Kilo-61 (Damned of the 2/19th Book 19)- Ongoing

Army Guys with Army Problems...

Fairchild Joint Service Base
12 Miles SW of Spokane
Eastern Washington
United States of America
17 Feb, 2002
2200 Hours

The night was chilly, Heather and me in fleece lined denim jackets, Kincaid wearing his uniform. The C-131 had set down about twenty minutes before and I wondered what was taking so long. I'd watched two other planes land, one an unmarked Lear jet, the other a C-130. There was a C-5 off to the side, waiting, the engines hot, and I knew it was loaded full of Special Forces moved under cover from Fort Lewis.

Afghanistan had refused to turn over bin Laden, was still a stronghold of the Taliban's butt-buddies Al-Queda, thinking that they'd beat that rusting shit-heap the Soviet Union and it made them a match for us. Back in the day we might have believed it. Afghanistan was harsh terrain, limited water and cover, full of dope growing goat fuckers with a head full of religious bullshit, and they probably figured they could hold us off.

I knew that they'd get their shit pushed in like a cherry in a goddamn cellblock.

We didn't use World War Two tactics or fucking Korean War era munitions and equipment any more, we weren't the fucking Soviets, and we weren't going there for anything less than to kick the shit out of whoever dropped the towers in New York.

Fairchild made an excelled launching point for long flight cargo hauling. On paperwork it was a largely decommissioned base, but it was 18th Air Force, specifically the 92nd Air Refueling Wing, which made it logical for plenty of aircraft take-offs.

Goddamn, how long was it going to take for Dee to quit fucking around in the terminal?

My old paranoia had kicked in, making me fairly unsurprised when Donaldson finally emerged from the terminal building followed by over a dozen other people. Donaldson was in his Class-A's, along with one other person I didn't recognize, the rest were all in DCU's.

Donaldson stepped it out so he was a little in front of everyone, stopping in front of me.

"You don't think I'm saluting your stupid ass, do you?" I asked him.

Donaldson had changed a lot in the last eight years. His face was leaner, all the baby fat burnt off to leave him almost skull-faced, his nose like an axe-blade. he'd put on a lot of muscle, a lot more than he had been packing during Kilo-29, and he filled out the Class-A uniform like a recruiting poster. Blonde, green eyes, chiseled jaw.

He was also wearing Major rank.

"No, Sergeant," He grinned.

"I'm a civilian now," I reminded him.

He shook his head, "Man like you? No, Sergeant, you'll never be a civvy scumbag."

"I'm a civilian," I reminded him.

Heather snorted from behind me. Dee just glanced behind me, where the Gypsy Wagon was sitting, and raised one eyebrow. Fuck, did they teach that look in Officer's Candidate School?

"What's with the retards?" I asked, nodding at the group hanging back. I could ID two NCO's, an E-5 and an E-6, there was a 1st Liuetenant, as well as a Lieutenant Colonel in the group, rounded out neatly with ten enlisted of varying ranks. Only the LTC was in Class-A's, and I noticed he had a thin rack of medals compared to Dee, as well as having a bare right shoulder.

I judged him pretty much instantly.

"Civvy side of the Pentagon wants us kept track of," was all he said.

I nodded again as the LTCcame forward. He had Carter on his nametag, and I knew, in my gut, that this guy was going to make himself a big enough pain the ass that I'd have to remember his goddamn name. Like a dog that wouldn't stop shitting on the floor.