(This is a three part series. Read Part One and Part Two here.)

Amidst re-fitting and re-arming our kit, we were promptly summoned to a session with the boss:

“Guys, we are missing five passengers. All indications from the aircrew and other sources say that the five missing passengers were removed from the aircraft and taken to a location 45 miles from here. Its a tiny po-dunk town, so we need to plan for another assault, this time helo assault on urban objective ‘Limerick.’ Let’s get this done and get airborne in NLT one hour. Guys, we are not yet mission complete—let’s go!”

“Well, you sure can’t make this shit up—great work if you can get it” me thinks. We all jumped up with a flurry and bustle of maps and grease pens, slates and cartoons. I think the term they use for this sort of entertainment, a sort that doesn’t exist in the civilian realm, is called ‘jumping through one’s ass.

In my childhood years, I recall in a restaurant with my dad, witnessing a chef melt down because his shrimp platters were served late, and not chilled to 58 degrees Fahrenheit. “I refuse to work under these appalling conditions!” he had belched out like a little bitch as he executed his theatrical exit in a huff.

My dad messed my hair with the palm of his hand: “What do you want to be when you grown up, Georgie?”
“Well, I know I don’t want to be a chef, dad… it seems way too hard.” My dad burst into laughter and winked that wink he winked, knowing full well that I would be a future Pope.

Clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, rang the magazines as they were jammed with fresh green tips. Bart W; stood next to me charging up.

“Hey Bart, the Smadge says we have to leave this place in better condition that we found it.”