I set this as a 1,000 word, finish-in-one-day challenge for myself. Apparently I am too verbose to get either of those conditions. So let's call it the 2,000-word, 2-day-challenge instead. The T rating is just for language. Puzzle Palace = Pentagon.

Tank folded his arms and leaned back against the wall, finally able to take a deep breath and try to let all the stress go. The constant ache he'd had in his gut for weeks could go away, any day now. Really. Any day now would be good.

Even inside the small pressurized space, the sound of the C-130 was unmistakable for any other aircraft – loud and harsh, the metal shell around them rattling and buzzing in a bone-shaking low grind, the howling drone of the 4 big turbo prop engines a constant roar. But it was also the sound of getting out of whatever hell you'd just been in. They'd all known that feeling before, more than once, and it made the noise bearable. Just.

He'd done the last of these missions two years ago and he was fucking done with them. And if he had anything to say about it, and he would, this was Ranger's last mission as well. Their handler had once been someone they could trust and those days were apparently long gone. Ranger had only missed two check-ins before his new handler declared him KIA. When Tank had asked about a search and new exfil dates, the handler said there wouldn't be any.

It had taken a wasted day of phone calls up and down the east coast to get hold of their old handler, who'd gotten his fourth star and been kicked upstairs, to get permission to go after Ranger. And not only had they gotten permission, they'd gotten official help, in the form of men and field equipment. Then Tank, Lester and their assigned squad spent six days and nights searching in the jungle, tracking Ranger's last known movements until they found him, wounded and close to death from blood loss, infection and dehydration.

Tank looked down to the gurney next him, where Ranger was strapped in. He still looked like shit, his features uncharacteristically gaunt, but the fogging of the oxygen mask and the slight rise and fall of his chest meant he was still with them and still breathing. Too close this time.

It was always cold on a C-130, even in pressurized spaces, and the nurse brought new heated blankets and heat packs for Ranger every 20 minutes or so, trying to keep his core temp up. Last time she'd brought one and checked his vitals, she told Tank that he was showing signs of coming around from the anesthesia soon.

The small pressurized cabin was divided by a heavy plastic curtain, with the smaller medical area on one side of the curtain and the larger seating area on the other side. To the side was a small sterile pressurized cabin that held the operating theater for in-flight emergency, but it was closed and dark now. The medical area had one patient other than Ranger, but the seating area was jammed with medical personnel and service men and women returning home. Outside of the cabin, the hold was filled with equipment and crates, also returning.

One of the people in the seating area was at the head of Tank's personal shit list at the moment – the two-star general who'd been the man responsible for the op. Their interaction on the entire exfil had been tense, only the knowledge that he was being directly watched by men higher up on the chain of command keeping things civil and cooperative.

Tank pushed the plastic curtain aside and walked over to where the general stood. Might as well try for some more cooperation. "We'd like to get a call home to let them know we're headed back," he said.

The general scowled. "Not possible."

Tank controlled his temper and stood up as straight as he could, stepping into the general's personal space. "Look, I am not asking for much, just a quick call home to his wife to let her know we found him and he's going to be okay."

The general took a step backward. "Not protocol and you know it. He hasn't been debriefed or cleared yet."

"He's not going to tell her anything classified."

"We follow protocol. Dismissed," the general said, apparently forgetting he was not talking to a subordinate. He turned his back on Tank and opened up his briefcase, removing several folders. Clipped in the top pocket of the brief case was a military-issue satellite phone.

Tank briefly considered grabbing him by his scrawny neck, marching him out of the conditioned space and into the hold, opening the cargo bay door and throwing him out. Everyone on the plane had been forced to turn in their weapons, phone and radios before they'd been allowed on the plane, so the odds of someone shooting him for ditching the general were low, but it still probably wasn't a good idea.

Dissatisfied, Tank stalked back to Lester and Ranger. "Santos," Tank said, his voice pitched only for Lester's ears. "Got an op for you."

Lester's week had been the same pile of shit that Tank's had been and he looked as miserable and exhausted as Tank felt. Lester was sitting on the floor, next to the gurney, his legs drawn up and his head resting on his knees. Without opening his eyes, he lifted his head up and let it thunk on the wall behind him. "Not sure I am up to an op right now."

"Nah," Tank said. "This is right up your alley."

Lester just grunted in response.

"On your two, about 30 feet out in full dress," Tank said. "Two star out of the black end of the Puzzle Palace. Ranger's handler for this op."

Lester grunted again. "Terrific. The asshole who just about got him killed with incomplete info and then wouldn't mount an exfil. The asshole who fucking wrote him off, like he was just some expendable asset. What do we want with that asshole?"

"That asshole has a sat phone and there is someone back home who would be very pleased to know that this cargo," he tipped his head toward Ranger, "is alive and coming her way in a couple weeks."

"Weeks?"

"We're headed to Brooke Army Medical in San Antonio for another round of surgery, then probably a week or two of debrief and recovery and then back to Trenton. The flight surgeon here said they've got everything patched up but there is some repair left that'll take a steadier hand and a more stable surface." The C-130 hit air turbulence and dropped a couple feet to underscore his point, all the medical equipment rattling and clanking in the tie-downs. Both Tank and Lester grabbed the gurney Ranger was strapped to, hoping to ease the jarring movement.

Lester's eyes opened and he scanned the room. "I see the bastard," he said tightly. "Sat phone in the briefcase?"

"Yes."

"What have I got to work with on this op?"

"What you see."

Lester's eyebrows rose as he watched the people on the other side of the plastic curtain and then a slow smile spread over his face. "Candy from a baby, man." He rose, pulling his parka tighter around him, and walked toward the other end of the room.

A small sound from the gurney got Tank's attention. Ranger was coming around and not thrilled to find himself strapped down. He was probably flying high enough not to be feeling pain at the moment, but in their world being restrained was never a good thing.

"Nah, man, ease it down," Tank said, his voice soothing. He put a firm hand on Ranger's shoulder. "You're in flight transit, locked down until we arrive at Brooke." The plane hit another pocket of turbulence and rocked hard. "Been a bumpy flight, but we are probably only 2 hours out of US air space."

Ranger's eyes flickered open and he blinked up at Tank. His eyes were dull at first, but then his glance roamed the room and Tank knew the moment he recognized where he was: pressurized med bay section on a C-130. Ranger nodded to show he understood and tried to speak, but the big oxygen mask covered the lower half of his face. Tank reached over and lifted a corner so he could at least read Ranger's lips. "Status," Ranger whispered, the words weak and catching in his dry throat.

"SNAFU, what do you expect?"

Ranger's eyes flashed at him, requiring an actual answer. "Mission?"

"Completed and then, like a total asshole, you dragged yourself off into the jungle to die on your own. Took us six days to find you."

"Not my intent."

"Yeah, well, I gotta say, this is the last time, Ranger. Ain't doing this shit anymore, not even for you. And you, man, you got a wife at home and a business with guys counting on you. Your offshore op days are over, too."

"HUA," Ranger said, with a small nod.

"And since I know what your next question is going to be: Steph is home in Trenton, safe up on Seven, being watched pretty much by the entire staff. She knew we were coming to get you and she's home, waiting for you to get back."

"Steph..."

"Working on it, Rangeman."

Across the room, Lester ran his distraction and theft. It was a thing of inspired beauty, involving a very good-looking nurse, three cups of coffee, a blanket, four unfortunate grunts and what looked like some sort of shell game – the upshot being a coffee-covered two-star general chewing out the grunts.

Lester sauntered back over to Tank, pulling the sat phone out of his parka and moving to stand by the gurney so that Tank and Ranger were shielded from view.

Tank punched the numbers in quickly. It would be late there, and the government-issue sat phone number would come up "No Caller ID-unknown," but he knew she'd answer. He held the phone to Ranger's ear.

"Hello," she said, her voice scratchy with sleep.

Ranger smiled. "Babe," he said, his voice hoarse and weak.

"Oh, God, Ranger! Is it really you?"

Ranger let out a long breath. "Yeah. You okay?"

"I am now. Where are you? Are you hurt? Are you alone?"

"Nah," Ranger whispered, "Got … the guys at my back now … everything's okay." His eyes closed. "See you soon." He slipped back into drugged sleep, the ghost of a smile still on his face.

Tank let a small smile creep on to his own face for the first time in days. That was one half handled, now to soothe the other half. "Hey, Steph. Just wanted you to get the good news. We've got him and we're headed back to the States."

"Is he really okay?" She was close to hyperventilating, he could hear it in her voice.

"Couple of new scars, some rehab coming and some weight to put back on, but he'll be okay."

"This isn't the usual 'I'm fine' bullshit is it? He sounds awful." Her voice was thick. She was probably crying, so Tank kept his voice light.

"He's pretty doped up. He was in rough shape when we found him, but the surgeon says he'll be good as new. We're headed back to the States now."

"When will I see him? Can I meet you?"

"They won't let you on base. Between debrief and recovery, it'll be at least a week, but more likely two and then we'll be back."

"Are you and Lester okay?"

"We're good, Steph."

"You're more than good, Tank – you're the best of the best."