Fault Lines

by Steven Hildreth Jr

  Bradshaw was wide awake for most of the flight. Every time exhaustion set in and he closed his eyes, the dreams would start.

  One began with him and Fox on Sand Hill, and their initiation into the infantry fraternity.

  Another had Bradshaw and Fox at Cole Range, sprinting for the forest as a RIP instructor chased after them and screamed various inventive obscenities.

  A third had Fox and Bradshaw at a Savannah bar after their first deployment, heavily in debate as to who would seduce the less attractive of a pair of females so the other had a chance with a bombshell redhead.

  Each dream ended the same.

  Before they reached fruition, they deteriorated into a nightmare where Bradshaw watched as Fox found the bullet that bore his name in excruciatingly graphic detail. He would awake with a gasp, compose himself, and resolve to stay awake, knowing what awaited beyond the conscious veil.

  The plane had one layover in Maine to refuel, and then flew to Hartsfield-Jackson International. Bradshaw was on the tarmac to render a salute as the remains were off-loaded. He produced a flag that he had stored in his carry-on and carefully unfurled it over the casket. Once the coffin was draped in the stars and stripes, it was loaded into a hearse driven by an employee of a funeral home based just outside of Fort Benning. From there, it was an hour and a half before the remains were safely delivered to the undertaker’s establishment. The home’s director accepted responsibility for Fox’s body, and Bradshaw was free to go.

  He checked into billeting on Fort Benning and prepared to head back downrange. That was when he received the phone call to report to the Regimental Commander at 0900 Monday morning, in ASUs. Bradshaw spent the entire weekend, trying to ascertain what precipitated the meeting. Being summoned by the Regimental Olympians was bad enough, but to be summoned in dress uniform was the first sign of storm clouds on the horizon.

  Bradshaw had reported to the commander’s office at 0845, where the commander’s secretary told him to stand by. He sat at the position of attention and stared blankly at the wall, the insomnia having taken its toll. At 0859, the secretary received a call and informed Bradshaw that the commander was ready to see him. Bradshaw stood, conducted a last-minute check of his uniform, then exhaled.

  He slammed the bottom of his fist against the heavy wooden door three times. A booming voice from within called, “Enter!”

  Bradshaw opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it behind him. He marched toward the seat positioned in front of the commander’s desk, his eyes locked ahead the entire time. When he reached the chair, Bradshaw came to a halt, executed a crisp left-face, and snapped his right hand up in a sharp salute.

  “Sir,” Bradshaw bellowed in his loudest command voice, “Staff Sergeant Bradshaw reporting, as ordered!”

  Colonel Michael Garrett was a tall, lean man with olive skin. His salt-and-pepper hair was parted, and his face was craggy, yet handsome. A West Point graduate, Garrett had served his lieutenant time with the 10th Mountain Division, where he had been on the reaction force in Somalia during the Battle of Mogadishu. Garrett had attended the Ranger Orientation Program as a first lieutenant and had ascended the Regiment’s ranks. He had been a platoon leader, executive officer, company commander, 1st Battalion’s S-2, 2nd Battalion’s S-3, and the Regimental executive officer, all before assuming the commander officer’s billet.

  Garrett looked Bradshaw over, then returned the hand salute. As Garrett dropped his hand, Bradshaw dropped his salute and remained locked at attention.

  “Take a seat, Sergeant Bradshaw,” Garrett said.

  “Yes, sir!” Bradshaw said, not quite as loud as he had been when he reported.

  In his peripherals, he spotted a short, stout bulldog of a man, standing in the corner of the office. Bradshaw deduced that had to be Tómas Aguilar, the Regimental Command Sergeant Major. Aguilar had served ten years in the Regiment, mostly with 2nd Battalion, then spent another eleven in the Special Mission Unit at Bragg before assuming the Regimental CSM post. Bradshaw could not see CSM Aguilar’s expression, but the body language told him to stay on his toes, a point punctuated by the fact that both men had also worn their ASUs.

  “Sergeant Bradshaw,” Colonel Garrett said, “I want to start with thanking you for bringing Sergeant Fox home. You performed the escort dutifully and honorably, and I expect nothing less from a Ranger.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bradshaw said robotically.

  Garrett paused, then picked up a paper from his desk as he slipped on his reading glasses. “I’ve read your sworn statement regarding the firefight at COP Walker. It reads well.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Problem is…you included extraneous, unverified information,” Garrett said. “You say here that you spotted at least three European individuals embedded inside the Taliban forces, and that when you were conducting your BDA after the TIC, one of them said something to you in Russian.”

  “Yes, sir.” Bradshaw’s tone was still respectful, though indicated subtly that he did not like the direction the conversation had taken.

  “I spoke to Commander Templeton,” Garrett said. “They only found one white man. Nobody heard him speak Russian.”

  Bradshaw flexed his jaw and pressed his hands hard into his thighs. He remained silent as Garrett set the sworn statement down, removed his glasses, and scrutinized him.

  “Do you have anything to say about this, Sergeant?” Garrett asked.

  Bradshaw inhaled deeply. “Sir, permission to speak freely?”

  “Granted.”

  “‘Tell the truth about what you see and what you do,’” Bradshaw said, slowly and clearly. “‘There is an army depending on us for correct information. You can lie all you please when you tell other folks about the Rangers, but don’t never lie to a Ranger or an officer.’”

  Garrett pursed his lips. “What’s your point, son?”

  Bradshaw kept his tone even. “Sir, my point is that the scroll and tab on my shoulder should be enough for you to vouch for my sworn statement. That the Regiment is the only place I’ve ever served, that I earned my stripes and my rocker in this Regiment, should mean that my word is good, sir.”

  Garrett interlaced his fingers and rest his hands on his desk. He twiddled his thumbs for a moment. “Do you watch the news, son?”

  Bradshaw’s blood ran cold at the confirmation of what motivated the meeting. “On occasion, sir.”

  Garrett tapped the sworn statement with a single finger. “I pass this back up the chain and tell them I vouch for it, this will become national news. The mainstream media will twist this into another conspiracy-laden story in an attempt to push this nation to war with Russia, all because they are dissatisfied with the results of the election.” He paused. “You ever heard of William Randolph Hearst?”

  Bradshaw fought to keep the rage tremor out of his voice. “Yes, sir.”

  “Then you’re familiar with the concept of yellow journalism. I’m certain you’ve heard the phrase, ‘You furnish the pictures and I will furnish the war.’” Garrett adopted what he believed to be a sincere expression. “We’re already at war with the biggest existential threat our nation has ever faced while it’s being torn at the seams from within. This sworn statement becomes public as is, and now we’ll be entering an unnecessary conflict with a formidable nation-state. Soldiers will die. Rangers will die. Do you want that on your conscience, son?”

  The dam burst. Bradshaw’s eyes flared as he near-shouted, “No, sir, you don’t get to put that on me. I reported what I saw, and I stand by what I reported.”

  Garrett’s expression hardened. “And what exactly do you expect to come out of this, Sergeant?”

  “Apparently, something, sir, since you’re asking me to lie,” Bradshaw fired back.

  Command Sergeant Major Aguilar stepped out of the corner and advanced on Bradshaw. “You watch your fuckin’ mouth, Bradshaw,” he growled. “You’re talking to the fuckin’ Regimental Commander, and you’ll do it with some fuckin’ respect o
r I’ll RFS you and you’ll be breaking track on a fucking Bradley at Fort Hood by the end of the week. You trackin’?”

  Bradshaw fought to suppress the scowl on his face. His eyes locked on the wall ahead as he said, “Yes, Sergeant Major.”

  Garrett signaled for Aguilar to stand down. As Aguilar retreated to the corner, Garrett said, “Your numbers don’t match. You said three. We only recovered one.”

  “Sir,” Bradshaw said, “you and I both know that the Taliban are known to recover their dead from the battlefield with the intent of skewering our after-action reports.”

  “Nobody heard your interaction with this alleged Russian,” Garrett pressed, undeterred.

  “The fact that you found one white face in that crowd, combined with their brand-new polymer AKs and their improved tactics, all on top of my word, should be more than enough for our intel people to investigate this angle.”

  “Do you think that would be the first time the Taliban has hired Western mercenaries to advise their troops?” Garrett asked. “You think they can’t get their hands on modern weapons, even with the Saudis bankrolling them with one hand and jerkin’ us off with the other?”

  “If you’re so sure that’s the case, then send the report up as is, sir,” Bradshaw said through clenched teeth. “Let the experts debunk it if you think the claims are unsubstantiated.”

  Garrett shook his head and held up his hand. “I had hoped we could reach an understanding by talking man-to-man, but I can see that effort is wasted. Sergeant Bradshaw, I am ordering you to rewrite this sworn statement and remove your unsubstantiated references to Russians on the ground.”

  Bradshaw let his scowl take center stage but kept his voice level. “I’m sorry, sir. That is an unlawful order and I am duty-bound to disobey it.”

  Garrett’s eyes widened. “Oh. You’re concerned with the Laws of Warfare, now?” He paused a beat. “Were you concerned with those laws when you assaulted a restrained detainee?”

  The color drained from Bradshaw’s face. “What?”

  Garrett extended a folder across the desk. Bradshaw reluctantly accepted it. When he opened it, he was immediately greeted with a high-definition photo of Mukhtar Abu-Zar Noorzai’s face, his nose crooked from having been broken. There were two more photos, each taken in profile, followed by eight sworn statements. As Bradshaw skimmed them, Garrett leaned back in his chair, his hands on his stomach.

  “Red Squadron’s Alpha Team, Troop 3 all attested that they saw you assault Noorzai after he was restrained. Commander Templeton’s statement is the one you’ll want to worry about, though. He affirms that he had a corpsman look at Noorzai, and that there are no defensive marks on his hands or arms, which there would be if you had punched him prior to his being restrained.”

  Bradshaw’s hands trembled as he closed the folder and raised his head. His eyes locked on Garrett’s. There was no rage in Bradshaw’s gaze. That would come later. All that was present was shock.

  “That packet needs to be forwarded to CID by close of business,” Garrett said. “Were you to change your statement, I’m sure the packet would disappear and you can continue to have a long and prosperous career with the Regiment. We’d have you back on a plane to Afghanistan and reunite you with your men.”

  He waited a pause for Bradshaw to respond. When no retort was forthcoming, Garrett accepted that as acquiescence.

  “I’ll see you before the close of business, Sergeant Bradshaw. You’re dismissed.”

  Slowly, Bradshaw rose from his chair and saluted. When the salute was returned, he left-faced and made his way to the door.

  Bradshaw returned three hours later. It had only taken him 15 minutes to alter the sworn statement and to draft the two additional documents he held in his hands. The bulk of the remaining time was spent contemplating the situation. It was not until halfway through the third hour that Bradshaw reached a decision. The documents were drawn up and printed at the base education center, and from there, he had driven back to the Regimental headquarters.

  After Bradshaw reported and took his seat, Garrett said, “I see that you had the good sense to remove your baseless accusations from the sworn statement.”

  Without a word, Bradshaw placed the additional documents on Garrett’s desk. Garrett grabbed his reading glasses, skimmed the papers, then asked, “What the hell is this, Sergeant?”

  “Sir, I believe the top form is a DA31, requesting permission to go on terminal leave,” Bradshaw said. “I’m sure your personnel section will affirm that I have the necessary leave banked to remain on terminal until my ETS in August. The second form is a memo that says I have your authorization not to attend the SLF-TAP separation workshops and that I am free to proceed immediately to terminal leave.”

  Garrett raised his eyebrows. “So, you’re going to turn your back on the Regiment? Just like that?”

  Bradshaw took a deep breath. “Sir, so long as ‘leaders’ like you and Sergeant Major Aguilar are at the helm of this organization, it is one that fails to live up to its own prescribed standards. That is an organization in which I have no desire to belong. I’ve been around the Army long enough to know that it’s only worse on the conventional side, and the sworn statements from Commander Templeton and his men are evidence that I would encounter more of the same in the special mission units. That leaves only one option…sir.”

  Garrett shoved the documents off of his desk. “I’m not signing that shit, Sergeant.”

  Bradshaw stood and said, “Then we have nothing more to discuss, sir.” He turned for the door.

  “Where are you going, Ranger?” Garrett barked.

  Bradshaw stopped and turned back to Garrett. “JAG. I believe my right to seek legal counsel is one of the few that wasn’t stripped by the Army when I enlisted, sir.”

  Garrett bolted upright, his eyes wide with rage. “You’re ready to go to prison over this, Bradshaw?”

  “Yes, sir, I am,” Bradshaw said. “And along the way to my court martial, I’ll be sure to share my original sworn statement with every single news outlet I can find, from CNN to The Buttfuck Gazette. You’ll get to make good on your threat. I’ll do prison time. But, you’ll have pissed off whoever it is in DC that’s got your leash, and it’ll cost you your stars. That’s worth a stint in lockup.” He turned and continued marching to the door.

  “Wait,” Garrett growled.

  Bradshaw turned around to find Garrett walking around the desk and picking up the papers he had pushed to the ground. He grabbed a pen off of his desk, and a moment later, the leave form and memo were signed. Garrett walked over to Bradshaw and handed him the forms. Once Bradshaw confirmed both were signed where they should have been, he handed over the edited sworn statement. Garrett checked that the statement was to his satisfaction, then returned to his desk.

  “We’re done here,” Bradshaw said as he walked.

  As his hand touched the handle, Garrett said, “You’re sure you want to do this? Because if you walk out that door right now, you’re burning this bridge. You’ll be blackballed.”

  Bradshaw glanced over his shoulder at Garrett one last time as he opened the door. “I’ll take my chances.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Marana, Arizona

  16 August 2018

  19:45 hours Tango (17 August 02:45 hours Zulu)

  Over-the-road trucking was a steady industry that was relatively immune to economic changes. Whether the nation was in a bear or bull economy, manufacturers needed to haul freight across the nation, and it was cheaper to do that over the road rather than through flight. The accountability measures in place incentivized honesty and full delivery through unrelenting prosecution and blacklisting of crooked drivers. In turn, it was easy to hire personnel so long as they passed the CDL test. The drivers ran the gamut from regular folk with failed businesses or who had been laid off, veterans who wanted to make easy money and lacked the patience for academia, and even felons looking for a second chance.

  Part of the allure was
that there was upward mobility if a driver was patient and had a solid grasp of their finances. Once enough money was saved, a trucker could buy their own rig. At that point, they did pick up greater liability, as it would fall on them and not the company if cargo was lost, stolen, or damaged. However, with that increased liability came increased net income. One could easily pull in six figures if they hauled enough freight, even after accounting for insurance and rig maintenance.

  Bill Pfarrer had been a veteran lured to the trucking industry. His reasons were twofold: he could not tolerate the Marxist infiltration of collegiate education, and he enjoyed the peace that came with putting on Pachelbel, Bach, or Beethoven—or Skrewdriver, No Remorse, or Skullhead, if he was feeling particularly aggressive—and just taking in the empty road ahead. A two-year break spent pursuing other entrepreneurial opportunities resulted in a windfall, and Pfarrer put most of that money into his truck fleet. He had started with three and now managed 20 rigs. He came up with a company name—Express Delivery Truck Services—and outsourced the driving. Pfarrer maintained his CDL, but now he let others drive for him while he sat back and watched the money flow.

  The EDTS lot was located just past Tangerine Road on Casa Grande Highway, just inside Marana city limits. Pfarrer finished his walk of the lot, clipboard in hand. The sun had slipped beneath the horizon over a half-hour earlier, and the lot’s lights had kicked in. Still, Pfarrer felt safe conducting the inventory on his own. The north side of town was a good place to live, and in the off-chance that scum tried to rob him, the custom-built 1911 holstered appendix inside his jean waistband and concealed by his loose gray button-down would quickly remedy the situation.