Clarke

While Rodgers was calling in what we knew, I went to talk to Clarke.

He stood apart from the other, surveying the scene and watching Rodgers back. Close enough to be just a shout away, far enough to keep a good lookout.

The dappled pattern of his ACU camouflage was breaking up the outline of his body. An M9 Barretta pistol hung in a thigh rig, suspended from his belt. He looked the epitome of cool competence. Before I could say a word, he began to talk in quiet tone, his eyes never stopped scanning.

“Did you find out anything about where they sent the VX,” he asked.

“No.” I answered. “I’m certain that it’s been sent to more than one location. But we don’t know where. Rodgers is calling in a report now.”

“The Captain’s a good man. He and I first served together in Bosnia. That was a nasty little war. They called it ‘ethnic cleansing’ but in Sebrenicia the Serbs captured a refugee camp from the UN, separate the men and boys over 13, and then kill over 8000 of them… That’s not cleansing, that’s genocide.”