Warning Order

Chapter Two

The Russian guards leaned over the opposite side of the bridge waiting impatiently for Erik Brennar to appear. "Where is he?" First Officer Sokov shouted, as he turned and raced across the road to the other side of the bridge.

"I still don't see him!" First Officer Brosovich yelled, a hint of panic rising in the young officer's voice. Without hesitation, he raced along the sidewalk, jumping down onto the sloping ground, his boots splashing in pools of rainwater and mud holes as he half ran, half slid down the bank. Once at the bottom, he pointed his flashlight toward the tunnel, its beam splitting the night's blackness. "Nothing!" the young Russian yelled. He spun around and let the beam settle on the swirling current. "Look! Here!" he blurted out as he slid further down the muddy incline, stopping himself just before tumbling into the water. His heels sunk into the muck as he counterbalanced his weight and stretched out his AK47 toward the dark object sinking beneath the water. He slid the front sight of the rifle under it, snatching the object from the water. He held up the dripping wool cap for Sokov to see, and then hastily started making a search under the bridge. Something reflected off the flashlight's beam and he ran toward it. "There’s no sign of him, only this!" he shouted. The young first officer felt his heart sink deeper into his 5'8" frame. His brown eyes almost began to tear, as he realized he had failed his assignment.

Sukov rushed up to him, his once spit-shined black boots now splattered with mud. He reached for the steel-rimmed glasses Brosovich was holding. One lens had shattered and resembled a spider's web.

Beads of sweat started forming across Sukov's brow. He knew the consequences for letting anyone escape. His shoulders slouched. "This will surely mean a posting to Siberia," he muttered. He glanced over at Brosovich who was nodding in the affirmative while he stared in disbelief at the wool cap.

Almost in unison, the two guards turned their heads toward the Spree. Both of them were stunned by the swiftness of what had happened. Sukov suddenly realized he was wasting time. He immediately sounded the alarm, blowing short bursts into his police whistle. Its high-pitched tone shrieked like a wild banshee.

A puff of white smoke escaped from the stern of the patrol boat as the coxswain gunned the engine. A shower of water erupted from the river as the craft abruptly turned to port and headed back downstream toward the sound of whistles. Its searchlight furiously sliced through the darkness, sweeping back and forth at every noise close to the water. Two soldiers took their positions on port and starboard sides, with their rifles pointed toward the surface of the river. Cold water rushed against the bow, spraying their heavy winter uniforms. They released the safeties on their automatic weapons, seeing the dark tunnel only fifty meters ahead.

Guards began streaming from their posts in various buildings. Others jumped from the back of a passing military truck and lined up along the riverbank. The routine was all too familiar for soldiers assigned to East Berlin. Nearly forty-five East Berliners had already been killed trying to flee the city by one means or other. The Spree River was the second most likely choice for escapees and it continued to be guarded closely.

"Move! Move!" Sukov shouted, frantically motioning soldiers down to the water, some disappearing into the tunnel, as others formed a line on each side along the bank.

The shock from the cold water made Lampson feel as if he’d been hit by a hammer. Suddenly, a jolt sent tremors up his legs as his heels struck the river bottom. His lungs burned for oxygen. His mind began to slip into unconsciousness. Flailing his arms around him, he frantically tried to grab onto his assailant. A mental picture flashed before his eyes, picturing himself clamped in the steel-like jaws of an alligator that was taking its prey to the muddy bottom, waiting for him to drown.

With a swift motion, his attacker reached around him and shoved something against his mouth. Lampson jerked his head to the side, fearing an attempt to force gas or poison into him. What the hell was the difference? Poison, gas, or drowning — none of the choices seemed to be an acceptable means of dying. But survival finally took hold and he again thrashed about, trying to grab any part of the menacing force, but he was unsuccessful and his body started growing weaker. Without warning he was spun around and the object was rudely shoved against his mouth again. Tasting the rank river water nearly made him gag, but then his brain began to register. Instinctively, he sucked in air from a scuba mouthpiece. Air! Compressed air!

Suddenly, a face mask was pushed against his face and Lampson finally opened his eyes and blinked through the water-filled mask, trying to reorient himself. He immediately leaned his head back and pressed the top of the face plate with his palm, blowing air through his nose, clearing his mask. At least he managed to remember that much from his training. Within seconds his vision cleared and he found himself looking through hazy visibility into the face of a total stranger.

At 28,000 feet, the youngest full captain in the U.S. Navy, Grant Stevens, stepped out of a Navy Learjet. With his oxygen mask strapped in place, he fell into the nearly airless, minus fifty degree temperature. Reaching down, he pulled a ring that released his RAM air chute as he began a HAHO (High Altitude High Open) jump over West Berlin. He turned himself to the northeast and began guiding his silent descent toward his target ten miles away, east of the Iron Curtain. His LZ was a small farmhouse located about 30 minutes from downtown East Berlin. As he steered the "black cloud" into the wind and passed through twenty thousand feet, he focused on the city lights of Berlin. U-shaped lights ringed the road on the western side of the Brandenburg Gate. He continued in an easterly direction. The cold air numbed his cheeks below his goggles. He released the toggles several different times and shook his hands to return the blood flow to his fingertips. He had to talk to somebody about the damn, worthless gloves.

At thirteen thousand feet he steered more to the left as he began picking up lights from houses that he knew were near his LZ. He'd studied the pictures of previous recon flights that had photographed this area to help him become familiar with it. Three more miles; GPS was right on. He turned off the O2, and removed his face mask, letting it hang from around his neck. Checking to his right, he noticed that the blinking red light on the tail of the Learjet had all but disappeared. He looked at the ground again and noticed a long fence line stretching down the gray-colored, moonlit road. The lights of Berlin were nearly out of view as he lost altitude. He checked his altimeter. Forty-five hundred. Christ! Where the hell were the lights?

As he passed over the top of a small rise at only one thousand feet above the trees, he spotted three parallel lights with a yellow light at the end: the house light, barn light, and the shed. Drifting a little left, he jerked down on the left toggle and the canopy banked accordingly.

Two hundred feet above the ground he spotted two haystacks and a barn that were his targets. Estimating fifty feet to touchdown, he pulled down on both toggles and the air chute began to stall. He put his knees together, slightly bent, pulled down on the toggle a little more, and at ten feet, pulled down hard on both toggles. While facing into the wind, the “black cloud” above him stalled and he touched down.

He had almost finished gathering in the shroud lines from his chute when someone appeared from behind the shed. Although he wasn't able to distinguish the face clearly in the pitch black night, Grant focused on a very pronounced limp as the man began walking quickly toward him.

"Captain!" Manfred Kronauer said with an outstretched arm. The seventy-three year old impressed Grant with his athletic build. His white shock of thick hair was held down by his boater's cap that was so familiar in this part of Europe. He had a jolly face, one that belied an inner sadness because only a few years before, his son, Hans, had been shot by the Russians as he attempted to escape to the West. Ever since then, Manfred had been known to the West as a "friendly" who operated this safe house.

He pumped Grant's hand feverishly. Grant held tight to the old man's leathery hand as he challenged him with a password. Instantly, Manfred rattled off the response, adding, "You think someone else would dare look like this?"

Grant's face broke out in a grin. "Nah, just like to keep you on your toes."

The old man's hearty laugh sliced through an uncanny silence. He turned and began plodding toward the shed, his big boots leaving imprints in the soil. "Now, come. I have some food waiting for you."

Grant followed, as he thought it was good to see the old man again. Instinctively, he swiveled his head left and right, checking his surroundings.

Manfred pushed open the wooden door made of vertical planks with three support boards forming a Z on the inside. Grant preceded him into the shed, while Manfred checked the barnyard and fence line before entering behind him. The lower edge of the door scraped across soft, dark soil as he closed it.

Cobwebs clung to the upper corners of the shed’s pitched roof timbers. Rakes, shovels, and other farming implements leaned against one corner of the room. A large, heavy grinding wheel rested in the middle of the barely eight foot square room. The old German struck a match and lit a kerosene lamp sitting on a workbench scattered with tools. Even though an old canvas drop cloth had been hung over the window to prevent light from escaping, he adjusted the lamp’s flame till the wick barely glowed.

Grant piled the nylon chute on the workbench before dragging the grinding wheel across the dirt. He bent down on one knee and brushed away some of the dirt, revealing a small rusted O-ring embedded in the slat of wood. He pulled up on the trapdoor. The room below not only served as a safe place, but also contained basic communication equipment, the German's means for 'talking' to his Western contacts.

Manfred, carrying the kerosene lamp, watched as Grant stared down into a ghostly murkiness. "Do you wish for me to go down first?"

"Did you make a sweep for any unfriendlies that might be lurking about?" Grant responded with a smile as he reached for the lamp.

"Swept clean, my young friend!"

Backing down the narrow, flat rungs of the wooden ladder, Grant hung the lamp from a hook suspended from a beam. "Come on down, Manfred. I'll get my gear."

For nearly eighteen hours Grant stayed in the makeshift room. The two discussed plans for getting him to his departure point before he would even consider taking a few hours rest. As they talked, Grant snacked on some fresh bread and churned butter, and a few links of bratwurst. Times were tough in the East but Manfred always provided the essentials.

As soon as it was dark, the two men drove along a deserted country road. Manfred dropped Grant off at a secluded spot. It was at the edge of a pine tree forest within sight of the Spree River. Already wearing his wetsuit, Grant slid off the truck seat then closed the door as quietly as he could. He swept the surrounding area with eagle eyes. The only sounds he heard were the soft rustling of the pines, and behind him, towards the south, was the faint whistle of a freight train.

Manfred rolled down the window and leaned his arm on the edge as Grant approached. His cheerful attitude hid the genuine concern that he felt for this young man and his sensitivity to his position here in the East. "I wish I could help further, Captain, but I'm afraid you are on your own from here."

"You've done enough, my friend. I hope you know that. Now, you'd better get outta here." Grant squeezed the old man's arm with a strong, friendly grip, his appreciation and regard for Manfred unmistakable. The old German’s smile broadened and an eruption of facial wrinkles almost obliterated his eyes as he waved then drove off.

Creases formed at the corners of Grant's brown eyes, a smile hidden behind the black rubber mouthpiece. He winked, then held his hand in front of Lampson's face mask, giving him a thumb's up. Lampson was torn between throwing his arms around this stranger — his rescuer — or smashing in his face for scaring the living shit out of him. Weak and still trembling, he opted for replying with an 'okay' sign.

For five weeks "Badger" had waited for the Company to extract him from East Berlin, never knowing how or exactly when it would happen because security was the driving force. Stevens had designed a way that made Lampson's rear end pucker to the extent that he knew it would take weeks before he'd ever find the seat of his sweatpants. But Grant Stevens was an expert in this type of operation, whenever the strategy called for inflicting complete, instant helplessness, facilitating this kind of snatch.

Realizing that the cold water would soon become a factor since Lampson wasn’t wearing a wetsuit, Grant worked quickly in securing the extra Draeger rig's straps around the agent’s chest. The bubbleless Draeger (a rebreathing apparatus) would make it impossible for the East Germans or Russians to track them from the surface. But the Navy SEAL was fully aware that there'd be unfriendly divers hitting the water any time — if they hadn't already.

Grant motioned for Lampson to follow him and both Americans began stroking hard, staying close to the bottom. They had nearly 500 yards of swimming ahead of them. For Grant, that wouldn’t be a problem… Lampson was another matter. And, they still had to navigate through barbed wire strung above and below the river. But this was the fastest and shortest way for them to reach the West, and Grant knew he could count on his partner waiting on the other side. He could only hope they'd be able to reach the border before any hostile welcoming committee blocked their escape.

Lampson's arms and legs ached. His bout with the flu had sapped more of his strength than he realized. His swimming ability wasn't anywhere near Grant's and Grant wasn't about to let up. The Navy SEAL's powerful legs propelled him effortlessly through the water like a barracuda pursuing its prey, almost as if he were born to it.

Now, Lampson started to panic again as Grant's black, wetsuited form began to disappear into the darkness. Then he felt the jerk of the buddy line that was attached to his shoulder strap. He kicked as hard as he could, but there wasn’t any doubt he was running out of steam. The strain on the buddy line was constant. Being dragged through the water was making him feel guilty for having to let Grant do the lion's share of the swimming. His life was completely in Grant's hands.

Totally disoriented, he had no idea where they were heading or what was in store. He only knew that it was impossible for them to surface, considering the guards were undoubtedly swarming both sides of the riverbank and overpasses, waiting for them with their firearms locked and loaded.

Lampson's breathing was heavy, making him consume too much of the precious oxygen. He wanted to scream out to Grant as he felt a growing fear tying knots in his stomach. He reminded himself to breathe slower! Slower! His natural negative buoyancy wasn't helping matters either, as his belly kept brushing against debris on the bottom. Suddenly, a heavy tree limb on the river bottom and directly in his path caught on his air hose, ripping the mouthpiece away. He pulled back, jerking the buddy line. Definitely out of his element, Lampson looked upward, knowing he wouldn't have a prayer on the surface.

Grant immediately felt the jerking on the line and swam back. Grabbing hold of Lampson's shoulder, he crammed the mouthpiece back into Lampson's mouth and motioned for him to settle down. Lampson responded with a nod just as Grant grabbed the line and immediately started stroking through the water. The agent felt like a defenseless, squirming fish being unceremoniously reeled in by an expert fisherman.

After what seemed like hours to Lampson, Grant finally stopped, got his attention, and pointed ahead of them as he quickly undid the buddy line. The extent of their visibility was barely ten feet. Lampson had to squint to make his eyes focus on a labyrinth of hazardous barbed wire strung across the river. Rusted and nearly invisible in the darkness, it completely blocked their path from the surface all the way to the riverbed. Lampson glanced down, focusing on the wire embedded into the river bottom, shaking his head in disbelief, wondering how the hell they were going to swim through the tangled mess.

Grant signaled for him to stay where he was, then pointed up to the surface at a dim glow filtering across their vision. Beams from flashlights and search lights circled in a kaleidoscope fashion. Grant knew they didn't have much time so he had to act fast. The East Germans and Russians were certainly going to send down their own divers or start throwing concussion grenades, and his bet was on divers — they wanted Lampson back in one piece — and he'd just end up being an added bonus.

He shot a quick glance down river, then swam up close to the wire, pulled a small flashlight from his belt and began signaling. Instantly, a faint light on the other side began blinking back in response. He glanced at his diving watch then immediately swam back to Lampson.

Grabbing hold of the agent's shoulder, he pulled him down, rudely shoving him face first into the muddy bottom. Lampson went as limp as a rag doll, nearly losing the mouthpiece. He didn't have a clue what the hell was going on. And from what had happened so far, he really didn't want to know.

Grant took one last, quick look to make sure they still weren't being followed. Then, he shielded Lampson's body with his own, as his mind thought, Come on, Joe! Hit it!

A muffled crack carried across the riverbed. Silt and debris shot over them in what seemed like slow motion. Lampson's eyes went to the size of saucers, staring into nothing but mud. His mind screamed, None of this shit was in my contract!

The two Americans were tossed about slightly by the shock waves in the churned up water. Bits and pieces of rotted leaves and debris stuck in the band of Lampson's face mask. Not even hesitating long enough for the water to clear, Grant grabbed Lampson by the arm and hauled him up toward the mangled section of barbed wire.

A familiar sound of escaping bubbles from scuba rigs caught Grant’s attention. As he had feared, coming straight at them were two divers. No second guesses here — they were, without a doubt, very unfriendly divers, intent on preventing this attempted escape. Russkie divers! Grant yanked a knife from his leg strap. The knife, a Navy MK1, had seen him through many CQB's (close quarter battles). Keeping his body between Lampson and the Russians, he gave the agent a shove forward toward a hole in the barbed wire conveniently made by Joe Adler with a wrap of det cord. The core of detonating cord, about the size of pencil lead, is a very high explosive called PETN. Wrapped around the explosive are layers of cotton fabric, rayon, and asphalt with a dark green, polyethylene cover. Det cord, only one quarter inch in diameter, burns at a rate of nearly twenty-six thousand feet per second.

Pointing rapidly toward the opening, Grant gestured for Lampson to swim through and gave him one last, forceful shove before turning around, preparing to meet the approaching divers head-on.

Lampson's sleeve caught on the jagged barbed wire, but this time he wouldn't let anything stop him. There wasn't anything he could do to help this Navy diver sent to rescue him. It was imperative that he get himself to the West. He knew his rescuer was aware of that, too.

A wetsuited figure, appearing out of the darkness, swam up to Lampson, grabbed him and pulled him the few remaining feet through the obtrusive wire to safety and freedom.

Joe Adler, Grant's long-time friend, gave Lampson the okay sign, checking to see if he was all right, then gestured for him to surface and swim toward the distant riverbank.

Once Lampson was out of sight, Adler ripped his diving knife from his ankle scabbard then turned around and swam through the opening in the barbed wire and into Communist territory. The hell with orders! Adler wasn't one to normally sit back and let Grant have all the fun… and he wasn't about to start now.

Rain started falling steadily, the large droplets sounding like rubber bands snapping against paper as they bounced off fallen leaves. The temperature continued slipping, already closing in on thirty-seven degrees.

The American Embassy's attaché, Pete Bradley, tried desperately to keep Lampson shielded with an umbrella after draping a wool blanket across his shoulders. Water dripped from the brim of Bradley's hounds tooth hat as he held the black umbrella high above, stretching to cover the 6'3" Lampson. "Mr. Lampson, you sure you wouldn't want to wait in the car?" Lampson didn't answer. He was too busy concentrating on the water, waiting for the two divers. "Sir, there's nothing you can do for… "

"Shut the hell up! Just leave me alone. If you can't handle the weather, maybe you'd better go wait in the damn car!"

"Sure… whatever you say. Let me know if you want anything." Somewhat befuddled by the outburst, Bradley backed away. He tramped across the grass, mumbling, “Screw you.”

Several moments passed. Lampson continued staring into the Spree River, then diverted his gaze toward East Berlin. Military jeeps and canvas covered trucks were strung out along the roadway. German shepherd guard dogs, caught up in the frenzy, strained against their leashes, dragging their handlers. Chills ran up and down his spine as he listened to the fierce barking of the agitated animals. Bright searchlights, moving in criss-crossing patterns, were aimed on the river. An occasional whistle blared, voices echoed, orders shouted. But the main action wasn't happening along the shoreline. A battle for life or death was taking place underwater.

Lampson shook his head, amazed he was on friendly soil again, but a nagging feeling in his stomach wouldn't quit. As he waited, his thoughts strayed to a flashback of years and circumstances that brought him to this very moment.

He spent the first twelve years of his life as an Army brat. In 1951 his father was assigned to the Naval Communications Station at Bremerhaven, Germany, as the Army Security Company's liaison officer. Instead of living in base housing, Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Lampson opted to live in town, thereby exposing his eight-year old son to the culture and language of his ancestors. As is usually the case with children, Rick picked up the language quickly, speaking it almost fluently within a matter of months. For most of the local people it was easy to forget the blond, blue eyed child was an American.

Colonel Lampson retired after his tour with the Naval Security Group. Upon returning to the United States, the family settled in the western part of Virginia in the Shenandoah Valley. The Colonel humored himself as a freelance consultant with the National Security Agency.

Family summers were spent at Cave Mountain Lake. Those were special days and nights for Rick. He would listen to his father's fictional tales of intrigue and secret goings-on. With every new story, Rick swore eternal silence if his father would just tell him of his exploits behind the high electric fences and vaulted rooms.

The Colonel would spin tales for Rick that were composed of partial facts, but for the most part were large doses of imagination. Rick would hang on every word and later, as he lay in bed, he would daydream about his father's exploits and place himself into the glamorous spy adventures. He knew what his destiny would be even at his young age. He would be his father's son.

Immediately after graduating college with a masters' degree in biochemistry, Lampson was recruited by the CIA. Besides his expertise in biochemistry, he was an expert chess player, able to remember sixty moves.

The Company was branching out in all directions during those years. They needed bright, young people to fill hundreds of real and imagined vacancies with the Langley, Virginia, field office and headquarters in Washington, D.C.

During the early days of his employment, Rick worked in the secret labs hidden away in the hills surrounding Camp A.P. Hill and Camp Perry in Virginia. Poisons, antidotes and a cornucopia of other half-baked ideas were his daily fare. The Cold War paranoia poured millions of dollars into any project the 'Alphabet Soup' groups could dream up.

During 1974, which proved to be a banner year for Rick and his employer, reliable intelligence sources started coming out of East Germany that gave strong evidence the Germans were experimenting with new types of drugs and biological warfare. In particular, a list of lethal virus strains and other equally potent extracts of Monkey Virus "B", anthrax, and nerve agents were all known to be a part of their experiments. Agents had penetrated the production sites with amazing results. Recruiting East German spies became an easy task. Being aware of the treachery of the ruling class within their own country, East Germans were ready to assist the other side at the drop of a hat. Knowing where and whom to recruit kept the U.S. intelligence community out of hot water.

Rick's personal background could not have been any more perfect. He found himself a part of a plan to steal — or at least analyze — the materials the Company was concerned about. He had the credentials and soon found himself on his way to Camp Perry, known as ‘The Farm’ to the CIA, and the field agents' training course. He'd join other students, known as "career trainees" for the eighteen-week course.

Lampson's cover was identified as a NOC, non-official cover, meaning he wouldn't have the benefit of diplomatic immunity should he be discovered. He was supplied with precise, fake identity papers, and items such as receipts and ticket stubs, known as pocket litter. Then, during the winter of 1975, Lampson, carrying only one suitcase, was smuggled into East Germany, thereby officially becoming Professor Eric Brennar.

Instantly refocusing his thoughts, Lampson resumed his search up and down the embankment, trying to penetrate the night's blackness. Shaking uncontrollably, he pulled the wet, thin woolen blanket tighter around him, for all the good it was doing. He waited anxiously by the river's edge, ignoring the water lapping against his soggy sneakers. His body was chilled through to the bone. He trembled mostly from the cold, but a contributing factor was definitely from one helluva rough evening. Now he could only imagine what was happening beneath the surface of the river on the side of East Berlin.

Then something caught his eye and he began walking quickly along the riverbank. The sparse brown grass was slick and flattened, making him nearly lose his balance as he tried maneuvering down the slope. His eyes fixed on what appeared to be two black, unearthly objects rising languidly from the depths. Two human forms emerged, making their way up the embankment.

Lampson rushed up to both divers, first grabbing Grant’s hand and then Adler's, shaking them vigorously. A shit-eating grin covered his face and he finally let out a relieved laugh. "Christ, I don't know who the hell you two are, but all I can say is thanks! I owe you big time!"

Grant and Adler pulled off their face masks, both of them grinning. Grant spoke up first. "We're Navy, Mr. Lampson. I'm Grant Stevens, and this is Joe Adler. Glad we could help."

"You're SEALs, right?" Lampson nodded his head, as if answering his own question.

"Something like that, sir," Grant responded.

Lampson seemed to be on a high now. "Damn! That was great! Just great! But I've gotta tell you, Grant, you sure as hell have a knack for scaring the living shit out of somebody!"

"Sorry, sir, but it was nec… "

"No, no. No need to apologize, believe me. You got me out like you were supposed to, didn't you? And in one piece!"

"That's why we get paid the big bucks," Adler replied, as he snapped his swim fins into his thigh straps. He looked sideways at Grant who had pulled off his wetsuit hood. "You okay, Skipper?" he asked, seeing a wince cross Grant's face.

"Not a problem, Joe." A knife wielded by one of the Russian’s had sliced through his wetsuit, leaving a two-inch gash in his left forearm, just above his wrist. Blood trickled down the back of his hand.

Joe voiced his concern. "Hey, Skipper, we need to get you to sickbay. That water was pretty nasty."

"Yeah, might need a stitch or two. You want to sew me up?"

"No sweat. I brought a medical kit. It's in the trunk of the limo. I've got some saline but don't have enough sterile dressing."

"Maybe a couple of butterflies and some antiseptic will hold me till we can get back to the Embassy."

Adler nodded. "Roger that, sir."

Grant smoothed back some wet strands of brown hair from his forehead, then with face mask and swim fins in tow, he started up the knoll toward the black limo. "You can do it while we're underway. We've gotta get our special delivery package to the Embassy." He turned to Lampson and winked. "Expect Matt Wharton's real anxious to talk to you."

Lampson followed close behind, hardly hearing Grant, as he thought, Christ! What a night! What a night!

He shot a glance over his shoulder, trying to take a quick count of the Eastern Block guards who continued to stare at him under the perimeter lights above the barbed wire.

Grant and Adler tossed their gear into the trunk, then Adler grabbed the medical kit. Grant smiled as he turned to his good friend. "Are you going to make it your mission in life to keep pulling my 'bacon' out of the fire?"

"Why hell, Captain, I don't have any idea what you're talking about."

As Grant was getting into the car, he looked back at the river and remembered his SEAL training days when Chief Mallory said often, "It's your job to make sure the other poor bastards die for their country." Another mission accomplished! he smiled to himself.