Brother Switek grunted and nodded in in appreciation at the mess tin placed before him. He had already transliterated this morning's encrypted message. Although distracted with the unexpected arrival of friendly radio traffic, the monk he was never too busy to give proper thanks for even the most meager of bounties. Nor to acknowledge the sacrifices of the many that had fought beside them.
"
Heavenly Father, we thank you for this meal, and for your preserving care over us. Bless those that have fallen before us and guide us in our struggle. Continue to grant us the strength and wisdom to accomplish the mission for which you have placed us on this Earth. Let always our cause be just and our aim be true. Amen."
It had become rote by this time, and on some days rang hollow. But it inspired the men and they had grown to expect no less of him.
He bit into a large piece of jam-slathered bread and was instantly reminded of berry-picking season at the monastery in the Tatras. He nodded again in approval and, licking the tip of his pencil, returned to his handwritten codebook. As he flipped back and forth, struggling with the block key, he stopped to assess the remaining members of his ragtag band of partisans. They each had made him proud, but he pondered how his colleagues from divinity school would have interpreted the improbability of this woodland scene and the the motley crew assembled herein.
He then began the tedious process of encoding and keying in his response in English:
AUTHENTICATION:
ALPHA TWO NINER THREE
ACKNOWLEDGE PITCHFORK.
QUITTING DEER PARK.
DESTINATION RHUBARB.
RSVP FOR THREE PLUS
ONE SPECIAL DELIVERY.
TEA TIME PESSIMISTIC.
BUDDHA OUT
After the transmission had been confirmed, Switek stood and tore the transcript from his notebook, setting it afire with a Zippo lighter that he had taught himself through relentless practice in his youth to open and ignite in one swift snapping motion. He twisted the page in his hand as the flame spread and it burned all the way down to the last corner at his fingertips, before letting go at the last possible second. He watched the charred ash float to the ground and then stomped it out under his boot and twisted it into the dirt.
Switek stuffed the Zippo back in the front pocket of his trousers and reached for the RPKM propped against his lean-to. The matte black weapon looked sinister if not somewhat out of place in his grasp. It was heavy, especially with the bipod and 75-round drum attached. The extra weight worked in his favor, for the perceived lack of recoil almost made up for his actual lack of marksmanship. He approached his crew as they finished the remains of their breakfast and cycled the cocking lever on his machinegun. That always got their attention.
"
Listen up," he bellowed. "
That was radio from our American friends, code-named PITCHFORK. I do not know him, but I have been previously told to expect him. We are to reconnoiter the bridge at Szczucin. They are arriving by river and want no surprises. ETA is local noon. Today. We must break camp in fifteen minutes in order to make that rendezvous. We have much terrain to cover, so move like you have a reason. Now go!"
There. That sounded like real leadership.
Satisfied with his call to rally, Switek motioned to Kasparov, the American helicopter pilot.
"
Jason, my son, bring me the map. It looks like you are going home."
He wondered how many more would die getting him there.
This message was last edited by the player at 08:10, Tue 27 Nov 2007.