Chapter 2
"You cannot simultaneously prevent and prepare for war."
- Albert Einstein
- 1879 - 1955
John had done well during all four required courses of the USAF Survival School. Thinking back about how quickly he was snapped up at the end of the classes and assigned to Black Ops for further training, he wondered if excelling during those assignments might just have been a mistake. He was especially pleased and relieved when the last requirement which teaches Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape primarily to aircrew members was concluded. That course had concentrated on the principles, techniques and skills necessary to aircrew members to survive in any environment and finally to return home or back to the objective. His instructors made sure to put special emphasis on the "resistance" portion and John's stubborn streak had kicked in so he was gifted with their special attention. Now it was over and he was still sporting a black eye, a sore jaw, a ragged cut on his forehead, scrapes on his arms and legs, and rope burns encircling his ankles and wrists. But he'd beat the time of the next trainee in line and he'd been a SEAL.
He also had several bruises that were in very tender places so he figured he deserved a little fun and some liquid refreshment. And if that fun involved collecting on a few bets, well, so much the better. On a day pass between the completion of the schools and his transport out for the additional mysterious training, he got a ride from the base to a restaurant one street over from the Sunset Strip Club in Moose Creek. It didn't take long for John to figure out why the bar was off limits to all military personnel from Fort Wainwright and Eielson Air Force Base.
Thinking ahead, John had stuck civilian clothes in the bottom of his duffle, so that he wouldn't stand out as military immediately. He'd pulled on a pair of worn jeans, a long-sleeved thermal over a tee shirt and covered that with a North Face jacket. There was nothing he could do to disguise the boots, but it must have worked as none of the patrons even gave him a glance.
After his first beer in weeks, he gathered his courage and asked the big, mean-looking bartender with the shaved head and more tattoos than John could count if he could get a receipt for his beer with the name of the bar and the date and time stamped on it. The behemoth actually laughed at that and handed over a pre-printed receipt with all the information to John and told him he had brass ones. This blatant violation of regulations apparently impressed the man mountain.
John's new friend kept the free beer coming and it got better and colder as the afternoon wore on. At one point his buddy pushed a plate across the bar with a thick sandwich and a bag of chips. John left an enormous tip. Hell, it wasn't like he'd need money where he was going. It was just getting dark outside when he realized he'd better go before his luck ran out. The next stage show looked promising and, as far as he could tell, some of the dancers were even women, but he'd won the bet and probably shouldn't stay any longer or he'd miss his ride.
He'd also gotten an exceptional grade during his solitary six days in the mountains of Colville and Kaniksu Natuibak Forests. Hell, he'd enjoyed that. But what John had really excelled at was the SERE training back at Fairchild. He supposed he'd be using that knowledge real soon. John wondered briefly what the Taliban would grade on.
If he did make it back, he wouldn't lie during his inevitable Article 15 hearing and say anything except given the same circumstances he'd do it again. He wouldn't regret it during the mandatory Cool School at Eielson he'd have to attend, no matter how far below zero the temperature dropped. After all he was still the property of the United States Air Force, and he figured that McMurdo was about the only place he could possibly end up. That was the most remote base he could be sent to, if he survived, so that would probably be his next assignment. He had too many medals and commendations for bravery to kick him out right after this, and McMurdo used a lot of chopper pilots. Maybe he was being arrogant, but he just couldn't imagine a court martial being convened over a failed rescue attempt, even against orders.
As it turned out, he was right. He still didn't regret anything during the proceedings and all the lectures and warnings and being told for the thousandth time that he had it in him to be an excellent officer if he'd just get rid of his independent streak and his know-it-all-attitude. He didn't know who to thank that it really had turned out to be an Article 15 and not a court martial. John couldn't tell if his family connections had anything to do with it, but he was grateful all the same to whoever had pulled the strings. Then, finally, all was said and done and he was in the back of a transport headed to Christchurch and from there to Antarctica to fly choppers transporting military and civilians back and forth to what was supposed to be a secret installation. The Brass thought McMurdo would be the end of his career, not the beginning of a new one.
TBC
