late-day bustle was the life of the real world, not the long, awful night behind him. He was glad to be stuck in traffic. He wanted to pat the annoyed marine driver on the shoulder, tell him things were all right. Instead, he put his arm around Jamie, beside him.
At Lemonnier, the Land Rovers passed quickly through the checkpoints and blast walls. They headed straight for the Barn. There the camp CO, Colonel McElroy, held open the chain-link fence, saluting to greet the arriving team. He closed the gate behind the vehicles and did not come in.
More armed marines were stationed outside the Barn. Wally led the PJs inside, into quarantine.
The Barn was locked down, marines at every door. The rest of the Fifty-Eighth RQS—unit, the SERE guys, chute riggers, med logistics team, intel specialist—all were missing. A cold-cut buffet had been spread on the long rigging table, nine cots with fresh linens set up on the concrete floor. Doc shuffled to his locker, put his wedding ring back on, then climbed to his tent on the high shelf. LB couldn’t make it up the ladder, so he collapsed on a cot.
Fitz and Mouse played Ping-Pong until Doc shouted down for them to shut up.
Wally found a folded note sitting under his Air Force Academy ring in his locker. He lay gingerly on the cot next to LB and handed it over. Major Torres had scribbled the word “Dinner.”
Camp Lemonnier
Djibouti
The PJs spent another night in isolation. In the morning, the marines escorted them to the head, stood outside the shower room, and afterward carted a hot breakfast into the Barn. Doc worked with Dow and Quincy, assembling new med rucks to replace the ones that had sunk. LB and Wally left their cots for pancakes, ate, then got back in them.
At noon, the marines let in a wiry man with a crew cut and civilian clothes. He wore a short-sleeved white shirt, no tie, khakis, and a blue blazer. The clothes fit as if issued to him. He doffed the jacket, entering the air-conditioned space, stood at a distance from the reclining PJs, and seemed to await a greeting. He had the veins in his forearms of a hard-ass and wore a fat gold ring. LB took a guess, got to his feet, and shouted, “Ten-hut!”
The PJs stood at attention; Sandoval was the slowest to rise. LB was right. The man was brass. He strode into their midst with the air of command. Doc clambered down the ladder.
“At ease, men.”
Wally strode forward. “Captain Wallace Bloom, sir.”
“Major General Raymond Piper, US Army.” The general offered the hand with the West Point ring on it. Wally took it left-handed because of his sling. “Captain, can we take this into the briefing room?”
“Yes, sir. Let’s go, everybody.”
Wally led Piper to the doorway of the room. The general nodded approvingly at the bandaged, limping PJ team filing past. Wally closed the door when all were seated on the sofa and tiers. He sat beside LB at the rear, leaving the front to the army man.
“Gentlemen, I bring you the thanks of a grateful president. He’s relieved like the rest of us that you made it back. That was a tough job, and you were up to it. The president sends his condolences for your injuries, especially for the loss of Lieutenant Robey, as do I. I understand he was a hell of a young officer.”
“Saved my life,” Jamie said in the front row.
Thinking of the averted Predator, LB offered, “Probably saved all of ours.”
From the back, Quincy said, “Hoo-ya.”
Piper liked that. “You bet, son.” The general tugged at his own civilian shirt. “Sorry about being out of uniform. My bag didn’t make it out of Ramstein. I didn’t wait for it; I was in a hurry to get here.”
Piper clapped hands, the niceties out of the way.
“I’m chief of staff for General Madson, CO of AFRICOM. Captain Bloom, the two of you have spoken.”
Wally answered, “Yes, sir.” LB poked him in the leg, impressed.
“You’ll notice I came to debrief you alone. No intel officers, no note takers. You will not be dissecting the mission you just completed. You will not be searching for ways to do things better. Your mission to the Valnea is classified top secret. You will not from this day forward discuss the events of the last forty-eight hours with anyone. Absolutely no one. This includes each other. As far as you’re concerned, whatever you saw or think you saw on