For the second time, I was “convinced” to not share this story. But fuck it. I’ll share this today, my 35th anniversary of graduating from Mount Saint Michael High School in the Bronx. You need to know the truth before another milestone comes and goes.
Three events, absurd in their
connection, occurred moments before the 1000 hours ceremony in Hanger 1. Fixing
my signature to this document was first, my formal assumption of command.
Simplicity was its magnetism, the declaration securing a foothold at the top of
highlights in my young military career. The United States Army entrusted me
with legal command of and responsibility for the training, morale, welfare, and
warfighting effectiveness of America’s most valuable asset: soldiers. My
responsibility would be the command of an air cavalry troop responsible for unit-level
maintenance of the Squadron’s 24 Apache attack helicopters. The day this was to
take effect, my contribution was nothing more than acceptance of their charge.
Second, my visitor made his presence known without adding a
whisper to the wind or a trite clearing his throat. His silhouette filled the
doorway of the commander’s office, my new office, refusing to enter until
invited. Time froze, extending one moment like it somehow knew how the next
would lead to the end of my innocence. Seven seconds could have been more than
an hour or just the prelude to a heartbeat. A casual blue polo framed his chest
before it fell untucked just below the waistline of faded blue jeans. His
tousled brown locks were just long enough to be a regulation haircut. Maybe,
perhaps, he was another contractor.
Not yet comfortable with my new position, I popped out of my
industrial aluminum rolling chair (why is government furniture so ugly?), eager
to apologize for not inviting the stranger into a niche devoid of personality
except for keepsakes abandoned by the last five commanders of Delta Troop. Flickering
fingers brushed away any need before I said a word. He stepped in to offer
congratulations while handing me a dusty envelope with the promise that we
would “talk more later, in Hawaii.” White sprinkles of powder floated and settled
on the sleeve of my camouflage fatigues.
It was an awkward silent exchange, one I’m sure you’ve also
experienced. Volleys of questions struck my mind at once–an avalanche of who,
what, where, when, and why–but I said nothing. I felt my thoughts split in two.
In that half-second before I reengaged, every event of that now-dreaded morning
played again. When the First Sergeant of Delta Troop swooped in, looking for my
assumption of command orders, I failed to notice my visitor’s exit.
“Do you know that guy, First Sergeant?” As the fresh face at
Camp Eagle, I still had a lot of people to meet. Apparently, many of them now
worked for me.
“What guy, sir?” he said, but I dropped the matter and
grabbed the orders off my desk.
My body sparked moments after First Sergeant Soto left with
the signed document in hand. A small white matter lesion formed alongside the
radial nerve for my right arm, somewhere along the C5 to C8 cervical vertebrae.
More than a rush of adrenaline, the unfamiliar surge of that third event would
not send me to the doctor for another six months.
I don’t know if this first chapter begins with the overdue exposition
of my past deeds or if the exercise is just another operator’s cryptic deathbed
confession. Jesus, has it been 25 years since that fateful day? Most principles
of what transpired are no longer on the register. The rest have been in hiding
for so long that it is safe to assume they’re dead as well. No one is going to
corroborate my story. Hell, that’s the only reason I am sharing today. If any
other members were alive, they would say my story is just that–a story. A lie.
Another fairytale spewing from an overactive imagination. Nonsense, created to
ease the constant pain of my afflictions. It wouldn’t matter anyway, since I
could never tell this tale if they were here. That was our agreement. Colin
used to say, “Last one standing gets the TV rights.” Sorry, my friend. You lost
our contest a long time ago.
Espionage, drugs, sex, and murder have more than one
interpretation. History becomes some version of reality fabricated by the
victors. But when everyone loses, all that remains is the truth. I will not
talk about people who surrounded me in the public eye. Friends, coworkers, other
soldiers… None of them deserve the backlash that would come from association
with what I’m about to tell you, so who they are and what we did in the Air
Cavalry will be a bit of creative nonfiction. Please don’t waste your time
trying to discover hidden meanings behind their names. I just took them from a
Major League Baseball website next to me in an open browser window. I was doing
research to Beat the Streak.
Everyone else, the motley cast of characters pulling strings
tied to our global charade, lost their rights to anonymity long ago. I’m the
last remaining puppeteer.
It all began the morning of March 25, 1999, in a small Army airbase
set deep in the Korean Seom River basin. Without reading its contents, I folded
the sprinkled envelope and stuffed it into my BDU pants pocket when Specialist
Contreras stuck his head into my office, guided by a smile from ear to ear.
“Sir,” Contreras said, “everyone’s ready to go.” The kid
couldn’t care less about the ceremony; he was happy to have the morning off
from restocking inventories across the troop. First Sergeant Soto had him
hauling boxes and crates for the last three days as punishment for being late
to PT formation on Monday. Plus, there would be cake at the end of the ceremony.
Time threatened to slip from my grasp once more, leaving in
its place vivid details of my role in a storied tradition–change of command. Tearing
my mind from the entanglement of competing senses, I pressed my eyes tight.
“Let’s do this,” I said as I grabbed my Stetson, hanging off
the government-issue gray metal coat rack by its leather strap. Contreras stepped
to the side to let me pass through the door.
“Darkhorse, sir!”
“Darkhorse!” It was going to take a while to get used to
that greeting. Delta Troop, 1/6 Cav (“Darkhorse”).
Soldiers, led by their outgoing commander, stood at
attention in the hangar’s belly. Bitter fumes from solvents and glues hung in
the air as sweet trails of hydraulic fluid floated past. Four Apaches sat idle;
their skins seductively peeled open—a teasing invitation for salacious acts of
aviation maintenance. They would have to wait while Delta Troop bade farewell
to their young captain and welcomed an even younger version. The quintessential
red over white swallow-tailed cavalry guidon led the command team forward.
First Sergeant Soto passed the marker to Captain Hicks. By placing the guidon
in the hands of his squadron commander, Hicks acknowledged that his time as
Darkhorse 06 was complete.
“You did a fine job, Jordan,” Lieutenant Colonel Bregman
said, his tone barely audible in our four-person huddle.
“Thank you, sir,” Hicks replied.
Bregman hoarded his time, as he usually did, offering
praises on operational readiness rates and quick phase maintenance turnarounds.
The glowing examples would have been better suited to a speech…with a
microphone…in front of the ceremony’s attendees. Instead, the mix of officers,
enlisted soldiers, contract civilians, and a smattering of the few Army
families who lived in Korea while their spouses deployed spent the next 12
minutes wondering what they were whispering about and when it would be over.
The handoff to me was much quicker. Bregman thrust the
guidon into my hands and barked one command loud enough for everyone to hear.
“You’ve got big shoes to fill. Don’t fuck it up, Kevin.”
“Yes, sir.”
What else could I say? Bystanders experienced in these
matters probably chalked my stunned expression up to the typical nerves of a
junior officer thrust into his first command position. It was different for me,
however. I tracked every moment with precision, anticipating my turn in this
ballet even as my mind was stunned by conflicting moments, daydreaming about
how unnamed operators detailed drone footage of Japanese warships chasing suspected
spy vessels. They lost track when the tiny boats moved into Korean waters. In
silence, I returned the guidon to Soto’s hands, who then whispered the cadence
for us to return to our positions.
We were the new command team.
I was now Darkhorse 06, commander of a troop in the 6th US Cavalry.
Heavy burdens and uplifting pride swirled together when I considered the lineage into which I had joined. William P. Sanders; Lewis H. Carpenter; John J. Pershing; George S. Patton; Kevin J. Byrne.
There was a hearty round of applause as spectators spilled
onto the hangar floor and offered congratulations to both Jordan and me.
After the ceremonial cake cuts, I turned to First Sergeant Soto.
“Top, how about we give Contreras the afternoon off?” It was
not a young commander’s place to tell the First Sergeant how to manage his
enlisted soldiers, especially when it was the first instruction he ever issued.
With no delay, Soto replied, “No problem, sir.” He chucked
his untouched piece of yellow sheet cake with red and white frosting into the
lined 44-gallon plastic trashcan before corralling a few soldiers for cleanup
detail. Junior enlisted took their cue when Soto huddled up with CW3 Jon Gray,
our production control officer. Back to work, playtime was over.
“Let’s go, move it,” he said. “I want everyone back turning
wrenches at 1300 hrs.” He pointed to Contreras. “You’re done for today. Be in
my office at 0600 tomorrow for reassignment.”
“Darkhorse, Top.”
“Darkhorse.”
Now, it was my turn.
“I’ll send someone over when it’s time to celebrate your
command, sir.” That was my one and only free pass from Top Soto. I hoped it was
not wasted in my haste.
Jon Gray cornered me on my second day at Eagle. “Sir,” he
said, “you need to understand one thing. These kids don’t need a commander
standing over their shoulders while trying to maintain our birds.” He talked
without looking in my direction, instead carefully entering test flight data
into the logbook for one of Alpha Troop’s aircraft. “It makes them nervous, and
that leads to mistakes.” He emphasized that last point with rapid pen strokes
to affix his signature on the paperwork.
Understood. When the real work for Delta Troop began, my
responsibility was getting the hell of the way. I headed back to the
commander’s office, now my office, to review and sign off on the change of
command inventory reports.
And like that, it was over. Bearing witness to one of these
military moments instills a sense of pride and anticipation of the future. As a
participant, I found it so much more. Nothing before or since has sparked such
a watershed, not in my head nor my heart.
It’s a beautiful story I have shared for 25 years.
But that wasn’t quite how the events unfolded.
When the First Sergeant of Delta Troop swooped in, looking
for my assumption of command orders, my visitor stepped aside.
“Is this good?” All I had done was sign the piece of paper left
on my desk by the squadron personnel, but there was still a need for
reassurance that I didn’t fuck anything up. Like a toddler’s paint-by-numbers
creation, First Sergeant Soto showered me with the praise I craved.
“That’s a very nice signature, sir.”
Moments after First Sergeant Soto left with the signed
document in hand, just after my body sparked, I heard a muffled “ahem.” Was he
standing there the whole time, or did he just return to the office?
“Maybe we should have a quick conversation now,” he said.
Halfway through me sputtering some version of “Who are you,”
he strolled out the doorway, only to take an exaggerated step back in.
“Come on, Darkhorse,” he said, waving me along. “We don’t
have all day.”
Morbid curiosity was the only reason I said, “Let’s do
this,” as I grabbed my Stetson, hanging off the government-issue gray metal
coat rack by its leather strap. He let me pass through the door while directing
me toward the exit door rather than the hangar bay area. I should have pointed
out that my change of command ceremony was scheduled to start in about 15
minutes, but I figured he knew that. For some reason, I kept silent. Outside
was a jet black, very not military, SUV. It looked like a suped-up version of
the 1999 Daewoo something-or-other, which I had seen all over the airport when
I arrived in-country.
Wasting no time, he slipped past me and glided to the
driver’s side. When I held my ground, he seemed to understand my hesitation.
“It’ll just be a minute,” he said.
It wasn’t.
“Colonel Bregman knows you are taking a quick ride with me,”
he said.
He didn’t.
The inside of my visitor’s SUV was the first place in a
month that did not smell like Korea, a country with that indescribable waft permeating
everything. Your untrained nose tingles from oddities your mind finds unclean
and offensive until it acclimates. One month later, the Western stench of fry
grease and deli meats stuck to empty food containers on the floorboard became repulsive.
I kept my opinion to myself. How could I raise that random topic? I didn’t even
have the nerve to ask my visitor his name. I guess that it would come up in
natural conversation at some point soon.
Camp Eagle was a ghost town. I didn’t see anyone in the
three minutes it took to drive off the air base. They were all in the hangar, wondering
where the hell Captain Byrne went. I wondered how long you had to be gone
before they considered you AWOL. Tearing past the gate guard, who seemed
unconcerned with our recklessness, he hung a quick right and wove through a
healthy smattering of midday traffic.
“Our observation center is just on this side of Wonju. I’ll make
it in time–we still have about six minutes before crossing.”
Our?
Observation center?
Crossing what?
Someone said, “Don’t fuck it up, Kevin.”
I kept quiet and held tight as our SUV sped along, swerving
to avoid cars, bicycles, and pedestrians. Without warning, he slammed on the
brakes, locking my seatbelt as he threw the vehicle in park before barking,
“Let’s go.” I left my Stetson in the car and raced to catch up as my visitor
ducked into a run-down one-level building with a thatched roof and paint chips flaking
off its concrete walls. The door opened from the inside; someone was expecting
us.
Disguised as a dilapidated structure was a clandestine
pop-up operation, the observation center, with two stations tracking low-visibility
grayscale imaging of what appeared to be fishing vessels. The teams manning
both stations looked like typical South Korean citizens from that region,
carrying on fast-paced conversations through their headsets in their native
tongue. When one, a female in her mid-20s, noticed us, her voice switched to a
flawless Midwestern accent.
“Agent Bathe, our intelligence has confirmed Chunji Han on
target two. Our eyes in the sky picked him up peeling off the coast from
Chongjin, but the boats turned back. I think something spooked him, probably
the Japanese SDF.”
Bathe grabbed two wired headsets, handing one to me without
looking.
“Keep that drone on target. He’s trying to make it up to
Sapporo. Could we verify if there was cargo on board?”
“No other confirmation or count of souls on board.”
Bathe remained quiet with his eyes fixed on the video
monitor. The rest of the room remained abuzz, relaying messages and issuing
orders–I think. Everything was in Korean.
“He’s running back into North Korean waters,” she said. The
image grew faint before it blurred into background noise.
“Target lost.”
“Fuck!” Bathe lowered his head and clenched both fists,
holding the pose for extended breaths before he turned and looked at me. “Colin
Bathe, Captain. Welcome to Project Inbeing.”
“What the hell is going on?” My irritation raised no alarms.
The operators kept on barking information. Colin scribbled a few notes on a
report he was given before handing it back; he turned to face me again. His
extended hand and flashed smile caught me off guard, almost charming me into
complacency. We shook, but the spell broke.
“I was saving this until Hawaii, but these events made it
necessary to dial you in now.” Extending the word “Unfortunately,” he turned
toward the entrance and continued, “we need to get you back to Eagle.”
“What the hell am I supposed to tell them?” It seemed like
the obvious question. “I missed my change of command ceremony for what? To track
North Korean fishing vessels with a bunch of spooks?” Based on the sudden
quiet, I don’t think anyone appreciated the term spook.
Colin waved his hand, coaxing me along.
“Don’t worry about that,” he said. Don’t worry about
that? The sheer arrogance of his statement. Convinced I had just committed
professional suicide, destroying any chance for a military career and fucking
up my entire future, I needed something. So many questions ran through my head.
Who was Colin Bathe? What was this Project Inbeing? Of course, the most pressing issue was what any of
this had to do with me.
Splayed out to fester and rot under the cold March sun, my
concerns sat unanswered during the ride back to Eagle. In quiet torment, my
mind raced through the laundry list of repercussions I faced–disjointed fears with
no plan on how I would respond. Colin offered no help. Years later, he told me nothing
could have made that drive back any easier; nothing would have lessened my
fears. He might have been right. No, he was absolutely correct. I’ve done the
same thing countless times.
The airfield was back to normal operations. Looking at my
watch, I didn’t realize we were gone for over seven hours. How could that be
correct? Where did the time go? A drug-induced hallucination/catnap seemed like
a better explanation than the cyber espionage I observed but failed to
comprehend. Colin said nothing as he pulled up to the hangar. We were back at
the single flush door that led to the command hallway and my office–what was
supposed to be my office. I could avoid any maintenance crews that way.
Specialist Contreras was sitting on the flimsy office sofa
when I stepped in. The poor kid jumped to attention.
“Sir,” he said. “I was told to wait here for you.” No
questions about how I was doing or if I was okay. He stood in awkward silence,
his eyes darting between me and the doorway.
I let him off the hook.
“Just come back when the Colonel wants to see me.”
That was all it took. Contreras bolted out of the office,
eager to get as far away from me as possible. I didn’t even get a “Darkhorse,
sir.”
When I think back on those events, my mind still aches from
the throbbing anxiety. No single worry, no rational train of thought, stood out
among the rest. I sat under that avalanche of dread and drafted a letter
resigning my commission as an officer in the United States Army. How long will
it take to get another replacement? Mr. Gray would likely assume command in the
interim. All I could think about was I wish I just stayed for the change of
command.
⁂
Once-impossible markers came
into view on the morning of March 25, 1999. I could see them; I could feel
them. Visions no longer triggered fantasies of what the future could hold.
There was no need to think about finding some point in the vast scenarios of
tomorrow, for one had arrived. But then the burden of that day’s realities kidnapped
my love for chasing dreams. Its ransom was to be paid in full when evening came.
Once again, on March 25, 1999, I scratched my signature
across a drafted memorandum, then sat back and waited. When I used to dream,
that first instant in the morning would be a fleeting crusade to discern the
fogged moments before I woke. What was real, perhaps some lingering memory from
the past, and what did my mind create in those lost hours? That time, I
wondered if I had dozed off after the ceremony, my mind creating vivid details
of an absurd story to help relax my concerns about the new command. Or was my fantasy
of accepting that guidon meant to ease anxiety about choosing the undefined opportunity
Colin Bathe presented me?
I reached into my pocket, curious about the contents of the
note he had left. I lifted a small card from the envelope. Embossed across a
plain white cover were letters I recognized as Hangul, the Korean written
language, but had no idea what they said. Inside was a nine-digit number in
simple black font. About that time, Specialist Contreras stuck his head into my
office as he knocked on the open door.
“Sir,” Contreras said, “everyone’s ready to go.”
I waved him over. “Hey, help me out here.” I showed him the
card. “Does this number look familiar?” He didn’t know either.
Specialist Contreras stood by the door, still waiting for
instructions, a response, or some acknowledgment of his presence.
“Captain Byrne? They’re ready.”
What just happened?
I popped from the desk and grabbed my Stetson, hanging from
the coat rack by its leather strap, before heading through the door.
“Let’s do this,” I said.
“Darkhorse, sir.” My ears perked, but I was still unsure which
rabbit hole I was jumping into.
“Darkhorse.”
The memorandum sat on the top of my desk. Someone picked it
up the next day and filed my official acknowledgment of the change of command
inventory with our squadron supply officer.
⁂
The Eagle’s Nest, a watering hole nestled between Hanger 2, Armament,
and the enlisted barracks, was a pitiful getaway for the 400 personnel living
and working in the confines of that 30-acre dot. However, business was booming
on the 25th as soldiers gathered to break in their new commander after duty. My
incessant questions about the change of command ceremony entertained quite a
few.
“How did it go?”
“What did I say?”
“Did anything strange happen?”
Tales of the new commander’s ego and his need to hear
stories about himself spread like wildfire. They fed my urge, along with more
than a few shots of whiskey and rum. I managed not to throw up, so I think I
fared well. My wallet, however, took a pretty hard beating that night before I
snuck away.
Officer billeting was in a pair of two-story buildings that
had the feel of something between a stripped-down college dormitory and a
stripped-down hospital wing. It never crossed my mind to ship some household
items that would add a little personality to the room, a slice of the real
world, so it looked like a GSA showroom. I never thought much about the
furniture, so I just stumbled back to my little one-bedroom, anticipating
closing my eyes to make the exhaustive noise of March 25 disappear.
“Darkhorse,” said a figure sitting in one of the cheap
accent chairs. He was close to the window, but the shades were drawn. Every
light was turned out. Perhaps this was another round of fucking with the new
captain.
I lost count of how many people call me Darkhorse that day.
Far from being comfortable with my new name, slippage into normal conversation
was still instantaneous.
“I’m not even going to ask how you got in my room.” Closing the
front door, re-cloaked the room in darkness like someone taped over the windows.
“Can I turn the light on, or are we playing this game blind? Is there anyone
else from Delta Troop in here?”
He chuckled.
“No, Captain. It’s nothing like that. I am not in your
troop.” I brushed across the wall and flicked the light switch. No, he was not
in my troop or any other unit on base. I guessed he was in his mid-to-late 50s,
with just a hint of gray throughout his loose-groomed hair that fell below his
blue polo shirt collar. I wondered if that was some company uniform. He ran his
fingers through a few coils that brushed over his eye, and when he did, the
length extended before snapping back to a bouncy curl. His beard was also
well-kept, somewhere around the eight-day mark.
“We were going to talk much later,” he said, “but that
situation in North Korea reset expectations.”
Shit.
This is where my Army story stops.
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