Some days ago I came across the link to a post titled “The Cure to Male Loneliness.” Taking the title at face value, I kept on doom-scrolling for something to listen to while I work. “Another manosphere life coach or men’s rights activist,” sez I, “peddling a self-help book after years of telling their followers that books are for losers.” But I saw the link again later and noticed it was on a site called “Pulp West,” and the subtitle read: “On the forgotten promise of Adventure Fiction.“
You just know I had to read it. Damn the tight schedule—full speed ahead!
The author opines that a defining characteristic of the adventure genre is that you have men in the story “hanging out.” Here are some quotes from the article:
“Hanging with the bros is one of the most integral fantasies a classic adventure should deliver on. This could further codified as a brotherhood or camaraderie theme.”
“…All this to say, the central promise (or fantasy) of the adventure genre is camaraderie. Everyone grasps this subconsciously, which is why it is a meme.”
“…And I posit that one way to reinvent the adventure genre is to deliver on this promise and this very masculine need. One that seems to have been erased. The last 6,000 years of civilizational progress has been won by the war-band, the mannerbund, the army unit, the tribe, and the gang. Not the Lone Wolf. We can do away with the lone wolf and the reluctant hero. Or at least less of it. Instead, we need a trusty group of men that can bounce off of each other and bond while going through the shit.”
Sounds like he’s talking about my military thrillers. I started thinking about the “hang out” scenes in my novels, and realized I’ve probably never shared them anywhere. And so, I decided to share one from my debut novel, Hell and Gone, which was written about 23 years ago, and published about 15 years ago.
In this chapter, several veterans from different branches, now “private contractors,” have some downtime between their first encounter with the opfor, and the mission they’ve been contracted to execute. Enjoy.
2218 15 AUG 2002; TEKEZZE RIVER CAMP, SUDAN
The Allman Brothers' "No One Left To Run With" bumped from a boom box. The men had broken up into cliques and sat around the pilots' tent doing what fighting men do during downtime: drinking, playing cards and grabassing. Cavarra figured they could use some unwinding time before they got busy rehearsing for the mission.
Cavarra sat with Puttcamp and Phil Jenkins, both former Air Force pilots, and Wade Haugen, a Harrier driver from the USMC. With their assistance, Cavarra built a sand table with a scale model of the terrorist camp.
Campbell, Terrell and McCallum played spades while Siyr looked on.
Cole and Bojado talked girls and cars. Fava-Vargas, starting to get a little of his hearing back but still functionally deaf, tried to follow their conversation by watching their mouths move.
Lombardi spit-shined his boots. Mai sat nearby nursing beer, borrowing some Kiwi for his own boots. They spoke in low tones, with occasional glances around the tent.
Zeke knocked back some beer himself, losing interest in the dry, humorless conversation of Mai and Lombardi…centered around the lives of lower-enlisted men they'd managed to ruin.
After cleaning the Dover Devil, Scarred Wolf flopped belly down on a cot and was now busy inspecting the inside of his eyelids.
Sentry, Puttcamp's no-nonsense terrier, kept watch around the camp outside. But Cavarra supplemented the canine security by ordering DeChalk to walk the perimeter...mostly so he wouldn't have to hear the know-it-all's big mouth. And because the chiding and jeering directed at the merc had been getting too personal.
DeChalk was ate-up like a football bat. Cavarra probably despised him more intensely than anyone, but he hated scapegoating even worse. Every military unit produced at least one individual who became the target of universal scorn. Sometimes they deserved it. Sometimes they just happened to be the most convenient focal point for everyone's aggressions. After the firefight, DeChalk was the natural shoo-in for Team Scapegoat. And his juvenile need for recognition only made it easier.
Part of Cavarra's aversion to scapegoating was due to experience. He'd been raised primarily by his grandparents, who could barely speak English. Though a native of California, he struck his Annapolis classmates as just-off-the-boat.
The other plebes were from privileged, hoity-toity families, mostly back East. They'd always worn designer clothes and shoes (hand-me-downs were unthinkable), had perfect haircuts and even manicures. Never had to walk to school or take a sack lunch. Never had to take out the garbage or mow the grass. Never had to work at a gas station to help support the family. Their mothers had never clipped coupons and their fathers never had to fix the car.
Other people--lesser people--attended to those menial chores. The only economic hardship they'd known was settling for a Mazda when Daddy wouldn't spring for a Porsche.
After all the class warfare and lionization of the poor promoted by public school and TV, Cavarra had imagined his shabby upbringing would be a point in his favor in the adult world. If it didn't bring sympathy, it might at least make up for his heavy accent.
He'd been rudely surprised.
The classism of the other midshipmen was only slightly less pronounced than that of the capitalist caricatures on TV sit-coms. And though he wouldn't have guessed it, shallow rich kids were exactly what the military wanted for the officer ranks. They already had the primadonna elitism deeply ingrained. Their superficial "clothes-make-the-man" orientation was tailor-made for the peacetime military's obsession with appearance. They already knew how to hob-nob with snobs. Gossiping was second nature, as was mercurial personal politics. They were accustomed to backstabbing their peers and saw nothing wrong with it, so long as it worked to their own benefit.
Cavarra was lost. The harder he tried to fit in, the more he stood out. Being a football player only made the non-jocks resent him more.
To make matters worse, the brass hats at the Academy took an instant dislike to Cavarra as well. They'd just booted some hopeless screw-up in the class before him. Another swarthy, ethnic plebe. One of the Yard officers decided Cavarra not only resembled him, but must also be just as unfit for the Navy. Fueled by the prevailing attitude of the other midshipmen, this officer's hostility to Cavarra spread around the Yard. His scapegoat status became official.
Had he not been on the football team, strong academically, and hard as woodpecker lips during whatever PT they could dish out, the Academy would have separated him.
Still, they almost did it.
Cavarra's roommate, Oscar Kelly, was a charismatic young midshipman who fancied himself a tough guy. He boosted his own popularity by insulting and provoking the scapegoat. Even after advancing into the second year, Kelly tried to brace him as if Cavarra were still a plebe. Cavarra tried to ignore him, but his restraint only encouraged Kelly to assume he was intimidated. The more Cavarra tolerated, the more aggressive Kelly became, until enough was enough. Cavarra offered to meet Kelly somewhere off-base during weekend liberty and settle their differences face-to-fist.
Somebody--probably Kelly himself--snitched to the upperclassmen, and Cavarra found himself standing before the Honor Board. The Board was the official proceeding preceding a swift kick back to civilian life. Some cadets referred to it as Kangaroo Court.
Only certain specified criteria from a list of recognized clout could save you from the Board back in the Carter years, when the paltry military budget inspired a high separation rate at the training stage. Parents who were flag officers or high-ranking government employees were the most common forms of salvation. Privileges of the nobility. Cavarra's recognition as a defensive back both in high school and on the Navy team was one of the few achievement-based tickets, and it was enough.
In a way, going before the Board was a godsend. The officers presiding, while attempting to amass evidence of his unworthiness, were forced to confront his exemplary performance. Their attitude about him changed after that.
Cavarra graduated at the top of his class. But he never forgot the lessons learned at Annapolis.
He worked as hard at losing his accent as he did to earn a slot in BUDS. And he wore his uniform properly. But that's where his conformism stopped. He saw nothing worth emulating in the typical officer and made every effort to distance himself from the caste. He mutated from scapegoat to maverick. But oddly enough, he made just the right sort of leader to advance quickly in a small, tightly-knit unit like SEAL Team Four.
By the time a command slot opened in the West Coast SEALS, Cavarra was custom-fit for Team One's skipper.
"What are you Gonna do with the hot potato once you have it?"
The question came from Phil Jenkins. It snapped Cavarra back to the present.
"I hope you don't plan on bringing it aboard my crate."
Jenkins was the designated pilot for the Fokker F27 cargo plane parked outside. His task was to transport Cavarra's team to the target.
"I guess we turn it over to the Agency and let them worry about it," Cavarra said.
Haugen looked as grim as a man could, blowing bubblegum. "What if we miss a bunker and drop one of our bombs on the hot potato? Won't that set it off and blow us all into outer space?"
"I don't think nukes are triggered that way," Jenkins said.
Cavarra flinched at the word "nuke" and looked around. He still hadn't told the men, but the pilots had been briefed as he had. Nobody seemed to notice.
"Excuse me if I don't trust what you think," Haugen said.
"The Israelis took out a nuclear reactor in Iraq way back when," Jenkins said. "They bombed the place, and it didn't start a Chernobyl or anything."
"Just to be safe," Puttcamp said, "let's not drop any bombs on it."
Cavarra shared Haugen's concern. What was to keep the hot potato from going off if hit by shrapnel or a stray round? Just to be safe, indeed.
The other two aircraft outside, in crude, hasty revetments, were funky old relics: A1E Skyraiders, antique even when used in Vietnam, and ugly as sin.
Since Puttcamp had piloted F15s and Haugen had hopped Harriers, Cavarra had no doubt they could handle the old propeller-driven beasts. He did wonder whether the CIA planners were out of their minds, choosing those rickety old aberrations for his support aircraft.
Well, better than no air support at all. It's not like he expected a squadron of A10 Warthogs or Apache gunships. And Puttcamp, himself hardly thrilled at the selection of the Skyraiders, assured him the A1Es could take a terrific beating flying low and slow, carrying a huge payload, and stay up a long time on not much fuel...compared to a jet. He and Haugen had been acclimating themselves to the Skyraiders as much as possible.
Over at the card game, Siyr used the Galil's bipod to open a bottle of beer, and took a swig. His mind was also burdened by the possibility of a nuclear detonation during the operation. Though not necessarily by accident.
McCallum pointed at Siyr's rifle. "Now them Israelis, they try to think of everything, don't they? Built-in bipod, works as a wire-cutter and bottle opener. High-speed."
"They've got a pretty high-speed main battle tank, too," Campbell said, dealing cards to each, aces high trump. "Versatile."
"M1A1 Abrams they got from us," Terrell said, gathering his cards up.
Campbell shook his head. "Not those--I mean the ones they designed themselves."
"The Merkava," Siyr said. "It is combination tank and armored troop carrier."
McCallum looked his hand over and rearranged some of the cards. "Gotta' hand it to them: Dollar for dollar, they build better weapons than anybody. Even us."
"They fight the same way," Campbell said.
"She-it," Terrell said. "Y'all outa' your mind. Americans got the best equipment and the best training in the world."
"Most expensive," McCallum corrected. "That don't make it the best. I'll bid eight."
Campbell raised his eyebrows.
"Doom, niggah," Terrell said.
"Are you aware of what your British allies say about you?" asked Siyr.
"I'll bid six, and I thought that was brave," Campbell said. He turned to Siyr. "What?"
Siyr assumed a surprisingly authentic English accent. "The Yanks have great kit. They just don't know how to use it."
Terrell laughed derisively. "Board. And I got Club Deuce." He tossed down the two of clubs.
Campbell swallowed some beer and said, "Limeys still got a case of cundingy over that friendly fire in the Gulf."
"Friendly fire is an oxymoron," McCallum said, eyes hidden behind his cards. "You know why we don't fight as well as the Israelis, proportionately?"
"Lots of reasons," Campbell said. He looked over his cards and laid down his lowest club.
Zeke appeared with a freshly opened bottle, and unfolded a camp stool in their midst. "For one thing," Zeke said, "we always think the answer is money. We think, if we spend more money, the results will automatically be better. That's not the way it always works, though. It's not just the amount of money you spend, but how you spend it."
Silence ensued for a moment while the others watched Zeke.
"What'sa matter?" Zeke asked. "No white folks allowed here?"
Terrell slapped him on the arm. "Naw, Boss." He pointed at McCallum and Campbell. "They just wanted to keep the Navy outnumbered at this table. Now it's fair."
McCallum dropped his lowest club. "Roger on the spendthrifting, Zeke. But it ain't the reason. It's because we always pull our punches. We're always more worried about not hurting our enemies too much than we are about winning."
Terrell took the trick, marked the score and dropped the Jack of Hearts.
Siyr nodded. "I notice this about Americans. I think Americans feel guilty when they win. Most people in the world interpret this as weakness and cowardice."
Terrell wasn't drunk. Just a little buzzed. But this ruffled his feathers. He stiffened and glowered at Siyr. "We ain't no cowards, man."
"Be cool," Campbell said. "That's not what the man said."
"Not at all," Siyr said. "I only mean that most people around the world look at things more simple...in 'black and white.' They don't understand the American preoccupation with...with..."
"With restraint," Campbell finished for him.
"Pussyfooting around," Zeke said. "Handicapping ourselves. Bleeding-heart caca."
"Yes," Siyr said. "They simply see it as weakness."
"It ain't weakness," Terrell said. "We could wipe all you pissants off the map if we want."
"Well, once upon a time we coulda'," Zeke said.
"Now your country is in much trouble," Siyr said. "You disarm yourselves while the Russians and Chinese prepare for war with you. In fact, you give them even more money. You don't build a ballistic missile defense because your enemies don't want you to have one. But the Shanghai Pact powers have a ballistic missile defense. They also have a functioning civil defense infrastructure. Should that not teach you something?"
"The Cold War is over, man," Terrell said.
Siyr smiled sardonically. "Evidently no one has told the Chinese this. They have threatened to destroy you over Taiwan, remember? And thanks to the guided missile technology you gave them, this is no empty threat."
"Yeah, but it was worth it," Zeke grumbled. "In return, they paid to get our Draft-Dodger-In-Chief reelected."
"Your economic policies are suicidal," Siyr continued. You strangle your own businesses with taxes and environmental regulations…is it any wonder nothing is produced in your country anymore? But you refuse to tarrif Chinese products. Foreign industry doesn't let environmental concerns affect production, yet you buy their goods while you destroy American companies for the same environmental infractions."
"There's the labor cost, too," McCallum said. "The Chi-Coms pay out three bucks a day to their assemblers, and can kill or torture them if they don't make quota. American companies are expected to pay sixty bucks an hour for the same work, then suffer lawsuits if a union assembler is asked to work a different line one day."
McCallum took the trick, updated the score and laid down the first card of the next trick.
"I was in America once," Siyr said. "when the Summer Olympics were taking place. You know, I was simply amazed... All the talk was about the 'Dream Team.' You remember this?"
They all bobbed their heads.
"I tell you, most of your nation was ashamed that you would field such a basketball team. You talked as if it were unfair."
"It was unfair," Campbell said. "That team was rock-steady."
Siyr's eyes widened and he pointed at Campbell. "You see? Every other country sends it's best basketball players, and Americans accept this. But you act as if it is wrong to send your own best players. You feel guilty that your best athletes are better than their best athletes. You conduct foreign policy with the same mentality."
Terrell followed suit and Campbell took the next trick.
Siyr's pager vibrated. He slipped a hand into his pocket and pushed the button to make it stop.
The Mossad agent wanted to meet him tonight.
And today, in the Year of Our Lord 2025, tariffs are a hot topic, making their political bull session RELEVANT!!! Who’da’thunkit?