage to where the Rover was parked in the driveway.

“Back seat and lay down,” Kingsley said, opening the door while Nguyen stood by, looking like that if I didn’t do as Kingsley said then I’d be doing it against my will anyway. “You’ll rest this on your tummy. I’ll be reasonable in my driving, unlike before.”

I climbed in and lay down. The bag of towel-wrapped ice was cold but not painful to hold against my stomach. Kingsley had changed out a shirt from my closet that was made of some smooth material that was checkered through with red. Nobody would notice if I bled a little.

“You do think of a few things of worth,” I said, not liking laying on my back to stare at the inside of he Rover’s top.

The trip to the airport took almost half an hour, as Kingsley avoided he freeway as the traffic was beginning to build as the day went on.
When we got to the hangar I popped up between the seats and looked about. There was no large business jet, or Agency jet or whatever it had been. The Starlifter still sat inside the huge space with the door gaping open. I noted that the plane’s ramp was up and the thrust reverser doors open behind all four engines.

My wife appeared as we drove up, accompanied by Marcinko at her side.

“Get in,” I yelled at both of them through the passenger door window, which I’d lowered. I waved to illustrate my seriousness and concern.

I leaned over and opened the door before scrunching back to the other side of the Rover. My wife got in first, with Marcinko following.

I closed the window as the door slammed.

“What’s going on?” My wife asked, just as the engines on the Starlifter began to ignite one after another and spool up.

As the turbines spun ever faster until they were screaming the aircraft began to move, but backwards, as the reverse thruster covers redirected the air coming from the engines backwards toward the hanger. Dust and high wind blew everywhere as the hangar filled with air and then exhausted it out back through the door. The Rover was buffeted by the blast, but the sound was much deadened, and our hearing was not put at risk. As the plane backed and then slowly turned to face the runway, I couldn’t stop myself from asking the only question on my mind.

“What’s he doing here, again?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mary said, her tone reasonable and flat. “He was hurt too, and it made no sense to put him on that truck. I spoke to Mr. McCain, and he agreed with me.”

“So, what did he say?” I asked, still irritated by Marcinko’s presence.

“The only thing that was vitally important other than that you are not going back to Vietnam. That’s a job Mr. Marcinko can do much better and even enjoy. And Mr. McCain also promised that neither Herbert nor the Agency would not find out that you may not qualify to be doing what you’re doing in your recovering physical condition.”

I stared over at her, Marcinko right behind and bit beside her. I was amazed once again. McCain had pulled off a masterful coup in getting the mission cancelled but he’d been equalled in guile and plotting by my wife.