The Assignment

The last day of rain had come and gone. The Honduran heat was unbearable. God had certainly made it miserable for man to endure such heat. I stood in formation waiting for the ‘old man’ to come out of his air conditioned trailer. My O.D. green duffel bag stood erect to my right-self supported. A few minutes later, four people emerged from the trailer. A British Colonel named Flock, A U.S. Army Major, Pinellas; and two Sergeant Majors; Hickem and Bright. Hickem was with the Queens Fifth, SAS, with an asshole sewn so tight-they had to pump light through it so he could read. A whole lot of ass kissing couldn’t sweeten that demeanor. As for Bright, well it turned out that he graduated West Point, turned down a commission just to be like his father, a Senior NCO of a Battalion. Flock had a tough demeanor, but a gentle disposition-typically a British Officer. Later, we would be known as Flock’s flock. Pinellas turned out to be a Military Intelligence liaison for the Central Intelligence Agency. This guy was a spook! Pinellas served with the European Command in Germany. The ‘Big Red One’ patch on one side and Air Cavalry patch on the other was just as obvious as the Green Beret-I wore.

I called attention to the other four standing next to me. The four were combat engineers fresh out of school. “Green Beans”, “New Guy’s” and “Cherries” were the operative terms. As for me, Guerrilla Warfare, Counter Guerilla Warfare, NBC, and Special Operations were my specialty. A year of school and two years in the bush in Laos and Cambodia made me a veteran in the unit.

Bright walked up to the five stopped and eyeballed each and everyone of us. Like me, he had seen the elephant of war, but the only difference between me and him, he actually liked the bitch.

“Welcome to Tegucigalpa. I’m your Battalion Sergeant Major. Later, today I will meet with each and every one of you. Then you will meet with the Major and the Colonel. We hope you enjoyed your flight. He said sarcastically pointing to the C-130 behind us. “We run things differently here.” Bright continued. “As Sergeant Harris, will tell you, this is jungle warfare. Hygiene is very important here. The slightest scratch can get infected fast. Bars are off limits for the first week or while you are in orientation. Sergeant Harris, I want to see you after this muster. Speaking of which, muster is at zero-five thirty, sick call is at zero-six-hundred; breakfast is at zero-seven thirty. Miss one movement and it’s an article 15. I’ll personally pack you up and you will be on the next plane to the states-avoid the indigenous pests here. Scorpions and spider bites will send you back to the states but fast.” He said collecting the transfer orders from the five men.  Ortega, O Connell, Honeycutt and Jones, collect your gear your ride awaits you.” Bright said pointing to the jeep to his left. “Dismissed!” he commanded. “Harris your with me.” He said turning in a snap and walked back towards the trailer with me in toll. The four scampered off to the truck, bags and M-16′s in hand. I shouldered my weapon and followed. A bad feeling came over me. As we walked, Bright’s demeanor changed and we engaged in small talk for a few moments then disappeared through the door, into the trailer.

The Colonel and Major stood from behind two desks as I walked into the door and I quickly snapped to attention and saluted the two officers.

“Sergeant Harris reports as ordered sir.” I snapped. “At ease, Sergeant,” The Flock said calmly. Let’s dispense with the formalities at this meeting.” Flock recommended. Flock sat behind Bright’s desk and opened the 201 file and began reading out loud. “Son, you have a bloody damned impressive record. Top of your class in Airborne, Air Assault School, highest in three cycles, A-NOC, B-NOC, SERE and advanced SERE, Sniper Training in the Philippines by the IDF, EOD, MAC-VSOG, Guerilla Warfare, Counter Guerilla Warfare, Silver Star, two purple hearts. Two years-in country Laos and Cambodia, re-enlisted this year. You’re a bloody lifer and a one man army to boot” Flock finished. “Major?”

“Sergeant, I’ve got some good news. You’ve been promoted to Sergeant First Class-Pay and grade of a First Sergeant. In three months, you will get your own fire team, all rangers-all sergeants, the best the Army has to offer-that’s available that is. The bad news is-you are off DOD payroll. Full carte blanche and for the first week, your time is yours. You now work for the British Intelligence Service and the Central Intelligence Agency.” Pinellas said.

“Damn, what have I got myself into?” I thought. “You will dress in civilian clothes except on certain missions, everyone here is on a first name basis, and you will salute only when in uniform. We have a British Diplomatic Passport; a Russian Diplomatic Passport will be used for missions. Your on and off Base ID is officially MI-4. Your British passport and MI-4 ID is to remain with you at all times, as is your sidearm.” The major placed a Browning semi-automatic with a shoulder holster. Hickem handed me a manila envelope containing my ID, 8 clips and a green military canister of 9 millimeter ammo.

“Your equipment requisition, pay vouchers or your “draw” as you yank’s call it is in the envelope. See the Supply Sergeant this afternoon for your civilian attire. You will be issued a jeep and a FN-FAL this afternoon as well, but you must relinquish your M-16. Mission draws will be three days before each mission.” Flock added. “You must sign in each morning at zero-eight hundred and out at eighteen-thirty. Any questions?”

“Yes, two, what is my job?” I asked. “R and I-recon and intelligence.”  Flock answered. What does carte blanche mean in this circumstance?” I asked. “We’ll ask no questions, except during mission debriefings. We need you to sign this Statement of non-disclosure of course.” He finished. “Of course.” I replied.

“A driver will escort you to your hooch and supply. You can occupy your trailer in the morning. Do yourself a favor; get to know the lay of the land during the next week. We’ll brief you on your first action next Saturday. Your dismissed.” Flock said. “Yes Sir”. I started to salute, but thought better of it and stuffed every thing in the top of my duffle.

The driver, a private with the combat engineers waited for me in the next room.

“Where to sarg?”  A young boy about nineteen asked. The 45 automatic strapped to his hip was bigger than he was.

“Supply, then the NCOs quarters.” I said. Grabbing the bag and the M-16. The Driver took the bag from me and walked out the door.

We walked to where the Jeep was parked. He set the bag on the ground. I reached in and pulled out the manila envelope, the browning and 9 rounds and proceeded to load one clip, stuck it in the pistol, tucked the nine in my waste, grabbed the British MI-4 ID and Passport, looked at the name then stuck it in my jacket pocket. Mike Herring was my new name. Born in Bristol, England and the age 28. I was 24. The driver unlocked the chain that was wrapped around the steering jumped in and started the jeep with the starter that was on the floor.

“Got a name, private?” I asked as I removed the name plate on my dress uniform.

“Private Clark,” he answered as he drove. I removed my cover. “So sarg, what is it like?”

“What is what like?” I asked over the engine-as he dodged the pot holes in the road.

He pointed to my cover.

“Tough.”

“Oh. Seen much action?”

“Laos and Cambodia” there was silence.

“You?” I countered trying to take the edge off the answer.

“Rode a dozer as a sixty gunner. Got shot at a couple of times by rebel soldiers near Choluteca.”

“Rebels?” I inquired.

“Yeah, Sandinistas. About 25 of ‘em. Opened up on them but they disappeared into the tree line” he paused. “Better get your ID out, checkpoint.”

“Got cha.” I said reaching into my pocket as Clark slowed the jeep in front of the Honduran with a Browning 50 caliber trained on the jeep and a big sign saying Halto. A Honduran walked towards the jeep with a FN leveled at the driver.

“Sus papeles?” The Honduran asked. The driver handed my ID and his ID to the road guard. “Cuando se te diriges?” he asked.

“A la oferta y la ordenanza.” I answered as he eyed the ID suspiciously.

His supervisor walked over and looked at the ID and said “seguir adelante.” He waved us on. “Damn the shit works.” I thought to myself. The driver handed me the flip fold back and drove around the machine gun post dodging more potholes. Fifteen minutes later we arrive at the 5th SAS Supply Depot. A military truck stopped and handed the MP his paperwork and another MP climbed up and checked the load out, jumped back down and his partner, motioned the truck on. The MP walked over to us and I pulled out the requisition signed by the Colonel.

“Ey Jon, looky what we ‘ave ‘ere, a fucking Green Beret!” He announced the Sergeant. “I better call this one in.”

A few minutes later, the sergeant reappeared out of the shack, “Jon ‘ew better let em in. I just got chew out by the Colonel ‘imself!” both the driver and I laughed. “Move on!” As we drove away slowly we heard “that blokes MI-4!” He said shaking his head. Building M9 was straight ahead.

The Jeep roared then squeaked to a stop in the shade caused by the late afternoon sun just behind a mercedes Benz truck also parked in the shade. “Mike” grabbed the M-16 climbed out of the Jeep-standard issue for U.S. Soldiers, climbed out of the jeep, put on his cover and walked into the armory.

The building smelled-well, musty and the reminiscent odors of Cosmo line, a plastic used to cover military weapons; PCP impregnated wood, and spent smokeless power. He walked to a barrel tilted at a 30 degree angle, set the M-16 down pulled out the Browning nine millimeter, ejected the magazine placed it in his back pocket. Next, I ejected the shell put it in his front coat pocket, but left the slide open.  Next He followed the same procedure with the M-16. I walked up to the counter with a large sign: “Check Your Weapons Here” A lance sergeant checked both weapons, but eyed the M-16 sharply, Then “Mike”. He handed the requisition form to the Lance Sergeant and laid the flip fold on the counter-open. The Lance Sergeant snatched the paperwork up off the counter and disappeared into an office. A few minutes later returned with a Lieutenant-Junior Grade.

“I’m terribly sorry, but, we need time to….” The Lieutenant was interrupted by booming voice in the background.

“To-day, Lieu-tenant!” Screamed Sergeant Major Hickem with the Colonel at his side.

“Yes, Sar-geant Ma-jor!” The Lieutenant cowered slightly and disappeared. Both men walked towards Harris. The Colonel spoke first.

“I figured you might need some ribbon cutting here. Lance Sergeant, give this man all new equipment-anything he asks for, I’ll cover the paperwork. If you don’t have it, get it fast. That’s an order.”

“Yes sir.” The Lance Sargeant responded. He turned to Mike.

“U.S. Marine K-BAR. M-79 Grenade Launcher. M-10A1. “

“Serious equipment, sir.” The Sergeant Major wispered.

Four equipment bags were loaded into the jeep. As jet lag started to settle in, I redressed in Coal colored Khaki’s and tan cotton shirt, then emerged from the weapons cage carrying a soft Alice rucksack, several equipment bags and on course his FN with a twenty power scope with a quick disconnect mount slung over his shoulder. Next I disappeared back into the cage carrying out a second FN-FAL without the scope and a large bulky burlap bag. This time a third person also appeared dressed in Olive Drab. He had dark skin and was thin. Mike guessed he was Honduran-but he was wrong. He set everything down and walked over to the three engaged in conversation.

“Mike, this is Tec. He’s native of the region you will be working in and will be escorting you around. He’s mesquito Indian-and he’s a scout-our best man.” The two shook hands, next week you will be flown to the Nicaraguan Border for R and I. There will be a Mission briefing next Saturday. You chap’s get to know one another this weekend.”
The Colonel suggested. “We also sent the driver back to his unit, I hope you don’t mind, we need to keep your presence on the mum.”

I thought for a moment. “This must be very big plans…” then said “understood, sir.”

“Jolly good, you chaps have Pinellas waiting for you at your quarters, you had better get going and enjoy your weekend.” Turned and left the building

“Thank you, sir.” I replied as I walked over to the counter and retrieved the nine. The Lance Sergeant handed me back the M-16 and clip. “British Army regulations prevented us from storing American weapons except in a time of war.” The Lance Sergeant replied. I nodded, grabbed the weapon and walked away. Tec grabbed two of the five bags; I grabbed the other three and shouldered all of the weapons. Tec was shorter than me, muscular, but wore a Honduran Uniform. He carried himself well. Tec drove me to the compound. The ride went well; the checkpoint guards flashed us on without further question, courtesy of the Colonel.  The Jeep pulled up to the humble looking hooch. I have seen many of them in Laos and Cambodia, but I can safety say that until now, I never lived in one. Pinellas waited for me in his Jeep along with a Honduran woman about 24. Thurman Pinellas climbed out the Jeep.

“Mike, did you find everything OK?” Pinellas pumped my hand. I nodded my head. I turned and grabbed the equipment. The woman climbed out of the jeep she was a dark skinned Honduran. “Mike this is Nina, she will cook, clean and do menial tasks for you-courtesy of the British government. They take very good care of VIP’s. Ex-British Secret Service turned Special Services. She’ll be handy in a pinch.”

“I really don’t feel right…” I started.
“That’s an order…Mike, she’s the best. Where you are going you’ll need her and Tec.”
“Very well. Tec lets get this inside.” I requested.

Nina grabbed the FN out of my hand.  Once every thing was inside, I looked around. Closet was full of clothes, a refrigerator stocked full of food and beer.

“Here’s the poop, son.” Thurman started. “Your mission here is to officially identify and stop the rebels from crossing into Honduran Borders. The British want this stopped without causing an International Incident. The US Army Combat Engineers are building roads at the request of the British and Honduran Governments. You may have to cross into Nicaragua, and this is where Tec and Nina are important to you.” Thurman said reaching into the refrigerator for a Budweiser and popping the top on the steel can. “The British have a Marine Unit that could be relied on, but, the Honduran Government needs you to be a MA for their troops to battle the Sandinistas. That’s the official role of the fire team of Rangers. They will do the training, but you and the Marines will do the recon. Your call sign will be scorpion.” Thurman paused. “You will need to establish friendly relations with the mesquito Indians. Tec speaks the language. He knows the culture. Nina will help you get established in the more populated cities. She too, knows the ropes.” Thurman paused again. “You worked with the H’mong in Laos, this is right up your alley,” Thurman finished.

“When is all this supposed to happen?” I asked.
“Next Saturday’s briefing will conclude that.” Thurman said. “Watch the reporters, with Somoza kicking up his war on the Sandinista’s, the reporters are everywhere-here.” Thurman added.  “Nina, take Mike into town and get him fed. Rest this weekend, my friend. Next week is going to be busy in preparation with new weapons that need to be accurized.”

“Si, Mayor.” Nina said. “Vamos, vaqueros” Nina led the way.

Nina drove with me in the right seat. I didn’t care much for women in combat, but an order was an order. She did have something that impressed me-a cocky style and a lot of confidence.

She chose a cantina on a narrow side street just outside of the city. The cantina sold food and booze and was usually occupied by mostly locals. Nina chose a dark corner table then ordered tortilla, fried beans, taco meat with a fruit side and round of Corona’s.

Both Tec and Nina told stories about their experiences, oddly Tec talked mostly about the tribe he was from in the mountains of Nicaragua. Another odd thing was that Nina’s eyes twinkled when she talked. She made eye contact that never broke. That meant that she could be trusted. I had a lot of apprehension about Tec. There’s something about him.

The festive mood brought on something I wasn’t prepared for. Tequila with mescal. Between the 29 hour jet lag (the flight from Asia on the C-5) and the Tequila, the evening ended at 20:30 with me once again in the passenger seat on my way back to the hooch. Nina helped me in and Tec disappeared. Tec had a family. Nina occupied the room next to me. I laid the nine under the pillow, fell into blackness. Nina peered in then shut the door to the dark room.

I awoke the following morning-my mouth tasted like shit-my head contained a freight train running in a circle. It was still dark and a nearby tree frog made my head hurt more. The door of my room was cracked and the glow of a light was off in the distance, my memory returned as disorientation diminished, as it often does in a new surrounding.

Despite the throbs, I rose and sat for a minute. The bed felt comfortable and for a moment I thought I was at home. I looked at my watch. 0530. When I stood nausea took its turn, the throbbing increased for a brief moment then, it too, diminished. I felt my face. I slowly made my way to the door. Nina stood in the kitchen dressed in a night shirt, just putting on a pot of coffee.

“Cuarto de baño fuera de la puerta, abajo y los pasos a su izquierda-detrás del edificio.” She said without turning around. “Shower is next to the bathroom.” She added turning, then “good morning” and she smiled.

The dew was thick and the air was humid. I stepped out of the shower, a towel wrapped around my waist. The pungent smell of lie soap became stronger with the growing humidity and heat. The sun, just coming up, indicated that the day was going to be as hot as the previous day. I climbed the stairs opened the door and headed to the room. The air smelled like bacon and eggs. After getting dressed, I sat down at the table and forced down the meal despite the nausea. Bacon, eggs and tortilla’s were far more preferable that the standard GI mess, C rations and grubs.

Nina now dressed in olive drab, walked into the kitchen.

“What’s on the schedule today?” she asked.
“Cleaning and the weapons-they’re full of Cosmoline. Then some time at the range. I don’t want any equipment failures when the shit hits the fan.” I said.
“Totalmente profesional que no son?” She remarked.
“Yes. My life depends on it.” I replied.
“Es más” She replied. “When you are ready,”
“She’s testing me.” I thought. “…probably sizing me up”
She disappeared into her bedroom and reappeared carrying a Stoner G3. A belt fed machine gun. She looked like she couldn’t handle the weapon. Later, she proved me wrong.

We were at the range by 1300 hrs. Climbing into the concrete tube, Nina handed me the first weapon, locked, cocked and ready then took her position with the spotting scope to my right. The target was steel and was at 150 meters. Looking through the scope, she said ready.  I flipped the safety off and squeezed the trigger.

“High and to the left,” she said.
I made an adjustment to the sight, then-squeezed the trigger again.

“High and to the left,” she repeated.
I made another adjustment. I squeezed the trigger again.

“High and center.”  I adjusted it one final time.
I repeated this step another two times.

“Bingo.”
I squeezed the trigger again.

“Bingo.”

Then I targeted the three hundred meter target. After repeating these steps numerous times, the weapon was sighted. Though it would be sighted again and again during the next week, it would be true when it was time to use it in a real situation.

Now I was impressed. She would be a formidable ally. The last half of the day, she showed her pistol skill’s off. She was actually showing off. Plinking-mangos at 60 yards in a spin-draw were nothing more than simulated headshots. “Yep, she’s ex British Secret Service. Only 25 people in the world could have done that…if she could pass my test…We would make a hell of a team.” I entertained the thought.

The Major’s jeep pulled up that Saturday afternoon with two other occupants just as Nina and I were loading the jeep. Pinellas, Tec and Bright climbed out.

“Major, what do we owe this pleasure?” I asked.
“Well,” he started, “We have a situation at the Border.”
“How many?”
“About 40.”
“Sandinistas?”
“Correct. They took a village.” He said rolling out a map, “right here.” The major pointed as Nina looked on.

“El Triunfo” Nina indicated.

Next, out came the photos.

“British intelligence operating in the area, took these photos. They’re Cuban. Philippe Corazon, Paco and Ramon Tellipe. Command and control.” He paused then said. “Sever command and control, then cross the river and take out any reinforcements.”

“The plan was sound” I thought.

“Our friend’s the Brits, will lend you nine of their SAS. You will have your scout Tec and Nina. You will leave Monday at 0100 and will fly to your insertion point-here. Your extraction points; will be-here and here across the river if you get cut off. The Brits will give you three days to find the assholes. He’s the list of
extraction times and the grid coordinates that the chopper will be made available to you. Any questions?”

“No, but we are going to need about ten Claymores and perhaps an 80 mike-mike mortar for the river crossing. Throw in some C4 for a little extra excitement, sounds like we have a plan. We’ll let
the SAS set the claymores, Nina and I will snipe, and Tec will set the charges on the bridge.” I said. My mind was in auto mode. I knew the game.

“Anything else?” Pinellas asked. There was silence.
“Outstanding, see you tomorrow night at 2100 for the official briefing.” As he rolled up the maps and photos, they left as quickly as they came.

Once again, Nina drove and our plan was to unload quickly at the hooch and spend the night on the town in the usual Ranger fashion: dinner, drinks, conversation and then sleep. The later was sounding real good at the moment, but I stayed the later. There was something about 2 years in perpetual motion-that
when it slows down, it all catches up with you.