Sandbox: Boone and PJ’s Adventures, #1

By Jack A. Miller

Book 1 in the Boone & PJ Adventures; part of the expanded American Sons series; approximately 328 pages; military fiction and action/adventure.

 

Two life-long friends, Boone and PJ have followed a tradition of service modelled by each of their families, and have achieved their ultimate goal, joining the US Army's premier Special Mission Unit. Now, they have been dispatched, along with their new team, on their first major deployment to Syria, fighting ISIS. Unfortunately for them, their task force has drawn the attention and the ire of an al Qaeda operative who seems dead-set on wreaking havoc and seeing them dead. As he hunts them, they likewise hunt him, with Boone and PJ at the tip of the spear.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dog Holler Publishing
• Release date: Jun 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986425108

Jack A. Miller

Out of the Appalachian foothills, Jack Miller grew up in the country, but now lives in the city (more or less). A life-long fan of pulps, comics, and adventure stories of all kinds, he found stories had sprouted in his mind that longed to be told, and, so, here we are. Mr. Miller lives in central Ohio.

Book preview

To my parents. Thank you for letting me be the weird kid.

To my wife and children, who have been the joy of my life.

To my siblings and my friends, who have supported and encouraged me in the pursuit of my art and writing. Special thanks to Paden and James, for being my test readers and sounding boards; your assistance has been invaluable.

Prologue

THE OFFICE WAS DARK WHEN he entered it, and he left it dark until he had circled the huge desk and pushed the switch of the small lamp on the credenza. He had moved with unnatural quiet, sliding into the room like a ghost, even though he was wearing hard-soled shoes that didn’t lend themselves to much of anything other than being shiny. He had shed the stiff jacket long before he made it up to the office, and he dropped it across the opposite end of the credenza from the lamp before sinking into the chair and setting his briefcase down next to his left shoe. He knew what he was looking for, and if things went well, he’d be in and out with no one any the wiser. Leaning back in the overstuffed chair with a sigh, he peered around the dim room and wondered how a guy got to a place like this, before reaching forward to try the center drawer.

The sound of someone clearing their throat in the doorway made him freeze.

How did it go, sir?

The man leaned back in the chair and looked toward the door. Sgt. Major Diaz stood there, military bearing painfully obvious, despite the khakis and black polo he was wearing. Contrary to his casual appearance, the khakis had reinforced knees and cargo pockets, the clip of a folding knife was visible on his right hip pocket, and to one who knew what to look for—and the officer sitting at his desk was one of those people—it was also clear that Diaz was carrying a sidearm, concealed behind his right hip. Diaz was also wearing boots, the ones favored by a wide swath of the men in their sabre squadrons. Diaz, at heart, was still an operator, running a team. Both of those things were true, the team was just a whole lot bigger.

The man behind the desk was known as The Old Man to his operators, the men of the sabre squadrons, the hard core of the Unit, known officially as the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment - Delta, known colloquially as Delta Force. Anyone other than his operators might call him the Old Man, but if they did so, they did it very quietly and never within earshot of the pipehitters, who loved their commander, because he had worked his way into the Unit, and had served among them, before rising to lead them. His operators loved him. Diaz was almost certainly at the top of that list.

The Old Man opened the drawer and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Even though most government buildings were supposed to be non-smoking spaces, these days, and despite the fact that, as far as his wife knew, he hadn’t smoked since an early deployment to Iraq ten years prior, he did have a smoke every once-in-a-while, and he felt the need for one now. Pulling a cigarette out of the pack, he waved Diaz toward one of the chairs across the desk from him and pitched the pack of smokes across the wooden expanse, on the off-chance the Sgt. Major might want one as well. Lighting his own with a battered Zippo, the officer set the lighter on the desk and slid it across in the direction of the cigarettes, and drew in a deep breath as he sat back. Exhaling a plume of smoke, he sighed and looked at his friend.

It went as well as could be expected, I guess, the Old Man said, squinting through the smoke. The President has decided, appropriately, that our Iraqi allies need a little assistance in the west, and he’s going to pull the trigger on letting SOCOM completely off its leash. So, the usual suspects get to take an extended trip back to the sandbox. Us, SEALs, batt boys, Special Forces, some marines, and various support elements... We’re going into Syria to go kick the shit out of ISIS a little more directly.

Sgt. Major Diaz nodded thoughtfully, kicking his right boot up to rest his ankle across his left knee, examining the boot absently as his mind worked over the logistics of an extended Syrian operation, and parsed out who was available to go run around in the desert for a bit, considering their various other assignments in Iraq, Afghanistan, and elsewhere. They had plenty of operators to dedicate to the job, and the more civilized side of him was pleased that the boss had decided that the barbaric savages that were murdering their way across the Levant were deserving of a righteous ass-kicking. Diaz expected there would be a reckoning delivered to ISIS that they hadn’t particularly expected. He was more than willing to be in on the delivery of that reckoning. Raising one hand to rub an itch out of his left ear, he looked up to meet his commander’s steady gaze.

So, are we running all available units into the desert, or what, sir? Diaz finally asked. He was certain he knew the answer already, but he liked to go ahead and get the explicit word from the Old Man. Giving the hard-as-nails NCO a slight grin, the officer turned his chair, looking toward the door contemplatively as he took a drag on the cigarette.

Yep, all available. Other than one troop I’d like to keep home in case of emergency. Our training cadre will stay here and continue working with the men going through the OTC right now, and we’ll leave the majority of the head shed here, along with most of the support unit, other than the intelligence analysts, terps, and comms people. Otherwise, I think the effort is worthy of the undivided attention of the balance of our men. The troops we have running ops in Iraq and elsewhere can go about their business until they clear whatever assignment they are working on presently. They don’t need to be distracted from the operations we have ongoing, but anyone not currently working on a planning mission or already deployed is going to go to Syria and help rain Hellfire on these rat bastards. Diaz nodded mutely in understanding, approving of the decision and happy that his commander was prepared to give them the unbridled opportunity.

Works for me, sir, Diaz said, lacing his fingers together and laying his hands over his belly as he sank back in the chair slightly. Did the President tell you how long this operation may be ongoing? The Old Man smiled devilishly, looking sidelong at the senior NCO, and gave a brief shake of his head.

He said until they’re ground into a fine powder, Sergeant. He wants them degraded to the point where they can’t bother us until long after he’s out of office, if ever. Diaz nodded approvingly, lips pursed as he thought about the logistics tail that would need to stretch from Syria into Iraq in order to support their movement, and felt confident that they could make it work. Command would happily plant a few flags all over the desert if it meant giving the Kurds some advantage. He expected them to aggressively seize territory, and then probably push a few advanced bases into eastern Syria. After a moment, he leaned forward and stood in one smooth motion, waiting in front of the Old Man’s desk.

I’ll set up a meeting for late morning, then, sir, if you like. We can put this in front of the Squadron commanders and any of the Troop commanders who are present and let them get their available operators briefed if that sounds alright?

The Old Man stubbed out his cigarette, the last wisps of smoke rising away from the shredded butt of the cigarette into the dim space above the desk, and nodded slowly, exhaling a twin stream of smoke through his nostrils as he contemplated the challenge ahead of them. They had a lot of operators otherwise engaged, but most of their hard-core hitters were available, and he knew that Dam Neck would likewise be rolling out their best available men. Add to that a bunch of hard-nosed Rangers ready to just wander around the desert and look for a fight, and a decent number of other SEALs and Marines spoiling for a piece of the pie, and ISIS was in for it. He didn’t find that he had much sympathy for the barbarians—they had been asking for this for a few years.

Sounds good, Rick. Make it happen, set it for just ahead of lunch. We’ll have something brought in. Denny is already coming in early in the morning to get the Intelligence section to work on movement and relay where we are likely to set up AOBs in the west of Iraq. They should have some preliminary ideas for us by lunchtime, and we can present them to everyone, then.

Very good, sir. Diaz came to attention, and the Old Man smirked at him, waving him away.

Knock it off, Rick, it’s been a long day, and I don’t feel like standing up, right now. Have a good night. Diaz grinned.

Thank you, sir. You, as well.

Diaz gave his boss a little wave, and turning away, walked out, closing the office door behind him, although before he left the building, he would still ensure that two of his orderlies were waiting outside the office, just in case the Old Man needed anything. The security detail would be warned, as well.

CAG was on the move.

CHAPTER ONE

ORDERS

THE BIG MAN AT THE head of the table leaned on his elbows, looking from the slender, dark-haired man on his right, over to the third man sitting at the table, a profoundly average-looking, albeit athletic man to his left. Both were in their very early thirties, and both extremely fit. The man with the dark hair could pass for Asian, or possibly Hispanic, and might even be able to pull off an Arab look, under the right circumstances. The other man was so completely unremarkable—average height, average build, brown hair, blue eyes—he could blend into any crowd anywhere in the Western world and practically disappear. The big man heading the table, however, was a top-flight specimen of humanity. He almost looked like the pulp version of Doc Savage, well-muscled well-proportioned as he was, with fine features and a noble bearing. Robert Wall was a senior NCO in one of the top-flight special mission units of the US military, and he needed to know his team was ready to go to work. Cradling a mug of steaming coffee in his hands, he looked from one of his companions to the other, ducking his head and swinging it low toward the table each time he switched his gaze from one teammate to the other.

Well?

Casimir Wolenski, Monster to those in the troop who knew him and had seen him work, looked across the table at Rico Jain, opening his hands and giving a shrug as he raised his eyebrows, looking to his teammate and friend for support, or agreement. Rico was an ex-patriot Filipino. He had moved to the US when he was ten years old and had lost most of the cultural tics that might have once called him out as Other. He had so completely naturalized in the course of junior high and high school that he had felt compelled to enlist at eighteen and had entered adulthood even as he entered the Army. Both of the men had worked their way through the Army, taking challenge after challenge as they presented themselves, learning and developing skills that made them fearsome warriors, professional soldiers on par with any in the world. Casimir—Cass—leaned back in his seat and pushed up the sleeves on his black sweatshirt. On the front of it, a shield and sword design backed a homily that said When the local language is violence, be fluent.

I don’t know about JoJo, Cass said, referring to Rico by his nickname, but I would trust any of them with my life. That’s the gig, right? Reaching down to the tabletop, Cass picked up a bottle cap and spun it like a top, watching it until its momentum died, and it eventually fell over, clattering to a stop and falling still. After watching it settle flat on the table once more, Cass looked up at his teammates again. They’re operators, guys. They do good work. I think they’re coming together really well. I’m perfectly content to go to war with them.

Across the table, Rico was nodding slowly, lips pursed, eyes focused on the bottle cap. Leaning back, he laced his fingers and raised his hands to rest on the top of his head. Raising his eyes from the table, he looked at Wall from the corner of his eyes, then over at Cass. Shrugging, he shook his head, lifting his hands slightly to do so.

I don’t know why we’re talking about this, he said dismissively. They’ve completed about all the same training we have. They are combat veterans of both Afghanistan and Iraq. They’ve done some incredible shit, long before they came here and joined us. They’re Rangers, or Green Berets, either way. If I didn’t trust them, I’d have asked for a reassignment a long time ago. I love these guys. Pausing, he grunted a laugh with a broad smile, dropping his hands to his lap. Even Sharky.

Eyes twinkling, Cass gave a short laugh, as well, spinning the bottle cap again.

Reaching over the top of his head with his left hand, Wall scratched the side of his scalp just above his right ear, blowing out a long, slow sigh, eyes sleepy, but his face finally serene. The weight of these last few months, breaking in new teammates, ensuring they were up to speed, able to operate, ready to do the messy, hard work of fighting the enemies of the United States on any continent, at any time... it had pressed the big man to his limits, just because he was now responsible for leading the team, ensuring their readiness, and planning for the dangers that would face all of them, whether they were working alone, or as a group. It seemed like he had been behind on sleep for the better part of a year. Maybe three years. Plus, he had a family at home to take care of, a wife and three kids living the American dream. Wall was stretched, alright.

Dropping both hands to the tabletop, Wall considered their words, refusing to let them absolve him of the weight of his own judgment. He valued their opinions, just as he valued their friendship, but he refused to leave the weight of this decision on them, or on himself. They would operate as a team, and right here, right now, the three of them would make this decision as a team. Wall knew if he waved the white flag, he could probably see to it that the team was put on support work, kept out of the hottest areas, and removed from the strike force that would be penetrating Syria in order to give ISIS, or ISIL, or whatever they were being called today, the heavy-handed rebuke they so richly deserved and had been begging for for months. He didn’t want to do that—the new guys had skills that would be invaluable to the Unit on the ground, and it was past time that they were thrown into the deep end of the pool and made to show they could work together as a complete team. He chewed the corner of one lip for a moment thoughtfully, but knew, without a doubt, that they were ready, all of them.

Alright, boys. We’re going to be going to work, soon. We’re going to need to think about Syria. About the challenges it presents. Its dangers. Wall steepled his fingers, raising the tips of his index fingers to his lips in an almost prayerful fashion, and continued.

We’re going to have a briefing in the next couple of days, Wall explained, glancing from one teammate to the other. I want you two to hang back, a bit. Let them stew, but let them ask their questions, let them explain their thoughts. I want to see how far down the rabbit hole we go, how they want to approach this op, how they prepare for the going and the coming home. This will probably be the longest deployment most of us have seen since we were in our prior units. Let them stew on that, and we’ll see where their minds go.

Ten bucks says Sharky is the bitcher, Cass said with a smirk. Across the table, Rico shook his head, grinning.

That’s a sucker’s bet, he said. Sharky bitches about the time of day every time the clock turns a new hour. He’d bitch if you promised to hang him with a new rope, as Boone says. He can’t help it.

True enough, Cass conceded. What about Boone?

What about him? Rico countered, leaning forward. Boone nor PJ, either one can be bothered to say shit about shit. They wouldn’t say ‘shit’ if they had a mouthful. Those two just show up and work. They present an interesting dynamic, possibly a problem, just because they’ve known each other so damned long. They are tight, tighter than a lot of brothers, but I think that works in their favor, and ours. Cass and Wall nodded agreement, sharing a look, and Wall rumbled a reply that gave voice to the thought in all their heads.

It’s a strength until it’s not. I get the feeling, if something happens to put one of them in dire jeopardy, we might have to sedate the other one to keep him from joining his buddy. Could be tough.

Could be impossible, Cass agreed, but on the plus side, I think they’d do the same for any of us. Those two have an understanding of ‘teamwork’ that most professionals could only aspire to reach. I think they’d kill a whole lot of people to get to any of us. Rico sat back, fingers laced in front of him, an unconscious reflection of Wall, as his eyebrows arched toward his hairline and he contemplated the image that thought raised. He didn’t disagree, not one bit, and if it were to happen, he was confident there would be no better hands to find himself in than PJ’s.

No debate from me on that score, Rico spoke up, looking from Wall to Cass. We’ve already seen them lock arms and bring the hammer down on people, Rico indicated Cass with a tilt of his head and continued. You saw how they responded in Somalia when Gus and I got hemmed in on that op. They were dropping bodies like an action movie. Same for you on that recon in Marseilles. Cass sniffed, his eyes going unfocused as he remembered, laying both hands flat on the table and leaning forward on his elbows as he thought about that operation. Boone and PJ seemed to take things like that personally, and didn’t pause to consider the odds, or danger. They just waded into it.

Sharky’s a bit of a pain in the ass, though, Wall said finally, voicing the one real criticism that was pulsing in the front of their brains. Sharky was slightly under average height, but probably tall for a Hmong, and he had a great skill set for an assaulter in any of the sabre squadrons. The unfortunate fact about Sharky was that he was an abrasive, hard-headed, usually politically-incorrect asshole, who was tough enough, smart enough, and skilled enough that those qualities usually outweighed his occasional misanthropic tendencies. He had come up through the 2nd Ranger Battalion and had been working a support role in the Ranger Reconnaissance Company when tryouts had come around for CAG. The Unit had lured him away, since the operational elements of the RRC were full-up when Sharky was ready to take the next step up.

Sharky has the personality of a buzz saw. The guy has never seen a fight he didn’t want to jump in on, and he’s convinced he’s the baddest man on the planet, Rico said, sitting back with a frown as he folded his arms across his chest. But give him his due: He is a tough sumbitch. Cass barked a laugh, drumming his right hand on the table.

Yeah, he is. He should have learned by now he’s not, though, or at least not the only one, Cass chuckled, looking at Rico with a half-grin. I’m all for having self-confidence, and, let’s be honest, we’ve earned the right to be confident in our abilities and self-assured in ourselves, but that guy kicks it up a notch that even I find obnoxious. Wall tilted his head back, scratching his unshaven jaw with the sounds of granite rubbed on coarse sandpaper.

You’re not wrong. Might have to bring him down a peg, or two. A little humble pie wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for Mr. Kang, just to remind him the rest of us aren’t a bunch of pikers, Wall said, thinking out loud. You cogitate on that a while, Monster. I might need you to be the whip in that dynamic. Cass gave his team sergeant a mischievous grin and nodded. From across the table, Rico opened his hands, looking from Wall to Cass and back.

So, are we good? This is settled, right?

It was.

Alright, you knuckleheads, gather ‘round, Wall said with some asperity, sitting down in his easy chair at one end of the coffee table. As the others settled in on the two couches, except for Cass, who sat in the chair at the other end of the scarred coffee table, Wall passed out the brief he had prepared. Cass sat in his chair, completely relaxed, sipping on a mug of coffee as Rico sat down at his left, wedging Boone between himself and PJ on the couch. While they settled, opening notebooks or pulling out legal pads, PJ looked over at Wall and piped up, putting on a suspicious air as he leaned toward Wall and spoke stridently.

Is this another bug hunt, sir?

On PJ’s right, Boone chuckled, nodding his head as he reached over and fist-bumped PJ. On Boone’s right, Rico snickered and grunted into his mug of coffee, a twinkle in his eye as he met Cass’ eye. At the head of the coffee table, Wall gave PJ a wry look, taking a drink of his own Mountain Dew.

Does this look like Heinlein’s future reality to you, PJ? the big 1st Sergeant asked. Boone grunted, opening his own notebook and clicking his ballpoint pen.

I don’t know how much of that you’ve read, Sarge, but, yeah, there is a whole lot going on right now that looks like the reality ol’ Bob described in his fiction. Kinda scary. Wall shrugged, cocking his head as one eyebrow arched, and he looked at Boone.

Okay, good point, but to answer PJ, no, this is not just another regular bug hunt. We’re going to stomp on some insects, though. The new boss has decided it’s time for ISIS to get smashed, but good. Nods all around made it plain that the men on the team agreed with the idea. Sharky, squat and muscled, dry-washed his hands over one another and chuckled like a comic book villain. Next to him, Kumara, who was as large a presence as Wall, loomed over his smaller friend and smiled indulgently, shaking his head as he looked back at Wall expectantly. Wall glanced around at the team, looking from PJ, Boone, and Rico on his right over to Kumara and Sharky on his left, gesturing with both hands as he spoke to them with an instructive tone.

Alright, boys, this is our first big op as a team. You know, and I know, the Old Man and his fellas are going to be spot-checking your—our—progress as we go along. We’ve had a few small missions together. We’re coming together nicely. Right? Wall looked around expectantly, nodding as though he were willing his teammates to nod along, which most of them did. We’ve got the kinks worked out, now. Got a good feel for each other. But that’s all been the preview, boys. This is going to be the main feature. Wall took a long drink of his soda and continued.

So. We’re on the hunt for ISIS. The boss wants us to erase these dicks. It’s going to be an all-hands on deck affair. We will have multiple elements moving through northern Iraq and into northeastern Syria, working alongside some of our mates from the 22nd SAS, the Iraqis, and various Kurdish groups. We may have assistance from other allied special operations units, as well. I haven’t been given confirmation of that, but I expect our Aussie and Canadian friends to make an appearance. Maybe the Polish. Wall passed around maps of the region he was discussing, as provided by the Activity and the Unit’s own intelligence analysts.

If you guys check your laptops when we’re done, the brain trust sent out a dossier for you to review, too. It will talk a little about the region in northern Syria we’re going to be playing in, and it’ll go into ISIS a bit more, which is really, let’s be honest, just the dregs of al-Qaeda in Iraq. When the boys splashed al-Zarqawi all over the walls of his hidey-hole, it was only a matter of time before someone else stepped up. When Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi took over AQI a few years ago, they started to decamp into eastern Syria, figuring we wouldn’t get in there after them, I guess. Despite their loss of territory, and even though Iraq says it’s pretty much over, we’re going to go see about taking them off the board. PJ waved the tip of his pen at Wall.

You say ‘all-hands-on-deck’, Sarge, what does that mean for us? Who’re we working with?

The usual, really, the team sergeant answered bluntly, leaning back and gesturing with his half-full pop bottle. We’ll have Rangers bouncing around breaking shit, as usual. Some ODAs. SEALs. We’ll have some Civil Affairs folks along, Wall took another drink from his bottle. You know our guys—Americans, and special ops types—we’ll be solid. But we’ll probably have some Peshmerga along and some Iraqis. I’m not making any promises about them, although I wish I could tell you we won’t have anybody you can’t trust around us.

Boone, hunched over the spiral notebook on his lap, was making notes furiously, and Casimir Wolenski leaned forward and looked down at the open notebook as Boone worked on his lists, and made notes around the margins. Craning his neck, Cass looked down his nose, watching Boone’s pen fly across the page, and glanced from the big man’s intense, preoccupied face to the words scribbled across the page in black ink.

Hey, there, buddy-boy, whatcha doing? Boone lifted his head just far enough to look up into Wolenski’s eyes, and then looked around at the rest of the team, slightly embarrassed by the attention he had attracted, or, rather, the attention Cass had drawn to him. Hesitantly, he looked at the page and then looked back at Cass.

If we’re taking a road trip, I want us to be properly provisioned, the big man answered. I don’t know what supply lines are going to look like, or what our logistical planning has laid on for this op, but I’m trying to think ahead and get out in front of potential problems.

Like...

Well, like potable water and food, for one thing. Fuel. Ammunition. Special weapons... Cass pulled back, and sat up straighter.

Special w— like what? the other operator asked, one eyebrow cocked. Boone sat up, his pen engulfed in both of his loosely clenched fists. Taking a deep breath, Boone looked briefly from teammate to teammate as PJ barked a laugh, whispering under his breath.

You asked for it...

Well, Boone started tentatively, we have to have a .50 BMG for anti-material application. I’d like a .300 Win Mag. Or a Lapua. A rifle I can reach out and touch someone with. And one for PJ, at least. We’ll need a Carl Gustave, a couple of thumpers, at least one 240B, and an M249 that stays on the rig, whether Sharky or Kumara carry a Mk46 of their own, or not... Boone half-shrugged and looked at Wolenski. Probably a mortar. We’ll have a CROWS mounted on the MRAP, so we’ll have to look at the setup for that. Boone looked around at the team again and gave a self-deprecating grin. "Of course, that’s assuming we have one vehicle. With Gus along, we might need two just for our team. So that presents other considerations for food, water, ammo distribution. More complexities...

That’s not counting grenades, ammunition, and personal weapons, but I want us to be prepared for anything. I’m open to suggestions, Boone finished, looking around at the team. Wall finished his soda, a contemplative expression on his face as he tilted his head back. Lowering the bottle, he looked at Boone as he screwed the lid back on it and then turned to pitch it into the short, green recycling can alongside their little kitchenette. Turning back, he gave a satisfied sigh and cocked his head as he spoke to Boone.

You know we’ve only got so much room on the rig, right?

Boone smiled back at the team sergeant and ducked his head, though he did not break eye contact.

I figure we’ll have enough room, boss. We’ll be using up our rations on food and some of our ammunition as we move along—so even if the MRAP starts off jam-packed, we’ll get some breathing room as we move. Looking down at his notebook, Boone tapped on the page with the tip of his pen, his brow furrowing as he continued.

We’ll have to have two trucks, just for us. If we can swing an MATV for the second one, that will give me—us—some extra room for provisions. If you get a big truck, as well, that will give us room for Gus with no sweat, and probably a little extra room, there, too, assuming they don’t saddle us with anyone else... He trailed off, tilting his head, chewing lightly on the cap of his pen before continuing.

A Cougar has exterior storage. Some of that will be taken up by the incidentals we need to keep the trucks running, of course, but there may be some we can use for odds-and-ends.

Chuckling with an evil leer, Sharky chimed in.

I like the way he thinks.

Nods all around indicated the rest of the team liked it, too, and Cass leaned back, sinking into his chair as he raised his coffee mug and smiled indulgently. They had known PJ and Boone were coming onto the team with an interesting perspective, having been in the 5th Special Forces Group, but it was nice to see Boone’s thought process. Offering a toast in Boone’s direction, Cass took a long drink and lowered the mug, smacking his lips, grinning over at the big operator on the couch.

I knew you had some brains. Sounds good, buddy-boy. What else?

Relaxing under the intense gaze of his teammates, Boone sat forward, setting his notebook down, opened face-up on the coffee table, and looked around at his brothers.

Alright, this is what we were thinking, he said, nudging PJ, who sat forward with him and joined him in sharing their rough ideas. The two had been on an ODA together and had spent a year in the Afghan mountains conducting vehicle-mounted patrols. Between the two of them, operations like this had been their bread and butter for that year, and they were eager to share the benefit of that experience. Around them, their teammates, who had not had the benefit of quite the same experiences, listened and took notes, and the team came together.

PJ and Boone walked the halls in silence on the way out of the building, PJ deep in thought, contemplating whether he needed to make adjustments to the load-out in his medic bag, or just forget it and instead pack in all the same stuff, as much extra as he could bring along. He had learned through trial and error and a couple of unexpectedly long missions that it was better to go home carrying unused supplies than to find himself stuck without the kit he needed.

Meanwhile, Boone was just ambling along beside his friend, looking around with a bemused expression as they went through the halls of the Unit’s nondescript headquarters building. He was still amazed to be working here, still a bit overwhelmed by the fact that he was working in this building at all, let alone the fact that he belonged here, that it was in some small way his place, now. Reflecting on the legends who had walked these halls, the incredible warfighters who had preceded him, Boone was humbled and grateful for his chance to do his part to add to the story of the men who had passed through its doors.  PJ knew his friend’s mind—they had often talked about Boone’s almost devout reverence for this place and their predecessors. Boone never voiced any doubt as to his place, here, but PJ himself couldn’t say whether he felt as much confidence in that as Boone did.

Oh, definitely. They’re done with letting us just handle light work or low-impact stuff, Boone answered the question PJ had posed to him. You heard Wall, there is no more dress rehearsal. They’re going to want to see what we can do. I figure the Major will give us a few specific tasks with some high-stress, high-stakes expectations. Just to see how we handle it. PJ pursed his lips, nodding to himself as he reflected on the little jobs that had been thrown their way, things that had needed to be done, people who had needed to be watched, and site surveys that had needed to be completed. There had been precious little trigger time, other than the constant training on the range and in the Kill House, relearning skills they thought they had already learned and finding that there was some difference between the way a lot of people did it and the way CAG executed a raid. There had been a brief mission to Syria that had involved a preliminary training phase followed by a simple assault—hit the target, retrieve the package, and scram. Simple. But it had turned out to be slightly more complex than that, thanks to a couple of hiccups out of their control. PJ considered Boone’s words, mouth twisted in what passed for a contemplative expression from PJ, and he glanced at his friend.

Well, if that’s true, I guess we better make sure we’ve got our shit together, PJ concluded. We don’t have a solid jump-off date, yet, so you want to get together later and hash it out? We can get the girls and have dinner. Boone lit up, a huge smile crossing his face as he nodded slowly with a cartoonishly exaggerated swing back and then forward.

I love that idea, but I don’t think the girls want to listen to us talk shop. It’ll give me a chance to get Sara out of the house for something other than work, anyway. She needs a little bit of socializing, Boone answered happily. They had been going through a rough patch, and any opportunity that came along to get his wife out, especially with PJ and Deirdre, who were Boone’s closest friends, was one that Boone would not miss if he could help it.

You think we’re on the right trail with preparations for this excursion? The concern in PJ’s voice was obvious, and Boone turned, prepared to allay his friend’s concerns, but he paused and stepped behind PJ upon hearing footfalls behind him.

It’s a long, vehicle-mounted patrol, Pete, Boone answered with a shrug. We could do a lot worse than making sure we’re carrying enough fuel, food, water, and bullets. Honestly, I’m more concerned about having the right guns along, and the right gear and incidentals—NVGs, extra batteries, straps, and tape, and rubber bands... Boone snickered. Maybe a gag for Sharky. I can see his normal, lovely personality wearing a bit thin over the long haul.

PJ grunted a laugh, twirling a pen nervously as