A Tan Beret Goes to Nellis

[Poohbah]

Author's Note: This is the beginning of a revised version of The Briefing, modified to take some needed changes into account.

9 November 1987
23rd Air Force Headquarters (Forward)
Oklahoma City, OK
0827 Hours Central War Time

Chief Warrant Officer 2 Sophia Henrix read the hand-written CONOPS carefully.

Twice.

She then sat back and considered the map on the wall. Different-colored lines connected various cities; there was an ugly break stretching from the Lower Sabine River in East Texas all the way to southeastern New Mexico, roughly corresponding to the FEBA.

She then turned to Brigadier General O’Neil, 23rd Air Force’s ops chief. “Sir, did you ever work with Major Wiser?”

“No, I’m afraid I haven’t. Different swim lanes. But I’ve worked with General Tanner before, and General Tanner has full confidence in Major Wiser. That’s enough for me, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“I’m not, sir. He’s already impressed me. This CONOPS is still pretty rough, but he has a good eye for what he really needs versus he’d like to have. Just wondering if there’s anything I’m missing between the lines, that’s all.”

“I doubt it. It’s pretty straightforward. I’m just not sure it’s even possible.”

Henrix looked at the map again. “Sir, with all due respect, you keep thinking old-school--infiltrate the enemy’s command center, that sort of thing. Our big screwup with the initial missions was that we didn’t fully understand our own capabilities. If I have a good enough phone line, I’m in. The real problem with this op is that there’s too many good phone lines; we need to get the enemy to put his traffic onto the lines I can be certain of reaching.”

O’Neil raised his eyebrows. “Do tell.”

“It’s similar to Euler’s Seven Bridges of Koenigsberg problem. Right now, there’s too many nodes and they’re in the wrong relationship, so the network topology doesn’t exactly work for us--”

O’Neil winked and said, in his stuffiest tone, “I was told that there wouldn’t be any math in this job.”

“And you probably believed the stripper when said she loved you, sir. All right, the bottom line is that if we bomb a selected set of telephone switches, the Combloc forces will HAVE to use certain network paths to pass the data to the necessary recipients--they need trunk lines that have enough capacity AND connect these locations. If we do it right, the switchover--”

Sophie blinked.

O'Neil rolled his eyes. “Oh, ****. I know that look.”

“What look, sir?”

“The ‘I love it when a plan comes together’ look. Hilarity Ensues after that look. Last time you did this, we ended up retasking two fighter wings to supporting a hot extract.”

“Sir, it also resulted in 13th Army getting their pasty white rumps kicked from Albuquerque to Truth or Consequences. That said . . . “

Sophie hauled out a cigar and a wooden match, and struck the match on her BDU jacket. She puffed the cigar to life.

“Sir, I love it when a plan comes together.”

* * *

19 November 1987
23rd Air Force Headquarters (Forward)
Oklahoma City, OK
1040 Hours Central War Time

“Warrant Officer Henrix, while you’re working the problem I handed you a couple weeks ago, I need you to have a glance at another problem.”

“Of course, sir.”

O’Neil said, “It’s the Mainstays again.”

Sophie muttered a scatological reference under her breath.

O'Neil nodded. “That's what I said. You can try to play it off all you want, that was an extremely hairy extract. Like Sasquatch hairy. Ivan replaced their losses from HUNTER DAWN—we think he staged them through India at night, officially covered as Aeroflot. And higher is thinking that since we were able to send some ninjas to take them out the first time, maybe we can do so again.”

“Sir, they’re probably in a bastion this time.”

The Air Force had cheerfully stolen that term from from the Navy: the swabbies referred to the White Sea, Kara Sea, and the Sea of Okhtosk as “bastions” for the Soviet Navy’s ballistic missile submarines—isolated positions surrounded by minefields and antisubmarine forces. Aerospace bastions were used to protect high-value targets from AFSOC, TAC, and SAC.

O'Neil nodded. “Got it in one.”

Sophie looked at the big topo map again.

And saw flight paths, launch points, transit times, all dancing across the map from New Mexico to the Gulf, flowing neatly, like a fluid origami trick, into a series of time-on-targets.

She grabbed a legal pad and started scribbling numbers.

O’Neil sighed. “Did your mutant math ability just kick over again?”

“Yes, sir. Got me a neat little idea.”

* * *

23 November 1987
23rd Air Force Headquarters (Forward)
Oklahoma City, OK


O’Neil muttered, “Got me a neat little idea, she said.”

Sophie said, “Calm down, sir, the plan is solid.”

“Oh, it’s solid, all right. Solidly aligned with get our sorry a$$es sent to Alaska.”

The door to the conference room opened, and a full bird colonel in ironed and starched BDUs said, “General Gorton’s ready for you.”

“Knock ‘em dead, Warrant Officer Henrix.”

The colonel blinked. “Sir?”

“This was her idea, not mine.”

Sophie stood to attention and marched into the conference room and marched to the podium. General O’Neil said, “Chief Warrant Officer Henrix will brief her concept for what she’s dubbed Operation EIGHTH CARD.”

Sophie took her cue. “Ladies and gentlemen, as Colonel O’Neil said, I am Chief Warrant Officer Sophia Henrix, and this briefing is intended to lay out the concept of operations for Operation EIGHTH CARD. The intent of this operation is to eliminate the major Soviet aerospace threats from the North American theater of operations, specifically their airborne warning and control and theater strike capabilities.”

The audience stirred.

Ignore the elephant in the room. “Lights, please.”

The room lights dimmed.

Sophie clicked the remote, and the slide projector threw a map of North America onto the screen. The front was a slash across New Mexico, Texas, and Louisiana.

“Situation: at present, we are in a state of strategic pause as we consolidate our gains from OPERATION PRAIRIE FIRE. The Soviets are using this pause to regroup, and in all likelihood to prepare some kind of counteroffensive.”

Another stirring in the audience.

General Gorton asked, “What makes you say that, Chief?”

“Sir, they’re going to try to regain the initiative, and the only way to gain the initiative is to take the offensive, to force us to react.”

Gorton looked at her for a moment, then nodded. “Well reasoned, Chief, and that’s my considered opinion, as well—do NOT repeat that to anyone. Go on.”

Sophie changed the slide, and the view shifted to one centered on Houston and extending to Lake Charles, Louisiana in the east, and San Antonio in the west. SAM, AAA, and fighter silhouettes were thick around San Antonio, Houston, and Lake Charles.

“RED has stationed his critical assets—Mainstays and Fencers—in aerospace bastions located at Randolph AFB, Hobby International, and Lake Charles Airport. EIGHTH CARD is aimed at sweeping out the bastions. Option 1 is a limited effort focused mostly on the Fencers and has several preconditions that must be met.”

Sophie then outlined Option 1 across eight slides, calling attention to the preconditions—that sufficient damage be done covertly to the telephone landline switches in south-central Texas that, when the final push came, hitting five switches would cause certain high-volume circuits out of Randolph to switch to microwave repeaters—which could be intercepted by NSA SIGINT satellites in GEO. This would give indicators and warnings of Fencers moving forward to staging bases, allowing Tenth Air Force strike assets to destroy the Fencers before they could execute a strike mission. Meanwhile, the Navy would strike the Mainstay facility at Hobby International using Tomahawk missiles from the Gulf, mostly as a diversion.

"Any Mainstays we bag would be gravy. However, sir, getting to the preconditions required for Option 1 will be complex and
carries some risk of exposure, which may compromise the operation. Option 2 avoids this risk, at the cost of considerably more resource allocation and some increase in operational complexity. This could be generated from a standing start if we successfully disguise the preparatory moves as presaging a renewal of offensive ground operations.”

She clicked to the next slide. This showed South-Central Texas to Louisiana in the north, down to Campeche in the south.

There was an audible gasp at the scale of deployment.

Gorton was staring at her.

“First, yes, this is definitely a case of ‘go big or go home.’ However, I believe that the destruction of the infrastructure supporting Mainstay and Fencer operations in North America will bring a significant return on investment.” She tapped a point on the map in Western Texas. “I’ve taken the liberty of calling this the Marfa Gap. RED has located early warning radars and SAM sites on the heights to either side of the gap, but not within the gap itself—the Gap is too narrow to require additional coverage, assets are scarce, and the Marfa Gap doesn’t appear to lead anywhere in Mexico—which is TVD Amerika’s prime worry. The Marfa Gap is key to this plan’s scheme of aerospace maneuver within Texas.”

She continued speaking, clicking through slides as they flowed through the mission.

“The opening move in Option 2 is a diversionary strike at H minus two against targets in the Yucatan and Veracruz by three Navy carrier battlegroups in order to draw RED first-line fighter assets to the south, apparently presaging an amphibious raid or assault. The intent is to get RED’s look-down/shoot-down capable assets—Flankers and Fulcrums—out of Texas long enough for this prank to work. Once we have definite indications that fourth-generation fighters are sortieing to counter the carrier raid--”

Sophie tapped the Marfa Gap.

“--Tenth Air Force will conduct Iron Hand and Wild Weasel missions hit SAM sites and early warning radars on the heights to either side of the gap, but will spend most of their effort on RED assets well east of the gap, pulling the PVO’s attention away from the Marfa Gap itself. Ninth and Tenth Air Forces will conduct a maximum effort offensive fighter sweep across the entire FEBA to keep everyone's attention on the high altitude bands. All of this will be timed to allow passage of ALCM and GLCMs through the gap until they are through the main SAM belt, whereupon they will be evasively routed eastward to the Randolph bastion. The missiles will converge from multiple points of the compass with as close to a simultaneous time-on-target as possible. Targets in the bastion proper will include 16th Air Army headquarters, the Fencer ramps and hangars, workshops, and maintainer barracks.

“Coincident with this, a major effort will be made against the Lake Charles bastion, again targeting command and control, maintenance infrastructure, and critical-skills personnel. This will be executed by Eighth and Twelfth Air Force assets controlled
from Barksdale, with the intent of a time-on-target consistent with the strike on Randolph.

“The final piece of the puzzle is a multiple-SSN Tomahawk strike on Hobby International, aimed, again, at critical assets and supporting infrastructure.”

She clicked the slide. “The end state of EIGHTH CARD will significantly shift the net assessment in our favor, with key RED strike and AWACS assets destroyed or significantly degraded. Given the present state of play in the war at sea, reconstitution of those capabilities is likely to be extremely difficult, especially with Strategic Air Command accelerating operations over the RED homeland. This concludes my presentation. Are there any questions?”

Gorton said, “Not at this time, Chief. Good brief.”

Sophie took her cue and left the room.

* * *

General Gorton looked at his staff.

“I hope nobody takes this question the wrong way. Where the hell did we find her?”

Gorton’s deputy chief of staff for personnel said, “Sir, I looked her up with the head of AFPC. She was attending MIT on a full-ride scholarship, ditched it all to enlist on Day One. Apparently caught the attention of General Lodge over at DIA, he recruited her for SCREAMING FIST. And she’s been on some hairy ops—VERMONT CEDAR, OMAHA THUNDER, HUNTER DAWN. She's even got two Air Force Crosses with classified citations—and they may never get declassified. She’s the real deal, sir.”

Gorton looked around the room and said, “All right. Any thoughts on the proposed operation?”

Gorton’s ops chief, Major General Ron Dealey, said, “If we could get the resources for Option 2, it’d be one legendary op, sir.” He paused, then said, “The plan is audacious—but conceptually simple. It’s just throwing a lot of firepower at just a few targets. The deception moves are likewise conceptually simple, but they’re designed to play to Ivan’s prejudices, and it’s always easier to deceive someone if you show them what they already want to believe. There’s a lot of meat that needs to get put on those bones before it’s ready to execute—no surprise considering it’s one person’s initial idea—but the basic concept is sound, sir.”

* * *

Sophie and O’Neil stood to attention as the 23rd Air Force Staff stepped into the hallway.

The colonel who’d ushered them in was standing by the door. “Chief Henrix? General Gorton would like a moment of your time, please.”

“Of course, sir.”

She turned to O’Neil. “By your leave, sir.”

“Granted.”

Sophie stepped into the conference room and saw Gorton working with dividers on a set of Operational Navigation Charts.

The door closed behind her.

Gorton straightened up. Sophie stood to attention and saluted.

“Sir, Chief Warrant Officer Henrix reports!”

“At ease, Chief. Come on over here, let’s look at this again.”

She looked at the charts; she’d used identical ones to plan EIGHTH CARD.

They discussed specific aspects of the plan, and it became obvious to Sophie that Gorton was quietly impressed with the answers she worked out to his detailed questions.

“Chief, this is a pretty sound preliminary plan . . . with the exception of the massive resources required.”

“Well, sir, if you want to win the big pot, sometimes you have to go all in.”

Gorton chuckled, then asked, “You gamble at all, Chief?”

Sophie smiled. “Yes, sir. Mostly with other tan berets. If the Air Force ever fields a bridge or poker team, it’ll be 100% Special Recon Operators. The normies—” Sophie cleared her throat. “Excuse me, sir, I meant the regular Air Force—well, everyone runs in terror when they see someone in a tan beret shuffling cards.”

Gorton laughed. “Are all tan berets like . . . you?”

“We’re all computer experts, sir. That said, sir, I’m a mutant, even by our standards. I have this crazy math ability—my mother tells me she knew I was different when I was four years old.”

Gorton made a “go on” gesture.

“Sir, the way Mom tells it, we were watching the news, and Walter Cronkite was giving the results of some nationwide Gallup poll, so many percent want this, so many percent want that, et cetera. I guess they rounded up the percentages, because right after he got done, I blurted out, ‘Mama, that’s more than a hundred.’ I apparently understood percentages and could do addition in my head.”

Gorton let out a low whistle. “Damn. How’d that affect your life?”

“That? Not much. Mom & Dad did their best to give me a normal, healthy upbringing. Being a mousy, nerdy wallflower? That affected me a whole bunch more, sir.”

Gorton looked at her silently for a moment.

“Sir, I’m not that mousy, nerdy wallflower any more. Mostly.”

Gorton nodded. “The last thing I’d ever view you as is any sort of wallflower, Chief. Proposing this op took guts.” He looked at the charts. “What were you thinking when you developed Option 2?”

Sophie was quiet for a moment, then said, “Sir, I want RED to know that if they lay anything on the table in North America, they’re going to lose it. I want RED to turtle up, I want him unsure of what comes next, I want to seize the initiative and hold it permanently. That's how we win decisively enough to allow ourselves to focus on rebuilding America, sir.”

Gorton nodded. “I notice you keep saying ‘RED.’ Why not the Soviets, or Communist bloc forces?”

Sophie said, “Trying to keep things on a detached, professional level, sir.”

Gorton asked, “As opposed to very personal. Ivan kill your boyfriend?”

“My boyfriend is a Combat Controller in General Lodge’s other brilliant idea, doing a different secret squirrel gig.” She sighed. “Sir, when I arrived at MIT in 1983, I went from being the biggest fish in a small pond to just another face in the crowd. One of the people who helped me make a healthy transition was my roommate it McCormick Hall, Mary Goren. We became close friends. Well, she graduated in ’85 and went to Columbia for her Master’s.” She paused again. Finally, she said, “I’m sure Comrade Chebrikov would say that it wasn’t anything personal, but it kind of feels personal, sir.”

Gorton nodded. “I understand, Chief. I really do. It’s all right to feel that way, don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Just make sure you use anger and don’t let it use you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Gorton nodded. “All right, then. Chief, the bad news is we can't afford to do Option 2, it just takes more assets than the theater commander and Joint Chiefs are going to be willing to commit to this tasking. Which is a damn shame, it really is a beautiful concept."

"I understand, sir."

"Good. I'm cutting orders to attach you to Tenth Air Force for the duration, and I'm sending them a copy of Option 1. You're going to help work that into a solid, executable plan. You're going to be working with Marine Air Group 11, the 335th Tactical Fighter Squadron, my headquarters, and 10th Air Force to build this into a sound operation. Consider this part of your professional development—the Air Force needs snake-eaters, true enough, but we also need leaders and planners. And this segues into the last bit I wanted to talk to you about. Chief, this war’s going to end someday. And I want you to consider maintaining a career in the Air Force—at least in the Reserves, if not Regular—when that happens. You have outstanding operational planning instincts—EIGHTH CARD is every bit as good a concept as the stuff I’ve gotten out of the Air War College, RAND, or Johns Hopkins. You seem to have a good head on your shoulders, and a good heart as well—and those are what we need in our future leaders, the ability to think, plan, and execute, and the ability to care for your airmen.”

Sophie blinked, then turned the idea over in her head.

Finally, she said, “Sir, I haven’t given that any thought. Not even about the war ending.”

“Please do. And not just on staying in Big Blue, but also what kind of life you want to build for yourself—who you want in it, and what you want to do with it. One of Sun Tzu's aphorisms says, 'Compel others, do not be compelled.' Either you plan for your future, or the future makes its plans for you. So, please, give that some serious thought.”

“I will, sir.”

“All I can ask. Now, one more thing: you haven't taken any leave in a year. I'm routing you through Salt Lake so you can visit your parents before you report in. I want you rested and ready to contribute when you get to Nellis.”

"Understood, sir."

"Very well. Dismissed."

[Matt Wiser]

And it won't be long until she and Guru cross paths.

[jemhouston]

Word of the Day, Smite.

She'll also run into Starbuck. Starbuck is also good at figuring things out.

[Poohbah]

24 November 1987
Hill Air Force Base
Layton, UT

The bus was painted in Air Force Blue, with silver lettering that read "BLUE EAGLE EXPRESS" on the sides.

The older name was still visible despite being painted over, and Sophie had to chuckle that they'd originally named their bus line "Blue Falcon."

An hour and a half later, she was at the Salt Lake Transit Center, and was shocked by the number of civilians openly carrying long arms. She ducked into the bathroom and got out her CAR-15, rigging it on a single-point sling. She inserted a magazine, racked the bolt, let it go forward, verified that the bolt was fully seated, and flipped the safety to SAFE.

Back out on the bus platform, she fit right in.

As the bus made its way past Temple Square, she saw bullet pockmarks on the buildings.

What the hell happened?

She eventually got to the Liberty Wells neighborhood and began walking the now-familiar streets.

More homes had greenhouses.

And there were more gold stars hanging in the windows.

Sophie made her way east, then turned north onto her parents' street.

A man younger than she was was rolling along in a wheelchair with a pair of stumps where his lower legs used to be, and felt a stab of sorrow.

The man gave her a smile that was just short of a leer. "Hey, don't look at me like that. I got unlucky at Wichita, lost the legs. Got really lucky at Wichita, everything else still works."

Sophie giggled, then said, "Well, that's good to know."

"And I cook a really good breakfast, too. Huevos rancheros with my own salsa recipe. Fire and smoky heat with some sweetness underneath, which would be a perfect match for you."

"That's a very kind offer, but I'm taken."

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Figured a lady as pretty as you would've found her special someone."

Sophie felt herself blush at the compliment. "Well, I have . . . but I'm sure there's a lot of single ladies down at the USO who might appreciate a nice-looking man with a happy heart who knows how to make a good breakfast."

"You know, I think I'll try my luck. You have a good evening."

Sophie continued north, and eventually reached her family's house. There was a good-sized greenhouse in the front yard that got plenty of morning light.

She walked up to the porch, noting the Blue Star flag hanging in the window next to the door.

She rang the bell.

The door opened, and her father stood there for an instant, then took her into his arms.

"Welcome home, punkin."

* * *

After dinner, Dad hustled her into the den and poured two brandies, then began cutting a cigar.

"Dad, I'm strapped."

"Don't care. Drink."

"Only if I can have a cigar, too."

Her father watched as Sophie expertly clipped the cigar, struck a match on her BDUs, and rotated the cigar to get an even burn.

"I guess my little girl's all grown up."

"I maybe a no-kidding operator, I may have grown-up vices . . . but I'm still your little girl, Daddy."

Her father nodded, paused, then asked, "You see Adam at all?"

"Not since that R&R last year. He's moved to another assignment."

"What's he doing?"

"Classified. And no, I'm not read in, so I don't know either."

"I see."

Sophie took a couple of puffs on her cigar, then asked, "Dad, what the hell happened downtown?"

"Classified."

"Says who?"

"Says the military district commander at Fort Douglas. And the base commander at Hill."

"Screw those idiots. Look, there was a major firefight right off of Temple Square, maybe a block away from Mom' office. Part of my job is planning things like counterguerrilla and counter-SOF operations, and we kind of need to know where and what the damn threat is. And nobody told us about this. Dad, I have to call this one in. First thing tomorrow."

* * *

Sophie headed into the living room, and saw her mother drinking a glass of wine--and a half-empty bottle in front of her.

Sophie went into the kitchen, got herself a glass, and poured herself some wine. I can handle a hangover better than Mom can.

"Making sure I don't get too pickled?"

"Your body weight will take care of that for me, Mom."

Doctor Larissa Henrix sighed. "Yeah, I suppose you're right. I'm just . . . well, seeing you is harder than you might think. Whatever else you are, you are my only child. And it's easy to worry about you."

"I'm going from one staff posting to another. And it's not like my job's that much more dangerous--"

"Sophie, dear, I've been read in on SCREAMING FIST."

Sophie winced. "Uh, Mom, please don't go repeating that--"

"Shut up. The code word itself is unclassified. As are VERMONT CEDAR and OMAHA THUNDER. What in the HELL were they thinking when they came up with that one? How am I supposed to be calm about my daughter being a special operator with a bounty on her head?"

"By honoring my CHOICE to be one, damn it!" Sophie gulped down some wine, then said, "Besides, it's in real Benjamins, not that toilet paper Gus Hall issues. Tells everyone who they think is winning."

Her mother blinked. "Benjamins?"

"Yeah. As in Benjamin Franklin?"

The penny dropped, her mother laughed, and the tension eased back. It didn't go away completely, but it eased back.

"Sophie . . . remember Josh Mantell?"

"Yeah. Dear God, I had such a crush on him."

"Well, you'd better hope you don't run into him." Her mother sighed. "I interviewed him after Lubbock. He's . . . broken. I don't mean he's hurting, I'm saying that whatever he ran into out there has broken his spirit completely. He's become a killing machine. If the Marines had the good sense God gave a crabapple, they'd send him to Vandenberg."

"What's at Vandenberg?"

"Psychiatric rehab. I'm sure that the doctors there could give chapter and verse on what happened to him. Post-traumatic stress disorder--God, I hate that phrase, let's follow George Carlin's advice and call it 'shell shock' like they did in World War I--and then there's probably some 'moral injury,' which is a fancy way of saying 'Gosh, this guy has done some seriously messed-up stuff,' and then there's probably a ton of regrets on top of that. And he just buries them." Her mother took a deep breath, then said, "And I see you holding up, and I wonder how."

Sophie sipped her wine, then said, "Mom, remember Bob Jansen? Class of '81, drove a blue Camaro?"

Her mother nodded. "Good kid . . . a little rough around the edges, but a good kid at heart."

"Yeah, he was. He had a phrase he used all the time. 'Don't start none, won't be none.' It was . . . it was his creed. He didn't start fights. Well . . . I didn't start this. Ivan did. Honestly . . . I don't feel much guilt over anything I've done in this war. I didn't start it. I just intend to finish it. I've heard rumors that this started because Ivan was looking at a no-kidding famine. Now, me, if I had been in charge of the USSR, I would've gone to America and offered up some nuclear weapons in return for some of America's agricultural bounty. It's buying food--just bartering instead of paying with cash. So I can only blow up the planet five times over after an American first strike instead of seven. Everyone's still just as dead, anyway, if that happens. But they let their pride get in their way. They'd have to admit that they screwed up some of the richest soil in the world, that for all their talk of Communism being the future, they couldn't even manage to feed their people. Pride gets people to do really stupid shit."

"Argentina comes to mind for some reason."

"Mom . . . you know we sent a team down to Argentina?"

"So I heard. Corridor gossip."

"Adam was on that team."

"Sophie, why in the hell did we send a 21-year-old kid?"

"Because some of his relatives have first names like 'Senator,' 'Minister,' 'General,' and 'Admiral.' But they took the same attitude you just did. He told one of his uncles that officers need to spend some time as enlisted swine, because then they might actually see how fights get started--and how they go from just another fight to life and death in a few seconds." Sophie sighed, finished her glass, and poured a refill. "They didn't listen. His last act in Argentina was to kill an entire bottle of Estancia Herrera Malbec--yeah, his grandfather's winery--then he staggered up to the Casa Rosada--the Presidential Palace--and he sang 'Don't Cry For Me, Argentina' at the top of his lungs." Sophie took a healthy swig. "Got PNG'd before sunrise, along with the rest of the delegation."

Larissa stared at Sophie . . . and then started to laugh. She sang, off-key.

"Once the rockets are up,
Who cares where they come down?
That's not my department,"
Says Wernher von Braun.

They laughed . . . and then Sophie sighed.

"The guy commanding the 25 de Mayo task force was Admiral Tomas Carlos Sanchez y Herrera. Adam's second cousin, twice removed. Everyone's best guess is that he was on the carrier, giving his captains the mission briefing."

Larissa's jaw dropped for a moment. Eventually, she asked, "What did Adam think of that?"

Sophie killed the rest of her glass, then said, "Don't start none, won't be none."

[Matt Wiser]

So Adam was related to the Argentine Task Force Commander that died-along with his ships-when Puerto Belgarano took a Polaris (or two) and at least 3 200 KT warheads...

And Sophie's Mom is hitting the bottle...

Sophie might run across a professor in civilian life who's now an Intelligence Officer; he might give her this saying: "Wars are begun by frightened old men." Or this one: "Aggressive warfare is an armed robbery writ large."

[Johnnie Lyle]

Sophie doesn’t appreciate how lucky she is that she can have that conversation with her mom.

OOC: true story.

[Poohbah]

Sophie doesn’t appreciate how lucky she is that she can have that conversation with her mom.

OOC: true story.

Yes and no. She's aware of just how precarious her own existence is; the way of the warrior, after all, is the resolute acceptance of death. She's just not quite as aware how dangerous her Mom's position is; RAND, like the Hudson Institute, is considered by the USSR what they view as the American General Staff, which means everyone at their Project AIR FORCE office in Salt Lake really should be packing heat.

[jemhouston]

My Mom, whom when Dad asked me if I wanted a shotgun for Christmas, walked up and told us, "No he doesn't," always had a gun nearby during the war.

[Poohbah]

25 November 1987
Henrix Residence
Salt Lake City, UT

Sophie woke up at 0440 to darkness outside her window. Between the blackout regulations and year-round "War Time" daylight savings that put sunrise a few minutes before 0830, Salt Lake was . . . weird.

She got out of bed and did some tentative stretches, assessing how bad her situation was. She'd managed to help get her mother in bed by 8 PM, and she, in turn, had taken a shower and crashed by 8:30. In theory, she'd had just over 8 hours of sleep--but she knew that alcohol didn't give properly restful sleep. She felt less than one hundred percent--between a snifter of brandy and three glasses of wine, she'd drunk a lot more than usual--but her overall excellent health and physical condition meant that she could do a relatively light workout, and she needed to take it easy to adapt to the high desert anyway.

She drank a glass of water, then donned PT gear--sports bra, compression shorts, polar fleece underwear, wool socks, gloves, and a USAF blue Gore-Tex tracksuit with "USAF" in gold letters on the back and the USAF insignia on the left breast. She pulled on combat boots, and then strapped on her M12 pistol in a retention holster.

* * *

The early morning was just above freezing, and she ran carefully, holding herself to a seven-minute mile, working on adapting to the thin, dry air.

She ran to Liberty Park and did the circuit course stations at a brisk pace.

An hour and fifteen minutes later, she was back at the house. The Wasatch peaks were black against the dark blue sky, and the neighborhood was coming to life; people were driving down the street, blackout covers on their lights reducing illumination to thin slits. Sophie let herself in through the mudroom from the garage and found her mother brewing coffee.

"Morning, Mom."

Her mother smiled thinly. "Dear God, how can you be so kinetic at this hour?"

"Mostly clean living." She went to the sink and got herself another glass of water.

"No coffee?"

"After I get some food in me. Right now, between last night's wine and this morning's workout, I'm still a tad dehydrated."

"So I should drink water first?"

"Yeah, that's the best thing after a night of drinking." She looked at her mother carefully.

"I'm not hungover, dear."

"You look just a little peaked, Mom. 12 ounces of water will do wonders for you."

Her mother grumbled, but got herself a glass of water . . . and promptly shotgunned it.

"Damn, Mom!"

Her mother was pouring herself another glass. "Sophie, dear, you remember how you got insanely hungry when you smelled dinner cooking, because you managed to forget to eat lunch working on a proof, or a program?"

Sophie nodded. "Yeah."

"Same thing can happen when you smell water and you realize just how thirsty you really are."

Her mother drank the second glass somewhat slower, but still fairly quick.

"Mom, I really need access to a secure phone today. Any chance I could hop a ride down to RAND with you?"

"Yeah. Listen, you might want to have a sit-down with the guys working on your compartment. One hand washes the other, et cetera."

"I can do that. Listen, that shootout over by Temple Square--"

"That's classified--"

"--and I was working NIMROD DANCER missions at 23rd Air Force, and will be working them again when I get back from this TDY."

"You didn't know?"

"Not a word."

"Yeah, you'd better make like ET and phone home."

* * *

Sophie got on the phone to her old boss.

First Lieutenant Dave Schultz answered the phone. "General O'Neil's office."

"This is Chief Warrant Officer Henrix, I have FLASH YANKEE traffic for General O'Neil."

"Sophie! He's in the morning meeting with General Gorton. I can copy."

"All right. OPREP-3 HOMELINE . . . "

She stepped through the report format. Then she got to the narrative and walked through what her mother had told her: about two dozen shooters, and they'd been headed towards the RAND building. Salt Lake PD SWAT and Army MPs from Fort Douglas had taken them down, but it had been a near run thing.

"Dave, this happened three weeks ago. I didn't see a damn thing in the NIMROD DANCER database about this before I checked out, and there's no exceptions to the reporting requirements that I know of. Fort Douglas and Hill agreed that this didn't happen, but there's a bunch of buildings off of Temple Square with plywood on the first five floors, and a bunch of bullet scars on the Tabernacle proper. I don't know where the breakdown is, but it's kind of serious."

"I've got it, Sophie. O'Neil's going to see it as soon as he gets back from his meeting."

"Right. I'll be available at this number today."

* * *

O'Neil's voice was cheery. "Sophie! Can't stay out of trouble for one minute, can you?"

"The Salt Lake Military District Commander is breaking a bunch of laws, sir."

"So I gathered, as did General Gorton and his Staff Judge Advocate. General Gorton has called Sundown. Sundown is not happy. If Sundown isn't happy, someone at Hill is about to be very unhappy. And Sundown is about to have what we here at 23rd Air Force like to call 'A Crucial Conversation' with General Mark Creighton, who just happens to be the Deputy Chief of Staff of the United States Army."

Sophie winced. "A Crucial Conversation" was 23AF slang for "You are about to be told how badly you have screwed up."

"Sir, legend has it that General Creighton is even less tolerant of major screwups than Sundown is."

"I served with him at PACOM on the J-4 staff. You're absolutely correct." O'Neil sighed. "The fecal material has hit the rotary impeller."

"Sorry, sir."

"Never be sorry for doing your frickin' job, Chief. That said, it's easy to say 'Let George do it' and go along to get along. Standing up took moral courage. We need that, even more so than we need your physical courage. Tests of your moral fiber--knowing right from wrong--come far more often than tests of your physical courage, even in AFSOC. The Air Force needs people like you. Have you considered staying in after we win the war?"

"Actually, sir . . . I have been since General Gorton asked me to give thought to it."

"Good." O'Neil paused, then said, "Chief, it's people like you that make me proud to be an airman, and humbled to be entrusted with leading America's finest men and women. Thank you."

"Thank you, sir."

* * *

26 November 1987
Centenary United Methodist Church
Salt Lake City, UT

The pastor stood at the pulpit, and said,

"We praise God for the abundant gifts he has bestowed upon us. We celebrate this abundance, and we call all to the table to eat and to be renewed. In brotherhood and sisterhood may we enjoy God’s gifts and share them in joy.

"May we be grateful each morning for the gift of a new day, and grateful each evening for the good we have received during the day, and for the good we have been able to do.

"May we praise God through our giving thanks for his abundant love. May we praise God for offering such love to one another."

Sophie said, "Amen."

* * *

After communion, Sophie prayed silently.

God . . . I still don't know if You're out there. I sometimes go through the motions of prayer, but I have a hard time making that leap of faith unless I'm next to a truly Godly person like my mother. I ask You to help me in my unbelief. I ask You to help Mom to be not afraid for me . . . or, if she must be afraid, please help her find a healthier coping mechanism than drinking. I beg Thee to look with compassion on Josh Mantell; let his heart be healed. I know this is a big ask, but help Josh and Roberta both survive and be married. Amen.

* * *

That evening, after a simple yet delicious Thanksgiving dinner with her parents, Sophie lay in her bed with the lights out, visualizing the Central Front in Texas as a chessboard, with the Forward Line of Troops as the center of the board, Wichita as the center of White's back rank, and Randolph as the center of Black's back rank.

She visualized various options for bait and the countermoves available to the Soviets.

How do we make them give up a tempo?

She visualized using a Corps headquarters as a Queen's Gambit opening, visualizing various strike and defense assets as chess pieces. She mentally played through the Soviets accepting or declining the gambit, calculating strength values for each rank and file after each move.

The problem was that accepting the gambit actually put the Soviets in a better position, and they didn't need to use their rooks, either, which equated to not using the Fencers.

Okay, a fake Corps HQ isn't that good a gambit. What about using GRANITE MOLE?

She flipped the "board" around and visualized it as a King's Indian Attack.

That one looked much better. The wider array of assets made for a much more lively game--with plenty of opportunity for it to get bloody.

Okay, GRANITE MOLE it is.

She rolled onto her side and fell asleep.

[jemhouston]

General Mark Creighton and Sundown going at someone together reminds me of a Mythbusters myth. They were trying to pull apart two interleafed phonebooks.

They finally did this https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HB3cBB7Z4rI.

Phonebooks had better than anyone covering this up.

[Poohbah]

08 December 1987
MGM Grand Hotel
Las Vegas, NV

Sophie checked her appearance in the hotel room's mirror. She'd actually ironed her ABUs.

I have exactly one chance to make a good first impression.

If she'd been anything other than an operator, she'd be in Combo Ones, and she'd wear the skirt because she had damn good legs.

She put on the plate carrier with the Level III+ plates, rated to stop 7.62x51mm.

Girl, if your plan A is to take half a dozen .308 rounds to the torso, you'd best have a plan B.

She rigged the rifle's single point sling to the carrier, and put on her beret, placing the lightning bolt and crosshair insignia over her left eye, then donned her gunfighter rig for the M12.

* * *

A group of pilots looked uneasily at her in the elevator.

Finally, one asked, "What does Equitare Fulgure mean, anyway?"

She smiled. "Sir, it means 'Ride the Lightning.'"

He glanced at her plate carrier and saw her freefall jump wings and dive bubble patches velcroed in place. "Special Operations?"

"Yes, sir."

"Didn't know they were taking women."

"There's maybe four of us in the entire Air Force, sir. Helps if you were already a triathlete before."

Everybody blinked when she said before. It was the magic word.

Before the war. Before the world had gone mad.

Before they'd had to grow up, way sooner than any of them had planned.

* * *

Headquarters, 10th Air Force
Nellis Air Force Base
Las Vegas, NV

Sophie detached the rifle from the sling, placed it on the conveyor belt for the X-Ray machine, placed her M12 next to it, drew her Sykes-Fairburn and Ka-Bar knives from their sheaths and put those down, took off her plate carrier and beret, then walked through the metal detector.

It beeped, and she stepped back, took out her Leatherman multitool, and put that next to the rifle as well.

She walked through the detector a second time, nothing beeped. She stood at the end of the conveyor. After about 30 seconds, she said, "Excuse me, could you send my gear through, please?"

A second lieutenant who looked shockingly young said, "Hey, this is a hot weapon!"

"Yes, sir, it is."

"The weapon's not on safe!"

Sophie held up her index finger. "This is my safety, sir."

"You AFSOC hot dogs--"

Sophie forced herself to speak quietly. "Sir, I have a $20,000 bounty on my head, and that bounty is payable in actual Benjamins and not Gus Hall's funny-sized toilet paper. I'll take my chances with a hot weapon because people have been known to get really f***ing stupid for a lot less than that."

The lieutenant stared at her, eyes dilating in fear.

"Everything okay there, Ell-Tee?"

Sophie saw a man with Senior Master Sergeant Stripes on his sleeves and a cup of coffee that appeared surgically grafted to his left hand walk up.

"Ah, yes, Master Sergeant. Everything's fine."

* * *

Inside the office after Henrix had collected her gear, Senior Master Sergeant Gonzalez handed Lieutenant Bauer a cup of coffee.

"Jesus, she scares the piss out of me."

"Well, sir, you just met the real deal. Probably has been leading a recon team. That tan beret tells me two things about her. First, that's a very technical specialty, which means she's extremely smart. Second, she's a special operator, which means she's probably tougher inside and out than everyone in this damn building put together. And Ivan wants to kill special operators. She's probably got a bounty--"

"Twenty grand. US dollars, even."

Gonzalez blinked, then said, "Sir, I'm going to do a walk-through of the building and make sure we're properly hardened up, because twenty grand might be awfully tempting to really stupid people."

"That's what she said."

"Yup. The kind of guy who gets impressed with 20 grand for killing somebody isn't smart enough to figure out that the money's no good if you're not alive to collect. Care to join me on the inspection, sir?"

Bauer chuckled. "Yes, actually. More useful stuff to learn before they actually bother to send me to Hill for CSP School."

"That's the spirit, sir. You'll be all right with some seasoning under your belt."

"Is every butterbar as clueless as I am?"

"No, sir, not at all. You're one of the better ones. Most of them are worse. 'He who knows not, and knows that he knows not, is truly wise.' There's a good number of young tigers out there who think they really do know it all fresh out of OTS. You're trying to learn, we can build on that, sir."

[Johnnie Lyle]

The contrast between the pilots and the sergeant is palpable.

[Poohbah]

The contrast between the pilots and the sergeant is palpable.

Pilots at Nellis might be seeing a real ground-pounder for the first time. The NCO's been around the block a few times in SEA.

[Matt Wiser]

When pilots pull the trigger, they rarely see the bad guys they kill. She is different. Sophie looks at people, sometimes eye-to-eye, before she kills.

And a good thing for that NCO...

[Johnnie Lyle]

When pilots pull the trigger, they rarely see the bad guys they kill. She is different. Sophie looks at people, sometimes eye-to-eye, before she kills.

And a good thing for that NCO...

The contrast between the pilots and the sergeant is palpable.

Pilots at Nellis might be seeing a real ground-pounder for the first time. The NCO's been around the block a few times in SEA.

Not quite the point I was going for.

The sergeant has a quiet confidence and inner self-worth that gives him almost an aura of serenity. The pilots may be hot shit in their own chosen field, but react very differently. There’s an insecurity there that the sergeant lacks.

[jemhouston]

The pilots were shown something far outside their comfort zone.

[Poohbah]

When pilots pull the trigger, they rarely see the bad guys they kill. She is different. Sophie looks at people, sometimes eye-to-eye, before she kills.

And a good thing for that NCO...

The contrast between the pilots and the sergeant is palpable.

Pilots at Nellis might be seeing a real ground-pounder for the first time. The NCO's been around the block a few times in SEA.

Not quite the point I was going for.

The sergeant has a quiet confidence and inner self-worth that gives him almost an aura of serenity. The pilots may be hot shit in their own chosen field, but react very differently. There’s an insecurity there that the sergeant lacks.

The sergeant has a lot of experience of the Air Force in war and peace alike. He has nothing left to prove in life. He knows himself, knows his trade, knows what he can and can't do, and understands that he was in the presence of a highly intelligent and highly trained operator who has seen the elephant, one who is being groomed for higher things than leading the next patrol past the FLOT (even if she doesn't quite see that yet).

Those pilots are young hotshots who haven't had that real-world experience. They're the guys who say, "Sure sucks down there," or "The cable's out? THIS SUCKS!"

They just got face-to-face with someone who says, "I like how this sucks."

[Matt Wiser]

Well, the 335th and the rest of MAG-11 were like that, being billeted at not just the Mesa Sheraton, but one or two others-while at Williams AFB. When PRAIRIE FIRE went and MAG-11 deployed forward to Cannon, it was tent city. For the rest of the war, I might add.

[jemhouston]

People experiences suck, Sophie causes SUCK experience.

[Matt Wiser]

For those bad guys who survive, that is.