Page 2 of Signed, SEALed, Delivered

“Russia tried that shit in the eighties when they occupied this space. They came in with delusions of kicking the shit out of the goat farmers. Ten years later, they marched back to the motherland with their whipped asses in hand, leaving behind hundreds of blonde haired children and the brand of loser.”

The rumbling of heavy truck tires against the dirt road ends all conversations, necks crane in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the vehicle approaching. As the first truck rounds the bend, the anticipation of this being the medical convoy we have been assigned to escort across the valley increases. Reaper was telling the truth when he said what our purpose here was. Our team however, needs to get a medical group to the other side of this valley as the insurgents have a nasty habit of firing at our evac helicopters, making it near impossible to get our wounded men out and back to base for treatment.

“Moore, you keep your head down and your mouth shut. Trust no one and suspect every person you meet is out to kill you.” Reaper resumed his whittling, not concerned with the cargo of the truck, which has now stopped along the makeshift road. Moore thanks him and turns to leave, sliding his sunglasses back on his face.

“Hey, Colorado,” Reaper calls, having beaten me in creating a nickname for the kid. Moore turns around, shifting his gun to his other shoulder. “Get your name tags off your uniform and tell your buddies to do the same. Don't think for a second the bastards in the village won't rat you out to the enemy just for showing up in their business.”

Reaching up, Moore pulls several times before the letters of his last name come away from his uniform. Nodding his head, he wadded up the piece of cloth in his clenched fist, turns and continues his path.

“Any word on the arrival of the truck?” Doc inquires as we watch Moore disappear into the mess tent.

“Only that they left late last night and the GPS shows them still moving in this direction.” News of this particular mission had not been a welcomed one. We were all dog-tired from back to back assignments. Plans to hunker down, either under a palm tree or a tall oak, preferably with a nameless girl to help pass the time, were now on permanent hold until we could get this medical team past the insurgents and into their new home.

“Looks like supplies have arrived.” Ghost stands from his crouched position, dusting off the pebbles, which were most likely causing him the same discomfort as all of us. “I’m gonna see if I can lend a hand.”

He wasn’t foolin anyone. Ghost has a high profile girlfriend back in the states, a national news reporter looking to make a name for herself by landing an anchor position. We've been silent for nearly two months, no email or phone calls. Our families know to send letters when they don't hear from us in a few days. Last time we went this long without contact, she got squirrely and did something she shouldn't have with an old friend of hers. Ghost forgave her, even took all the blame for not being around to warm her bed every night.

No one says a word as we watch Ghost walk over to the edge of the truck. A line of junior enlisted pass the unloaded contents to the center of the camp where two officers with clip boards point out instructions. Mailbags are usually the last to be unloaded, giving the workers an incentive to get the job done quick. Ghost may be an officer, a seasoned and lethal killer branded as a SEAL, but he is also an honorable man. He is willing to stand beside the fresh-faced kids who have, by now, figured out why his uniform is different and his face is sporting a full beard.

As the last box is tossed from the truck, the line breaks and forms a semicircle around three canvas bags; the black, block lettering on the side causes a hush to spread over the crowd. Ghost bends over, pulling the cords of one bag open, a job normally reserved for the commander of the unit. Nothing will be said to him for breaking the rules, not when they don't really apply to us.

With a black satchel under his arm, Ghost returns to our group, a slow smile forming on his face. “Viper, can I get the key?” I could play with him, tell him I left it back in base camp, but I want to see if I have any news from back home. My brother Zane and his wife Meghan were buying a house the last I heard from him. My sister Savannah had just opened a bakery, specializing in cupcakes. She had some trouble passing a city inspection and I hoped my father didn't have to step in to help her.

Ghost takes the key from me, jamming it into the coppery metal of the satchel and twists several times to open the lock. He reaches in, pulling out a multitude of letters and small packages, a few fall from the force he is using, landing on the dirt below.

Doc bends over, picking up the wayward letters. He glances at each one, shifting each pieces of parchment to read the face of the next. “LT, all of these babies are for you.” Extending his hand out for me to take them.

My focus remains on Ghost as he hands out the letters in his hand. With each one he gives away, I can see his reserve falling just a little more as the stack gets shorter. My heartbeat quickens, I can feel my teeth sinking further into the soft flesh of my tongue. With the last letter coming up quick, a hush came over all of us as we watched the anguish turn to delight. We didn't need to ask who the letter was from or if the last two were for him, the tucking of paper into his pocket and whistle as he took his place against the rocky ledge said it all.

“Hey, LT,” Reaper breaking the silence news from home created. “Remember the property I was looking into buying?” Last time we had been at base camp, he had perused the Internet looking for property to purchase. The group of us had an average of thirteen months left on our enlistments. Reaper wanted to buy a little strip of land, and live peaceful and alone once his time was up. After his fiancée Carrie, learned of the scar hidden behind his beard, she mailed him his ring and ended their engagement. Now, he had it in his head all women are evil and none of them would give him, or his deformed face, the time of day.

“The one in Montana or Oregon?” I teased. Being from Georgia myself, nothing north or west of the Mason-Dixon line mattered much to me. “Very funny, fucktard.” Kicking my boot as he handed me the piece of paper he had in his hand. “This little beauty is bank owned and my realtor says they are eager to sell.” I will admit, being born and raised in Atlanta, I am a big city boy through and through. Yet seeing the beauty in the land he wanted to purchase, the small house nestled in the tall trees of South Carolina, I could see the appeal. “How close to Charleston is this place?”

During the time we spent in Afghanistan, our team took on a Marine, Chase Morgan. Reaper and Havoc took a shining to him and began teaching him everything they knew. Pretty soon, he earned himself a call sign for his ability to make water catch fire. It was after he showed us this skill, his name was born; Diesel. Granted he did catch flak for his movie star good looks, and I've no doubt it helped to steer the men along in giving him the name. Diesel would share stories of his brothers back in Charleston; he made the historic city sound almost magical.

“Two hours, I wouldn't want to crowd Diesel or his kin.” Taking back the flyer, he tucks it safely inside his shirt pocket. “When we get done with this shit, I'm gonna call her and have her start the paperwork.” He picks up his whittling from before, Reaper’s way of ending a conversation.

“Hey, anyone know if Kincaid has a sister or a wife?” Doc asks the group, a white sheet of paper dangling from his fingers, while his eyes flicker over the words on the page.

“Both. Why do you ask?” Havoc looks up from his own letter as he answers.

“Cause I got a letter from one of them.”

Kincaid was a fellow SEAL we met when we did a joint mission with the 53rd Marine division. He ended up staying with us for about four months while Havoc recovered from his injuries.

Chief jumps to his feet, snatching the letter out of Doc's hands. “You lucky, motherfucker.” He laughs as he scans the letter. “Harper Kincaid is the sister and one of the sweetest ladies to walk the planet.” Chief tosses the paper back to Doc. “She works with the USO and Navy League to make sure single soldiers aren't forgotten during the holidays.”Doc continues to read and reread the letter, turning the page around and checking the back. Chief has a Cheshire grin on his face, keeping the rest of the story to himself.

“Good news, Ladies,” Havoc adds, turning the postcard we all know had to be from his Mother. “I was too slow in letting Athenia Pantel know I was looking for a good Greek girl to marry and she accepted the proposal of George Kalavesis instead.” Havoc would be hard pressed to find a career in Hollywood, as his acting skills suck.

“Awe, don't fret, son. Your sweet momma will have a new girl lined up before you know it.” Havoc turns the post card sideways, flinging it at my head. I laugh as I catch it with ease, enjoying the photo of the Isle of Cyprus on the front.

“What about you, LT? Any news from home?” Chief asks, his own letter folded in his hands. I knew better than to think I could wait until I had a moment alone, as a team, we shared practically everything. I pull the four envelopes from my pocket, peering at the return addresses and logos. “Well, First Mortgage can offer me a free evaluation on my current rates.” Chuckling, I toss the junk mail into the dirt at my right. “Next, we have an offer to make the grass of my lawn greener.” Reaper snickered at that one as it joined the pile. “A letter from my baby sister, no doubt telling me about the new guy in her life I’ll need to kick the shit out of for breaking her heart.” I shove the letter back into my pocket. Savannah was in love with the idea of being in love. She hopped like a fucking bunny from one obsession to the next; tossing everything she had into the relationship, being used for her name and her bank account.

“Finally, we have an airmail letter from Kennedy Forrester.” The red, white, and blue stripes along the border of the envelope, lightweight, almost tissue paper texture. Years ago this paper was common when sending mail overseas, when the price was dictated by the weight of the post. Sliding my callused finger under the seal, I separated the flap from the glued edge, taking care not to rip the fragile paper as I removed the thin letter.

Zack,

I hate the way we left things. I know I said I would be there for you no matter what happened, but it scared me when you started asking for information I wasn't comfortable giving you. I want to help...

I stopped reading the letter the second I realized it wasn't intended for me. My name is Zach, not Zack. Picking up the discarded envelope, I noticed the last name is wrong as well. Zack Michels, instead of Michaels, the only thing correct was the APO address. “Which was delivered to the wrong Zach.” I add, as I know my team is waiting to know who Kennedy is. “I’ll look up the poor bastard when we get back and give him his letter.”

The rumbling of tires starts at the same time sniper fire resumes. I look to Reaper who has already lined up his rifle to the ridge to the West of us. Two shots ring out, one additional from the sniper and the second from the barrel of Reaper’s gun. We all collectively stand as the convoy stops in a swirl of dust behind us. We have a job to do, regardless of wrongly delivered mail, surprise packages, land purchases, and good Greek girls.

Reaper hesitates, his gun still raised to the ridge, finger remaining on the trigger. “The kid was right, you know?” Remaining still a second longer before lowering his gun and standing beside me. His green eyes flash to mine, a knowing smile framing his face. “I do miss the smell of warm pussy in the morning.

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