Somewhere in Frederick County, VA

December 24th, 2018

0545R

Cyrus POV

"... and this is confirmed?"

"We confirmed it three times over the past six days. It's him."

"You're telling me that he's alive and being held by the Islamic State as a prisoner of war."

"Yes, Dad. And no, we don't have any sort of visual PID. We're just going on SIGINT."

Alex had called me to meet him in an unnamed forest in Northern Virginia (namely Frederick County) for a father-son hunting trip. I showed up with a 12-gauge Mossberg 870 and a hunting license, with my Colt 1911 on my hip. He had a .308 AR-10 and presumably his concealed pistol. But the "hunting trip" ruse wasn't real: since he gave no other information, it was code for him wanting to talk away from any suspicious eyes or ears. And now, we were skulking through the forest, hunting deer and talking as snow and leaves crunched beneath our boots and red light from our headlamps lit our path. After nearly 90 minutes of silence—presumably to make sure we were completely alone—Alex told me that Benjamin Ronald Ripley was somehow alive. And for the last half hour, I'd been battering him with questions to figure out what in the hell was going on.

"The sudden appearance of his middle name and mother's maiden name is odd," I admitted. "But it could be a coincidence."

"You always said there was no such thing as coincidence, Dad," Alex shot back.

"We saw Ripley's body ourselves. We visually and forensically confirmed it. It doesn't add up."

"Look, the ISIS cell wasn't some run-of-the-mill weekend terrorists. Those guys were smart: college degrees, sneaky-peeky skills, all that shit. Who knows? Maybe there's an ex-SPYDER guy among 'em somewhere."

"We already crushed those bastards, remember? 'Specially after Fox Hunt."

"Come on, Dad. It wasn't just that. There were a few other key words picked up by the task force."

"Such as?"

"'Smokescreen,' for one. Namely, 'Smokescreen has been with them long enough,' was one message. They also gave him another nickname: 'The Bane of Spiders.' That Caliph, al-Baghdadi, he's shuffling him around and having his guys switch up names. Sometimes they're using numbers too. It's all fucked up, but he keeps dropping bread crumbs: it's our boy."

Alex definitely seemed convinced that Ripley was alive and in the hands of ISIS... who would've had to get a body that looked like Ripley, faked a forensic test, and smuggled him out of the country... all the way to Syria. But as outlandish as it sounded, it wasn't impossible in the slightest. I'd done all sorts of ridiculous things during the Cold War to evade capture by the KGB. But there were still two problems: the fact that I'd actually seen Ripley's body and the fact that intelligence is always right 50% of the time.

It doesn't matter whether it's a basic intel specialist in the conventional forces, JSOC's Army of Northern Virginia (one of the many nicknames of the Intelligence Support Activity), or even the CIA: intelligence is such a tricky and treacherous field that something will always go wrong. And Alex seemed a little too hopeful for someone who'd been a gray man for over multiple decades.

"Don't get your hopes up, Alex. Maybe there's another agency in play," I suggested.

"Nobody knows as much about the CIA as a Company man, and the CIA have been the only ones taking major hits in Syria. Everything else has just been indirect," Alex replied. "I know, I didn't believe it at first, but it makes sense."

"A gut feeling, Alex."

"Yeah."

While Alex used to be a major fraud and fuckup, things had changed, especially during the Mexico op when he went rogue to rescue me and the British Special Forces operators. Hell, he'd even punched me in the face beforehand because I wasn't prioritizing Ripley's rescue. Alex had busted his ass time and time again to prove to me—and by extension, Erica and Catherine—that he wasn't a walking clusterfuck of a gray man. I'd begun to trust his gut feelings a lot more.

"Okay then," I said. "So what happens now?"

"I'm going there."

"Syria?"

"Yeah. I'm gonna bring him home."

"You're really sure about this."

"I am," Alex replied, sounding more determined than I'd ever heard before in my life. He didn't just think it was Ripley... he knew it was. And he was dead set on going over to Syria to find him.

"Okay then. Think you can rustle up a spare seat on the outbound bird?"

"You want in, Dad? This could get hectic."

"Damnation, Alex. I'm old, not dead. Besides, a loose end is a loose end," I bluntly remarked. "We gotta tie it up. Could be Ripley or not. Whatever the case, we go get the guy and get 'im out, or things are gonna get more fucked up for our boys over there."

"... sounds good."

"Have you told Erica or Catherine?"

Alex paused before shaking his head. It made sense: dropping Ripley's name in the middle of conversation would undoubtedly set off a chain reaction that I didn't want to see happen, especially if the POW wasn't him. Plus, throw Brezinski, Zibbell, O'Shea, Schacter—and hell, even Mackey and Cuevo—into the mix, and things could get even worse. We didn't need to be spreading information we couldn't verify.

"Good. Keep it that way. If Ripley's alive, we'll bring 'em all together at the same time," I decided. "'Til then, keep your trap shut, son."

"Roger that," Alex whispered as he knelt, peering through his AR-10's night vision scope. "Whoa, hello there. Dad, I got a buck: four hundred yards out. Hasn't seen or heard us yet. Wanna bag it?"

"Hold on," I muttered as I knelt beside him, pulling out my spotting scope and searching until I found the buck in question, somewhere around 375 yards away. "Oh yeah, he's a big 'un. Closer to three-seven-five than four hundred. And it's the first damn thing we've seen in two hours that wasn't a smaller critter."

"The limit's one, right?"

"One buck... yeah, I think so."

"Whaddaya think, Dad? Venison for Christmas dinner?"

"Venison's good... 'specially since Erica's shippin' out to OCS in January. And she likes venison."

In the limited conversations we'd had with her psychiatrist and psychologist—which were few and far in between, thanks to HIPAA and all that shit—Erica seemed to be cleansed up in the head. At least she didn't feel like bleeding herself dry anymore after months of mental fixing. And even better, since she barely took any meds, she wasn't addicted to any of that shit... so that was good.

There's already so many damn drugs to worry about without throwin' pharmaceuticals into the mix, I thought to myself, annoyed at the state of society. But no point in bitchin' about that: Erica's better, and that's what matters.

"When do we head out to Syria?" I asked.

"Uh, you wanna do it before or after Erica gets her commission?" Alex asked.

"After. We can pin her bars and see her off. It'll be good for her. And she can at least communicate with us a little bit."

"Well, she starts Officer Candidate School in January, it's twelve weeks... she'll finish in April. We'll head out then. In the meantime, I'll keep talking to the task force guys and try to figure shit out and get more info. We'll have to figure out how to get you assigned there to get you in the SCIF. You've got plenty of intel on Ben too."

"I'll handle that part. I'll make sure Special Activities wants an inside man in the task force... TF Brown Fox, right?"

"That's the one."

"Fine. Now we just execute the game plan. Better hit that buck before he moves."

"Shit, this might just be a good Christmas after all," Alex said with a grin as he adjusted his scope to hit the buck, which still was hanging around in the exact same spot. "Father-son hunt, incoming boys' trip to Syria, Cath's gonna make us some fine fucking venison, and Erica's better than ever. We're good, Dad. We're good."

"Alex, send the damn round before the buck moves, okay?" I grumbled as I peered through my scope, making my son chuckle as he lined up the shot and fired, sending a single round of .308 into the buck and killing him instantly: a clean, humane, and professional kill. "Hit. Buck down."

"Alrighty. Let's bag 'im, tag 'im, and write 'im up. Hey, when we get home, we can treat the girls to breakfast."

"We better pick up some sausage and bacon on the way, 'cause you're out of it," I remarked as we turned on our white lights and began walking towards the carcass.

"How the hell? There was half a package in the fridge yesterday!" Alex exclaimed.

"Yesterday, yes. After Catherine n' Erica crashed for the night, I cooked some grub before heading out. You also need eggs."

"... dammit, Dad."

"Hell, I'll pay for 'em if you're gonna make that much of a fuss, Alex."

"I ain't fussin', Dad. I'm just amazed that you managed to eat half a package of sausage and four eggs in one sitting."

"A man's gotta eat."

"Let's just field-dress this buck and get the hell back home before I lose my mind."

"Sure, son. Sure."

Sorry for the short chapter. I'll try to have another chapter up as soon as I can. Don't forget to comment your thoughts and feedback.

See you in the next one,

- ADF-2