Omega Sanction

Chapter Four

Despite the downsizing of the army, it appeared to Thorpe that Fort Bragg was growing as he drove onto post. There were sprawling new compounds for the Third and Seventh Special Forces Groups among the pine trees off Yadkin Road.

Located to the west of Interstate 95 and the town of Fayetteville in the south-central part of North Carolina, Fort Bragg was home to the army's Special Forces and the 82nd Airborne Division. Covering over 148,000 acres of North Carolina pine forest, the post was the tip of the spear for the army's rapid deployment forces. Nearby Pope Air Force Base was the point from which that tip was launched.

The post was founded in 1918 as the army geared up for World War I. Before the days of political correctness, it was named after the Confederate General Braxton Bragg. The first military parachute jump was made at Fort Bragg in 1923 from an artillery observation balloon, and ever since it had been the home of the Airborne.

As he drove onto the post using Bragg Boulevard, Thorpe was hit with an assortment of memories, some good, some bad. He'd been many places in his time in the army, but in many ways Bragg had been the start point.

It was where he and Lisa had first been together after getting married. Tommy had been born in the post hospital. Thorpe forced his mind away from those memories.

Thorpe knew that Delta Force had moved from its old green-fenced compound near the ROTC summer camp area to a highly secure, modern facility specifically built for them a few miles out in the range area. He'd heard that they had various weapons ranges inside the fence that surrounded the compound, along with full-size aircraft fuselages, trains, buses and other training aids.

During his active duty time in Special Forces, Thorpe had served a tour of duty in the new ACFAC, Academic Facility for Special Forces, that had been built across the street from the old Puzzle Palace, the former headquarters for army Special Operations that now held the headquarters for the JFK School for Special Warfare.

Thorpe's destination was the army Special Operations Headquarters, a new addition since his last trip here. It was set on what used to be a virgin acre of North Carolina pine forest. Several stories high, it was all glass and brick, very modern. It was a long way from the beat-up World War II era "temporary" buildings Thorpe had received his Special Forces classroom training in years ago.

There were no parking spaces available in the lot immediately outside, so Thorpe was forced to park a quarter mile away, near the Third Group area. Third Special Forces Group (Airborne) had not even existed when Thorpe first joined Special Forces. Its area of operations was Africa and it had been brought to life several years ago — despite the rest of the army getting smaller, Special Forces was actually getting larger due to the strong demand for those units. For the first time since its peak strength during the Vietnam War, Special Forces had a group devoted to each populated part of the world: Third to Africa, Fifth to the Middle East, Seventh to Central and South America, First to the Pacific and Orient, and Tenth to Europe.

The command he was going to, SOCOM, was the headquarters for all those groups and the other elements assigned to army Special Operations: the Ranger Regiment, which consisted of three highly trained Ranger infantry battalions; the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment (SOAR) that flew all the army Special Operations helicopters; Civil Affair and PSYOPS — Psychological Operations — units; and the various units dedicated to supporting the special operations team.

As Thorpe stepped out of the car, he pulled his battered green beret out of his left cargo pocket and settled it on his head, a move that over a decade and a half wearing the beret had made a very practiced maneuver.

His spit-shined jungle boots silently padded over pavement as he walked toward the front of the SOCOM building. He noted that Bronze Bruce, the limp-wristed, eighteen-foot-high bronze statue of a Vietnam-era Special Forces soldier, had been moved to the plaza in front of the building from its original place next to the Special Forces museum. He'd heard about the uproar the move had caused among the old guard in Special Forces.

Thorpe detoured over to the statue and walked around. On bronze plaques bolted to the low concrete wall around the statue were listed the names of those Special Operations men who had died since Vietnam. It was a long list for a country that considered itself to have been primarily at peace since the end of that conflict.

The names only served to reinforce what Thorpe had learned by bitter lesson: Special Operations was always on the cutting edge and facing danger all the time, regardless of whether there was a declared war going on or not. Thorpe noted the names of the two Delta Force operators who'd been killed in Mogadishu trying to rescue a downed helicopter crew from Task Force 160. He wondered how many civilians even remembered that failed peacekeeping effort or the videos of the bodies being dragged through the streets. Thorpe remembered, most often when he wished he wouldn't.

He scanned the names, looking for those of other men he had known. Men who had died on missions with him. He spotted a few, the places and occasions of their deaths as listed in the bronze letters a blatant lie in some cases. At least the names were there, though, which was more than could be said about some of the men who had disappeared or died on classified missions during the Vietnam conflict. But there were other names, names Thorpe knew, that weren't on the list. Men who had died in places where the U.S. Government would never acknowledge they sent American fighting men. Men whose families had been told they had died during training accidents. A surprising number of Special Operations helicopters had "crashed at sea," the bodies never recovered.

Thorpe ran a finger inside the collar of his starched battle dress uniform shirt, uncomfortable in uniform after wearing civilian garb for the past year and a half. He felt awkward, out of place. It was a strange feeling for a person who had spent his entire adult life in the military. He had not expected this feeling, but standing in front of the names of the dead, he knew he no longer fit. He'd lost something and he wasn't quite sure what it was. He knew he'd lost it before the Omega Missile incident, even before the Lebanon affair, but he wasn't quite sure when or why he had changed.

Thorpe checked his watch. After 1000. The NCO at the reserve in-processing center had not exactly seemed in a rush to do Thorpe's or the other incoming reservists' paperwork and it had taken over an hour to process onto active duty for the next sixty days. Then he had received instructions to report to the SOCOM G-l section for work.

The military staff was broken down into four major sections, numbers 1 through 4: 1 was personnel; 2, intelligence; 3, operations; 4, logistics. At brigade or lower level, the letter designator was an S, so that a battalion or brigade personnel officer, the adjutant, was the S-l. At higher than brigade level, the designator was a G.

Thorpe strode up the walk, snapping a salute at a colonel who was coming the other way. He pushed open the door to the building and stepped into the lobby. Two turnstiles filled up the way to the left of the guard desk. An elderly black man in a contract security company uniform looked at Thorpe, noted that he didn't have a badge clipped to his pocket as everyone else in sight did, and motioned for him to come over.

"Are you on the access roster, sir?"

"I doubt it," Thorpe said, giving the man his ID card.

Noting that it was the red color indicating reservist, the guard flipped open a particular computer printout and checked Thorpe's name against the list.

"You're not on here," the guard said. "Who are you here to see?"

"I'm supposed to check in with the SOCOM G-l for further assignment."

"We'll have to get someone down from there to escort you."

Thorpe waited while the guard called, then longer while someone from the office came down. Finally a master sergeant appeared, quickly walking up to the other side of the turnstiles. "Sign in the visitor's roster, Major," the sergeant instructed.

Thorpe did as he was told, the guard keeping his ID card to be returned when he left. Thorpe pinned a numbered pink visitor badge on his pocket. The bottom of the badge warned in large letters that he must be escorted at all times.

Obviously they were taking security seriously around here, Thorpe reflected as he followed the master sergeant to the elevator. Once they were on board, the other man turned to him and stuck out a hand.

"Sergeant Major Jim Christie."

"Major Mike Thorpe."

"I know. I've heard of you."

It was hard to tell from Christie's inflection whether that was good or not. Thorpe knew Special Operations was a small pond and he'd made more than a couple of splashes in his time, and if anyone was going to hear something about it, it would the G-l section.

"This way," Christie said, leading him down a corridor.

"Where will I be working?" Thorpe asked. He hoped he got to go to a Special Forces Group; either Third or Seventh, both here on post, would be fine with him. His rank was O-4, Major, and there were slots at both group and battalion level for that rank.

"That's up to Colonel Kinsley," Christie said.

"When do I get to meet him?" Thorpe asked.

Christie pointed to a door at the end of the corridor as he slid behind the desk to the left of the door. "Right now."

Thorpe knocked on the door. A woman's voice called out, "Enter."

Thorpe glanced at Christie, but the sergeant was studiously absorbed in paperwork. Thorpe opened the door and marched to a point two feet in front of the colonel's desk, all the while checking out her and the room.

Kinsley was in her late thirties with straight brown hair parted in the middle. Her face was well tanned and she had on heavily starched fatigues. She wore steel-rimmed glasses that gave her appearance a severe look, rather like the librarian who used to hush the kids at the library back home. On the wall behind her were several plaques and a large guidon. It was red and gold, from a quartermaster unit that matched the insignia on her collar. There was a combat patch on her right shoulder, which these days could mean anything from having served in the Gulf War to a peacekeeping mission in Bosnia- Herzegovina.

"Major Thorpe reporting, ma'am."

Kinsley had a file in her left hand and she kept it there as she returned his salute. "At ease," she said.

Thorpe spread his feet shoulder-width apart and put his hands together in the small of his back. He watched her, waiting, a little surprised at this overly official meeting. He wondered if this was the way the regular army operated. It had been over fourteen years since he'd last been in a regular army unit, in the infantry at Fort Hood, and it was hard to remember. Special Forces usually operated less formally, but more professionally than the regular army, an apparent contradiction that outsiders had a hard time understanding.

Kinsley shook the file. "Quite a record. At least the part that isn't classified."

Thorpe didn't say anything.

"I asked for your classified records. After all, most people who work for this organization have classified data in their personnel files and I do have a top-secret access. My request was denied."

Thorpe wasn't surprised at that. And he didn't see any reason why LTC Kinsley, SOCOM G-l, had a need to know, since he was just here to do two months of active duty to punch his reserve ticket so he could qualify for retirement pay.

"You people," Kinsley continued, "act like you have your own little private armies. I spend my time trying to make sure all the units manning rosters are filled, and then find out some commander decided to move people around the world wherever he feels like it."

Thorpe remained silent. He'd met people like Kinsley before who thought their support job was more important than the job done by the people they were supposed to support.

"Are you bothered to be back on active duty?" Kinsley asked, dropping the file and leaning back in her chair.

Thorpe was surprised at both the question and the tone. It sounded like a challenge. "I'm here to do my duty as ordered."

"You didn't have to," she said. "You could have turned the orders down."

"I'd like to get my retirement benefits, ma'am. I believe I've earned them."

She picked up a cup of coffee and took a sip. Thorpe felt very uncomfortable at his modified position of parade rest while she sat there drinking coffee. He was too old for this. She seemed to be sizing him up. He glanced at a chair to his right, but if she noticed the look, she gave no indication.

"There's a lot going on," Kinsley said. "Tenth Group is heavily involved in the IFOR in Bosnia-Herzegovina and it looks like Seventh Group might have to commit a battalion also to the peacekeeping effort due to recent developments. I've got tons of paperwork making sure the deployed units are up to strength."

Thorpe didn't say a word, waiting. Like I give a damn about your problems, he thought. Tell it to the guys who are on the teams executing those deployments where the bullets are flying. He'd always found that people far away from the firing lines tended to think they were as important as, if not more important than, the people on the cutting edge.

"See Master Sergeant Christie to get your security badge."

Thorpe blinked. Getting a badge meant that he was going to be working in this building. "Ma'am, I'd like to work in one of the groups if possible. My experience is—"

"I've read your file," Kinsley cut him off, "at least the parts they would give me. I know what your areas of expertise are. But I make the assignments here. You're only going to be around for a few months. I just lost my only eighteen-series officer to one of the groups and you're taking his place. There is plenty that can be done in this office. As a matter of fact, I have a major project that will take up most of your time." She reached into her in-box and pulled out another file. She glanced up. "That's all. Christie will brief you and get you set up."

Thorpe snapped a salute and turned on his heel. When he'd gotten his orders, he'd thought about calling some of his old acquaintances and lining up a job for the two months, but he'd decided against going through the trouble. Now he was regretting that decision. He shut the door behind him and Christie was waiting.

"This way, sir."

Thorpe followed him down the hall and to the left. Christie opened a door and a small, windowless room beckoned. There were two desks with computers on them. One of the desks was occupied by a young warrant officer.

"Chief Takamura, meet Major Thorpe. He's going to be working with you for the next two months."

Takamura stood and offered his hand. He was short and chubby. He wore thick-lensed, army-issue, black-rimmed glasses. "Major, good to meet you."

Thorpe shook his hand. Christie turned in the doorway. "Get him set up with a badge and tell him what the colonel wants done."

"Right top."

The door shut. Thorpe sank down at the desk facing Takamura’s and waited.

Takamura pointed at the computer on Thorpe's desk. "Our job is to screen records for the next promotion board. Make sure the photos are up to date, awards, record of service, et cetera."

Thorpe stared at Takamura as if he were speaking a foreign language. He closed his eyes as Takamura went on.

"Per the commanding general's policy letter, 98-2-4, the SOCOM G-l is responsible to make sure that all SOCOM personnel's records are in the best possible shape they can be when they go before a promotion board."

"Isn't that the individual's responsibility?" Thorpe asked. The army, perhaps the largest "corporation" in American, promoted on the basis of time in service and service records that held evaluation reports.

"Yes, sir, it is," Takamura agreed, "but the general felt that so many people were deployed that many soldiers won't have a chance to update their records or even check them, so he wants us to do it for them. He doesn't want any of his troops penalized for being deployed."

Thorpe hated to admit it, but that made sense. He just didn't want to be the person to have to do it.

Takamura smiled. "I was the only one doing it. Now, I guess, it's the two of us."

Thorpe looked at the computer. "Great."

Six hours later, two things were for certain. There were a large number of officers assigned to Special Forces that were facing promotion boards. And most of them had not updated their records. Thorpe wasn't surprised about that — most Special Operators were more concerned about doing their job than making sure their Department of the Army photo was up to date, or the record of their latest award or ribbon was placed in their records. Also, most of them were so rarely in the States that updating files was a low priority. Thorpe's first year in Special Forces he had spent eleven of twelve months deployed overseas.

There was another thing he realized as he stared at the computer screen. Whatever little Thorpe had learned about computers had been supplanted in his brain by other information. He wasn't sure what that other information was, but he spent half the afternoon patiently listening and learning as Takamura showed him how to bring up a personnel record, then review it against the master Department of Defense data file and then update the record. Thorpe's two-finger pecking style of typing didn't help much either.

Thorpe was glad to see the end of the workday come. That was probably the only advantage to this job that he could see. He wouldn't be going to the field, and come 1700 he could walk out of the building like the rest of the staff weenies he'd used to despise while he was on an operational team.

Which is exactly what he did at 1700. He'd called Dublowski during the day and arranged to meet him at the Green Beret Club. Dublowski was there waiting for him when Thorpe walked in the door. Thorpe slid in the opposite side of the booth.

"Beer?" Dublowski asked.

"No, soda," Thorpe replied. He noted that Dublowski wasn't drinking either. Maybe they were all getting too old for the business. At the bar, several young NCOs from the school were sharing a couple of pitchers and telling of their day's work in loud voices.

"So what do they have you doing?" Dublowski asked as he came back with the soda. Thorpe quickly explained.

Dublowski snorted. "Watch out for the stapler. I hear some of those people in SOCOM received Purple Hearts during Desert Storm when they got wounded by a stealth Iraqi attack stapler that was planted in the office. They had people fly in from the States with the mail and pick up a combat infantry badge and combat patch. Bunch of bullshit."

"I'm surprised the SOCOM commander thought of having someone check on his people's records," Thorpe said.

Dublowski nodded. "General Markham's good people. He looks after his soldiers. Others…" Dublowski's jaw set. "Others, they don't give a shit about us. We're just tools to be used. Put a Band-Aid of American soldiers on every damn little outbreak around the world. Don't fix it. Just shove us in there and—" Dublowski stopped in midsentence.

"No, go ahead," Thorpe said with a smile. "Tell me how you really feel."

Dublowski didn't smile in return. He averted his gaze toward the bar.

Thorpe glanced at the younger men drinking at the bar. Daylight through the window passed through the mugs of beer on the bar, highlighting the golden glow. He looked back at the older man. Dublowski was now staring out the window. A young girl was at the bank across the street, using the ATM. Her shiny dark hair reflected sunlight as she tossed her head, clearing a stray strand off her forehead.

"I don't want to bring up more bad thoughts," Thorpe began, but Dublowski shifted his attention back into the room and indicated for him to go on. "Our world of covert operations is a small one. You've got to have some contacts in the intelligence community. Did you check with any of them about Terri?"

Dublowski sighed. "Yeah, I called in every favor I could think of. Nothing. I had a buddy of mine in the FBI do a check here stateside just in case she had maybe come back. Nothing." Dublowski leaned forward. "But it was kind of strange, Mike."

When Dublowski didn't elaborate, Thorpe had to ask. "What was strange?"

"I called a guy I knew in the CIA. We aren't exactly buddies, but he owed me one. His son was in the Eighty-second and got in trouble a couple of years back downtown in Fayetteville and I pulled some strings and got the boy out of it. So I figured he'd be a good guy to get to check behind the scenes with the Germans, since the Agency has got to have connections with the German intelligence agencies."

"Anyway, this guy said he would see what he could find out. He was enthusiastic about it when I first asked. You know, like he was glad he could repay the debt. But a week later he called me back and he said he hadn't found out a thing."

"So? Maybe there was nothing," Thorpe said.

"It wasn't what he said," Dublowski said, "but rather how he said it."

"What do you mean?"

"He'd lost his enthusiasm. He didn't want anything to do with the situation. When I pushed him, he cut me off and said he was sorry. When's the last time you heard a CIA dink say he's sorry?"

Thorpe pondered that for a moment. "What do you think?"

"I don't know," Dublowski said. "It bothered me then and it still bothers me now."

There was only one thing Thorpe could come up with and he was loath to say it, but felt he had to. "Maybe he found out she's dead?"

"Maybe, but he would have told me. I was prepared for that and he knew it. He wasn't that much of a nice guy that he would want to spare me the hard news. No, I just got the feeling there was something else bothering him."

"Like what?"

"I've been wondering that myself the past couple of weeks, but I can't think of anything."

"You check with anyone else?" Thorpe asked.

"Everyone I could," Dublowski said. "We get GSG-9 men through here quite a bit," he said, referring to the elite German counterterrorism police force. "I've buddied up to a few of them. I called a couple and asked them to make some inquiries for me in Deutschland."

"And?"

"And nothing. Nada. I tried following them up, but they're dodging me."

"That's strange," Thorpe said.

"That ain’t all of it," Dublowski said. "The Agency has a representative here at Bragg who's supposed to coordinate with SOCOM and Delta. A guy named Ferguson. He showed up one day and told me to keep my professional and personal life separated; that they'd gotten some complaints about me via the State Department from the Germans. That's bullshit." Dublowski pushed his glass around on the table.

"Is there anything I can do?" Thorpe asked.

"No, but thanks for asking." Dublowski was silent awhile. Then he spoke in a tone of voice Thorpe had never heard the sergeant major use before. "Sometimes, Mike… sometimes I question whether I did right."

"You've been checking into things as much as you—" Thorpe began, but Dublowski cut him off.

"I'm not talking about after she was gone, but before. Whether I was a good father. You know I was gone most of the time she grew up. We all were. Defending our country, or so we were told. But did I do enough to protect my family? Hell, I've never fought anyplace — be it Vietnam, El Salvador, Lebanon, Desert Storm — where I felt like I was really fighting for my country."

"None of those places were really threats to us, were they? Political bullshit. Games. That's all they were. And I went to all of those places they ordered me to and left my family alone." Dublowski looked up and Thorpe was disturbed by the confusion in the eyes of the older man. "Which was more important? Hell, even at the end, the last time, I left my family in Germany while I came back here to the States to get up to speed on that operation we ran in the Gulf. Left them alone in a foreign country."

Thorpe leaned forward in the booth. "Dan…" he began, but he found the words weren't there. Finally he spoke the truth, based on what he had learned with his own family. "I don't know."

"What's wrong with you?" Dublowski said. "We've been yacking about me all this time and you haven't said word one about your life. What happened with Lisa and Tommy?"

"They're dead." Thorpe said the two words flatly.

"Goddamn," Dublowski whispered. "What happened?"

"Last year. Just a month after I got off active duty. Car crash." Thorpe swallowed. "A truck driver fell asleep at the wheel. Sideswiped them on the interstate and rolled them eight times before they came to a stop. They were both dead at the scene."

"Jesus," Dublowski whispered. "I didn't hear anything about it. I'm sorry, Mike."

"I was at a job interview." Thorpe looked up. "Can you believe that? I'd put my papers in right after Louisiana. Retired. Finally did what it took for my marriage, my family, to be first. They were coming back from Lisa's mom's. And I was away. Not there for them once again when they needed me.”

"There's nothing you could have done except died too," Dublowski said.

"Maybe that—"

"Don't go there," Dublowski said.

Thorpe spread his hands out on the table. "The thing is, Dan, we don't know. I don't think we control anything. Lisa and Tommy wouldn't have been on that road if I had stayed in service."

"But Lisa would have left you if you had stayed in," Dublowski said.

"I know that, but she and Tommy would be alive. I thought I did the right thing for her and Tommy by getting out. So I don't know, Dan. I can't tell you what's right and wrong, or good and bad." Thorpe stood. "You still have Marge. Go home."

Dublowski stood. "Who do you have, Mike?"