04/30/12 Fixed typos

Thanks again, for reading

For some, the language, particularly those epithets you may find offensive, is there for a reason.

Decisions of Others Past and Present

Memories of a Journey Begun

Just three days ago, John was in the Missouri countryside drinking strong coffee nursing a hangover on the back porch of the old family farmhouse. His head made him swear that it was the last time he would let Eric talk him into 'just one' drink. He was watching the sun begin to burn off the morning mist over Mariah's garden. The first rays were slowly sliding down the hill and were changing the colors in Sarah's flower patch from morning grays to golden yellows, oranges, and reds. John faithfully maintained their gardens.

He was trying to sort his life out after seeing Sarah, finally seeing his little girl for the first time in four years, 'She didn't even recognize me.' He was hurt, the kind of bitter pointless hurt you get when there is nothing you can do, and you would do anything, anything at all to change the situation. 'No wonder she didn't, you idiot. She was only four the last time she saw you.' He told himself this over and over, but it never helped.

The drumbeat of rotor blades had changed his day. He had no idea why they had come to the house; they could have just called.

A few hours later, he was sitting outside the office of the Joint Chiefs. He had only been in the Pentagon twice in his career, and never near this office. His best service dress uniform felt like barbed wire. He had been in the jungle with bugs big enough to ride, hidden in the middle of a poison ivy patch, and been chilled to the bone in water colder than iced tea, but this time he was truly miserable. In every one of those other uncomfortable situations, he knew why he was there, but today he had no idea. His elbows were on his knees as he played absentmindedly with his cover; the cover should have been on his head, not bouncing around his hands like a frisbee.

"You need to be somewhere, Commander?" the adjutant did not look amused. "If you need to do something more interesting, I can tell the Admiral you have something else to do?"

"That will not be necessary; however, I do have dinner plans so…" John tried to lighten the mood.

"I promise to let the Chiefs know…" his voice full of mockery, the Lieutenant sat down at his desk without so much as a glance.

John stood up, replaced his cover, pulled himself up to his full height, all in one single fluid movement. "Is that what they teach these days, Lieutenant?" John's voice was frosty. "I had no idea that standards have fallen so low." John was more nervous than even he thought, 'Man, do I sound as big an asshole as I do in my ears?'

"At ease, Commander." Admiral Edward "Eddy" Sutherland took this moment to enter the anteroom. The door to the conference room was a deep chocolate brown, and it had opened silently. "Commander, please go in, we are just finishing up a briefing, I needed some coffee, is there anything you need?"

Embarrassed, John had jumped to full attention and saluted, the Admiral returned the salute. "A cup of strong coffee, Sir. Thank you, Sir." John did not even give the young Lieutenant a look as he again removed his cover and stepped into the conference room.

The adjutant thought himself reprieved, assuming that neither the Commander nor the 'Old Man' had seen his smirk.

The Admiral stepped to the side of the adjutant's desk, "Lieutenant, when that man leaves, I would suggest you take a good long hard look at him. There are only a handful of men with half as many bars as he is wearing, of those, fewer still who are alive to wear them, most of those ribbons and medals pinned to flags." Both men knew those flags; they had handed enough of them to grieving parents and widows, more than the Admiral had ever wanted to see, let alone give. "When you get close to a third of his, if you are fortunate enough to be breathing, then you can be a smartass. Until then, show some respect. Oh, and be quick with the coffee, make it good Navy coffee, not that Starbucks shit."

Admiral Sutherland, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, returned to the conference room, with John at attention at the table's foot before the assembled group. The Admiral enjoyed the situation's theatrics and hoped to teach John a little lesson - 'I have dinner plans indeed.' Sutherland walked back to his seat at the head of the mahogany conference table, its wood grain blended in nicely with the paneling. The paneling was new because the original décor of the room had burned on 9/11.

Taking his seat, Sutherland let his 'guest' stew for a minute or two while he shuffled papers that he had already read, always good to keep them guessing.

'What the hell did I do now?' John racked his brain; he had been a very good boy, resting from his latest injury, this one not combat-related; even soldiers can crash a mountain bike if the rocky slope of a hill gives way. His confusion must have shown on his face when the Admiral finally had mercy on him. There were six other people, five all seated near the head of the table, three men and two women, all in uniform; the Admiral was the Chairman, then the Vice-Chairman, and assorted Chiefs of the different branches. He could not place the one seated to his right on this end of the table, a reasonably attractive woman in a very well-tailored European cut blue pinstriped business suit. 'I wonder if she is wearing slacks or a skirt?' He would have to guess for a few more minutes as the table blocked his view.

"At ease, John. By the way, that Lieutenant outside is a Senator's kid. Good work on pissing him off, I am sure I will hear about it later." John was about to apologize, but Sutherland lifted his hand to wave him off, "He is an insufferable prick, we keep him here to avoid his pissing off any real soldiers or sailors. Heaven knows 'Daddy' might be pissed if his precious little boy discovered that he might get hurt in a real war. Besides, you are probably wondering why we asked you here today."

John was not sure that having a Blackhawk land in your vegetable garden with a half dozen armed soldiers jumping in the middle of your radish and cucumber beds constituted being asked to do anything. The bird pilot was pretty good; she tried to spare the garden, but she had to avoid the trees, power lines, and the apple orchard, so Mariah's garden was her only choice. John was given fifteen minutes to get his seabag together, then flown to the local airstrip to board a Gulfstream to Dulles. It was a real shame, the cucumbers looked good, and he had just gotten ahead of the flea beetles. He did not like gardening much, but Sarah had loved to plant flowers, and Mariah had been such a good gardener. John built the beds, and they planned each year's garden together. After the divorce, everyone told him to just plow it under and plant grass, but he couldn't.

"Yes, sir. I was." John's voice was a little sharp - remembering made him grumpy. Just then, there was a knock on the door, a short pause, and the adjutant opened the door carrying a silver service. The Lieutenant passed him as if he were invisible and began to place cups and saucers around the room when the Admiral shooed him out, "That will be all, Lieutenant, please make sure we are not disturbed." The Lieutenant walked back past him; John noticed he seemed to be looking closely at the decorations on his chest. Recognizing several, the Lieutenant bowed his head slightly as he went by, closing the door behind him.

"There have been some strange developments in north-central Iraq, some incredible archeological finds we must have investigated. The reports are," the Admiral was searching for the right word "…interesting." A gargantuan understatement as it turned out. "We need to get boots on the ground before those bastards blow it all up." The Admiral touched his work surface, and a map of Central and Northern Iraq appeared on the wall.

"I am sorry, Admiral, I must not have heard you correctly." John was flummoxed, "You want me to take a team into that hot zone to what, look for pottery shards?" John hoped that he had indeed not heard correctly. "I can't keep track of all the terrorist groups operating in that area, let alone who they work for today. Begging your pardon, sir. That would be suicide."

Sutherland had expected this response; John was a good man, willing to risk his own neck any day, but unwilling to risk his team without a damned good reason. Sutherland was about to give him his canned speech when Dr. Turpids stood; John noticed she was wearing a skirt and wearing it well. Suddenly self-aware of his observation, John groaned internally. 'Lord, I need to get out more. I am getting as bad as Eric.'

"Admiral, with your permission." Without even waiting for the reply, she turned to face John. "Commander, this is an extraordinary opportunity, an astonishing find. The site is perhaps one of the oldest structures on Earth; our initial findings indicate that it could be older than the pyramids." She leaned forward, supporting herself by placing both fists on the table, she struck the pose she had often used with slow students or recalcitrant administrators. "Older by at least a thousand and perhaps two thousand years maybe more. If only half of our early findings are confirmed, human history will need a rewrite." She paused a moment for dramatic effect; John noticed and wondered if she had practiced this speech. "These discoveries are as fundamental as Darwin, Newton, or Einstein – this site could completely change what we think about human civilization. Yes, the site is that crucial, important enough to lead the scientific team myself. With or without your help. I hope it will be with." Dr. Turpids straightened her jacket and skirt then sat down.

Admiral Sutherland reclaimed the floor, "Thank you, Dr. Turpids; we appreciate your – enthusiasm for this effort. However, I can not order Commander Gray or his men to take on such a vital but inherently dangerous mission. He and they, even with the full support of the President and Prime Minister, must decide to risk their lives on this vital operation."

'You bastard.' John hoped his thoughts did not reach his face or his eyes. However, from Sutherland's subtle smile, it was clear that it had.

"Again, Doctor, you have the floor to explain the situation." Sutherland now did little to hide the smile on his face as Dr. Turpids stood and walked to the front of the conference room; John never understood how women could walk in heels, let alone five-inch ones that Dr. Turpids wore. They must value fashion over comfort. John could not wait to get back to a more practical Missouri, but then again, Mariah had worn similar shoes there.

Dr. Turpids began as if she were born on the dais of a lecture hall, "As you may know, two weeks ago there was an 8.0 magnitude Earthquake in northern Iran which seems to have run along a previously unknown fault line into northern Iraq…" John listened to the ninety-minute presentation. Most of it was not in his field of study in college, and certainly not in his military career; he could not help wondering how anyone could devote their lives to digging up pottery shards or worse things. But the world was made up of all kinds, and he was glad he was not going to be holding a paintbrush to unearth the next set of ancient scrolls. The mission was pretty simple, get in, get some photos, then get the fuck out. Of course, mission creep would take over from there.

Admiral Sutherland then asked the big question. "So, John, what do you think? You got the balls to try and pull this off? Or do I need to see if the Army has someone?" That was a low blow even for the brass.

"I will ask the team; I can't commit them to a volunteer operation without even asking them. Regardless, I go only if I pick my people, equipment, kit, blank check, or no deal. I also want to plan several insertion and extraction scenarios and some support if this goes sideways. Agreed?" Sutherland did not even hesitate, the blank check surprised him a little, but the President was all in on this one. If it worked out well, it would be a massive coop for him; and if not, it would be buried along with John, Turpids, and their teams in a mountain of secrecy. The pols would be happy either way.

On his way out, lost in thought, John left the room and passed by the Lieutenants station, at first he did not hear the man, then something brought him to reality, "I am sorry, Lieutenant, what did you ask me?" The preoccupied look was suddenly gone from his face as he focused on what the man was trying to tell him. "I am sorry, Sir. I was offering an apology. I was rude to you earlier; I should not have been. I will endeavor to do better in the future."

John looked closely at the young man, realizing how young the adjutant was, suddenly feeling his age, he replied. "No apologies necessary, Lieutenant, I was a smart ass, and you responded in kind. However, I would suggest that in the future, we both keep it professional. You can't piss off too many people if you follow the book. Take care of yourself." Replacing his cover, John turned to walk down the hall, a hall that he doubted he would see again.

From the office window, the Admiral watched the man leave the building. Sutherland was sure it would be for the last time; he could not help wondering if John remembered him. John had been unconscious when Sutherland had pinned the medal on his pillow; he smiled sadly at the memory of the lovely young doctor who had hovered over the handsome young injured sailor. Sutherland could not shake the nagging feeling that he was sending that brave young man and his team to their deaths. 'How is it that old bastards like me always seem to be sending young, better men to die?' He knew it was trite, but he also felt in his bones just how true it was.

Sutherland then committed himself to find out what went on with Mariah, none of his business, of course, but he was going to sort that girl out if it was the last thing he ever did. He was sure he would owe it to John, and by God, he would pay that debt.

Desert of Iraq

There is an axiom that war in general, but ground combat specifically, is a series of long stretches of extreme, mind-numbing, spirit killing boredom, interspersed with short periods of violent, blood-pumping, extraordinary terror. Just how those "short periods of terror" end determines the victor of a skirmish, or a battle, and ultimately a war. At this moment, as bullets ricocheted around him, Commander John Jerald Gray was confident today was going to be exciting.

About an hour before a couple of Toyota pickups adorned with assholes had crested the ridge to the south, the team had tried to lay low, but as usual, it had not worked. John had guessed that they must have seen something or had been tipped off because they did not approach at first. No, they just stopped and opened up in the general direction of the caves on the hill.

John presently did not feel like taking a peek to see who was spraying the side of the "mound" with full auto glee. He could identify two or three hostiles; presently, the sound of AKM fire was pretty distinctive, and he had heard it many times. He and his team, as well as the baggage, kept their heads down or were deeper inside the mound.

"Hey, Boss! You got that drone in your pocket?!" Eric was a little pissed that just as they had gotten things unpacked, John had started to feel itchy and ordered them to repack. The Doc had been furious; she screamed at him for five minutes before she started packing. The last thing packed were their survey drones. "Sure, it would be nice to look over the hill to see who is knocking at the door!"

"Sure, until some asshole shoots them out of the sky! You want to pay for that shit?" John retorted not too convincingly. He wished he had a drone himself just as a stream of bullets dislodged rocks about a meter above his head.

There are a few myths about AK's that persist in Hollywood. First, that they are the ubiquitous firearm of every power-mad dictator and terrorist group in the world; second that they are indestructible; third, that they are as accurate as a drunk at a urinal, and fourth, that they have limitless ammo. From painful experience, John knew the first two were correct, that the last two were not. John was waiting for the last one to change things in his favor. Laying on his left side with his head cocked at an extreme angle, trying to keep himself covered, was starting to make him angry.

John was generally a relatively upbeat kind of guy, at least he thought he was; pretty much anyone might have contested that supposition but not to his face. All the guys were wearing good body-armor, but it was not something you wanted to test. It provided some protection for the major organs, but bullets found a way. Fate proved the point; a bullet struck a rock and missed John's body by inches, but it took a chip off the cliff face, which ripped into his right pant leg, leaving a new red trail. 'Shit, I really liked these pants.' Sarah had picked them out for Father's Day, along with a unicorn plushy that lived in his bedroll.

John had had enough; he worked himself up the little berm into a better position to move. Using a small mirror to see over the cover, he could make out two guys standing out in the open! Their Toyota was a hundred meters behind them, and they had walked closer while firing. One might be a hundred meters, and the other behind him maybe twenty more. 'Thank God for morons!', he thought. John had fired and been fired upon by his share of AKM rifles, and he knew they were accurate if you are not stupid. These guys had been spending way too much time watching movies. The nearest idiot, Mr. Full-Auto, was shooting all Rambo from the hip, spraying the mound randomly. The other guy, Mr. Full-Auto's girlfriend, was behind him and at least shouldered the rifle. Those two were just bullet-catchers and would be dead in a heartbeat. It was the other ones that bothered John. They were well back, on the far side of the valley floor, maybe half a klick in the furthest Toyota. He could count two hostiles. One, probably the driver, was plinking at them using the driver's side door to steady his aim, but five hundred meters is a long way for an AK; he was only slightly more of a problem than the two morons. What made John's teeth itch was a heavy machine gun in the bed of the Toyota. It was not firing, and it was manned and dialed in on roughly their position. If it were not so dangerous, it would be funny; that beast on that little pickup looked like some kid had torn the guns off his Lego Star Wars ATAT and glued it on his matchbox car Toyota pickup. As ridiculous as it looked, that gun had death written all over it. It fired a projectile the size of a sausage and was reasonably accurate out to two klicks. "Some people just have no sense of fair play. " John spoke to the rocks.

Everyone was behind cover; Eric was about 5 meters to his left, Little John was the same distance on his right. Patty was high above them, behind a pile of rocks doing overwatch, the rest of the guys were covering the baggage and helping them pack in the mound itself. The two morons shooting at them out in the open were being used as bait, to see if his team were stupid enough to come into the clear. If they exposed themselves, then the heavy would open up, and that would not be a bad plan - John had other ideas.

With all the noise, he took a chance and yelled, "Patty, there is a goat fucker behind the heavy machine gun. When we take out the morons, make sure the gunner is dead, or we will be. We wait for the next mag change then go."

It was easy to see that Little John and Eric got his message, but no way to be sure Patty had. Their electronics were acting weird ever since they got to the mound, or hill or whatever it was, and their comms were down - again. John just hoped that he got the message, he did not want any more holes in his fatigues, and his body armor would not even slow down one of those sausages. They would turn him into red mist, but on the bright side, it was better than bleeding out or getting your head cut off – so there was an upside.

All three hostiles were firing at the same time, all but the guy with the compensation issues. A funny thing about humans, it is not a rule but close enough - sometimes they sort of fall into a pattern, play follow the leader, probably from training together on the range. Suddenly, Mr. Full-Auto went silent, as did his girlfriend, the guy in the truck was still plinking away, but he was a crap-shot, and distance did not help. When the two nearest stopped firing, John, Eric, and Little John moved as one.

Everything slows down in those sorts of moments. It is dangerous as hell for new guys. When new guys come under fire for the first time, they react differently, and you never know how until it is your turn. Some guys see a movie of their lives flash before them, others freeze or crumble into a fetal position - but John and his men were not new guys.

Cresting the cover, John could see the Mr. Full-Auto was fighting with the stupid front grip of his AKM. The "dong," a wooden handgrip popular with some manufacturers, was too long, and his mag was hung up for a quick change, not an issue at the range, a real problem in a firefight. Full-Auto never got a chance to clear it - two rounds went through him, one his chest the other his head. John would have to talk to Eric about showing off, okay in some situations, not cool in this one! Little John was using his light machine gun on his goat molester, of the team, only L. J. was big enough to carry it, let alone use it as a personal weapon. The LMG tore into its target, making him bounce like a puppet until his strings were cut – then he was down. Simultaneously, the truck driver had broken cover and was firing at them, rounds were landing all over the place, yet another moron who thought full-auto was the solution to everything. John took careful aim and sent him to Hell, with a three-round burst, all to the chest. Eric took note of the hits; he would have to speak to John about showing off, five hundred yards with an M4?

Patty must have gotten the message because when John had put glass on the Toyota, he noticed that the driver was a bloody mess on the ground, but more importantly, the heavies' gunner was missing his head. He would have to ask Patty what he was putting in his rounds. The last thing they needed was a trip to the Court in the Hague. This whole operation was supposed to be on the down-low, which is why they had been "retired" from active service. John carefully got up to see a little better; at that point, the sound of a motorcycle reached him. "Patty, do you see anything near the far mech?" He shouted up toward the cliff top.

"Not a thing, Boss!" came the reply with a slight Irish lilt. Regardless, everyone could hear the sound; there must have been a third guy at the truck, probably to help the heavy gunner handle ammo; the boxes for that beast were heavy as shit. "Fuck! Patty, keep an eye on that bastard, try and clean him up if you can!"

"Will do, Boss, but I don't have a shot. He must have used the rise to drop out of sight," about that moment, Patrick's voice went up in tenor and volume, "Fuck, I see him! He is heading back south, going like a bat out of Hell, climbing the ridge a klick south." All of them looked, Eric and L. J. shielding their eyes, but John, with his field glasses, could see the figure moving fast, trying to stay ahead of potential harm. Suddenly, John could hear the big Berrett 338 Lapua fire round after round at the fleeing terrorist. Explosions of rock and sand erupted near the rider, but none connected; it would have taken a miracle to hit him. Only seconds later, they watched him top the ridge, take to the air for a second or two, then plunge down the other side, out of reach. Apparently, Heaven was fresh out of miracles today.

"Shit, there is nothing we can do about it now." John stood up, dusted himself off, then headed back to the cave as Patty covered. "Go clean up the mess down there." Eric and L. J. moved to do just that, picking up ammo and AKMs, even some RPGs; it never hurt to have extra tools in a firefight besides the baggage might want some fun. They then blew the Toyota and heavy machine gun and ammo, no reason to leave toys for the children they knew were coming.

At six-four with long legs, John took walking strides that made most people find themselves trotting to keep up with him. He instinctively ducked; he did not need to, the cave entrance was over eight feet high and four feet wide, it was rough compared to the interior of what the 'Doc' was now declaring a 'Temple.' A temple to whom or what she had no clue. Sam was bent over, packing the last of her instruments, and was very pissed off. She was not happy about the packing. They had only just unpacked and started working for a couple of days when John began to get that itch between his shoulder blades and ordered them to get ready to bug out. That itch was never wrong; he had not entered the large room when he called, "I hope you're done packing Doc - companies comin', put the kettle on!"

It is funny how with time, things can go from bad to worse then wholly to shit.

Most of the team had hunkered down deep in the cave. Bullets had been flying all over the entrance for the better part of an hour; it has started a couple of hours after the firefight had ended earlier in the day. John and Sam had been at each other's throats about the equipment; she had flatly refused to leave it; she was the one whose ass was on the line for the stuff. She had promised everyone anything they wanted; her word had been given to people all the way down to janitors that it would be guarded and returned. They had some of the most valuable instrumentation on Earth; Russia or China would kill to get their hands on it; most of it tech NASA wasn't at all happy was outside their labs, let alone in the deserts of Iraq. All of it was unique, all of it cutting edge, portable devices, some being tested for the Moon and Mars missions, everything from portable microscopes, mass specs, NMR, a DNA sequencer, even an ultra-high-resolution 3D printer to create custom packaging for really delicate items and trade crap for the locals. She had made promises down to her soul. She was absolutely NOT going to leave one piece of this equipment, and she sure as Hell was not going to destroy it either.

John was having none of it; he was willing to leave it all and blow it all up if that was what it took. He was not going to die to save a bunch of NASA shit. It took too long to haul it all up the face of the mound, and he could not understand why it was even there in the first place.

"Look Doc; I don't give a tinkers damn about any of this shit. You have a choice, blow it up, or die with it. I don't care!" John knew full well that his orders were to return not only the researchers but also the equipment.

Now the fucking satellite phone decided to work! Sam had sent a series of texts during the argument, including John's last rant. The response she got was pretty simple. She held it up for him to read. Then it rang, she hit speaker, Admiral Sutherland's voice came through loud and clear, "John, this is really big, it comes from the President himself. For some reason, he has a stick up his ass about this, don't ask me why. If you can't come back with the civilians and their equipment, do not come back. That is an order from the President and Joint Chiefs." The line went dead; John was pretty sure they all were just as dead. Sometimes, John wished he had done anything else after high school, and recently he had made this wish on a daily basis.

As much as John hated it, Sam was right. He had been impressed by every piece of equipment that was with them. 'Even a God damned DNA sequencer? What the fuck did they need that for?' They seemed to have every instrument he had ever heard of, and John was not ignorant; he had managed to pick up an engineering degree along the way, long tours could be taken up by watching porn, lifting weights, or studying. John enjoyed lifting weights, but he would instead read a book than watch porn. To be a Navy SEAL, you can't be stupid; sure, there was a certain amount of martial training, but during BUD/S and SQT, you have all kinds of trials, both physical and mental. Complex discussions about philosophy or literature while you are freezing your ass off in the Pacific surf after a brutal workout. All to be sure you could keep thinking under stress and exhausted. John could think.

"Fine, fine, the trucks should be moved around, we will start moving stuff now. Get everyone ready. Take your pictures and say goodbye. I doubt those bastards will leave any of this when we leave." He looked around; it was beautiful. The walls were remarkable; there were two different constructs, an inner and outer Temple. The outer temple seemed to be the only part affected by the Earthquake; the inner Temple was almost pristine. The walls were covered with beautiful impressionistic mosaics as he had never seen before, graceful and breathtaking, of finely cut tiles with a remarkable metallic glaze. John had heard that ancient Babylon had used cobalt blue glaze, but no one had found one of the tiles, but here were dozens of examples of intricate mosaics in blues, greens, deep reds, and subtle golds and silvers. They made those in Egyptian tombs look like crayon drawings; the mosaics reminded him much more of the works he had visited in the Guggenheim. Works from the early 20th century, not thousands of years ago. There were also paintings; they appeared to be graffiti painted on the more spartan walls. The only thing that marred the space was a rough-cut sandstone wall of stone directly opposite the entrance. The wall showed deep cracks and looked like it needed just one more good aftershock to come down.

All of this gawking at the grandeur came to an end when an explosion rocked the whole structure. The strange thing was, it was from below, not above. Or at least it felt that way. Dust filled the entire space; coughing and covering his eyes and nose, John yelled at everyone to take cover. Something was very wrong, shortly after all the lights went out. They had been on battery lanterns since the generator was packed along with all the other equipment, all on nice three excellent wheeled pallets, by far the largest was the lab equipment; it took three men to move it. The others were smaller, and a couple of guys could grab them and go. John had seen those lanterns survive IEDs and being dropped from birds to the desert below, what would cause six of them to go out at once?

The cavernous sanctuary was now pitch black, with only a little light coming from the main entrance, and the glow of the green emergency lighting from the far wall, John worked his way toward the sunlight, "Everybody alright? Check to see if there are any wounded, be careful this place could cave in at any moment!" Even as he said it, John doubted whoever had built the place knew what they were doing.

John made it to the cave entrance before he heard the combat outside. For some reason, the sound did not travel well inside the temple. Soon he was out of the dust cloud that had been pushed from the temple entrance out into the hot desert air outside; his men were keeping cover while dozens of enemy fighters were trying to move closer to the mound. The once pristine desert floor was now littered with several new trucks and vans all in different states, some burning, some full of holes, a couple with massive gaping scars from RPGs, all the hits had come from the mound. Little John had managed to snag a box of RPG reloads and a couple of launchers from the morons they had dealt with earlier in the day. That had made things a little more even than they might have been.

"Report!" John had to shout to be heard over the din, 'Fuck, why don't these comms work!' They had been intermittent earlier; now, there were not even statics.

"We are good for ammo, we brought a ton, and we have some backup AKs and a shit load of mags, as well as a dozen RPGs – the good ones. Fuck only knows where they got them. I didn't think the Chinks or the Ruskies were letting them go, but who knows." He looked over the berm through a small space between rocks just long enough to count, before some rounds came in at him. "About a two dozen assholes came over the hill about two hours ago, Patty has been discouraging them as much as he can, but these guys are not the morons from this morning. I suspect they are regulars from Syria or Iran. They have a lot better idea of what they are doing. Why they are doing it is anyone's guess. Why would they send regulars out here?"

"Fuck if I know, there is more going on than I know about." John was sure of that; nothing in this had added up, something was fucking wrong, and his people were in the middle of this shit storm, and it was not looking or smelling good right now. "Was anyone able to get around to get a truck?" He knew the answer as soon as he asked, since about that moment, a string of heavy machine-gun fire laced the cliff wall behind him, knocking large chunks of rock, sand, and other debris down on all his men.

"Are you fucking serious? Of course not! We are just trying not to get our asses shot off here!" Eric was having none of this; it was all he could do to get Patty off the top of this shit pile before all the goat fuckers started trying to tear the mound apart one bullet at a time. As it was, Patty had just managed to bring Riley and Reagan down, he insisted on getting the rest of his kit as well, how he didn't get his Irish ass shot off Eric never knew, 'Luck of the Irish!' Patty had stood there, putting 'girls' to bed, two custom rifles, Riley and Reagan, named after his twin daughters back home, and a smaller desert camo rifle named Kelly after his wife. 'Short, sweet, fast, packs a wallop, and is easy on the arms.'

All three packed into a single box, which he carried on his brawny back under decidedly none regulation plaited red hair, which matched his beard. Right now, Riley and Reagan had been put to bed, and Kelly was making the lives of the goat fuckers short.

"Fuck, okay without the trucks, it does not matter whether we dump the equipment, which we can because those ass holes are blocking the only way out of here. We have to kill these bastards, then load up and get the fuck out. We…" John never got to finish his plan, because as in all battle-plans, the enemy gets a vote. Over the din of rifles, you could hear the clacking sound of a tank. Moments later, a lumbering T-72 came over the ridge, followed shortly after by yet another. They took up positions about just below the ridge as soon as they reached the crater floor.

"Fuck! Alright, everyone get inside now! Grab all your shit and get inside!" Everyone froze for a second then started moving, all but Eric, who stood and looked at John like he was insane. John had hoped this was not going to be an issue but knew it might. Eric was very claustrophobic and had come along only when John had promised that he did not have to go inside the caves. John had broken that promise.

"Eric, I know! I know, but it is either that or die out here!" The tanks made the point when a shell exploded a couple dozen feet below them, sending debris flying all around them, and the concussion caused John's ears to ring even though his ear-pro. 'How could they miss? We should be sitting ducks at this distance?' The second tank was adjusting by this time, and John grabbed Eric and forced him into the tunnel. Just as they got inside, the 100mm HE shell exploded to the left of their position by about 20 meters. 'They can't be that bad a shots, even T-72's are accurate at this distance, their laser range finders and fire control are excellent out to 1000 meters?'

"Boss, I am getting a message from the Reagan!" Glenn Knox screamed across the now dark cave. The emergency green lighting was pulsing and seemed to be failing. The dust cloud was finally clearing, but the lanterns were down still. "Reception is shit; the batteries are dying fast, I don't know why they were 100% and hour ago!"

"Just tell me what are they saying, Knox." John had known Glenn Knox for only a couple years; he was still pretty young, but a good rifleman and a brilliant comms man. He had been going crazy, trying to figure out what the problem was.

"They have been monitoring, a Global-Hawk was up and saw the first engagement, the Iranians shot it down! Ronald Reagan has two flights of F-18s and a flight of FA-18 inbound. We have five minutes they say take cover!" Knox's voice had gone up half an octave.

"Everyone gets away from the tunnel! Get everything back against the wall!" He was frantically waving, forgetting that no one could see him in the dark. None of the flashlights were working now, and all their batteries were dead. It was now pitch dark except for the light from the tunnel mouth and the dim green light in the back of the cave. They all moved the equipment back against the wall; it took almost all the time they had, all ready to move as fast as possible. "Okay, here is the plan. We all put hands on the equipment; Little John helped the doc and her people; we need to make sure that the carriers get out with us. We leave nothing!"

"Sir! I am getting maydays; the F-18s are having electronic problems!" Glenn shouted, before pulling his headphones off and shoving the remainder of his equipment into a carrier. "Doesn't fucking matter, the batteries are dead." Grabbing the compact antenna, and the rest went in the bag.

John took a chance and ran to the tunnel entrance to see what was happening. At the mouth, he could hear the jets, and now the fighters were finishing off the trucks, which had been all either light up or trying to get under cover of the ridge; moments later, the FA-18s hit the tanks, one exploded then the other.

John turned back to the dark Temple atrium. "Get ready, air cover is blowing the shit out of them, we won't have much time…" John was sure they had a chance to run, turning back to the atrium, he shouted down the tunnel. A green burst of light flooded the space from deep in the mound; for a moment, John could not see. He could hear a jet engine screaming; looking back, John had just enough time to see the F-18 pilot blow his canopy, and the stricken F-18 tumble through the air toward the mound. He turned down the tunnel and ran toward the Temple proper; he knew the outer shell would not take the blast. "Take cover!" The next moment he was flying down the tunnel, a pillar of fire followed from the explosion at the bottom of the mound below the tunnel entrance.

Cells In Haven

'Andraste's dimples, my head hurts, and my legs!', Serrada was slowly becoming conscious, 'Why do my knees hurt so badly.' She was not aware of what was going on around her; she barely opened her blurry eyes, her head throbbed, she could hear her heart and the whoosh of blood in her ears. When she opened her eyes, she wished she had not. She tried to move her hands to massage her temples, that was going to be difficult because she felt the overwhelming weight of shackles holding them down.

'Shackles, why am I in shackles?' No sooner had the thought entered her mind than a blast of frigid air and piercing white light burst through a door she had not yet noticed. The cold air and light were blocked only for a moment by two women she had only ever seen from a distance - Seeker Lady Cassandra Pendaghast, followed immediately by Lady Leliana Cousland's wife of the Hero of Ferelden! Earlier this very week, Serrada had seen them from afar and would have been giddy at the opportunity to be in the same room with either. However, now to be so close to both, she was more nauseated than giddy.

Serrada thought to address Lady Cousland first; after all, they were sisters in law, however distantly. Her older sister, Alissia, was the second wife of Fergus Cousland, the older brother of Ellana Cousland – The Hero herself. If Serrada thought it might bring her any consideration, Seeker Pendaghast's demeanor disabused, but not so much as the look in Lady Cousland's blue eyes - they were focused on Serrada and were far colder than any ice sheet in the Frostbacks.

"Tell me why we should not kill you now." Cassandra's voice and query brought her attention back to the Seeker. Something in such a question has a strange ability to focus and freeze the mind, especially when asked by one of the foremost swordswomen in Thedas - certainly a great conversation starter. Truthfully, she could remember little after that initial, heart freezing introduction. If asked, she would have spun a story, perhaps one of bravado daring Cassandra to strike her down, or some such foolishness. The truth was of heartbreak and bewilderment; so many dead, likely among them those she companioned through long miles on their journey from Ostwick. The lonely watches, countless hours of walking or riding, with a certainty that the same trees were, in fact, passing by them as their horses seemed to walk in place. She had befriended all of them, even Amalia, she thought a friend. Had all of them gone up to the Conclave - when was it? She fought to remember; she remembered being detained waiting for something, someone? She remembered getting to the Temple then nothing. How could that be?

Cassandra pressed her for answers. How had she gotten there? Why did she do it? What did she see? Who had assisted her? Serrada fought to remember anything of the events when asked; the questions seem to go on, each more venomous than the one before, and Leliana was standing back, dissecting every look, every twitch of an eye. At one point, Serrada wondered when she would have the Seeker step away so the real dissection could begin – the thought sent a shiver down her spine. One look in those beautiful blue eyes convinced her that for all her vaunted beauty, grace, charm, and wit, Lady Leliana Cousland would find no qualms in slowly, methodically, and very, very effectively peeling back every layer of deception, with each layer of skin, muscle, and bone.

"I had nothing to do with it; I don't remember what happened." Serrada was near panic; she tried to calm herself like the master of the sword tried to teach her years before – it worked now as well as it did then – which is to say – not at all. She fought to focus on Cassandra, but Leliana's eyes kept drawing her back, drawing her in.

Her growing fear was about to overwhelm her; a mind-numbing pain burst from the palm of her left hand – as a hot brand driven through flesh and bone. A bright green flame emerged as if it was inside her hand! There is a limit to what the human mind can process, only so much fear, so much pain or pleasure - Serrada had reached her limit.

Mouth agape, she raised her hand and looked at it as if she had no recollection of it and no idea how her hand had gotten on the end of her arm. At that moment, the Seeker grasped the offending arm at the wrist, "Explain this!". Serrada looked at her as if she had asked why the Maker had abandoned Andreste to the fire – "I can't." It was the most profoundly truthful thing she had said in a very long time. Cassandra's anger reached her limits of control; quickly, Leliana stepped forward and restrained her companion. They worked as a team, the Right and Left Hands of the Divine – to very powerful appendages that now had no body to serve.

Leliana grabbed and pulled the Seeker away, "We need her, Cassandra." It was all she said, but to Serrada, it was a lifeline; at that moment, she was not worried so much about her life as her sanity. She fought for a fragment, some hint of memory, not so much a barrier. She might have expected a wall; after all, she had read of such magic, the Tranquil seemed to have them to relieve the anguish that might arise from the memory of a lost life. It did not appear as a barrier, just an absence, a black void.

"Do you remember how this began.", Leliana asked after putting herself between Cassandra and 'the prisoner.'

"I remember running; things were chasing me, then – a woman!" Her memories were as vague and wispy as if she had drunk too much then slept too long. She tried again, but remembering was like trying to reach for something in deep clear water, indistinct, blurred but visible, but no matter how hard you tried, it was always out of reach.

"A woman?" Leliana's response to this revelation was as strong as Cassandra's, somehow even more menacing; although Leliana bore no weapon, Serrada knew Leliana had no need of one. Serrada tried to shy away, to avoid those now blazing blue eyes, she desperately fought for words, to plead, to beg - 'Leliana, I did not do this - please!' The desperate words forming in her thoughts never left her lips.

"Go to the forward camp Leliana. I will take her to the rift." It was Cassandra who came to her rescue this time. Leliana left the room as Cassandra helped Serrada stand, removing the shackles, but binding her wrists. Serrada could not clearly remember the conversation that came after. She long remembered that, however desperate, perhaps even afraid, Cassandra's words, while not gentle per se, were at least less accusatory. The eyes of the group they passed through showed no compassion, only hate. They were certain and that she – Serrada – was guilty beyond doubt of every crime that could be reasonably, or unreasonably, laid at her feet.

As they walked, Cassandra talked, but Serrada paid it little heed till they reached a bridge. She had been told its name, but she could not recall it for the life of her; she knew she should know it, why couldn't she remember? That realization had made the pain of loss more unbearable. She thought Lian had told her the name. This wide-eyed young squire was in her company, a boy perhaps only a few years younger than herself, who could not help but exclaim at every new vista, every new single landmark of note from Ostwick to Haven – she knew he must be dead as well, he had to be at the Conclave proper, along with the guard.

Serrada remembered that she had stayed behind to make arrangements for their stay in Haven. In truth, she wanted to delay joining the Conclave; it would mean the end of any hope for her dreams, even a few more moments before she would join the Chantry officially, this she remembered, but why was all else a hazy mist or black void? She only half-listened to the Seeker but was drawn back to the realization that Lian would never live to see his family and never have his own. How would she ever look at his mother again – she had promised to watch over him.

They had just passed through the first gate to the bridge from Haven; Serrada noticed the unattended injured, the uninjured huddled in prayer, the rows of the dead awaiting the shroud, and finally, the wagon filled with those prepared for the fire.

Without warning, the monstrous rent in the sky burst out; again, the same hot burning pain in her hand driving her to her knees. Cassandra knelt by her, her voice gentler now, her eyes showed more pity and concern than anger.

"That mark is killing you…." In any other situation, Serrada would have laughed; her mother had often scolded her that she was too blunt, that she drove people – meaning men – away by her straightforward way of approaching a subject. Somehow, it appeared that Lady Cassandra Pendaghast had missed that talk with her mother; perhaps if she lived through this whole mess, she would remember to ask her why.

Dragging herself to her feet Lady Serrada Trevelyan, Forth Child of Bann Igor, and Lady Trevelyan pledged herself to the Seekers cause. "I will do what I can to help."

Out of Darkness Into A New Light

John woke to the blindingly bright light shining in his eye, which John was trying hard to close. "What the fuck are you doing?" John tried to sit up but discovered that it was a terrible idea.

"Hold still, you idiot!" José was not used to telling people what to do, except when he was making sure that their gooey bits stayed on the inside.

"I think you have a serious concussion; you might have cracked that thick skull I don't know." José sounded worried; John never liked it when José was worried. That meant people usually died. That was just about the time the penlight went dark.

Now John could easily see the bright green emergency lighting. John slowly began to sit up with José's help. He looked around, his head still swimming. All around were the concerned faces of both his people and Sam's. He could just make out through the dust-filled gloom of what they had called the atrium was now a much closer wall of rubble. The tunnel where the Temple had joined with the outer stone down a now completely collapsed passage. It would take weeks to clear the debris. They did not have weeks of air, let alone water.

He knew they were screwed, but he could not - would not show it. He had to think; there had to be another way out. There were other caves that they had only had a little time to explore; maybe there was another way; they had grenades and some explosives. There had to be; he would not die without at least trying to get back to Sarah, not like this, buried alive.

"Good job, whoever put in the emergency lighting." John looked around at the faces near him, José, Eric, Little John, Patty, Sam, Glenn, all the rest were too far to see clearly. They all looked uneasy at him. "Okay, I give what is going on? Who put up the lighting?"

"It is not emergency lighting, Commander; we have no idea what it is." Dr. Turpids looked directly at John as she slowly moved, to give him a clear view. "It was uncovered when the stone wall fell after the explosion. It was there all the time; we could see the light through the stone wall. At first, we thought it was another tunnel that exited the back of the mound, we are just a few meters from that side, but clearly, it is not."

John could see what looked like a huge ornate mirror or rather a frame, perhaps ten feet wide and twenty tall, around what looked like a swirling green light with a distant scene beyond, some sort of courtyard but clearly not on the far side of the mound. There looked like swirling and twisted trees visible through a layer of ice or cloudy water—all with a strange green ting to it.

"What is that? I must still be unconscious." John tried to stand, he found it hard, his ears were ringing, his head bandaged, and he felt like throwing up. He had to get to his feet.

He turned toward what once was the tunnel, confirming that there truly was not escape that way. Rubble now forming a new wall several feet closer than the exit once was. "Well, that sucks. No way out that way."

Turning back to the new door, "Has anyone touched it yet?" he wondered if it was some sort of illusion.

Everyone just looked at him. "Fine."

Slowly he drew himself up, stumbled a bit, caught himself, and slowly walked toward the strange ghostly portal. Picking up a rock along the way, then a rifle which was probably his anyway, he approached the Gate to Hell carefully. He did not like thinking about it like that, but with his luck lately…

He felt that they must all look like the apes approaching the obelisk in the movie 2001.

First, he poked the muzzle into the strange ethereal pool of light. To everyone's shock, marked by the sharp gasps, the muzzle seemed to pass into the shimmering light, circles of light and shadow like ripples in a pond emanated from around the barrel. At this point, his head throbbing and ears still ringing, John tossed the rock in his hand through the same pool; it seemed to be consumed then once the surface cleared, John was pretty sure he could make out the rock on the other side, perhaps a dozen paces away.

"Well, if we don't take a chance." John was about to step through the shimmering curtain when circumstances decided for them; he fell against the near wall as the floor shifted beneath his feet. Deep below them, they felt more than heard a deep rumble. Unlike the crash and explosion that caused the collapsed tunnel. This rumble went on and on, marking a shift in the foundations of the Temple itself. Cracks appeared arcing and splitting like lightning bolts across temple walls. John may not have been an architect, but he was enough of an engineer to know when a building would collapse. There was no more time to debate.

"We have to move, grab your shit, and get through this time. Eric, you go first. Little John and Patty, grab the toy box, everyone grab something - leave nothing behind." John grabbed his stuff, and as big a box as he thought he could carry, he watched everyone pass through the 'portal' to the murky other side. "We need to get everything; we have no idea what is over there, make sure you have food, water, ammo, everything we can carry! Let's move!" His head was ringing. Everyone had grabbed at least one box, some two. One by one, they went through L. J., and Patty, Eric, and a couple of others returned for the rest; there was no time to talk about what was on the other side; John would have to find out for himself. The tremors had subsided, long enough to get the last boxes, then suddenly they started in earnest, cracks appeared in the walls around the portal. Large sections of mosaic tile began falling crashing to the floor along with the stone under them. Mounds of broken rock were building fast. It was clear they had only moments before the whole Temple would collapse. The last of the gear was now through; all that was left was his pack, his rifle, the box he carried - and John. Taking what would be his last look at Earth, he stepped through the portal.