Notes: This story will have a general divergence from the end of S2. This is not a deathfic, but it's fairly gory and there will be lots of medical details. I'm not a medical professional, just good friends with Google. There's likely some mistakes but alas, this is fanfic 🙂
Dedicated to burn_me_down for her encouraging comments that inspired me to write, and because of the incredible talent she brings to this fandom.
I'm also in search of a beta who likes to give detailed feedback. I'd love to hear how I can make this story better.
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"I do not fear the darkness; for I am the terror that owns the night." - American Republic
No moon, no stars, and a cold, heavy hail drizzled out of the mountain sky. To anyone else, the shitty weather would provoke misery and general contempt, a place that no one wanted to be.
Anyone but them.
Because anything that made their enemy miserable and vulnerable became their strength.
Like shadowy monsters in the night, hidden by the rolling fog and loud patter of freezing rain, Bravo and Alpha Teams closed onto the massive fortress. Jason eyed the SEALs while pressing his body deep into the cover of the rockwall that surrounded the compound.
"Ready, boys?"
The soft snap of their safeties flipped off.
"I have two tangos in sight. Call your shot, Bravo One," Full Metal said. He peered over the low wall, eyes on the two lone sentries stationed on either side of the compound's entrance.
Mistake Number One: The guards were in plain view and though they were heavily armed, they lacked body armor and weren't keenly observant. They'd been trained by the Taliban but they clearly lacked actual execution.
"Left," Jason whispered and aimed. "Three, two, one -"
Twin suppressed shots. The men fell. Silence.
"Passing Lincoln," Jason said into his comm. Step five was now complete; Eric would likely be marking his whiteboard back at TOC that very second.
With a nod from Full Metal, Alpha Team slipped away and Bravo waited patiently as the others climbed the rear of the compound to the roof. Shortly after, their radios buzzed to life and Alpha One declared, "All call signs, Alpha Team set, we've reached the roof and we're ready to breach."
"Copy, Alpha One. Bravo Team moving to breach."
Bravo pried open the entrance doors and then, deathly silent, they poured inside with incredible precision. The corridor was dim, lit only by a faint glowing candle in the first room to their right- the main sitting room. Together they fanned out in synchronized steps, the only sound was their boots, barely echoing across the mud brick floor. They cleared the first floor together: two large sitting rooms, a kitchen, washroom, and two small storage areas, all void of the number of hostiles they'd been briefed on.
Clay's blood was singing, thrumming with hot adrenaline as the team ascended the stairs to the second floor. Every nerve was on alert; each step closer to the bedrooms they took the higher chance they'd encounter their targets, who likely slept unknowing of the danger that had just breached their dwelling.
Just as they'd rehearsed, Bravo Team split to cover more ground. Though they knew their American hostages were at this very compound, they'd had no intel of exactly where, and the compound itself was massive. Jason, Ray, Trent and Brock continued on to the upper third and fourth levels to join Alpha, while Sonny and Clay began clearing the second. It hadn't been more than fifteen seconds when what followed next happened nearly simultaneously:
Suppressed fire from the third floor then sharp cries, followed by retaliating fire - distinctly loud Russian-made AKs, not the weapons they were carrying. Any attempt at stealth was now gone.
Then the door to Sonny's immediate right crashed open. A man tore from inside the room, face twisted in a violent, biblical rage, dragging a terror-struck child, who he used as a human shield. More cries came from inside the room - it was a woman, and her screams pierced the air with words that were clearly English. One of their hostages.
Their so-called smooth sailing mission had just hit a shit storm.
"Put him down! Put your weapon down! Get on the floor!" Clay shouted in Pashto. He watched in horror as the man scurried backwards and dragged the weeping boy down the long hallway, rifle pressed deeply to his temple.
"Sonofabitch. I got him," Sonny said, raging forward. "Go, handle her! Bravo One, this is Four, I've got an HVT in sight, I'm pursuing."
Clay didn't hesitate, knowing Sonny could handle it because hearing their hostage sobbing in the large bedroom - that was his priority. He entered the room, his night vision goggles rendering a strangely light and dark green visible darkness as he searched for the source of the cries in two seconds flat.
Human eyes glowed back at him in his NVGs; it was Carmen Mendoza, one of their hostages. Her naked body was tied up, curled in the far corner of the room. A soaked gag had fallen out of her mouth and hung against her chin and agonized moans left her cracked and bleeding lips. He took a step towards the brutalized woman to calm her and announce that they'd come to rescue her and her husband…
It happened fast. There was a blur of motion in the corner of his eye; Clay turned, only took a moment to identify that it was one of their targets, Farjaad, storming towards him and so he squeezed a long burst from his HK416 into the man. Farjaad fell, twitched, then went still.
Behind Farjaad's body there was another flash of movement. A man emerged from behind a partition, scrambling towards two AK's propped against the wall just a few feet from Carmen. Clay hadn't been able to see his face, couldn't tell if this was their other hostage or another radicalized insurgent. Their mission was, in part, to rescue the hostages from this compound and Erik Mendoza will still missing. Erik could easily be confused by the sudden assault and could be trying to defend himself and his wife.
"Get down on the ground!" Clay shouted in English. Then in Pashto when he was ignored he yelled, "Get down! Do not go for the weapon!"
But the man scurried faster and so Clay lunged, tackling him. There was a brief fight for power but he was well-trained and quickly took the upper hand. Straddling him, Clay struggled to keep the man down and also adjust his NVGs that'd been jarred loose in the fight. He only needed a second to finally get facial recognition; the man below him was not Erik. It was Giv, Farjaad's brother, a man who was in deep with the same terrorist organization. Kill any combatant on sight except for your HVTs Jahangeer and Ilyos Yusufi, Blackburn had gruffly told them. So he did: double-tapped him in the chest. Giv gurgled and then went silent.
"All Bravo elements, this is Bravo Six," Clay said slightly out of breath into his comm, "I have two enemy KIA's, jackpot on the female hostage. I repeat, jackpot on female hostage."
Clay took a deep breath and stood, eyes sweeping the room. Though he didn't see anyone, just the woman, the hairs on the back of his neck had risen. As a Tier One operator, it'd been instilled in him to notice the little things: the disturbed dirt or snapped twig on the side of a trail, the silhouette of an SVEST hidden under layers of clothing. Even across the shadowy room as his eyes focused on Mendoza, he saw the slight change in her facial features: her brows pinched together, eyes widened impossibly bigger, lips parted in a soft gasp.
Fear. Primal fear.
But not of Clay.
She was looking just over his shoulder.
A deep, soldierly instinct caused him to swing his rifle to the left but -
He was a second too late.
Pain crashed across his back, jarring and deep. The air whooshed from his lungs and he stumbled forward, smashing headfirst into the doorframe. The second impact was resounding through his core. His NVGs snapped off, helmet taking the brunt of the crash. Clay didn't even have a moment to clear the black spots from his vision when a fist raked him hard across his jaw, knocking his helmet off, followed by the hot taste of blood. His head was quickly slammed back into the doorframe, wood splintering under his brow. A foreign hand jerked his rifle as he stumbled drunkenly, taking it as far as it'd go from his gunsling, and then the butt end smashed into the back of his skull. The only conscious thought he could muster was that this was bad.
This was very, very bad.
The insurgent got his hand on his rifle again and they struggled over control of the weapon together, despite Clay's greying vision and sudden loss of hearing. There was a flash of the muzzle as the guy got a loose finger on the trigger; the shot went wild, missed them both, and as the trigger was pulled again the gun miraculously jammed. It skittered to the floor as their continued struggle turned into swinging fists.
Clay managed to pitch to the left to dodge the next blow, falling out of the room and into the hallway. He turned, curled his fist, and the man ran right into his punch, a hit straight to the solar plexus. The hostile went backwards and that was when Clay saw what he had in his grip: the glint off a six-inch formidable combat knife. Blood dropped in rivulets off the serrated blade.
Whose blood?
The man recovered instantly and sprung to close the two foot gap between them. Clay didn't have time to reach to his hip and pull out his sidearm and so he rushed forward, using his forearm to shove the guy's hand with the knife outwards, away from his own body -
They both went down to the ground and fought and rolled, limbs entangling, the sound of flesh on flesh, relentless. Clay got in three well-placed blows but the man didn't let up, continued his brutal assault in a rush, like he was impervious to pain and the human limits of stamina. The blows that Clay did land didn't phase him at all, just made him angrier, louder, and stronger.
Alarmingly, there was no reprieve when another punch cracked against his temple again.
He slumped bonelessly to the floor and that was when time slowed down.
It hadn't even been a minute since the start of the attack and he was pinned down to the ground, barely conscious. Looking up through puffy, bloody and watering eyes, Clay finally got a good look at the guy's face: it was Ashur, the Yusufi brother's 3IC. Drug runner, human smuggler, all around Very Bad Guy. His face was red-purple, veins popping, spit spewing from his mouth as he roared at him in a strange slurry mix of Pashto and Dari. One hand was wrapped around Clay's neck, pressure increasing twofold, completely cutting off his air. Clay's only mercy was that the knife, still gripped in Ashur's other hand, was hovering above. The man seemed to be taking extreme pleasure in just choking him out instead of cutting him up.
Clay wrapped his fingers around Ashur's wrists to try to dislodge him. Even as his vision began to sparkle and fade, he could see Ashur's blown pupils, see his face twist into a wolfish grin. A literal stream of sweat rolled down his face, soaking his shirt.
It was unnatural.
Unnatural.
For a microsecond in between his body's blind panic to get air, Clay connected the dots.
They'd been infiltrating high-level drug traffickers… kingpins who had unfettered access to a surplus of stimulants, hallucinogens, and untested synthetic compounds. He felt the first bit of real fear rising as he realized why he was fighting someone who displayed inhuman strength, unmatched even for a Tier One operator.
Desperation roiled deep within him, sending his body into overdrive. With all his might, Clay twisted his hips, unseating Ashur just enough for Clay to jerk again, this time getting enough leverage to get his knee high enough to connect with his groin. Ashur fell off him but only for a second.
"Sonny!" Gasping and choking, Clay finally had breath to call out. "Bravo, I-" a wheeze, a cough, "I.. need -"
He got halfway vertical and fingers went for his thigh holster. His hands were shaking, he was dizzy, his fingertips just brushed the pistol grip of his Sig, when -
The resulting body slam stole the little breath he had left in his lungs, the thread of air making its way out producing an odd wheezing gurgle. In the fight for his life, Clay hadn't seen how close they'd rolled to the staircase until they were plummeting over the edge.
Limbs a tangled heap with Ashur's, they somersaulted down the long flight of unyielding cement stairs, pitching down hard and ugly and -
His body stopped with a violent, heavy jolt, his vulnerable head cracking against the mud brick wall. Pain exploded, sparking fireworks behind his eyes. For a moment that's all there was: pain, darkness, silence.
Then his world was spinning. He came back to himself and took loud, heaving breaths. Or, he thought he was, because his ears were ringing so loudly that he couldn't hear much of anything. Forcing his eyes open, he saw his own legs akimbo and then the expanse of the empty stairwell in front of him.
He had hit the floor hard and ended up with his head and shoulders against the far wall. Wetness was sheeting down his face. Clay reached up with a shaking hand to swipe the blood out of his eyes, but it just smeared on his hand and ended up everywhere. As the ringing in his ears began to wane, he heard the exchange of gunfire on the floors above. The mission came back to him in a rush as well as the insurgent who had taken him down the stairs.
Clay rolled his head to the side. Ashur was close - maybe three feet - and though it was dark it only took a second for his eyes to focus; he could see blood all over the guy. He also saw the long metal of the knife in the man's neck. His eyes were open and unseeing. He was dead.
The bit of relief was fleeting, though. He needed to move and get back to his team.
Swallowing after several painful breaths, he managed to get enough muscle to respond to try to pull himself up into a sitting position. But the second he tensed his abdominals, his body ignited in pain, a searing agony that shot through his lower belly, encompassing and effusive. It stole his breath and his eyes rolled back as his body went wholly limp. For a moment he breathed hot wet, noisy breaths as tears leaked from his eyes and his world went vaguely distant.
When the pain receded enough to think again, Clay sucked in a sharp gasp.
He heard a very far-off Six! Six! from the floors above. Intermittent gunfire continued, interspersed between shouts from his team and the enemy.
He needed to move.
He was out in the open and injured. Clay had the rational thought that if he couldn't make it up the stairs to help his team, the least he could do was get to cover and not somehow become a liability or another hostage.
Clay tried to get up again. It took several attempts, but by sheer force of will he was able to get to his feet and that was when he felt a strange, nauseating pressure in his gut and a sudden warmth gushing over his shirt and pants. He looked down. Even in the dark he could see that the shirt under his vest, his pelvic area, and his left thigh were saturated in fluid.
His fingers came away wet and red when he touched it. All at once, bodily tremors overtook him and his belly throbbed in time with his heartbeat, the same rapid heartbeat that galloped faster and faster in his ears. Stuttering, flailing.
It hurt.
God, it hurt.
Ignore it, he urged himself. He couldn't linger. You need to move.
Every step was agony but he did it, one staggering step followed by another. Clay made the short distance from where he'd landed, over to the sitting room across the hall. The door had been left open when it had been cleared earlier, and it was dark and quiet. Twelve steps, maybe fifteen with the way he was stumbling, and he'd make it to the far wall where he could render himself aid and then maybe get back to his brothers. He made it to the wall just in time as vertigo rolled up and over him. Even though he tried to brace himself, he slid down and landed hard on his ass, the impact jarring his side. Agony blossomed from deep within and his lips parted in an airless gasp as blood dribbled from his mouth.
Clay looked down.
There was a bulge under his shirt that hadn't been there a minute ago. With a shaking hand he pressed on his lower belly, and the bulge shifted under the slight pressure, squishing like a wet sponge. It took everything within him to lift the hem of his shirt.
And when he saw that his insides were now on his outside, it was as if he was in a vortex, all noise sucked away, even the frantic hammering of his heart. No amount of SEAL training could prepare him for this type of trauma.
Distantly, Clay heard voices: they were thin and fraught and far away.
Six, can you hear me?
Clay, SITREP.
Clay!
The shock of everything had caused the pounding in his skull to intensify and he gasped raggedly for breath. His blood-slicked hand reached for his comm, then realized it'd been knocked loose in the fight.
Before he could call out, Clay found his stomach rebelling. The bile burned up his esophagus and it tasted acrid on his tongue as it came out. He convulsed as he heaved, belly tensing rock hard. He heaved again, more forcefully this time and it was all too much. The pressure in his abdomen from vomiting sent him down to his side and a torn sob escaped him. The bulge under his palm grew bigger, the feeling of it resounded through his body with horrifying intensity.
This was bad, he fleetingly thought for the second time that night. He could still hear the pop pop pop of bullets in the floors above him, and he wasn't sure he could put up much of a fight if one came to him.
After everything, Clay wasn't going to go out in a blaze of glory. He was going to be done in by a knife to the gut and a push down the stairs.
He couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't.
Hearing what he thought was the succinct thudding of boots down the stairs, Clay braced his belly and somehow stood, leaning against the wall behind him with his full weight. One shaking hand held the bulge on his belly, the other raised his gun to aim. His vision was tunneling and he was shaking like a leaf but he wouldn't go down like this.
A few seconds passed where nothing happened and then his awareness started to slip. Toes and fingers tingled and everything started to buzz and slowly dissipate.
This wasn't what he wanted at all.
###
Twelve Hours Previous:
What Clay actually wanted was to rescue two hostages. Such things were pretty much par for the course when it came to DEVGRU, and this mission was no exception.
"You're looking at the photos of Erik and Carmen Mendoza, just recently married American college students who went backpacking in the Wakhan Corridor of northeast Afghanistan. They disappeared two months ago. We now have actionable intelligence about the precise location of where they're being held."
"Hiking? In Afghanistan?" Brock asked.
Sonny just looked insulted. "Why in the hell would someone go to Afghanistan by choice?"
Mandy raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. "Contrary to mainstream narratives that are limited to incidences of violence, not all of Afghanistan is a war torn state. The Wakhan region has remained conflict-free over the years and untouched by the Taliban and Al-Qaeda influence. It's been a markedly peaceful area."
Sonny made a 'hmmph' noise and chewed his toothpick. "Markedly peaceful? Well I'm not sure the Mendoza's agree with that statement."
Jason studied the information projected ahead of him and began to feel impatient, still waiting for Mandy to finish her point. "What's the story, Mandy?"
"I said 'has been' peaceful. We have reason to believe the Haqqani Network, a subset of the Taliban, has moved into a pocket at the northern tip of the Wakhan Corridor. They've been using this area to smuggle synthetic drugs and weapons in and out of Tajikistan. We believe they saw the Mendoza's as targets of opportunity, snatched them. Westerners are capable of generating hundreds of thousands, if not millions of dollars in ransom from their governments and families."
"Our government doesn't negotiate with terrorists," Clay said simply.
"Doesn't mean they won't try," Eric said from where he stood by Mandy, arms crossed.
"We've picked up some local chatter," Mandy continued, "and know that the two have been taken directly across the border, about two kilometers, to a remote village in Tajikistan."
Mandy thumbed the pointer in his grasp. A map of Wakhan Corridor disappeared and now the headshots of seven men were displayed for them to see. Eric moved to the projected images and spoke, "These are your two HVT's: brothers Jahangeer and Ilyos Yusufi. We're also estimating there to be another five men at the compound, who regularly support the brothers. We only have first names: Abdul, Farjaad, Abbasi, Ashur, and Giv. Ashur seems to do most of the chief shit for the Yusufi's, in addition to a long list of transgressions including sport killing in Eastern Afghan, human trafficking."
"Sounds like a real nice fella."
Blackburn walked to the table and placed two documents in the center. The first, a topographic map of the Wakhan Corridor and bordering Tajikistan region; the second, a detailed sketch of the compound itself. "Here's your route in: you HAHO in the Wakhan Corridor. You'll hike the border with Alpha Team into Tajikistan, using the backside of this mountain for good concealment from the target compound. From primary insert to the compound, you're looking at a two night hike. At the compound, Alpha Team will climb to the roof, they'll clear down. Bravo, you enter from the ground level, clear up. You coordinate over comms with simultaneous assault, you both meet in the middle. Bam. Secure our two hostages, take the Yusufi brothers alive, meet at the rally point and make exfil together."
Jason regarded the map cautiously. The compound was large but not impenetrable. The surroundings provided cover, and the remote land meant oppositional backup was far away. Their hostiles were drug smugglers and weapon runners - not war combatants, which meant they were tactically green. The only thing they had working against them was the terrain and the weather: the high Pamir Mountains that surrounded the Corridor were only second to the Himalayas. It was these very mountains and the dangerous terrain that kept them from inserting any closer to their target. And at such a high altitude, the weather was often unpredictable and severe. It could make traveling and flying in the area impossible for days at a time.
Mandy added to this, "The region is steep so expect typical comms problems."
Either way, this mission was classic. One they'd done dozens of times with success.
Jason locked eyes across the table with Ray, nodded to him. Easy.
Ray echoed with a firm nod. Easy.
###
Between the giants of Hindukush and the Pamir Mountains, Alpha and Bravo Teams dropped into the Wakhan Corridor in perfect silence from the skies.
It was the beginning of October, which meant winter was almost upon the region. As they touched down at the drop zone, a barren valley that ran between the three mountain ranges, they were left shivering from the night wind. Jason counted heads then studied each silhouetted figure, looking for limps or signs of injury from impact.
They each nodded to him. All good.
"TOC, this is Bravo 1. Successful insertion. Heading for target," Jason said quietly and then turned towards his teams. "Full Metal?"
Alpha's team leader had just finished wrapping his parachute in a tight bundle and stood. "We'll stay out back, follow your lead. Derek, you're rear security."
"Ray, I want you on point," Jason added as he also stowed his gear. "Sonny, behind him. The rest of you, fall into patrol order behind me. We'll hike until dawn."
They moved out. Jason waited until the others were far enough away then subtly grabbed Clay's shoulder, squeezed it. "You good, kid?"
It was Six's first mission back since the bombing in Manila and they were all a little on edge. Given how his team had almost lost him, how he still had the thick and knotted scars to show every time he undressed in front of his team, Clay was not surprised to see the (not-so-subtle) hints of continued mollycoddling and even second-guessing. They would never outright say it, but he saw it in the way Davis packed his gear (stowing extra hand warmers, hot chocolate, and wool socks just for comfort), saw it in the way Trent triple checked his med bag and added extra supplies, saw it when Sonny stoically clipped his hammock next to his on the flight over, a few feet closer than normal.
Their confidence in him was fractured.
One night that went terribly wrong; it hadn't been his fault and yet he still had to bear the consequences. Clay couldn't let go of the notion that until he proved himself to his team, that he was just as able-bodied as before, his spot in DEVGRU was jeopardized.
Clay regarded Jason out of the corner of his eye, gave him a nod and tight smile. After a lifetime of abandonment and never feeling good enough, he'd worked hard to not be seen as weak and dependent. The helplessness he felt to prove his worth to the only people he had left, weighed heavily on him.
###
At dawn, they made camp in a little cave under a jagged rock outcropping. Alpha took first watch and set the perimeter as Bravo settled in for a few hours' rest. Temperatures had plunged to just above freezing during the night and they were all tired and yearning to warm up. Just as Clay shimmied into his sleeping bag and closed his eyes, he felt a nudge.
Cracking an eye open he saw Sonny, extending a mug of warm hot chocolate.
Clay took the offer with a happy groan and sipped in approval. "You'll make a good housewife someday, Sonny."
Surprisingly, Three didn't take the bait and just sipped his own. "Well, you look like hell. Somebody's gotta take care of you, Wonder Boy."
The long, doleful cries of wolves echoed in the distance and they sat quietly for a few moments, their silence only broken by Ray and Brock who held their own soft conversation a few feet away.
Sonny's solemnity and scrutiny were unnerving him. Had been ever since he'd been officially cleared to operate. Clay ran a hand through his curls and tried turning his attention onto something that didn't include observations of his wellbeing. "Did you know Marco Polo walked along this trail?"
"Marco Polo? 'Marco Polo' as in: pool tag 'Marco Polo'?"
Clay scoffed. "What are you, five? Yeah, Son, Marco Polo. You ever take a history class?"
"You were reading -" Sonny gave him the eye, but folded his arms together and settled as if the story was just getting interesting. "I always knew you were the soft type."
"I was reading," Clay continued, "before wheels up and Marco Polo came through the Corridor with his family on the way to China, just over the border."
Sonny 'humphed'. Thought. "So why is the game named after him, anyway?"
"They say he got separated from his family on one of his expeditions. His family kept calling for him by 'Marco' and he responded 'Polo' until they found each other."
"Well if that ain't the dumbest thing I've ever heard, I don't know what is." Sonny settled deeply into his sleeping bag and set his mug aside; he would rinse it out later after a few hours sleep. "Alright, what do you say we rack out, nerd boy? We got a big day ahead."
Clay cracked a smile and finished his hot chocolate. It felt good going down, soothing something that'd been clenched and aching since Stella left him, since he nearly died in Manila. A minute later, he was tucked in warmly, almost shoulder to shoulder with Sonny.
He uncovered his arm, held his out his fist. "Night, brother."
Sonny tapped it with his own. "Night, sunshine. No snoring, ya hear? And keep those icicles that you call feet away from me. You turn into a damn octopus when it's cold, don't think I've forgotten how much…"
Lashes fluttering and finally closing, Clay's smile grew, because even as his friend continued his drawled complaints, Sonny subtly shifted closer, sharing his warmth.
###
It was another night of hiking the vast Corridor's valleys and plateaus, passing ruins of villages and lonely ancient tombs. Surrounding them on all sides were dramatic, snow-capped peaks of the three towering mountain ranges, and if Clay closed his eyes long enough, breathed in the frosty mountain air, he could envision himself being in the tranquil Rocky Mountains of Colorado, not a theater of war.
They followed the icy, roaring Panj River through narrow canyons and deep gorges. The going was slow; they made sure to keep a good distance between themselves and the few nomadic herders who moved frequently to look for pastures for their yaks. In between tiny settlements were vast stretches of nothingness, just exhaustingly rugged terrain - but this is how they preferred it. They were supposed to be ghosts here, so the less civilization the better.
At last they crossed the border into Tajikistan, but as they finally set their sights on the compound, the weather swiftly deteriorated. Clouds settled low, bringing a sudden mixture of hail and howling winds. Lightning flashed, and the storm crescendoed as thunder rumbled deeply overheard. Clay's nose burned in the frigid air, but he could hardly feel it. A surge of hot, electrifying adrenaline thrummed from his very core.
This was it. Manila had bucked him off the horse, but tonight was the night to get back in the saddle, prove his worth to his brothers.
Little did he know, with each forward step towards the compound, he drew closer and closer towards the moment that would change his life, quite possibly forever.
###
Please be kind as I'm dipping my toes for the first time in SEAL waters. All reviews will be eagerly read and so greatly appreciated.