by Dalton Fury
Webber reached for the provided three-by-five index card and laid it perpendicular over the four-by-six color photo. He slid it up an eighth of an inch at a time, revealing specific areas that standard promotion boards home in on to determine the littlest of flaws. There was a proper length for the jacket sleeves, a perfect alignment of both corners of the service jacket, and a sure-bet method to determine if a nominee was trying to hide a rubber tire underneath the jacket. If you had gotten soft, sucking it in or smoke screening it behind a hundred medals didn’t make a difference.
Before leaving the midsection, Webber counted the overseas service bars, gold hash marks sewn to the candidate’s right sleeve, one for every six months in combat. Seeing the edges of the small patches just slightly signaled a skilled and meticulous Unit personnel shop.
Brewer’s folks are all over it, as usual.
Webber followed his right index finger center line up the midsection, stopping at the nominee’s right breast pocket. Webber drilled down to ensure the combat service identification badge was correctly centered. The red arrowhead with upward-pointed black dagger worn by all army special operations command forces combat veterans was free of smudges and fingerprints.
Webber shifted his focus to the upper chest area, pausing at the fruit salad of ribbons on the left breast. He studied the photo, keying on the medal ribbons pinned to the dark blue service coat. Reaching for the magnifier, he brought the photo closer into view.
What the hell?
Webber focused on the two rows of ribbons pinned to the dress uniform. If you were in Delta you had accumulated at least five rows of ribbons. Webber also knew, like every other board member in attendance that day, that all authorized medals and awards should be present in photos submitted to promotion and command select boards.
The two Distinguished Service Crosses by themselves were enough to draw any professional military man’s attention. But, after counting the Purple Hearts, Silver Stars, Bronze Stars, and the half-dozen bronze and silver oak leaf clusters, along with the two bronze “V” devices denoting valor on the battlefield, Webber came up for air. He wasn’t surprised at all that he could connect the gold hash marks’ timelines to pretty much every one of those valor awards. And, unfortunately, he knew he could connect a few of the names engraved in the black granite-and-marble Memorial Wall inside the Unit garden back at the compound.
“That son of a bitch!” Webber said just a little too loud, drawing several of the attendees’ attention momentarily.
Moments later Webber felt Yost’s pointed stare, his peripheral vision picking up Yost’s head turned to him. Being too lazy to display all your medals and awards was one thing. Even Webber recognized that the bottom two rows of ribbons were bullshit anyway, more about Napoleon Bonaparte’s famous statement about conquering the world if he only had enough ribbon than the wearer actually earning anything. Webber of course knew that the top two rows told the story of the man, of his combat actions, of what he did when the chips were down and the elastic moment wore off. Sure, the two rows of medals were irritating enough, and definitely out of protocol, but the disheveled and nonmilitary haircut, a thick lock threatening to cover his left eye, and the salt-and-pepper goatee were enough for Webber to execute a controlled detonation.
Fucking Major Raynor, doing his own thing as usual.
Webber looked up to lock eyes with Master Sergeant Brewer, his sapphire blue coat and Persian blue Army Service Uniform pants contrasting nicely with the charcoal gray sound barriers secured to the wall of the windowless and secure basement conference room. Brewer was already returning the glance, but unaware that one of his Unit nominee packets had caused a stir. Webber made note of Brewer’s own attire, proud but not surprised of how his mirror-polished black leather jump boots were like beacons. Webber marveled at how the custom fit of his white collared dress shirt and black tie was only obvious to a trained eye. The sergeant’s fresh and mandatory military-style haircut met the expected standards. Webber nodded from behind the desktop screen at the poster-boy sergeant, motioning him to come over.
Webber remained locked on Brewer as he slipped and side-stepped around a half-dozen other board members. The JSOC commander, Lieutenant General Seth Allen, was there, seated next to the SOCOM commander of all services’ special ops soldiers, sailors, and marines, who was up from Tampa, Florida. Three more general officers detailed by the army chief of staff, all with some special ops experience in their careers, had seats at the table.
The real players were the few former SEAL Team Six commanders and two former Delta commanders, whose opinions on nominee strength would be weighed heaviest. Basically, any former SMU commander who was healthy enough to make the trip and had a dog in the fight was welcome. The dog being one of their former shit-hot subordinate officers, and now the guy who he wants to see get the nod for a squadron command or take the Unit.
The immaculately dressed Sergeant Brewer leaned down to his commander to listen to the concern.
“What the hell is this?” Webber whispered as he pointed to the ribbons and goatee.
The sergeant stared at the photo for a second before his face reddened. To Webber, the surprise on Brewer’s face was genuine.
“Sir, uh, umm, I’m not sure how Major Raynor was able to take that picture without a haircut or all his ribbons present,” Brewer said. “That wasn’t taken in the Unit photo lab.”
“I’m not sure either, Sergeant,” Webber whispered back as he pointed to the upper left corner of the photo. “Looks like this photo was taken last Saturday morning.”
“Yes, sir, it won’t happen again, sir,” Brewer said.
“Let’s knock out the army officers first,” marine three-star general Chuck Swacklion, the promo board president, barked to break the room silence.
Webber saw relief come over Brewer’s face and watched him move back the way he came, within a few seconds posted back at the wall near the front door.
“First up, gentlemen, Major promotable Zachary Shents,” Swacklion said.
Webber put Kolt Raynor’s file down, picked up Major Shents’s file, and thumbed it open. He pulled the DA photo first, and just like with Raynor’s photo, he moved from bottom to top like a skilled diamond trader with a gold jeweler’s loupe. Again, along with the other board members, he studied the haircut, the overall facial expression, and the overall physical fitness of the candidate.
Webber and the others had an important job to do. They had to ask themselves, does this cock-strong type A look like a potential senior officer? Is he still in shape? Sloppy? Confident posture, square jaw, eyes still rational?
The board members would be zooming in on the uniform’s fit, then the spacing of the accoutrements, and comparing the number of awards to what was in the nominee’s Officer Record Brief. The carefully typewritten ORBs were stamped Top Secret and practically captured an officer’s entire career on a single page.
Lieutenant General Swacklion spoke up, somewhat as a joke but certainly to share a point. “Gentlemen, I think it goes without saying that any man that can’t get his own dress uniform squared away according to the army’s strict rules and regulations concerning the wear and appearance of the military uniform has no business assessing at an SMU board for a squadron command billet.”
Webber saw nods around the table, other heads bobbing from behind the computer screens.
Webber looked at Shents’s photo again. He knew him to have been a sound troop commander years ago. Nothing like Kolt Raynor for sure, but definitely solid. Webber was of two minds when it came to the dog-and-pony show and the emphasis placed on how an officer looked. Whether a nominee’s infantry crossed rifles or Special Forces crossed arrows were crooked on his lapel, or if faint thumbprints could be seen on buttons or shined brass, was pedantry taken to a whole new level. On the other hand, attention to detail mattered. But even then, he could forgive an eccentricity or two if the officer demonstrated one thing above all else.
Can this guy lead action hero
es or not?
“Looks to be a top-notch candidate for a squadron,” Ambassador Bill Mason, the former Joint Special Operations commander, said, not entirely unexpectedly.
That didn’t take long, Webber thought.
Motionless in his high-back leather swivel chair, Webber didn’t bother to acknowledge Mason’s comment, playing it off as if he was in another room or at a different board meeting.
If asked, Webber would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little uncomfortable at the lickies and chewies table before the meeting kicked off. No way he could have avoided talking to the former JSOC commander. But he knew he wasn’t the only one that wasn’t too keen on Bill Mason’s leadership style, or a little queasy about small-talking with the former navy three-star.
More pressing this morning, and working against Webber’s desires, was that at least a dozen men in the room knew of retired and now ambassador Mason’s personal dislike for one Delta Force Major Kolt “Racer” Raynor.
“Webber?” General Swacklion said. “Any reason to go on? Major Shents looks like a six-plus rating to me.”
Webber was cautious with his response, knowing Swacklion and Admiral Mason were pretty tight. Webber continued to read Shents’s previous units of assignment and his awards and decorations listed in the accompanying ORB. More for show than concern, as he knew his man’s file cold.
Webber remembered Shents’s potential years back, but the major had gotten soft over the years, lost some of his mojo taking cush assignments, and, some would say, dodging combat. Sure, Shents was a good man, he just wasn’t a good choice for what he was being assessed for now.
A six-plus? I was thinking a low three rating, barely qualified.
“He is, sir, top notch for sure,” Webber said, stalling for time. But Webber knew he was there to only fill one squadron command slot, with two other nominees, including the long shot, Raynor. Webber knew exactly who he wanted selected, although he was unable to outwardly show it for fear of showing signs of favoritism.
Unfortunately, for two of the three Delta officers being assessed today at the special mission unit command board, their time in Delta was over. The board was known around the community as “death row select,” because not being picked here put your true name back on the army or navy open rolls, out there again for all to see, and condemned a special ops man to a conventional unit battalion command, an instructor slot in one of the many schoolhouses, or even an assignment pushing papers inside the halls of the Pentagon.
Webber looked over at Hank Yost and lowered his glasses to the edge of his nose. Yost picked up on the gesture.
“Mr. President, Major Shents is certainly qualified,” the SEAL commander said, “but I recommend we review the other two candidates before we put it to a vote.”
Admiral Bill Mason was quick to pipe in. “Qualified, Hank? I’d say top-three graduate at West Point, honor graduate at Command and General Staff College at Leavenworth, makes him the front runner.”
“Yes, sir, nothing against Major She—”
Still reading from the file and without even a courtesy look toward the Navy SEAL, Mason interrupted, “School of Advanced Military Studies grad and Best Monograph saber awardee for his paper on ‘The Equity and Efficiency of Conventional Military Units in a Shifting Global Framework.’ And two years on the joint staff.”
Webber bit his tongue. Jousting with Mason now wouldn’t be doing any favors for his man Raynor. Webber knew this board was unique from the rest of the military. Besides the fact that background checks of each nominee had already been completed, unlike on other boards, open discussion and personal firsthand knowledge were encouraged and authorized for consideration during voting.
“Sir, I think we all recognize Major Shents’s outstanding service record and accomplishments in CONUS over the past what, three, four years that we have been at war,” Yost said, trying to hide the obvious sarcasm.
Webber pushed his glasses back to the top of his nose and went back to the file. He was careful not to seem too interested in the verbal tilt between Mason and Yost.
“Gentlemen, I agree, we are here to give all the nominees due review before we vote,” General Swacklion said, subtly reminding everyone he was the president of the board.
Webber noticed Swacklion opening up a second folder and pulling out what he was certain was one of the other nominees’ official photo and ORB. He aligned them on the table and leaned forward with the issued magnifier.
“Major Raynor have a hard time figuring out the rest of his ribbons, Webber?” General Swacklion asked without showing any signs of sarcasm.
Not knowing exactly how to respond, Webber went all in. “I recall a bit of a wardrobe malfunction at our organization not long ago, sir.”
That didn’t sound right.
“Impressive number of valor awards,” General Swacklion said, shaking his head and obviously not hiding the fact that he was impressed. “Very Audie Murphy–like indeed.”
“Gentlemen, we can’t base these critical decisions off of any perceived, or otherwise, combat actions,” Mason barked as he stood up for all to see. “This process is too important to the nation.”
“We got that, Bill, relax, please take your seat,” General Swacklion said, holding his hand up to Mason from across the mahogany table.
“Am I counting those oak leaf clusters correctly, Colonel Webber?” Swacklion said, lowering his face closer to the magnifier. “I count seven Purple Hearts.”
“I believe it’s actually eight, sir,” Webber replied.
Webber took a quick sip of lukewarm coffee before reaching for Raynor’s unmarked manila folder. He started to place Raynor’s photo and ORB back inside.
“God damn it!” Admiral Mason said. “With all due respect, Mr. President, this file is indicative of the crass nature of this officer. I can attest to Major Raynor’s repetitive and consistent bouts of insubordination over the past four to five years alone.”
“I see, Bill,” General Swacklion said calmly. “You have history with Major Raynor you’d like to share?”
“Raynor is hardly someone we should be seriously considering to lead a Delta sabre squadron, particularly in light of the White House’s proposed merger initiative,” Mason said.
Webber quickly looked at Admiral Mason with a faint look of disgust. Even in retirement, Mason’s hair was picture perfect, slicked back and thick, not a brown hair out of place topping the fade of gray around the ears. A diet of apple fritters and full-sugar Coca-Colas like Mason had lifted from the snack table before taking his seat most likely accounted for the ten, maybe fifteen pounds the former JSOC commander had put on since Webber last saw him.
I wish that goofy bow tie would choke him out.
Webber looked up over his glasses at Lieutenant General Swacklion. “Sir, Admiral Mason is right. Major Raynor is a little eccentric. I’m not going to sit here and tell this board that he hasn’t been on my carpet a time or two. But, I have thoroughly counseled Raynor and can assure everyone here that he won’t step out of line again.”
Deep down, Webber knew Kolt Raynor was a rockhead at times, pushed it more often than not. He also knew guys like Raynor were what made the world safe and whose combat exploits got guys like Mason stars on their collars.
“Colonel Webber, I have to admit this file does seem oddly peculiar to me. Can you explain why this board is being withheld information that we need to make a full and thorough assessment?” Swacklion asked, practically ignoring Webber’s weak comments about Raynor learning his lesson.
“Information, sir?” Webber asked as he looked up from the file. “Not sure I am following you there, sir.”
Webber hurried to locate the written ORB hidden inside Raynor’s folder.
“Well, Colonel, specifically, for starters, the excessive redactions on Raynor’s written ORB here. The blacked-out stuff is a little extreme, no?” Swacklion asked.
“Uh, yes sir, we may have been a little overzealous with the security classification
,” Webber said. “But, as I mentioned, this is part of his uniqueness. I’m just not prepared to go any further than that in the present company.”
“Is this the guy that took the lethal dose of radiation a while ago?” General Swacklion asked as he quickly thumbed through the remaining papers in Raynor’s file, appearing to look for more information. “Down in Mississippi?”
“Sir, given the attendees today, I request we caucus off line. I’ll have to ring the attorney general’s office for authorization as well,” Webber said, trying not to come off as a jerk or seem as if he was sidestepping the board president’s question.
Marine General Swacklion locked on Webber for a long, uncomfortable few seconds. Webber maintained eye contact with the leatherneck general, careful not to blink or appear intimidated. No matter how many stars that bulldog marine had on his collar, Webber knew he wasn’t going to spill highly classified information in mixed company.
The board president broke first, turning his fresh side-walled marine cut away from Webber and focusing on the only active Navy SEAL in the room.
“Captain Yost, you and this Raynor fella are the same year group; looks like he fell way off the pace for promotion.”
Webber sensed the marine was trying to acquire an ally in his naval half brother. The marine general was right, Raynor and Yost were peer officers years ago, but Yost stayed on the fast track and moved up quickly through Six’s ranks, while Kolt partnered with Jack Daniel’s, rode the black Chinook a time or two, stiff-armed all formal schooling, and moved laterally in the ranks to stay operational as long as possible.
“Sir, Raynor and I tooled around the thick forests in Bosnia together back when we were hunting war criminals. We made a couple of in extremis penetrations across the Drina river to grab a couple of sealed Hague indictees and brought them back to Eagle Base near Tuzla. If he was a stronger swimmer I’d bring him to the beach. If there is one person I can vouch for today as much as any of my frogmen, it’s Kolt Raynor.”
