The Rift by Bob Mayer

He didn’t know what that was right now, since he had other important shit on his mind, but he was content knowing there was always a plan B. Just like what he was doing right now was a plan B.
    The Loop, which he was part of and was now implementing, was not official Protocol. The Loop was an attempt by operatives and former operatives to have a communication channel outside of official channels. One for all and all for one sort of thing.
    It had not been an easy thing to set up. It was rarely used. And it was very slow.
    But one had to try, because once in a while, someone needed help outside of official channels.
    Blake removed the folding shovel from the sweat-drenched backpack he’d hauled out here. He dug.
    At least the sand was soft.
    He hit the ammo can at eighteen inches. It took a few more minutes to recover it from the hole. He unlatched the lid. There was a lot jammed into a little space. He peeled open two layers of waterproofing and removed the loaded pistol that was always the last item in and first item out.
    He found the cell phone and encryption device. He opened the battery cases and removed the old ones. He replaced them with fresh ones. Then he typed in the message he’d received at the pool. The encryption device hummed for a bit, garbling the message into meaningless groups of five letters that only a device programmed exactly the same way could decrypt.
    Blake hit send.
    Then he removed the battery from the cell phone. He stood and threw the phone out into the salt water, watching it hit and sink. He replaced the phone with the exact same model. He then zeroed out the encryption device. He took a thumb drive out of his pocket and inserted it into the slot on the side. He loaded a new encryption program, removed the thumb drive, and put it back in the can. Then he put the pistol on top, resealed the two waterproof liners, closed the lid, and put the can back in the hole. He shoveled the sand back in the hole. The incoming tide would take care of concealment.
    With bare feet and a bad attitude, but mission accomplished, Blake began making his way back to the mainland, his car, and eventually the pool and young mother.
    He was not optimistic.

    Mac had started bitching as soon as the truck carrying them rolled underneath the big sign reading: COLONEL NICK ROWE TRAINING FACILITY . Located at Camp Mackall, west of Fort Bragg, North Carolina, it was the field training facility for aspiring Special Forces soldiers.
    Roland was more optimistic, pointing out there were modern buildings at a facility he remembered as having only shacks that were half-assed, leaky, and cold.
    “They used to mermite chow from Fort Bragg out here,” Eagle observed. “Now they’ve got a chow hall.”
    “I don’t think we’re here for the chow,” Kirk said.
    Roland looked at his watch. “It’s thirteen hundred. We probably missed lunch.”
    “I don’t think we’re here for lunch,” Kirk said.
    A smatter of raindrops on the canvas roof over the cargo bay portended a storm rolling in. They’d flown in to Mackall Army Airfield on one of the blue-liners. Mackall was considered a sub-base to adjacent Fort Bragg and home to Special Forces Selection and Assessment, most of the Qualification Course, the SERE (Survival Evasion Resistance and Escape) compound, and other assorted training schools and scenarios. It was where the Delta raiders on the ill-fated Desert One mission to free the hostages in Iran had trained. The airfield was one almost every Special Operator had flown into or out of or jumped onto the large field the two intersecting runways contained.
    The truck had been waiting, the driver shrugging when asked what was going to happen. His job was to drive them out here and that was the extent of his knowledge.
    “They better not be putting us through SERE again,” Mac groused. They’d all been through the mock POW camp and training and no one was eager to do it again. “I already survived, evaded, resisted, and