Washington Dulles International Airport

Washington, DC

Main Terminal

February 3rd, 2018

1215R

Jawa POV

They say that those who don't plan on being in the military for life need to learn skills that will be applicable in the civilian world. Granted, while there aren't many skills taught in the SEAL Teams that directly transfer to the private sector, there is one thing that is consistent in all careers in all the branches:

Hurry up and wait.

Let me give you an example of how this works: the commanding officer wants to address the men at 0700, telling his command master chief such. The CMC, wanting to keep the CO happy, informs the troop (AKA "task unit") chiefs to have the men assembled at 0630. The troop chiefs, wanting to avoid the wrath of the CMC, tell the platoon chiefs to muster at 0600. And the platoon chiefs, wanting to remain in the leadership's good books, have everyone assemble at 0530. Ultimately, the poor dudes at the bottom of the food chain end up arriving 90 minutes before they actually need to, wasting precious time—all because of leadership effectively playing kiss-up.

Does it sound stupid to you? Well, guess what? It actually happened to me not long after I got to SEAL Team 3. We froze our asses off one chilly morning in Coronado, waiting one-and-a-half hours for a five-minute speech from the CO—AND IT WASN'T EVEN THAT IMPORTANT! Yes, to be early is on time and to be on time is late, but that was just ridiculous to no end!

In the words of my platoon leading petty officer, "even the SEALs aren't immune to bureaucratic bullshit."

And now, I was waiting on my best buddy's flight to arrive. We both had a week's reprieve before returning to our commands, so we decided to surprise our old friends at the Academy. We hadn't been able to contact them in around a year, due to my training and workup and Chip's deployments. Yes, deployments, with a fricking "s," but I'll get to that later.

"Gah-dayum, hoss! Yer still a short surfer boy!" a baritone voice exclaimed in one of the deepest Southern accents I'd ever heard. Whirling around, my eyes beheld the hulking form of Chip—who'd somehow gotten even bigger since the last time we met. Grinning, my hand clasped his in a firm handshake before we pulled each other into a hug.

"God almighty, Chip, what the hell have they been feeding you?!" I asked, looking up at my six-foot-four Marine friend. Not only had he gotten taller, he'd somehow gotten even more muscular—not quite to bodybuilder standards, mind you, but he was definitely one of the most muscular men I'd ever met from a combat arms unit (they're generally on the skinnier side, believe it or not). "Steroid-filled crayons?"

"Aw, shaddap!" he laughed, giving me a good-natured shove (that still nearly knocked me on my ass). "Yer writin' classes goin' alright, frogman? Y' takin' one o' them movie programs too?"

"Har-de-har-har, leatherneck," I snorted as we grabbed our backpacks and began walking towards the car rental lot. The staff were quite surprised to see a giant redneck and a short surfer—minus the crazy hair, because regs—but it didn't hinder us whatsoever as we grabbed our rental pickup truck (Chip's idea, of course) and began the drive to the Academy.

"Now, tell me something... you said over the phone that you got deployed twice in a row due to a paperwork error. Care to explain?" I asked as we pulled out of the airport, driving through the wintery air with snow covering everything but the road.

"Yeah, 'bout that... so y'know how my first station was over in Pendleton with 1/4 (pronounced "One-Four"; 1st Battalion, 4th Marines)?"

"Uh-huh?"

"So we went to Syria—think there was a news report 'bout it—providin' arty for SDF to kick ISIS outta Raqqa," he explained.

"Think I remember that... those Islamic State bastards got the shit kicked outta them thanks to the Marines. But wasn't it the artillery battery supporting Syrian Democratic Forces, not the whole battalion?"

"Non-arty BLT (battalion landing team) assets were still on the deck, providin' security and whatnot. Plus, we kinda went in and did a lil' grunt work ourselves... though that's strictly off the record, and it was usually as a QRF (quick reaction force). Can't say much, though me n' the boys did take out some ISIS armor. Now that explosion was a big 'un."

"Why am I not surprised in the slightest? So where does the second deployment come into play? And why did you fly in from North Carolina?"

"I got reassigned to 1/8."

"Meaning...?"

"1/8's part o' 2nd Marine Division. 2nd MARDIV's in Lejeune."

"Wha—" I gasped, unable to respond as my brain short-circuited trying to process the information: somehow, someway, he'd ended up in the II Marine Expeditionary Force after a measly one-and-a-half years with I MEF. "Waitwaitwait, WHAT?!"

"I got PCS'd (permanent change of station) by accident."

"'PCS'd by accident...' in the middle of your deployment?"

"At the end of it," he sighed, sounding exasperated. "Couldn't even return home with my battalion 'cause First Sarn't called me, told me to get my tail on a bird an' go to Helmand—Cap'n arranged my departure. Orders were to assist the Marines n' sailors there. The OIC (officer-in-charge) figured it was one of them 'clerical errors.' But unfortunately, S-1 already stamped my paperwork and I'm officially in 1/8 now. Soon as I got back, First Sarn't—the new one—gave me time off to get my stuff from Pendleton and fly it to Lejeune. Then, we got a week off... and I ended up here."

"... damn," I mumbled, unsure of how to reply to that. I'd heard of paperwork screwups before, but to transfer a Marine between two battalions and two deployments like that? That's even worse than the two-hour wait for a five-minute speech!

"Don't worry 'bout it. My old platoon mates helped me with movin' and the new ones ain't half bad. Just... another day in the life o' Chip Jerry Schacter, I suppose."

"Well, maybe Zoe's package cheered you up some."

"Do not remind me o' that."

You see, we still kept in touch with our old friends at the Academy—though granted, we hadn't heard from them in around a year, due to Chip's deployments and my training over in Hawaii (my task unit's been prepping for counter-narcotics operations)—having received mail from Zoe, Ben, Mike, and even Nate alongside that from our families. But one package that stood out was Zoe's copies of Intelligence Institution: Oceanic Ops, signed by Seymour Gray (along with the obligatory "thank you for your service" and "hope you come home safe" messages), alongside letters that provided details to look out for that were in the story because of her.

Despite her small stature (five feet tall, if my memory is correct), she's a gigantic fangirl.

"Seriously, that's what I received while I was over there in the Middle East. A. FRICKIN'. BOOK. What in tarnation is up with that girl?!" Chip exclaimed dramatically.

"First of all, farmboy, she wanted you to improve your vocabulary," I teased.

"You listen here, surfer boy. I got me a good vocabulary already, okay? I've been readin' plenty and I know words that exceed fifteen letters!"

"And second of all: Zoe's a damn fangirl. She helped review Oceanic Ops, so you can't be too surprised."

"Hmph."

"Did you like it?"

"... it wasn't the worst thing I've read. Besides, ain't much else to do while waitin' around durin' deployment."

"You kept it with you on deployment?"

"Yep. 'Long with a few others Ma, Pa, n' Hank recommended."

"You're something else, buddy."

"Shaddap."

Much, much later, we'd arrived at the snow-covered institution known to the world as "St. Smithens," a perfectly normal boarding school for gifted children... yeah right. The lead guard at the gate actually recognized us—he was one of the friendlier staffers there—letting us enter the grounds and park the truck. We dismounted, making our way deeper into the campus, recalling old memories: training in the War Zone and Kill House; the mini fight club we and the boys started at Armistead; the time Erica was forced to endure several weeks of firearms handling due to a mishap at the range (that memory never fails to make me smile); even the time Mike made a particularly audacious pizza run that landed him in the middle of a gang war.

Now that was an interesting evening. Alexander would end up going out and saving his ass, inadvertently helping the police take down fifty-seven gangbangers before scolding the shit out of Mike—they still got pizza, however. Word quickly spread of the "Brezinski Pizza Bash"—a tale so crazy that it came close to matching the ludicrousness of the Mackey Pub Crawl.

Speaking of the devil, we ran right into the lucky legends along with Zoe, who collided with Chip and promptly fell on her ass into the snow.

"Ey! Watch where you're goin', ya big galoot!" she barked, her New York accent as strong as ever.

"Nice t' see you too, lil' lady," Chip replied with a smile, reaching down with his massive arm as Nate gasped in realization.

"Holy—Meathead and Brainiac!"

"Nice to see you still remember us," I snarked as Chip helped the girl up, with everyone exchanging handshakes and hugs—with Mike looking significantly less enthused than Nate and Zoe. "How you guys doing?"

"Same old, same old," Nate replied with a shrug. "Classes are rough. Final year and all that. And... well... something happened... I don't think you know about it."

"What's up?" Chip asked.

"Well... there was a situation... involving a local Islamic State terrorist cell," Zoe began, her mood visibly deflating—immediately setting off alarm bells in my head. Call it a knee-jerk reaction, but Zoe was one of the loudest and most exuberant people I'd ever met. To see her expression droop and her voice quiet... my gut told me something wasn't right.

"Those scumbags have a cell here?!"

"Yeah... sons of bitches planned on some evil shit. Bombing an elementary school, for one."

"Goddamn," I muttered as Chip's expression darkened. My best friend was a wild man, for certain, but he had a thick skin, and it took a lot to really piss him off. One method? Target children. Say what you want about him—he's crazy, somewhat bloodlust, and has a great love for all kinds of weaponry and warfare, but he's a professional. And professionals have standards. "So what happened? Attack go through?"

"Nope. FBI and Marshals stopped 'em. Ben, Erica, Alexander, Cyrus, and I were there too, masqueradin' as Bureau 'cause the Agency higher-ups wanted their own guys there too," Zoe explained. "All five terrorists were killed or captured, but..."

"But what?"

"Thirteen of our men died."

"Wha—" Chip gasped, sounding as shocked as I felt. What the hell was this? This was a pyrrhic victory at best... and how did this shit not make the news? "Thirteen feds? Criminey! An' where's Ben? Don't tell me Ripley got hisself hurt!"

"NO, YOU DUMB MOTHERFUCKER!" Mike screamed, finally breaking his silence. "HE'S DEAD! KILLED IN ACTION! BEATEN AND SHOT BY A FUCKING JIHADIST!"

"Waitwaitwait, hold up!" I exclaimed, caught off-guard by his sudden outburst, as well as the few tears that leaked from his eyes. He sounded angry, hurt, frustrated—a far cry from his generally genial attitude. "Wha—"

"BEN'S FUCKING DEAD, JACKASS! WE COULDN'T DO SHIT! AND WHERE THE FUCK WERE YOU, RUNNING AROUND THE DESERT BLOWING UP RAGS AND SANDALS?!"

Before we could try and process the information, Mike had stormed off. Zoe shot us an apologetic glance before quickly following in an attempt to calm him down. As for Nate, he stood before us awkwardly, a sad expression on his face.

"Nate... what was that?" I asked slowly, praying that this was some sort of misunderstanding—though my logical side knew there was damn near no way.

"Ben's gone," he murmured. "Killed on the operation Zoe was talking about, back on... December 19th, I think. Listen, Mike didn't mean...well, he's still worked up about it. It's still fresh in his head. Thought he woulda gotten it outta his system by now, but... it's messed him up bad. He doesn't laugh, he doesn't play, rarely eats, rarely talks... he's losing it, man. And truth be told, I've got no idea how to help."

The words of my younger friends tumbled through my mind as I processed the information. Ben—the legendary officer-in-training, known for his shitty luck and Scooby-Doo-esque thinking—was gone. He'd survived so much crap throughout his time at the Academy—assassins, bombs, missiles—only to die at the hands of what sounded like a low to mid-level terrorist. And he wasn't even old enough to drink.

"HE'S DEAD!"

"KILLED IN ACTION!"

"BEATEN AND SHOT BY A FUCKING JIHADIST!"

"That ain't right," Chip muttered, shaking his head. "That ain't right."

"It's the truth," Nate replied sadly. Breaking free of my shock, I decided that we needed to see a certain someone to figure out the matter.

"Nate, go ahead and get to class, and keep an eye on Mike, would you?" I asked, motioning for him to get going. "We're gonna go see someone."

Nodding mutely, the boy plodded off while Chip looked at me, confusion all over his face.

"C'mon, let's go find Alexander."

A trip to the Nathan Hale Administration Building later, we found Alexander's office, passing only a few other familiar faces—none of whom seemed particularly enthused to see us. After glancing at each other I knocked, turning the doorknob upon hearing a tired-sounding "come in."

We entered, finding our old chaperone looking as exhausted as he sounded—messy hair, no tie or jacket, partially unbuttoned shirt, bloodshot eyes with dark circles around them—with a strong aura of coffee surrounding him as he looked up at us, eyes barely open. And yet, after taking a moment to register us entering and closing the door behind us, he stood and gave us a small smile, stepping around his desk.

"Chip and Jawa! As I live and breathe," he said as he shook our hands. "Damn, son, what the hell have the Marines been feeding you?"

"Is it true, sir?" Chip asked, getting right to the point. "Ripley's gone."

What little smile was there faded as Alexander sighed, giving us a small nod.

"Yes. KIA around six weeks ago. We were raiding an Islamic State cell. Bastards had several targets stacked up: school, synagogue, church, even a mosque—lumped 'em in with us 'infidels.' We got the bad guys, but they killed a twelve-man FBI SWAT team... Ben was attached as their terp, ended up captured then executed."

"Well, what about—"

"Before you ask, I saw the body. This isn't like with Hallal, where you can fake a forensics report. It's Ben. He's gone... unfortunately," Alexander sighed, running a hand through his graying hair. "I'm sorry, boys. I know he was your friend. But... there's nothing left to do."

"I... I just can't believe it," I muttered with a shake of my head. "It doesn't feel right, y'know?"

"Like surviving war-torn Iraq or Afghanistan, just to get killed in a car accident stateside? Of course it doesn't feel right, Jawa. As you know—either through experience or your fathers—shit happens. It's... it's just how things go sometimes."

"I know, just—"

"Yeah, I get it," he interrupted somberly as he walked back to his chair, motioning for us to sit.

I don't think I'd ever seen Alexander this tired or melancholy before. Sure, he was all sorts of messed up back during the West Virginian mine op, along with the disastrous Operation Fox Hunt, but this was a whole new level. But something told me that it wasn't just Ben's death that he was dealing with.

"Alexander? How are you doing?" I asked as neutrally as I could.

"Wish I knew," he replied sardonically as he took a sip from his coffee mug. "One kid dead, one losing his head, two more trying to help him, my wife's still on an op, my dad's around, and... and my daughter isn't talking to me."

"Huh?"

"I think the loss of Ben hit her pretty hard, but she won't admit it. After the funeral, she... well, went off back to her apartment. Called her a couple of times, nothing. Went over and visited, didn't really interact with her beyond confirming she was still there. She's still going to Langley for work, far as I can tell, but... I got a feeling there's something wrong."

I felt a sinking pit in my stomach as I suddenly remembered Christmas break in 2015—which had ended in a major falling-out between Erica and the rest of us. Because she insulted Ben's dead family and continued to play with his feelings, we'd gone from teasing their relationship to all-out threatening to make her life a living hell. We didn't, since Ben made us back off and severed romantic (and, to an extent, friendly) ties with Erica, closing the situation. Zoe had forgiven Erica after some time, but Chip, Mike, and I took a little longer, choosing to let go of our anger upon the end of the 2015-16 school year.

Discounting the last bits of the Christmas vacation and some encounters in classes, the last major interaction I'd had with Erica was when I'd literally yanked her by the ear and berated her for, well, being a terrible human being. I didn't regret it then—and I don't really regret it now—but she took those words to heart, and now that Ben was dead, there was bound to be a resurgence of some sort.

"Listen fellas, I need a favor," Alexander sighed, putting down his coffee mug before looking directly at us. "I'm going to Erica's this evening, but if you don't mind, could you swing by and check on her? I'm not askin' you to spy on her or anything, just... see how she's doing. Maybe she'll open up to you more than me. Heaven knows I've tried."

"Er... I don't think that's the best idea," I replied hesitantly, remembering our face-off years ago.

"You were friends, weren't you?"

"Emphasis on the 'were.'"

"We'll handle it," Chip affirmed. Stuck, I nodded alongside him. "You know what time she'll be home today?"

"She'll be back in her apartment by 1630. I'll write down her address for you."

"Oh, an' one more thing..."

Some time later, we found ourselves outside a very familiar cemetery—one cared for by a local church: the same cemetery where we stood in support of Ben as he buried his mother, father, sister, and brother. And now, almost fittingly, he'd been buried beside them. Taking a breath to brace myself, I adjusted my fleece cap—one of the few military-issued items I had that was actually amazing—and fell in step beside Chip as we quietly made our way through the graveyard.

I could hear the faint noises of traffic in the background as snow and a little ice crunched beneath our boots, the light breeze chilling my face. To my left, Chip lumbered along, his face blank as he stared straight ahead—pensive for him. But I was in no mood for small talk or poking fun, for I was still processing the situation at hand.

It can't be repeated enough just how stunned I was at the news of Ben's death, simply because that, despite his shitty luck, he had no ability to die, thanks to a strange combination of skill, ingenuity, and an overtime guardian angel—probably the latter more than anything else. Even as we approached the plot occupied by the Ripley family, I still had trouble processing it.

But suddenly, my train of thought was interrupted by two figures standing before the Ripleys' graves, holding hands and their backs to us. The hooded one was tall and slender, with the curves barely visible through thick winter clothing—probably a woman. The one with the fleece cap was absolutely massive, with broad shoulders and arms reminding me of bridge cables, as well as a very specific man.

Actually, he reminded me of three men I'd met personally, and one was standing beside me. So if I were to make a wild guess, it was—

"Hank?" Chip asked, making the two release each other's hand as they whirled around in surprise. The giant was none other than Hank Schacter, an absolute unit as ever. The woman, however, was a surprise. "Tina Cuevo?"

"Chip?" she exclaimed in surprise. "And... Jawa, right?"

"Uh, yeah," I replied dumbly before refocusing (long story short, I used to crush on her, but moving on!) on the situation at hand. "Hank, how's it going?"

"Hey, bud. Long time," the elder Schacter greeted, shaking my gloved hand with his significantly larger one. "Yain't doin' too bad in the Teams, I hope?"

"How did you—"

"It's kinda our job to know things."

"You're ANGLICO, not intel. And Tina... you look good."

"Thanks, Jawa," she replied with a gentle smile, a reflection of her overall caring demeanor. "It's definitely better than sitting in Vancouver all the time."

"Uh, don't mean to pry, but... you and Hank... are...?"

"That ain't particularly important, O'Shea," Hank replied in a clipped tone as Tina grasped his hand again, appearing to give it a gentle squeeze.

"Easy, Hank," Tina soothed before looking back at me. "And yeah. Before I ended up at Tinker, I was in Florida for some training and so was Hank... we got to catch up and bond during libo."

"First of all... were ya there fer the bubble?" Chip asked Hank—in reference to the USMC Combatant Diver Badge, if I was correct—with the elder Schacter nodding in reply. "Dang... and Tina, what's this about 'Tinker?' Thought you were up north in Canada."

"Well, the black mark got removed from my record, so I was given an opportunity to go a different route," she explained. "Went for the PMOO/SSO track, ended up an air battle manager in the Air Force with secondary intel officer MOS (military occupational specialty)."

Now this was a bit of a shocker. Tina had been used as a scapegoat back during Murray's betrayal, resulting in her getting shoved into an analyst job at a small CIA station in Canada—yeah, it's there—something she absolutely hated, based on what I'd heard. She wasn't a Fleming, she knew that the life of a CIA officer wasn't like the movies, but she still wanted to be closer to the frontline, wherever that was these days.

Going for the paramilitary operations officer/specialized skills officer track wouldn't be a surprise, but given the black mark on her record, that technically should've been impossible... and yet she just said that it'd been removed.

"'Air battle manager...' what are ya, C-2 (command and control) or somethin'?" Chip asked, tilting his head slightly in confusion.

"Yeah, up in the AWACS (airborne warning and control system)," she replied before turning towards the Ripleys' graves with a forlorn smile. "You know, I really have Ben to thank for that."

"Ben?"

"Yeah. Y'know, three years ago, I heard through the grapevine that the legendary Cyrus Hale had wrote me a letter of recommendation—something about payback for helping you find the Apple Junction Mine in West Virginia—and since I managed to finish my bachelor's during the time, I went for the SSO job and now... First Lieutenant Cuevo, USAF. It's challenging, but I'm a lot happier in Oklahoma than I was in Vancouver. But if what I've heard about the old man is true, I don't think it would've happened... not unless someone else asked him to. Turns out... it was Ben."

I couldn't help but crack a grin. Ben was a nice guy overall—originally the kind to just haplessly bend, but eventually gaining the strength to take control of his own life—and something like this was in his character. He was ultimately a team player, evidenced in part by the quote on his gravestone:

"I DON'T KNOW, BUT I CAN FIND OUT."

If there was one thing I admired about Ben, it was his humility and willingness to admit his shortcomings from the get-go. Discounting the fact that he was bait for SPYDER, he was effectively a checkbox-filler, possessing nothing of real value for the Agency. Was he fluent in more than one language? Yes, but the chances of encountering French-communicating terrorists are slim to none, and Spanish speakers are a dime a dozen thanks to it being one of—if not the—most taught foreign languages in the USA. And as impressive as his math was, it wasn't anything that couldn't be accomplished by a calculator.

But he had heart and grit, so he made time to train and learn. With a lot of failures along the way, he matured into a bright, promising officer-in-training, and would probably be a valuable asset to the Directorate of Operations—the section that people think of when they think "CIA"—and could likely do reasonably well in any of its career paths.

But now...

"Yeah," Hank sighed, his impassive face paired with a sad tone that almost sounded mournful. "Had 'imself a mouth. Good feller, though. Gutsy. Didn't deserve this."

"No way in hell," I agreed as the four of us looked on. It astounded me just how many people Ben had impacted in his brief life, whether directly or indirectly. Because of him, Zoe found friendship, Mike discovered courage, Nate brought out the best version of himself, Chip had found God again, Tina escaped her hole of despair, and Hank had found Tina—who, in all honesty, is not only nicer than Claire Hutchins, but way, way prettier.

I also bettered myself thanks to Ben's influence: I had somewhat of an ego problem in the past, doing things like putting on a zen warrior facade in physical training (even when I was dying on the inside), providing ridiculously complicated explanations when a simpler one would do, and the list goes on. Out of a sheer desire to look the best, I forgot to check my own shortcomings that prevented me from being the best. Inspired by Ben's own humility, I began my own self-reflection and accepted my flaws, figuring out where I needed to improve and acknowledging that—in the words of Qui-Gon Jinn—"there is always a bigger fish."

Even Erica matured beyond her—in hindsight—jackassed "Ice Bitch" facade, understanding two things thanks to Ben: first, that making espionage your whole personality isn't a good idea; and second, that you can be a good spy without having a shitty attitude and being a bad team player. Ironically enough, I'd say he made her a better spy because of it.

Oh, shit... Erica.

But that was a situation we could only deal with when the time came. For now, the four of us stood quietly as we mourned the boy that brought us all together, his strong heart and kind soul making him one of those friends that left a lasting positive impact on your life. Bowing my head, I said a quiet prayer for Ben. All I could hope was that his soul had found peace.

He'd earned that much.

The pain remains long after the tears are gone.

Four more friends join in the mourning. Like Cyrus, Hank did not have a connection with Ben as strong as someone like Mike, Zoe, or even Alexander, but I like to think that he had some respect for him. As for Tina, I like to think that Ben—possibly with help from Alexander—got a favor from Cyrus to get Tina pulled from her awful Vancouver position as a thank-you of sorts.

But none of this is canon, obviously (Mr. Gibbs would never use such foul language). Make sure to leave whatever feedback you'd like. As always, thanks for reading.

Until next time,

- ADF-2