The Warfighter, the Storm, and the Moon

Chapter 35: Halloween

'Halloween'

31-Oct-2030, 1700R

SO1 Michael "Vader" Sinclair, US Navy

DEVGRU

Virginia Beach, Virginia, USA

"Doc, any of this look familiar to you?" Specs asked as we—four members of Blackbeard's Delta Team (the troop's recce element)—walked through the local children's hospital.

"You... you do realize I used to be an MRI tech, right?" Doc asked, incredulous. "And I was an FMF corpsman... and I've been doing medical stuff throughout the entirety of my career?"

"Yeah, no duh. I was being sarcastic. Former RT here, remember?"

"Well, congratulations for being complete and utter nerds," Seuss deadpanned.

"Oh shaddap, Seuss. You aren't one to talk, considering you probably got all of the real Seuss's books memorized... and you know everything about alligators, but that just might be the Florida Man talking."

"Well, you got the glasses to match your nerdiness, Specs."

"Well," Doc interrupted. "No matter how nerdy we may accuse each other of being, nobody tops ol' Vader over here."

"Amen!" all three men exclaimed, with Seuss slapping me on the back to emphasize it.

"Well, guess it comes with bein' a card-carrying member of the 501st," I replied with a shrug, gesturing towards our outfits: Specs was a senior lieutenant of the Imperial Navy, Doc and Seuss were scout troopers bearing DLT-19Xs, and I—of course—was Darth Vader himself.

You see, my wife is an RN at the children's hospital. She often helps to organize holidays to bring cheer to the young patients—especially the seriously ill—often involving costuming enthusiasts like myself. She often ropes in teammates from the rest of the troop, with them getting involved at one point or another due to benevolence, boredom, or brownies.

You heard me right: my lovely Luna convinces some of the deadliest operators I've ever met to partake in costuming cheer... with her troop-famous four layer brownies. I honestly wouldn't be surprised at this point if the entirety of the squadron—or hell, the Command—somehow knew about them.

And speaking of the devil, turning around the corner were the two men who somehow loved Luna's brownies more than me and my kids: SOCS "Boozer" and SOC "Mack," otherwise known as "Delta 1" and "Delta 2." An expert in all things alcohol, Boozer certainly seemed out of place in a children's hospital. But while he could drink even the massive Snake under the table and probably had a sober BAC of 0.05%, the senior chief had a kind heart—with him willing to dress up like an Imperial commando to brighten some sick kids' day.

As for quiet, gruff Mack, he was a trucker before joining the Navy. The salt-and-pepper bearded chief was twelve pounds of patience in a five-pound sack, almost to Carlos Hathcock standards. He was also one of the best snipers I'd ever met—not just as a shooter, but a surveyor and scout—once beating CAG, SAS, SASR, and JTF-2 snipers in a friendly competition during a SOF exchange program. He always insisted that he came for Luna's brownies, but my fellow Star Wars fan couldn't hide that he loved showing off his Imperial shadow trooper armor, much to the kids' enjoyment.

I'm honestly a little concerned that they're so enchanted by the bad guys.

To be fair, the Imperials—for the most part—look a helluva lot cooler than the Rebels.

"Lord Vader!" Mack said in a garbled voice, snapping to attention with his E-11.

"Status," I ordered in the best impression of James Earl Jones I could manage—with some assistance from a voice modulator in my helmet.