Erica in the Molehole

[Poohbah]

This story takes place during Eric's Mason's visit to Sheppard AFB.

12 February 1988
Sheppard Air Force Base
Wichita Falls, TX

After cleaning up, having lunch, and watching the 335th take off on a mission, Erica rode with Chief Ross over to a half-buried facility. Ross said, “Ms. Mason, this used to be the alert facility for B-52 crews--they would bunk here for a week, ready to race to their planes and launch if the alert klaxon sounded. Now, the Joint Special Operations Command uses it as a forward command post for teams that fly in and out of here.”

Two men and tallest woman Erica had ever met were waiting for her. All three wore woodland camouflage; the woman wore brown oak leaves, one man wore what Erica recognized as Command Sergeant Major chevrons on his collar, and the other wore Air Force chevrons with a star at the center on his sleeves. Both of the men looked extremely fit and alert, with jump wings and diver's helmets on their chests; but there was a softness that Erica recognized came from fatherhood.

The woman was pretty, with brown hair done up in a regulation bun, and her facial expression was kind.

"Ms. Mason, I'm Major Kathy Barzanian. This is Command Sergeant Major Cuddahy, and this is Senior Master Sergeant Jenkins. We'd like to discuss your experiences in the resistance and on escape and evasion to see if there's anything else we can learn, if that's OK with you."

Mason said, "Certainly, Major."

Cuddahy led them in, and the door shut behind them. “We call this a mantrap. Only one set of doors can be open at a time.” He picked up the phone and said, “Major Barzanian, myself, Senior Master Sergeant Jenkins, and Ms. Erica Mason.”

Barzanian stepped to the phone and looked at the camera, followed by Jenkins. Jenkins then moved to the side and gestured Mason to step to the camera. He spoke into the phone. “That’s Erica with a ‘c,’ Tomkins . . . all right, thank you.”

The door buzzed, and they went in. Red signs were lit with “NO CLASSIFIED CONVERSATIONS IN HALLWAY.” An airman handed Mason a lanyard with a yellow badge; there was a large upper-case E. “Ms. Mason, please wear this around your neck at all times. The ‘E’ indicates that you need to be escorted.”

Mason put the badge on; she’d been through the same drill at JSOC West in Arizona, and AFSOC Forward at Gallup.

They led her down to a room with a cipher lock on the door. "We call this a SCIF, which stands for Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility. It's probably the most secure room as we have here at Sheppard."

Barzanian, Cuddahy, and Jenkins all moved to the side of the table opposite the door. Mason felt her tension ease a bit. Even more than two years later, she didn't like anyone being between her and the nearest exit.

Barzanian gestured her to take a seat opposite them, and she did. Once everyone was seated, Barzanian said, "I'm on loan from the Defense Intelligence Agency for a special project." She glanced at Cuddahy, who smoothly took his cue. "Ms. Mason, I'm assigned to the US Army Combat Applications Group."

Barzanian gave Cuddahy a lopsided grin, then said, "I think we all can trust Ms. Mason's discretion, Sarn't Major."

Cuddahy laughed, then said, "Sorry, ma'am, old habits die hard." He then turned back to Erica. "Ms. Mason, the Combat Applications Group is the bland, dull name for Special Forces Operational Detachment Delta, also known as Delta Force. I'm the senior enlisted man in Charlie Squadron, which is an assault squadron--we're door-kickers." He then gestured to Jenkins. "Jeff?"

"Thanks, Mark. Ma'am, I'm assigned to the Military Airlift Command Rapid Operations Support Staff. That's a bland, dull name for Air Force Special Operations Command’s intelligence and reconnaissance unit; we place reconnaissance teams well forward of the front line to collect information. Our ideal mission is one where the enemy never had any idea we were ever there. We take only pictures, we don’t even leave footprints if we can help it."

Mason noticed that Jenkins’ explanation focused solely on reconnaissance and not at all on intelligence. Like I’m not supposed to even ask.

Barzanian said, "Our current assignment is to hunt down any remaining enemy reconnaissance or special operation stay-behind teams, along with any intelligence personnel who might be supporting them; we’ve learned of late that this general area is practically infested with them. We'd like to go over how the Soviets go about hunting for partisan units; that might give us some insight into how they go about hiding from the hunters."

* * *

The discussion was detailed, with maps of the Eastern Slope of the Rockies. Erica oriented herself vis-a-vis the major roads around Calumet, then tapped the map and said, "I think it really started when I saw a helicopter flying around here, going around hills instead of taking a straight path. There was no real reason for that. And they seemed to take too long to come back around the other side."

Cuddahy nodded, and Jenkins said, "Soviet helicopters can't quite do what we can do with Chinooks or Blackhawks. We call it the rocking-chair maneuver." He demonstrated with his hand how the helicopter would pitch up sharply and come to a near halt. "Then we fast-rope--no fancy abseiling rig, we just slide down the rope like it's a fireman's pole--and the bird then goes on its way, speeds way up so it's not that obvious that we've just landed."

Erica nodded. "All right. Now, when the guys in Calumet went looking for us, we always heard them coming from miles away. These guys were ghosts. They were quiet. Only the fact that we were worried about that helicopter sighting gave us a chance. They'd forced one of our people to swallow a tracker bug, and they were using a receiver to close in on us. We ambushed them . . . and then we learned what was happening."

Erica noticed Cuddahy and Jenkins exchanging a look. Apparently, they'd read that part of her debriefing.

Barzanian gently steered the conversation to how the Combloc forces might support stay-behind teams.

Mason thought for a moment, then said, "Maybe they use captured helicopters. I mean, a rancher sees a Soviet helicopter, he's going to call it in. But an American one?"

Barzanian got a distant look in her eyes.

Jenkins asked, "How do they get it past AWACS?"

Erica's puzzled expression got Barzanian's attention. "It's a 707 with a radar and a battle staff--it's basically a flying air traffic control center. We use it to control the air war, direct fighters to intercept attacking planes, make sure friendly aircraft don’t crash into or accidentally shoot each other, that kind of thing. It should pick up helicopters crossing the fence, though."

Mason thought back to one of the Wolverines' early operations, where they'd distracted the garrison and while she and Toni planted a bomb in an ammunition depot. She asked, "What if they slip across when there's a big air battle on? I mean, if everyone's busy with a bunch of MiGs, would they even notice one helicopter slipping across the line and back?"

The three people on the other side of the table exchanged a look, and Barzanian scribbled a note. "Got that for action, we're going to review the engagement tapes. Thanks, Erica. Sometimes, we need an outsider's eye."

* * *

They'd picked up a few more ideas and things to check on.

Erica asked, "Sergeant Major . . . what could we have done differently?"

Cuddahy was quiet for a moment, then said, "About the only way more of you could've gotten out is if you'd made a maximum effort to get across the front lines earlier, and just accept that some of you might not make it. Near the end, you were all exhausted, physically, mentally, and emotionally. You did the best you could, but once the Spetsnaz showed up, it was going to be awful."

Erica nodded. Cuddahy, she decided, was both a complete professional and a very compassionate man.

Jenkins nodded. "He's right. You guys went above and beyond any reasonable call of duty."

Barzanian said, "I'm not qualified to have an opinion on that. My war was . . . different." She glanced at both men; they took their cue and left.

"I do have one question: has anyone approached you with crazy ideas of using you as bait to catch stay behinds?"

Mason blinked twice, then said, "Uh, no."

"Good. That happened about a month ago. Of course, the person they were dangling was a special operator, and she quickly changed the game from being the hunted to being the hunter. Bagged a few bad guys. Also had a lot of gunplay and some explosions, too, because that dangle was a stupid, half-baked plan, and one of the players was actually working with one of the bad guys. We ended up with a company-sized firefight to stop a bank heist. The Marines, thank God, believe every Marine is a rifleman first."

Mason goggled. “Wow.”

“So, I thought I’d make sure that nobody was doing anything as stupid as that. What did you think of the launch?”

“I never thought about how much work it takes to get an airplane into the air.”

Barzanian chuckled. “It’s definitely not like my Dad starting his pickup to go to work at Fresno Feed & Seed.”

Erica laughed lightly, then said, “Everyone does something, I guess. It’s probably too easy for someone like me to . . . hate . . . people who aren’t spending months in freezing cold with no food. But it’s not fair to do that, either.”

Barzanian nodded. “A lot of people serving from the front all the way back to the safest spots in America have relatives who got caught behind enemy lines. It was bad for you, not denying that one bit . . . it’s not easy being them and just not knowing what happened.”

Erica tried to not think about Toni. And failed.

She ’s right; not knowing is awful, too.

Barzanian's expression . . . changed.

Like she's hurting too, Erica thought.

"Which brings me to: how are you holding up?"

"Okay, I guess. I've gotten counseling a few times."

"Doc Morgan with the base hospital is a board-certified psychiatrist, and he's available if you need to talk."

Erica nodded. "Thank you, ma’am."

"Look, I've read your report in full. Including the annex they don't ever show to the special ops people."

Mason nodded. Normally, she’d be angry, but Barzanian looked as if she’d had something happen to her.

"I can't say I know how you feel; everyone feels different about that. But if you need to talk . . . well, I have my own story. Early in the war, I did some honey trap operations in Europe."

"Honey trap?"

"Get the target to have sex with you while your friends film it. Then hold it over the target's head and get them to do what you want."

"Oh."

"The last one . . . honey traps work because they home in on what the target wants, something they can’t get from a normal, ordinary relationship. I just don’t understand why people get into weird stuff, and my degree is in psychology. This one was absolutely perverted. I had to spend some time at a nice little hospital in Vermont, getting some medical attention for physical injuries . . . and a whole lot of counseling for the mental trauma.”

Whoa.

“Did you know that going in? That he was a pervert?”

“It was a she, and yes, I kind of knew that. But I wasn’t ready for how bad.”

“You actually volunteered . . . for that. For what I went through. Just so we could blackmail someone and get something we wanted.” Erica shook her head. “That’s . . . extremely brave.”

Barzanian smiled sadly. “Or foolish. I haven’t figure out which yet. I can tell you this much: you have an absolute right to be angry. The key is to learn how to use that anger, and not the other way around. And it’s not weakness to ask for help; going to see Doc Morgan is the same as going to the medic after you sprain your ankle. Well, it should be. God, I hope that we start treating it like that, none of this ‘lack of moral fiber’ crap from previous wars.”

Erica nodded. "Yeah, I do all that. The hard part for me . . . look, everything changed. All wars end, and the end is coming sooner than later, I think. Maybe next year, even, unless we go charging into Mexico. I just have no idea what I'm going to do after that."

Barzanian nodded, a sad expression on her face. "That goes for so many people. I’m one. I’m not one hundred percent sure I want to stay Air Force after the war ends. That special operator I told you about? On Day One, she was starting her junior year at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Full ride scholarship, all expenses covered. She was thinking she would go into academia, become a professor. She dropped all that to enlist, got talent-spotted by my mentor, and she became the first woman special operator. Now she's apparently thinking of being a reservist and going into business after the war—teaching and research just doesn't have the same appeal to her like it did before. I have dead ROTC classmates. There are men and women that I tried to recruit into ROTC from several high schools near San Diego State who are dead--or who are borderline psychological casualties. There are people who were going to be salesmen, accountants, police officers, car mechanics, plumbers . . . and they’re all in the military now, not because they wanted to be, but because they had to be. Wars change everything, for everybody. And nobody knows where--or even if--they’re going to land when it’s over."

Erica turned that over in her head. "I want . . . look, Calumet was a nice little town. Colorado is a beautiful place. I want it all to be nice and beautiful again. I want to help that happen."

Barzanian nodded. "All I can suggest is to find a way to serve Calumet and Colorado. I can say this much: from what I've seen, people are more than willing to listen to you. All you need to do is find something that needs to be said."

Find something that needs to be said.

That thought struck a chord with Erica.

She thought about it for a moment.

“We always called Calumet the Gateway to the Rockies. We’re the base camp every summer for hikers, climbers, you name it, and we had a bunch of resorts up in the hills. We had a Western Days Festival in the summer--everything from steam train tours, to cowboy action shows, to concerts. It was always great fun for everybody. About twenty to fifty miles west of the town is a collection of 14ers--peaks that are more than 14,000 feet high, people go there for serious climbing. Just north of the first peak--Apollo Mountain--is another mountain known as Poseidon Ridge. It’s called that because they’ve found marine fossils at the top. It’s all amazing scenery, absolutely gorgeous. There’s hunting and fishing, too. We can be that gateway to the Rockies again--and more. If we want to. I know we can. I don’t know if anyone else in Calumet believes it . . . but I do." She sighed. "But it's going to take a long time to get there."

Barzanian smiled. "There's a story about Napoleon that fits. He was on a staff ride with his Marshals, and he talked about how they needed to line the roads of the French Empire with plane trees, ash, elms--trees that would grow tall and provide shade for his troops as they marched."

Erica nodded, feeling puzzled.

"One of the Marshals said, 'My Emperor, it will take decades for the trees to grow tall enough to shade the roads in that manner.' Napoleon replied, 'Of course, Marshal, you are absolutely right. That's why we must get started right away!'"

The two women laughed.

Erica turned the story over in her head. Lesson learned. We need to start rebuilding today. Not "someday," today. And not just Calumet, but all of America.

[Matt Wiser]

As was said on the previous board: Well done, sir.

[Johnnie Lyle]

It’s easy to be angry with those who look to have a cushy ride.

But there’s one thing Kathy didn’t mention. If you’re a good person, sending your people out into danger eats you up, especially if you screw up. Because you can’t run those risks with them. And it feels wrong.

I’m not sure who is luckier - those whose brains are wired such that they can put those emotions aside and do what needs to be done, or those who can’t. The latter may do unnecessarily dumb shit that gets them killed, but it keeps the ghosts to a minimum.

[jemhouston]

It's not a question of being damaged during the war, it's only how bad.

[Wolfman]

This puts a couple of things that happened in another story in a different, far more chilling light…