Chapter 5
AAFES Main PX
Fort Campbell, Kentucky
Ten years in the Army taught Jerry McBride one truth.
Stateside Post Exchanges, or Base Exchanges—the military equivalent of department stores—looked like carbon copies: the same products, the same fluorescent hum, the same smells.
Even the architecture may as well have followed a single master blueprint. Food courts, too.
He could almost always count on steak sandwiches, burrito bowls, or Louisiana fried chicken, irony not lost on him here in Kentucky.
The competing aromas of grease and spice hit him as he stepped inside, scanning the Sunday crowd for that coppery red hair.
He didn’t spot her—Lieutenant turned Captain turned civilian now—among the crowded tables.
He hadn’t had a chance to catch her name before worship started.
Something with a D, he remembered. He shifted around a sticky high-top, scanning the room.
He hadn’t lingered in Landstuhl. He’d gone straight back to Fort Bragg, North Carolina from Germany and finished his recovery in his barracks room, complete with regular visits from Osbourne and lots of physical therapy at Womack.
Running into the nurse at chapel hadn’t surprised him too much. This was a small army, and people usually crossed paths more than once. What did surprise him was the instant delight that spread through him at seeing her.
“Hey there, soldier,” she said at his elbow, soft southern lilt cutting through his thoughts.
He turned, a grin tugging his lips. “Snuck up on me. I was thinking about Germany.”
“I loved being stationed there,” she said, her smile making her eyes crinkle under faint shadows. “The work was hard, though.” She wore faded teal scrubs and a gray sweater.
“Expect so,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Major trauma center for—” He paused, dodging the prospect of uttering something possibly classified in this environment. “Well, you know.”
“Indeed.” She slipped her hands into her sweater pockets. “I’d like to think there’s less trauma here, but this morning, spent the better part of six hours with a 19-year-old and a gunshot wound to the chest, so today’s not the best day to talk about that.”
He studied her face, the shadows that came and went out of her eyes when she talked about her patient. “Image that takes a toll on you.”
She shook her head, “I’m tougher than I look.”
“Don’t know about that. You look pretty tough,” he said. “Did he make it?”
“So far.”
“So far is good,” he said, then tilted his head. “Please tell me your name. I tried to remember it at chapel, but I don’t remember much about my time there. There’s like a fog where details should be.” Other than green eyes and the smell of strawberries, he thought.
Her smile lit those eyes, bright as summer pines. She held out a hand. “Olivia Duncan. Olive. Nice to meet you.”
“Gerald McBride. Jerry. Pleasure’s mine.” He shook her hand, thinking how small it felt, and tested her name. “Olivia Duncan.” It rolled off his tongue, savoring the flavor of it in his mouth. “Very Irish.”
“Indeed,” she lilted, mimicking a brogue. “My gran’d approve uv ye.” She chuckled, voice softening, returning to normal. “Always been Olive, though.”
“Even better, means peace.” A porch flashed in his mind—sunset, steaming coffee, a safe haven, maybe a family—his perfect idea of peace. Tranquility. Funny, he remembered having the same mental image coming out of his surgery.
“My parents did that on purpose,” she explained as they stepped to the coffee counter.
Her words, though well-articulated, stood in the not-too-distant shadow of a deep southern drawl.
“Older brother’s Frederick, little sister’s Irene.
Both names also mean peace. My dad’s parents’ families hated them getting married.
Our names were intended to battle a long history. ”
They ordered coffee and turkey sandwiches. He paid for it before she had a chance to dig out her wallet. “I said I’d buy you a coffee,” he explained before she could protest.
They found a table away from the after-church crowd. They sat, and he asked. “Mind if I say grace?”
Her countenance brightened, and she smiled in a way that made his heart skip. “That would be great,” she said.
He bowed his head and offered a sincere, short prayer of thanks to God for the food and for the company.
“Where’s your family now?” he asked, peeling the lid off his cup. The rich coffee aroma rose with the released steam.
“Mobile, Alabama.” She blew on her coffee, steam curling up. “Well, just north. Daddy’s a preacher. Mama’s retiring from the school system this year.”
“So, you’re a preacher’s kid,” he observed.
“Yup. PK,” she confirmed.
He sized her up and said, “I enjoyed today’s sermon.” he kept his tone casual. “I like the idea that God has a plan for all of us, even if we can’t see it or don’t understand it. I know, in my life at least, I’ve seen God using me to fulfill His plans.”
Olive sipped her coffee then said, “I’ve never seen you at Liberty Chapel before, and I’ve been there going on three years.”
Jerry nodded. “When I’m not in the field, I attend chapel over by the hangar near Fifth Group. It’s being renovated right now.”
Instead of responding, she just smiled. “When did you get here to Campbell?”
“We moved our guidon about two years back,” he explained. “We’re supposed to be taking on a new JSOC mission, but right now we’re hurrying up and waiting. They can’t decide if we are going to cohort here with Fifth Group, or have our own station on another base, like Breckinridge.”
Jerry could not tell if Olive looked hopeful or doubtful when she said, “So you’re coming up on three years, here. No PCS orders yet?”
Jerry shook his head. “Not so far. This is the longest I’ve ever been assigned to the same place since Robin Sage.”
The United States Army Special Warfare Center at Fort Bragg was a necessary home base for every Army special operator.
Green Berets euphemistically called it the “hub of the wheel.” Training to become a Green Beret could take anywhere from a year and a half to three years, from the Special Operations Preparation Course, to the Special Forces Assessment and Selection course, to the comprehensive Special Forces Qualification Course, and culminating in the Robin Sage exercise in the nearby North Carolina forests.
Additionally, Jerry had attended the US Army Sniper School at Fort Benning in Georgia for his Level 1 training in the middle of that, only because the Special Forces Sniper Course or SFSC at Bragg had overallocated available slots.
He had returned to the “hub of the wheel” at Fort Bragg to attend his Level 2 sniper training at SFSC, a seven-week program focused on advanced marksmanship, fieldcraft, surveillance, and precision fire in support of special operations.
“So, what’s your mission here, if you can say?” she asked.
He nodded around a bite of turkey sandwich, “Well, apparently, today’s mission was to buy you a cup of coffee.”
She smiled, clearly understanding he could not discuss his mission. “Well, then,” Olive took a slow savoring sip of her brew, then pantomimed a toast, “Mission accomplished.”
“How did you end up in the Army?” He leaned back, sandwich in hand. “Big jump from PK to LT.”
Her cheeks pinked. “Well, way back then, there was a boy.”
He raised an eyebrow when she didn’t elaborate. “I assume that didn’t pan out.”
“Sadly, no. College wasn’t for him—too much temptation, not enough backbone.
” A shadow flickered in her eyes, gone as quickly as it came.
He wondered about the story there. She shrugged.
“Even so, I followed him to an ROTC scholarship to Auburn. I loved it. Best decision I ever made, despite the boy. I made good friends, saw the world, and practiced combat nursing. Who gets to do that?”
“What made you decide to get out?”
She gave a small shrug. “I have no idea. It felt like God wanted me to, but honestly, I don’t know why. I loved my job, and I’m good at it. I’d gotten the promotions. But the longer I ignored God’s voice to get out, the more I knew I was supposed to do something else.”
He stared at her for several moments, then said, “Interesting. That lines up with the sermon today about how we need to trust that God has a plan.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”
He tried to put into words what he inherently knew.
“When we look at a big picture objective, the concept can be overwhelming. Here are bad actors, and we need to apply force in a certain way. But there’s a lot of players and a lot of moving parts—air, land, sea, ops.
” He took a sip of coffee to give himself a moment to mentally assemble his conclusion.
“In the end, when it all works together according to plan, we have a successful mission. But it didn’t happen by accident. There was always a plan.”
She pursed her lips. “Are you reckoning my life to a combat mission?”
He gave a slow smile. “I wouldn’t go that far.
But I believe God has a plan. Sometimes the setup for that plan happens back here.
” He held his hands apart and waved his left hand up and down.
“But we can see where it mattered here.” He lifted his right hand up and down, then picked up his coffee.
“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve looked back and said, ‘Ahh, that makes sense now.’”
She took a bite of her sandwich and chewed slowly, clearly considering his words. Finally, she swallowed and met his eyes again. “In that case, I look forward to the day I can say, ‘Ahh. Now I get it.’”
He chuckled. “Trust the plan, Olive.”
“What about you?” she challenged. “Why Green Beret?”
He sat back. “Army brat. Third-generation Special Forces. I don’t think I had much choice in the matter. Grew up everywhere. My dad retired in South Dakota, which is where my mom was originally from. Ever been?”
“South Dakota? Never.”
“He has this place on the prairie that sits dead center between Mount Rushmore and Laura Ingles Wilder’s home. More than a hundred miles from either. Midland. Literally in the middle of nowhere.”
She balled up a napkin and set the last bite of her sandwich aside. “So, you went Special Forces to fulfill expectations? Or do you actually enjoy it?”
Hard question. Could anyone enjoy what he did?
“Not either exactly.” He chewed slowly, mulling a reply that didn’t sound dismissive.
“I mean, dad’s proud of me, sure, but that isn’t why I did it.
My childhood just made me aware that this career was an option as my future career.
But if I had never joined, I wouldn’t have been persona non grata. As for the work itself…”
He took time to carefully think through his next words before speaking.
“I’m good at it. I think God designed me for it.
But enjoy? There are aspects I enjoy—my team, strategy, and hitting the bullseye from 2,400 meters.
I like those things. And, as much as it sucks sometimes, I enjoy the training. I kind of embrace the suck.”
He paused for a few breaths, considering his words yet again.
“But the real-world application? I think I’d be worried about myself if I said I ‘enjoyed’ that.
It’s a terrible duty, but a very necessary duty.
” He paused again. “I enjoy living in a free country, and I know what keeps it that way. Non sibi sed patriae and all that.”
“I get that. Not for self, but for country.” She studied him, her eyes holding his for a long beat, then nodded. “I appreciate the honesty.”
“Olive, I’ll always be honest,” he said, washing the remainder of his sandwich down with the last of his coffee. “I have no reason to lie to anybody,”
Once more, Olive toasted him with her cup. “I’ll keep that in mind before I ask something risky.”
Beijing, China
Liang Wei stood in the busy tea shop and closed his eyes, relishing the sound of Mandarin Chinese filling the air from a dozen different conversations and the rich, earthy aroma of oolong steeped in hot clay pots that enveloped him.
His last assignment in the Dominican Republic required him to master Spanish. Before that, he operated a covert organization in Miami, Florida, where he had to play a simpering fool while also learning to speak French and English.
He could not wait for his time in the west to end. He just wanted a nice, local assignment to complete his last five years of service to the People’s Republic of China’s Ministry of State Security, or MSS.
He took the paper cup of tea from the attendant with a bow and carried it outside.
The cool November breeze felt refreshing in comparison to the humid air of the Dominican Republic.
He all but closed his eyes and breathed it in, instead choosing to casually take a deep breath. He would be alone soon.
He spied his contact on a bench by an old war statue. He casually walked over and sat next to him.
“You’ve done well.”
Liang nodded. He knew he’d done well. “And?”
His contact remained silent. Liang watched a flock of pigeons descend on the statue and wondered at the freedom of a bird, but the hard life of scraping for every bite.
Finally, the contact said, “We are sending you to Haiti.”
Liang threw his head back and laughed. “Haiti? Are you mocking me?” The question was met with stony silence. Finally, Liang asked, “Why?”
“It’s a short assignment. We are providing weapons for rebels in exchange for unfettered access.”
With a gasp, Liang clarified. “Unfettered?”
He nodded. “That’s the deal.” He lit a cigarette, and the wind blew the smoke away.
“Your French is impeccable. Your English is good. Your Spanish is passable. Go make the deal. Give them what they want. Make nice. Let him think we’re on his side.
Then you can have a team of twenty trained men to set it up. ”
The idea of such access to the monolith in the West. His heart beat a little faster. He hated the tropics. He hated the languages, the people, and the food. Oh, but he hated the United States of America more. What he could do with so much access and a puppet under his command!
“I will be in touch,” he said, standing. He tossed his untouched tea into the trash bin next to the bench.