“In Albania?”
“Right. There are no Marines in theater, so Mobile Unit Six Forward has been directed to send EOD Techs along for force protection.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, we are about to morph from MCM to Mobile detachments. It is not like we are welcome in the Balkans. The intel guys said that the government in Albania supports us being there, but they are not in real control. Apparently, Albania is like Beirut in the 1980’s; every village is controlled by a separate faction. Heck, in ninety-five they had a coup and weapons were stolen all over the country. So now every farmer has a Kalishnikov or an SKS. One major news station even has footage of a farmer towing a MIG with his tractor. “
“Unbelievable. So what are we going to do?”
“Like I said, ‘Security. Force Protection.’ We are going to ride shotgun on the helos and keep the refugees and the minor warring factions from stealing the chow and humanitarian stuff.”
“Fuck, this sounds a lot like Mogadishu, not Beirut.”
“Oh, I hope not.”
Jazz thought for a moment before asking Duvall about Italy. Nobody else was at their table. He lowered his voice a bit.
“Hey, Duke?”
“Mmmm?” Duvall mumbled through a forkful of peas.
“Anybody say anything about Italy?”
“You mean your Secret Service job?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow, sure. I dunno if you realize it man, but you got the thousand yard stare going on.”
“Do I?”
“Yeah. Are you okay?”
“I guess. I’m mostly wondering if people think I fucked up.”
“Well, we talked about it at first, but the conclusion was that we’d all have done the same thing. I mean it was a conference center for God’s sake and it was only SECSTATE. If it was POTUS you definitely screen everyone, but SECSTATE.”
“So, nobody blamed us?”
“Nah, never. Heck, I already forgot about that. We’re on the Inch-long, man, we’ve focused on planning for Noble Anvil.”
Jazz did not completely believe Duvall’s answer. He wondered if some of his brethren thought he was culpable. Despite Denke’s words back in Sigonella, he knew that he was still wrestling with it.
Portland became more comfortable as the temperature dropped with the sun. Melanie felt like a shepherd herding her two boys through the neighborhood. They laughed and giggled, pushing and shoving each other. Abigail cooed, observing everything from her stroller.
Melanie called out, “Stay on the sidewalk, boys!”
Melanie could sense the weekend beginning as she passed by each house. Teenagers were heading out on dates, families were packing their cars for San Antonio or Mexico, and shirtless men were cutting their grass or working in their garages.
She slowed her pace to watch a particularly handsome and muscled man mowing his front lawn. As Melanie got closer she saw his wife on the porch sipping tea and keeping eye on two little girls playing on the steps.
The fact that he was a family man only made him sexier.
As she passed, Melanie kept facing forward. A lump rose in her throat. She was jealous of the woman.
She can’t appreciate how lucky she is just to have him home, Melanie thought to herself. What a luxury to sit on the porch while her husband does yard work, to have someone to help her with the children, to have a man to share her bed. I’ll bet she even has a career. She focused on her kids again. Meanwhile, I’m basically a single mother.
Eleanor advised her a long time ago that developing a routine was key to surviving a deployment. The routine gave the kids comfort and helped all of them cope with the time that Jazz was gone. Melanie followed this advice on each of his first two deployments and found out that Eleanor was right. Now Jazz was on his third deployment. Before he left, Melanie expected this third deployment to be the easiest — she was seasoned, she knew all the pitfalls. Sadly, she was mistaken. Nicholas and Tyler were older, in a stage where they definitively needed a father’s influence. By the day’s end, they wore her out physically and emotionally. Whenever all three kids vied for her attention at the same time she was reminded of the adage, “Three is not one more than two.”
While Melanie believed that her children were gifts from God, she maintained her sanity during the moments when she had time to herself, like when they were asleep. Jeannie was also heaven-sent. If naptime secured her sanity, Jeannie repelled her sadness. Their friendship was carrying Melanie through the separation. Jeannie often fulfilled the role of husband in all but one way.
When they invented “Margarita Night” it solidified their sisterhood. This auspicious occasion was held every Friday night. After only a few weeks, Judy Ashland and the other wives frequently joined them. They all started using it as a way of marking the time until their husbands returned. Thus the ladies who were married to the men of Det Four commiserated and endured together.
The Ball residence became the most popular meeting place. The ranch house on Sycamore Street was central and within equal walking distance, albeit a long walking distance, from all the others.
“Slow down, boys!” Melanie called to Nicholas and Tyler.
They both stopped and turned to face their mother. Each had a look of disdain as their mother strained to catch up to them from behind the weight of the stroller.
“Okay, go ahead now.”
They raced ahead again, playing some nondescript game with a secret language that only lads under seven understand.
“Boys!”
Two days after Judge Normal signed Elena’s warrant, a surveillance team from the San Antonio office headed by Special Agent Kilkenney arrived in Portland. They spent two days studying the physical layout of the Jascinski residence and the surrounding area. Kilkenney and the men of his surveillance team then observed Melanie Jascinski and her neighbors’ routines for three weeks. They determined that a Friday night between 6:00 and 8:00 p.m. was optimum for entry. By that time Melanie should be at the Ball residence with the other Detachment Four wives and things in the neighborhood normally quieted down. Only one neighbor, the insurance salesman across the street and two doors down, seemed to spend a lot of Friday nights in his garage and driveway, tinkering on his car or woodworking.
A camera placed in the grill of an FBI car parked across from the Ball home transmitted its feed to room 514 of the Portland Inn. On his video screen, Kilkenney saw Melanie Jascinski and her sons follow Judy Ashland into the Ball house.
“Subject and children have reached destination,” Kilkenney said into his radio. “Recommend a ‘Go.’”
“Corner One recommends a go,” said Steffensen from the park bench on one end of the block where the Jascinski’s lived.
“Corner Two, go,” agreed Agent Magee from his car on the far corner, almost ten doors down.
“Roger. Entry Team, go,” Kilkenney ordered.
“Entry.”
Kilkenney’s team used this bugging method five times before. It worked like a charm. He kept his eyes on the screen displaying the Ball house, but was visualizing what was happening at the Jascinski’s. First, a van with a false air conditioning company name on the side pulled up. Two men got out and quickly approached the house. The first picked the lock to the front door easily. They were inside before the insurance salesman even looked up. Then they methodically placed the bugs into the air ducts in each room.