Author's Note: This follows the events in "Boot Camp" and is also a sequel to "The Fog of War". It might also help to watch the episode "The Expendables", available on YouTube.

CHOICES, Part 1

Another gust of wind blew sheets of rain against the window and rattled the panes. Chief could only imagine the profanity his teammates were spouting as they suffered through the endurance maneuvers they'd been on for the last three days. They'd definitely be in foul moods when they got back. His bullet wound had kept him out of this one, but at the moment he wished he were in the field with the guys, no matter how wet and cold it was. He liked the solitude, but he was running short of things to keep him busy.

He closed the booklet he'd been trying to study, a primer on conversational French that Garrison had given them, tossed it onto the side table next to his chair, and picked up a dart. A well-aimed throw impaled it into the paneling at the edge of the dart board, along with the others. Hitting the target didn't hold much appeal. Trying to line them up around the edge was more of a challenge.

He heard the door open behind him.

"Bored?" Garrison asked.

"What makes you say that?" He tossed another dart.

Garrison set his briefcase on the table and walked over to the chair, picking up the sling from where Chief had wadded it up and dropped it on the floor. "How's the shoulder feeling?"

"Good." Another dart joined its companions.

"Your medical release came through. When the others get back, you can start working out with them again."

"Bet they're havin' a grand ol' time out there."

"I'll bet." Garrison flipped over the discarded booklet and read the title. "A little light reading?"

"Not much of a plot." Thunk went another dart.

"Why don't you get changed and come to London with me."

"What for?" Actually, that sounded interesting, but he didn't trust what the Warden might have in mind.

"I'm meeting with a task force to evaluate the Resistance training program. I'd value your input."

"I got nothin' to put in." Thunk.

"Sure you do. You helped develop the course. You know what worked and what didn't. You can help make it better."

"Will Finch be there?" If he never saw the Brigadier General again, he could die happy.

"No. He's gone back to Italy," Garrison assured him. "Come on. Dinner's on me."

That sounded like a good deal. He stood and tossed the last dart, and it joined the others in the mahogany paneling. "Alrighty. I'll drive."

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He'd changed into a white shirt and his navy blue jacket, but Chief still felt out of place at OSS Headquarters in London. Everyone else was in uniform. The odd glances he got made his fingers itch. If they'd been anywhere else, the knife would have been in his hand, folded but ready. When he followed Garrison into the small conference room, the quizzical looks he got from the other two officers didn't help, either. He didn't know if the nature of their team was common knowledge in the organization, but he really didn't care. What the brass thought of him and his teammates made no difference, as long as it didn't get in the way of doing the job and staying alive.

Garrison did the requisite introductions. "Captain Mark Beal, Captain Art Rizzo, Chief is my scout and wheel man. He helped teach the first training class."

Captain Beal wore the buzz cut of a serious officer, and his cold grey eyes followed Chief as he rounded the table. Only Captain Rizzo stood to shake his hand. He was older than Beal, with a bit of a paunch, a warm smile under a thick, greying mustache, and a strong grip. "Welcome, son. We'll appreciate any insight you can give us. Help yourself to the coffee."

The smell of real coffee was enticing. They took seats, and he accepted the cup Garrison poured for him from the pot in the center of the table. It was hot and strong.

"We're still waiting on Major Richards," Rizzo explained.

Garrison straightened in his chair. "I didn't know Richards was involved in this." They had an uneasy relationship with the Major, but Chief knew that wouldn't keep Garrison from treating him with the respect the rank required.

"I didn't either," Rizzo admitted. "But evidently he's heading this meeting."

Garrison slipped several folders from his brief case, each in a thick cover stamped "Top Secret", and handed one to each of the other officers. "This is the preliminary report on the first training session."

Captain Beal flipped his folder open, and a smirk crossed his face. "I understand that fiasco ended in disaster."

Garrison's glare would have frozen hell. "My men stopped an attack on an airbase, Captain. I wouldn't call that a disaster."

"Still, the training wasn't completed. I don't see how you can come to any conclusions about its effectiveness."

"Once you've read the report..."

The door swung open as Major Richards strode in, his hat tucked neatly under his arm. Before anyone could stand, he commanded, "As you were, gentleman. Sorry I'm late."

Arrogance and superiority wafted from the man like bad cologne, just as it had on their first encounter with him. Even his apology was half-hearted. But in spite of that, Chief knew the man had the gumption to admit his mistakes and try to right them, something most men in positions of power couldn't handle.

Richards walked to the head of the table and dropped the papers he was carrying, then glanced quickly around the table. His eyes came to rest on Chief.

Chief smiled, daring him to say something pompous. But Richards warmly returned the smile. "Chief, it's good to see you, son. I heard what happened. How is your shoulder?"

"Fine. Thanks." Chief caught Garrison's quick glance. He figured the Warden had been expecting some other reaction from Richards, too.

"Gentlemen, we're going to have to postpone this meeting," Richards continued. "Garrison, I'm glad you brought Chief with you. I have a rather urgent assignment for you. "

"The rest of my team is on endurance maneuvers, sir. I can get them back here by tomorrow..."

"There's no time for that. This is top priority, and needs to be handled as soon as possible."

Captain Beal sat up, dropping the report he'd been reading. "Sir, my full team is ready to move out on a moment's notice."

"I need you and your team to handle the new set of students arriving tonight for the resistance training, Captain. Lieutenant Garrison's report should tell you everything you need to know. Check with General Finch's office for anything else you need. Garrison and Chief will handle this immediate mission."

"But sir..."

"You and Rizzo are free to go. I'll have my clerk contact you when this meeting is rescheduled."

"Thank you, sir." Rizzo rose from his seat and gave the Major a brief salute, but Beal sat still, scowling across the table at Garrison.

"Come on, Mark," Rizzo urged. "I want to show you that decryption I was talking about."

Beal slowly pushed from his chair, but his stare stayed on Garrison as he made his way around the table.

When the door had closed, Richards finally sat and opened one of his folders.

"What's so urgent, Major?" Garrison asked.

Chief leaned forward and picked up a pencil from the table, flipping it idly between his fingers. Anything to occupy his hands. Now he really wished he were out on maneuvers with the others.

"One of our agents in Paris has gotten his hands on what he claims are German plans for a U-boat assault on the American east coast. He's encrypted them into a book and hidden it on a back shelf in this book shop." Richards slid a scrap of paper across the table to Garrison. "We need to get hold of that book. According to our agent, those plans are imminent. You'll go into Le Havre by sub tonight. Use whatever resources you have there to get in and out of Paris."

"Why not Beal's team, sir? They're all available and ready."

Richards gave him a sideways smile. "Are you trying to get out of another mission, Lieutenant?"

"No, sir. Of course not. It's just that..."

"I know," Richards chuckled. "I once chose your team because I didn't appreciate their value. Now I'm choosing you because you've proven just how valuable you are. Seems like you can't win, doesn't it?"

Richards handed Garrison the rest of the file folder. "Here are all the other details you'll need. Any questions?"

Garrison looked over the brief information, committing it to memory. It would be burned before they left the building. "No, sir. I think that covers it."

Richards rose to leave, and Garrison also stood. "Then I'll see you back here on Wednesday. I don't have to remind you how important this is. Good luck, gentlemen."

After the door had closed behind Richards, Chief tossed the pencil into the middle of the table. "I guess that means dinner's a bust."

"When we get back. I promise." Garrison gathered up the rest of his materials and shoved them back into his briefcase.

"Yeah, when we get back..." Chief sighed, unable to keep the skepticism from his voice. "This Captain Beal. You two have a history?"

"I ran a couple of missions with him a while back."

"So there's a reason he don't like you."

"He's a hard man to read. I just try to avoid him. Come on, let's go see if we can requisition some gear."

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Garrison kept enough clothes in a locker at Headquarters to outfit them both as French peasants. They loaded a small duffle with the gear they thought they'd need, and boarded the sub at 19:00.

Chief leaned back on the bench and laid his head against the bulkhead, closing his eyes. The sub's mess hall reeked of onions and diesel fumes, and the droning engines vibrated the whole compartment. He'd dozed, but real sleep was impossible.

Garrison sat across the table from him, disassembling and cleaning his side arm. "Ma voiture a besoin d'essence," he repeated for the third time. "Come on, translation."

"I dunno. Somethin' about the essence of a car."

"It means 'My car needs gasoline'."

"Close enough."

"Repeat it in French."

Chief gave it his best shot, but he was getting tired of this game.

Garrison snorted a laugh. "Okay, just keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking."

"C'mon, Warden. Don't tell me your French don't have an American accent."

"Not much of one, I hope."

"You probably wish you had Actor here instead of me."

That elicited a smile from Garrison. "You'll be fine. Don't worry about it."

Chief crossed his arms on the table and rested his forehead on them, closing his eyes again. And again he went over the details of the mission. Drive to the book shop on the outskirts of Paris, give the code phrase, pick up the book, then drive back to Le Havre and meet the sub. It seemed simple. It always did. It was a waste of time worrying about all the ways things could fall apart. But Garrison was as relaxed as if he were on a pleasure cruise, expecting nothing more at the end of the day than a pretty woman and a good bottle of wine. The man was definitely crazy. Or had a death wish. Or both. But Chief had made the choice to trust him. And he'd never regretted it.

But he was curious. "Where'd you learn French?"

Garrison finished reassembling his pistol and snapped a full clip into place. "We spoke it at home when I was young. And I brushed up on it in OSS training."

The intercom speaker blared to life. "We're surfacing, Lieutenant Garrison. Be ready to disembark. We can't stay up long."

Garrison stood and grabbed the gear bag. "That's our cue. Let's get this done."

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They'd paddled ashore in Le Havre before dawn, hidden the small boat, and then awakened their contact, a gnarled little gnome of a man Garrison knew only as Bon Temps. He'd reluctantly opened his door to them at Garrison's whispered password. They had not had the luxury of radioing ahead. But he was able to loan them a rusty old Citroen with half a tank of gas and untraceable license plates. With Chief driving, they arrived at the shop before it opened.

It was simply called La Boutique du Livre, and it was in one of Paris' western suburbs, an area that had taken a particularly tough beating during the German invasion. But life seemed to go on in the grey, broken remains of homes and shops. Frenchmen, as drab and defeated as their crumbling surroundings, wandered into the start of another day, probably believing this was the new normal. He'd been to Paris before, on that very first mission. Back then, it was just another city. His focus had been on staying alive. But Chief had heard Actor's stories of Paris before the war, with its lights and colors and vibrance. The devastation surrounding them now was a revelation. He wondered if any society could recover from this kind of destruction.

While they sat in the car at the end of the block, waiting for the proprietor to arrive to begin his business day, they ate the dried fruit Bon Temps had given them, washing it down with tart cider.

"This guy in on the plan?" Chief asked, chewing on a dried fig, keeping his eyes on the street.

"He is. We've run cyphers through his shop before."

A tall, well-dressed man hurried around the corner and up the street, carrying an umbrella and a lunch pail, and he stopped at the shop's front door, fumbling with a large ring of keys. "That him?"

"That's him. Let's go."

The tiny shop was stuffed to the rafters with books of every description, lined on shelves to the ceiling, and stacked in haphazard piles, some on the verge of toppling. Shafts of dust-filled sunlight streamed through the large front windows, and the smell of old paper and dry leather was heavy in the still air.

At the musical sound of the bell over the door, the gangly proprietor turned to greet them with a smile. "Bonjour, messieurs. Comment puis-je vous aider?"

"Bon jours, Monsieur Marchand. Je cherche une première édition de The Scarlet Letter," Garrison answered in his perfect French, even giving the book's title an accented lilt.

Monsieur Marchand's expression went from helpful to confused to frightened in quick succession, but he managed to stammer a response, the countersign, Chief figured. "Je me demande pourquoi la lettre n'a pas été vert." Then he switched to heavily accented English. "But I gave it to the young lady."

"What do you mean? What young lady?"

Chief felt the adrenalin kick in. This was one of those hitches he couldn't have imagined.

"She came in just as I was closing last night. She gave the correct sign, so I gave her the book. Were there suppose to be two books?"

"Do you know her?"

"I do not know her name, but I believe she lives in the apartment building at the north end of the street. I have seen her go in and out there." Marchand was pale, his eyes wide. "I am sorry, monsieur, if I have done the wrong thing. It is just that she knew the signal..."

"No, it's alright." Garrison took a breath and gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Give me the address. We'll straighten it out."

Once they were back in the car, Chief's impatience got the best of him. "How'd that get fouled up?"

Garrison chewed on his lower lip. "I wish I knew."

"So what's the plan now?"

"There's only one thing we can do. We need to find our mystery woman and get that book."

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Chief drove past it slowly first. It was an old, two-story brick structure, once a private dwelling, but now converted into apartments. The front steps were crumbling, and most of the windows were broken and boarded. All seemed quiet, so he circled the block and parked at the far end. As they started to get out of the Citroen, a German staff car sped past them and pulled up onto the sidewalk in front of the building. A Major and three soldiers spilled out, rushed up the steps, and stormed inside.

"Damn." Garrison cursed under his breath.

"That's it, then. We got no chance of gettin' that book now."

"We're not out of it yet. We wait."

It was only minutes before the officer marched back down the steps, followed by the soldiers. Two of them dragged a young woman between them.

Chief's heart stopped. "Warden..."

"I see her."

Chief had not heard from Jeanette DuPres since she'd nursed him back to health at the Convent of St. Joan months ago, after another disastrous mission. They'd left her with the French Resistance then, and in his quieter moments, he'd often thought about her sunshine bright hair, flashing green eyes, and her intoxicating fragrance, a mixture of roses and warm earth. Now she looked small and terrified, but was pulling against her captors, trying her best to stay defiant and in control.

Chief reached for the door handle, but Garrison caught his arm. "We can't help her. We're outgunned."

"They'll kill her."

"They'll kill us. And we're no good to her dead."

"But we can't..."

"I said no."

He knew Garrison was right, but that didn't ease his feeling of utter helplessness. He could only grip the wheel and watch as Jeanette was handcuffed and forced into the back of the vehicle, and it drove away down the street.

He started the engine, but again Garrison grabbed his arm. Chief glared at him. "We gotta follow 'em."

"We have to find the book."

"You know what they'll do to her."

"Believe me, I know. But the book is our priority." Garrison climbed out of the car and headed for the apartment building, and all Chief could do was go after him.

It wasn't difficult to identify Jeanette's apartment. The Germans had left the door ajar. It was tiny and neat, decorated with a few pieces of mismatched furniture. The crucifix hanging on the wall over the single bed was the definitive clue. Jeanette had been a novice at the convent and had given up that calling for one she felt was more urgent. There wasn't much to search, so it only took them a few minutes to determine that if she still had the book, she had hidden it somewhere else. Or the Germans had it.

In an act of frustration, Garrison slammed the last cabinet door shut.

"So how do we find her?" Chief wanted to know.

Garrison walked a circle around the small room, as if looking for someplace else to search. At first, Chief thought the Warden hadn't heard him, but he finally answered, "This is Paris. I know people."

"Somebody besides that book store guy, I hope."

"Don't worry. We'll find her."

Chief wished he were as confident.