Scott knew better than to ask if anyone had attempted to broadcast a message to Nathan’s platoon. While the Idaho Guard did not have an appreciable electronic warfare capacity available to it, there was no doubt that they were monitoring every likely means of communications that Federal conventional and special operations forces would be likely to operate on. To go about broadcasting indiscriminately in the hope of soliciting a response would be inviting disaster.

“Scott,” Poulengy responded when his friend didn’t say anything, “Nathan’s a good kid. And he’s a paratrooper. Those boys train for this sort of thing.”

Scott sighed. “I know, sir. But this is my son we’re talking about.”

“You’re human,” Poulengy stated bluntly as he switched to a more formal tone of voice. “I understand your concern. But I also know that you’re a professional. As hard as this is, I know that you’ll be able to put your feelings aside and do what you have to in order to bring this thing to a quick and acceptable conclusion.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” Scott replied. “I’ll do my best.” Scott, of course, didn’t tell his superior that he was unable to relegate the safety and welfare of his son to the dark recess of his mind. He couldn’t bring himself to admit that he saw his every action and that of his division as being his son’s only hope. To do so would create doubt in his superior’s mind and could, if he wasn’t careful, lead to his replacement. The thing that Scott feared most at that moment was being taken away from his division, the instrument of his son’s salvation.

After covering other topics, Poulengy wished Scott luck and hung up. By then, Scott’s driver had returned bearing a box containing two meals. “All they had was lasagna, sir.”

“Didn’t we have that for dinner last night?” Scott asked as he made a face.

“Yes, sir,” the driver replied quickly. “And we had it for breakfast yesterday.”

As he took the plate of semi-warm sauce-covered glob, Scott sighed. “Remind me to remind the G-4 to remind the Headquarters’ company commander to do a better job at ration breakdown, will you?”

The driver settled into his seat and grinned as he prepared to feast on the Army’s version of Italian cuisine. “Oh, you can bet that I will, sir.”

With that taken care of, Scott sat in silence as he mechanically ate his meal. With each bite, he couldn’t help but think that, given a chance, his son would die for the very food that he and his driver were annoyed by. Such is the Army, he told himself. Such is life.

NORTH OF BOISE, IDAHO • NIGHT, NOVEMBER 5