Mission Report Part (2/?)CoFor OIC for a Day (Part Two)Under the protective darkness of night, Platoon Sergeant Jogendra "Jon" Sen makes the rounds on his troops throughout the village of Mullahgmore. Setting up camp in the middle of a killzone wouldn't have been the order he'd given, but the CO had decided to garrison the village overnight. It wasn't the first time an officer made him carry out a questionable order, but presumably these officers know something he doesn't? Or at least, that's what Jon tried to believe. Not to speak too ill of the dead, but Jon found Lieutenant Miller a difficult master to serve. The Lieutenant was a fierce and lusty young man, who could've benefited from some more restraint and maturity. Yet as the old Bengali saying goes: "A one-yed uncle is better than no uncle." English is the lingua fraca of most of the New Worlds, and non-native English-speakers are readily looked down-upon. Jon's English was functional, but wasn't at the level where he could fully brief his CO or decipher a lengthy operations order. As a senior NCO, Jon did what he could to keep his fellow Bengali's both gainfully employed and away from undue harm, but ultimately his platoon needed a white face with an English tongue to do business. (Jon's few attempts at "tactically questioning" prisoners were frustrating to him, and likely darkly comedic to his onlookers.)
Climbing up the stairs of a farmhouse, Jon hushedly whistles a recognition sign to his troops. (At least the CO had directed defensible fighting positions with great sectors of fire.) From their elevated position on the second floor of the building, half of a fire-team pulls watch, their helmet-mounted night optics turning the surrounding hilltops into green monochrome landscapes. The other half of the team rests scattered haphazardly throughout the master bedroom. They were in for a long night, and allotted for shut-eye seemed the prudent course of action. All seems well until he noticed the loaded RPG-7 propped next to the window. He addresses his soldier in Bengali, "Corporal, you ready to use that weapon?"
The 19-year-old Corporal confidently answers, "Yes, Sergeant!"
"Right out that window?"
The Corporal doesn't like where this is going, "Yes... Sergeant?"
Sergeant Sen tries to hide his disappointment as he explains that they're in an enclosed space.
"Oh."
"Good initiative Corporal, but you see the problem, correct?"
The admonished Corporal replies, "Yes, Sergeant. Thank you."
It was an honest mistake, but possibly a fatal one. Still, the Corporal was just a kid trying his best to stay alive in a warzone. Sergeant Sen couldn't come down too hard on him for that. Despite everything, this Corporal was one of the better kids in his platoon. ("A fish rots from the head," and too many of his soldiers were beginning to emulate their Platoon Leader's ways.) He retorts with a timeless army joke, "Corporal, don't thank me. Thank your recruiter."
The Corporal laughs at the apt joke.
Before he leaves, he decides to give the whole room one last bit of advice, "As the saying goes, 'Tiger on the bank, crocodile in the water.' Stay alert, stay alive, soldiers. Do that, and we'll all get through this mission together."
***
Lieutenant George Rogers cracks open a badly needed can of Green Owl energy drink. In a span of a few short hours, he not only lost his CO and First Sergeant, but his peer Platoon Leader would be MEDEVAC'd shortly.
When Rogers was first assigned to Bravo Company, Lieutenant Paul Miller was just about to get married. Not being able to afford a decent venue on Rivendell, the Colonel authorized them to use the garrison dining hall and parade field for the wedding ceremony and reception. With the Colonel's full support, some discretionary funds were tapped and the whole Second Regiment was invited. Nearly everyone at least made an appearance at the massive social affair. Everyone got to socialize in their dress uniforms, and for Bravo Company it served as a bit of a welcome dinner for Lieutenant Rogers as well.
Of course, Rogers was too busy trying to 'orientate' himself to initially pick up on some of the underlying drama going-on. Paul's bride was a pretty gal, her slinky white sleeveless wedding dress tastefully showing tanned skin and some serious muscle-tone. By the end of the night, he'd find out she wasn't some cardio-bunny CrossFit enthusiast, but a soldier as well. Or at least she used to be. Despite explicit fraternization regulations, Lieutenant Paul Miller had knocked up an enlisted female. As a combat medic, she wasn't in his direct chain of command, but it still wasn't entirely kosher. This kind of thing could've been swept under the rug, but she insisted on keeping the baby. A medical discharge and a shotgun wedding was hastily arranged arranged before her pregnancy became too obvious.
Of course, that was over a year ago now. There was only one battalion back then, "before the Indians came and made everything all 'ethnic.'" Rogers thinks to himself, "I'm not a racist, but I doubt a pretty white girl like her would 'feel safe' in the present situation." Her discharge from service was probably for the best.
Rogers never really saw her again after the wedding, but after such a spectacular celebration, you'd assume they'd live happily-ever-after. Paul never talked about his marriage, but Roger had seen him still flirting with other female personnel. Maybe they had an open marriage, or maybe they didn't? Or was it a simply a matter of "what happens in the field, stays in the field?" Ultimately, it wasn't his business, and Lieutenant George Rogers stayed out of his colleague's personal life.
Rogers may have butted heads with Lieutenant Paul Miller more than once on this deployment, but no one deserved what those Black Masks did to him. Paul was a hard-charger for sure, and on paper, he checked all the right boxes for a Rifle Platoon Leader. But once on deployment, it was increasingly obvious that he really didn't get the whole "hearts and minds" thing. CPT Allen must've picked up on this, as he kept Miller's platoon assigned to the CO's maneuvers. Paul remained convinced this "honor" was due to being CPT Allen's favorite. But in actuality, this kept LT Miller on a short leash. While LT Rogers was routinely OIC on his own platoon level maneuvers, LT Miller was in effect never allowed outside-the-wire without direct adult supervision.
His Green Owl-fueled ruminations are interrupted by stomping in the doorway. The company medic peels off his bloodied latex gloves with disgust, "Sir, call off the MEDEVAC. I just lost LT Miller."
***
When Simon gets the news about Lieutenant Miller, he tries not to lose his military bear. "I should've known better. I should've gorram known better!" he mutters to himself.
In rendering aid to the casualty, Simon had made a very common mistake. Miller's horrific near-decapitation was unmistakable, and despite the complexity of the injury, Simon applied the right tools with the right techniques to manage that trauma. But hyper-focused on what remained of the poor bastard's face, Simon had neglected to examine the rest of the casualty. Miller's uniform was already stained with clotting blood, but more was still dripping from inside the body armor encasing his torso.
When Simon handed off the casualty to the combat medic Rogers brought with him, the medic eyed over the nosehose and facial bandaging with approval. While Simon ran off to position fire-teams in defensible positions throughout the village, the medic stripped off the casualty's body armor, revealing a cavernous abdominal gunshot wound now with severed entrails dangling through an open exit wound in his back. This sniper did hit something on his second shot after all.
The combat medic did what he could, but it was a grievous injury that should've been treated much sooner. Despite intravenous fluids and a defibrillator, Lieutenant Paul Miller was dead within fifteen minutes. Simon returns to see the man he "saved," only to find a filled bodybag in his place.
***
Despite everything, the night passes without further violence. Other than staying awake on guard duty, the greatest challenge the infantrymen faced overnight was escorting the detained villagers to and from their outhouses. Your operator probably could've gotten some sleep as well, if only the loss of Lieutenant Miller wasn't weighing on his conscience.
Charlie company arrives via convoy by midday, and their CO takes over the situation with the expertise and of a veteran leader. Eager to unpin his Captain's bars, your operator hands over command briskly.
"Well it looks like you got handed a real shit sandwich Mr. Templar. Still, we're all glad higher got you out here to handle it. Looks like Ocean PMC really lived up to their reputation today. I'll let the contracting officer at Regiment know you did well."
The VTOL back to the spaceport arrives not long afterward. Still a tactical LZ, "Project Manager" Simon Templar, Specialist Rana Chatterjee, and the three bagged corpses are unceremoniously herded aboard the bird. The pilot dusts off the exact moment the two men get buckled into their restraints.
On the ride back, SPC Chatterjee isn't very talkative, and eventually drifts off into a well-earned nap. Still unable to sleep, Simon is left alone with his thoughts and the three bodybags at his feet.
CPT Allen and 1SG Martin were not his responsibility; they were dead before Sam even spoke with the customer. But Lieutenant Miller was his responsibility, and Simon failed in keeping him alive. He met the man only briefly (and under entirely unflattering circumstances,) but Simon wishes he knew him better. With Chatterjee safely asleep, your operator unbuckles his harness to lean in and inspect the tag on Miller's bodybag.
NEXT OF KIN: DOROTHY RAE MILLER - GOODHAVEN, HARAD"Shit."
***
The VTOL touches down on the tarmac in New Dublin and the pilot speaks on the intercom, "Hang tight back there. A detail is coming for the angels first."
As the rotors spin down, the VTOL Crew Chief assists a handful of enlisted personnel with stretchers in trying to move the three sacks of bloodied meat as respectfully as possible. Their path clear, the VTOL Crew Chief waves Simon and Rana out of the vehicle. Not sure where to go from here, Simon tries to follow Rana off the tarmac but is button-holed by two older men in military uniform.
The one wearing a Colonel's rank takes the lead and gruffly shakes Simon's hand, "Mr. Templar? Heard you took good care of my boys out there."
Releasing the handshake, Simon glances down at a large commemorative coin the Colonel had palmed him, "Oh, thank you, sir."
"Now I imagine you must be starving after all that. The chow hall is supposed to be closed right now, but the Sergeant Major can take you to my table there and get you taken care of. It's the hospitable thing to do."
Still lugging field gear, and wearing full battle rattle caked in blood and field grime, Simon would rather get cleaned up instead. Still, he decides its best not to risk offending the CO of the Second Regiment and his right-hand-man, "Why thank you sir. That's very generous of you."
***
Reading over the typed After Action Report a Major passed him, Simon comes to the realization that there really is no such thing as a free lunch. The official report vaguely resembled what just happened, and certainly wasn't how he would've written up the events of the last 24 hours.
Following the death of CPT Allen and his 1SG, Bravo Company "pursued the enemy combatants" into the "known terrorist safehaven" of Mullaghmore. Due to "well-established rapport" between Coalition Expeditionary Forces soldiers and the people of Anghabar, the "local Black Mask cadre" was quickly identified from "tactical questioning" during the "cordon and knock." Lieutenant Miller was killed instantaneously during the "field interrogation" of said cadre, as local Black Mask fighters were "eager to thwart HUMINT exploitation of their leadership." Over the course of both engagements, four enemy combatants were confirmed killed by small arms fire, however "their remains could not be exploited due to the terrain and other tactical considerations."
This Major, along with other assembled regimental staff officers strong-arm your operator, "Of course, you're under NDA for this. However, it's important we get the official reporting right for our own internal use. We consider this internal report as within your scope of work for this contract, and we've already cleared this with your Legal Counsel, Mr. Goldman."
"Of course Sam would just go with it," Simon thinks to himself.
"So if you could just sign the document here, and then the contracting officer can wire the money. Nothing further from you will be required.
Simon weighs the ballpoint pen in his hand. He never understood the appeal of pen and paper hardcopies, but the exoticism of pre-digital legal ritual adds a certain gravity to the situation. A voice inside of him asks, "Do you even have a choice here?"
Simon makes the first pen-stroke and then abruptly stops and places the pen down. The Major's jaw drops in response. Your operator takes a deep breath as a stunned silence lingers, "Gentlemen, so here's how this is going to work..."
***
A small cardboard box carefully perched in his lap, Simon waits in the spaceport terminal for his shuttle's arrival. A Slavic-accented voice asks, "This seat taken?"
A middle-aged Slavic man in a Wagner Group polo shirt doesn't wait for an answer, and takes a seat next to your operator. Simon immediately recognizes the Wagner logo and becomes acutely aware of how his firearms are stowed for travel.
"My name is Arkady Tretyakov, Special Military Advisor to the Second Regiment."
Simon tries to size up the man during this introduction. Arkady is dressed business casual, wearing a polo shirt that's more golfwear than operator. Still, the thin polyester short-sleeved polo shows off powerful biceps. A 9mm MP-433 "Grach" pistol stowed in a shoulder holster identifies him as a paramilitary officer of some sort, although probably still not a field operator.
Simon responds, "Oh, is that so? I-"
Arkady politely, yet firmly, interrupts, "And you are Project Manager Simon Templar of Ocean PMC. Might as well put all our cards on the table, no?"
Arkady doesn't look like an assassin, but surely not even Wagner Group would be crazy enough to brazenly whack somebody in the middle of a spaceport terminal. Where is this going? Simon chooses his words carefully, "Indeed."
Arkady gets to the point, "It's in both our interests to 'clear the air' here. We know one of your female operators was caught poking around Flossmore not long ago-"
Simon cuts him off, "Hey, I know nothing about that."
The Wagner merc persists, "And later some freelance pimp named Roman Polanski tried to honeypot the CERT, and then was never seen again."
Simon tries not to sweat, "Not exactly my industry, but seems like a sound business decision to me. Can't sell a girl to a bunch of dead men."
Arkady grins incredulously with an arched eyebrow, "Oh, you want to play it like that, Mr. Templar? Does the name Calvin Oglivy mean anything to you?"
"Wasn't he that rich asshole who ripped off Flossmore big time?"
Arkady cackles, "Ah, the old Ocean's Ten slipperiness. I see Danny Ocean is still with you in spirit-"
*FWOOSH*
Both men turn to look out the terminal window. Arkady says smugly, "Outgoing fire. MRLS. God of War."
*FWOOSH*
"Looks like they're following my professional advice and getting the vengeance they're due."
*FWOOSH* *FWOOSH*
Arkady hands Simon a familiar business card, "Well I suppose I owe you a debt of gratitude now. Your report was the third party assessment they needed."
*FWOOSH* *FWOOSH*
"Stay frosty out there Project Manager Simon Templar."
***
In his 'stylistic' dress beret and a fresh change of clothes, Simon Templar disembarks at Goodhaven. (Presenting a stainless steel urn of the late Lieutenant's ashes, he decided it would be best not to be covered in the dearly departed's blood when meeting his widow.) Per Simon's insistence, the regimental staff wrote up a quick contract for him to bring Miller's remains back to his widow. Back at the head office, Sam was irked that the contract would barely break even once the flight hours were calculated. Still, it was too late for Sam to intervene from abroad. After the fact, Simon did convince him that this was a good move for "business development" given Ocean PMC's history with the town of Goodhaven and potential future with CoFor.
Sheriff's Deputy Janet "Holla" Hollaran is waiting at the spaceport in a Sheriff's Department Jeep Wrangler. The blue-haired girl with a well-tailored neck gaiter greets your operator somberly, "It's an honor to meet you, sir. We've all heard the news by now. We definitely appreciate that you guys found this important enough to send a Project Manager down. Sheriff Wilder would've been here to greet a VIP such as yourself, but he's taking some personal time for mourning."
Simon's never been to Goodhaven before, and arrived without pretentious expectations, "I understand, Deputy. I've heard nothing but good things from my colleagues about the fine people of Goodhaven. Both Ocean PMC and Coalition Expeditionary Forces thought one of Goodhaven's own sons deserved nothing less. I only wish my first visit to your town could've been under brighter circumstances."
"Too true, sir. Ironically, I think Dorothy's late husband could say the same..."
She goes on to explain that Dorothy left Goodhaven a few years ago to enlist in the nascent Second Regiment. It got her out of her small town, and she received some valuable vocational education on Mr. Thiel's dime. She met Paul in garrison on Rivendell, and one thing led to another. After the wedding, she had wanted to stay with Paul on Rivendell. But with her pregnant and then nursing, they couldn't afford off-post family housing as a single-income household. (On-post family housing was very much a work-in-progress with a long waitlist.) As difficult as the interplanetary move must've been, it was far cheaper for her to move back to Goodhaven that bear the exorbitant cost of living on Rivendell. Of course, Lieutenant Miller still had his duties. They had talked about him taking leave to Goodhaven, but as the situation on Anghabar heated up, he was needed to raise the Second Battalion in anticipation of imminent deployment.
"Sounds like it was rough going for her."
Deputy Hollaran sighs as she plays the role of chatty taxi driver, "And then..."
Now as a frontier town, Goodhaven wasn't exactly a shining beacon of public health. Sewers and water lines haven't been built yet, and the town is lucky to have one "doctor" (who's technically just a Physician's Assistant by glitterworld standards, but that's a whole 'nother story,) and two rival older women who part-time as midwives. It wasn't much, but it was enough for a town of under 700 people.
Then the refugees came and tripled the census in a few short months. Things got ugly fast, but nobody expected the outbreak these last two months. AMR had long educated the planet of Anghabar on the benefits of herd immunity. Of course, management was vaccinated to comply with the health standards of the cities and Rivendell itself, but a planetwide rural vaccination campaign to every mineshaft, oil well, quarry, and prospecting dig was prohibitively costly and unfeasible. To be fair, this system was relatively effective, as these far flung communities had no reason to mingle and migrate. Even self-sufficient rural communities on Harad and Lossarnach signed on to the "Anghabar Model of Vaccine Efficiency," saving themselves the cost of arranging their own vaccination regimens. Why should a farmstead in the middle-of-nowhere pay to protect themselves from exotic interplanetary diseases they will never encounter?
When the Goodhaven herd suddenly merged with several other foreign herds, this question was answered the hard way. Until recently, what was misdiagnosed as a tick-borne Rickettsial infection, turned out to be a highly contagious strain of measles. The Millers' infant son was one of the first deaths from this disease last month.
"Jesus..."
"Yeah... Her husband had just got his deployment orders, and command didn't want him bringing back any infectious diseases to his unit. Makes complete sense, but he had to attend his child's funeral via video teleconference. That being said, I really admire you, sir, for still coming in person. Anna and Redbrick were both fearless types too. But I imagine you guys have great healthcare up on the Mothership, don't you?"
Simon suddenly understands why a Sheriff's Deputy would wear a neck gaiter to pick up someone from the spaceport, "Absolutely... best in the 'verse..."
***
Deputy Hollaran pulls up the Jeep to the front of a farmhouse, "Here we are, sir. I'll wait outside for you. This is a family matter. Plus, you know, social distancing and what not."
"Good thinking, Deputy. I'll try not to keep you waiting too long."
"Mighty kind of you, sir. But take as long as you need. Now normally, I'd say anybody from Ocean PMC is welcome to crash at my place-"
Simon quickly cuts her off, "Oh, that's so generous. But I really should be going after this."
The masked Deputy Hollaran taps on her temple playfully, "No need to make excuses, sir. I understand."
Delicately cradling the stainless steel urn, your operator is led into the front parlor by Dorothy Rae Miller. The would-be soldier, mother, and housewife; now turned childless widow, seems to be keeping things together the best she can. The house is messy, and her appearance is unkempt, but she's obviously got more than vanity on her mind.
"Something to drink? Tea, perhaps?"
"No, not necessary, Ma'am."
Dorothy closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, "So, shall we get on with this then?"
Simon obliges, "You are Dorothy Rae Miller, nee Dorothy Rae Wilder? Lawful wife to Second Lieutenant Paul Miller, correct?"
"Yes..."
"Coalition Expeditionary Forces regrets to inform you that your husband, Second Lieutenant Paul Miller, was killed in action two days ago in Anghabar."
Someone at Second Regiment had already notified her of what Simon just said, but hearing it face-to-face from a uniformed official reopens the wound. Choking back tears, she gestures to the urn in his hands, "Is that him?"
Simon hands over the urn, "Yes, Ma'am. With great condolences, I-"
"How did he die?"
"Ma'am, as I said, your husband was killed in action in Anghabar. I'm not at liberty-"
"Oh, please. You know I was enlisted, right? Don't feed me that regulation bullshit. You must know something."
Well, she sure had him there.
Simon had anticipated this, and had spent the day and a half awaiting the cremation asking around the Second Regiment for anybody who knew Paul Miller well. Besides finding personal closure with the man who died on his watch, Simon had hoped he could deliver a short eulogy for the benefit of his grieving family. Unfortunately, the reviews on Lieutenant Miller were best described as "mixed." Most soldiers were cagey talking to an outsider, but it was telling that seemingly no one had anything better to say about him than citing his rifle qualification and physical fitness scores. Based on what he just learned from Deputy Hollaran, it doesn't sounds like he was much of a family man either.
So was Simon supposed to tell her how he died? Simon witnessed the whole gruesome ordeal first-hand, and that's mostly why he was here in the first place. "In the process of committing a brazen and ill-advised war crime, your husband had his face ripped off by a high velocity large caliber round. Despite surviving this horrific injury, you husband died slowly in a pool of his own blood from medical mismanagement. Also, I know all of this, because the person who failed in treating this casualty is standing right before you."
But surely his death was a noble sacrifice? Your husband, Lieutenant Paul Miller, swore an oath of service. Surely he lived & died for something greater. "Due to the general ineptitude of local policy-makers and their security forces, your husband's unit was deployed to Anghabar. Pursuing unproven military intelligence, his unit was ambushed before they could reach their objective. Either successfully delayed or on a full-on wild goose chase, the objective proved a 'dry hole' and nothing of military significance was captured. Despite possibly disrupting insurgent activity in a remote village for a day, and possibly killing a skilled insurgent sniper, the mission your husband died on accomplished little else tactically. Perhaps the men of Bravo Company and their leadership recognized some hard 'lessons learned' at least? If it's any consolation, your husband's death did seem to have an ongoing strategic impact on the war effort, justifying retaliatory heavy artillery bombardment that will certainly kill countless women and children."
Project Manager Simon Templar straightens his posture, and loos Dorothy Rae Miller in the eye, excreting an aura of maximum confidence.
"Your late husband, Second Lieutenant Paul Miller, was truly one of the best among Coalition Expeditionary Forces. A model officer and soldier, his professional insights were valued by his colleagues and superiors. A consummate professional and an inspirational leader of men, he was respected and loved by all he served with."
"Your husband's promising military career was cut short on his final mission to capture a dangerous Black Mask terrorist. Following the death of his Commanding Officer, your husband courageously took command of the Rifle Company and rallied the troops to continue this mission. Never afraid to lead from the front, your husband personally captured the targeted Black Mask terrorist. In his final act of valor, he gave his life thwarting the escape of this terrorist, in the face of a concerted Black Mask attempt to thwart their leader from facing justice."
"I can't imagine the personal loss you must be experiencing Ma'am. But know that your husband's death was not for nothing. Because of your husband's heroism, a deadly terrorist operative was taken off the battlefield. Thanks to your husband, the crisis on Anghabar is one step closer to resolution. His beloved band of brothers are one step closer to going home as well. Due to your husband's ultimate self-less sacrifice, Anghabar, and thus the whole Thiel Planetary System, will again be safe for the Free Market."
***
Finally back aboard the Mothership Leviathan, Simon finishes up in the shower stall rubbing himself down with disinfectant for the second time. Exiting the latrines, he bumps into Chief Neil MacCauley.
"Geez, Templar. You trying to run up our water bill? Didn't think you'd be the one to turn into the team princess."
Simon laughs and shakes his head, "Sorry, Chief. You'll understand when you read my report."
"I'll look forward to that. Hey, I heard they money from CoFor already cleared, so good job out there, Templar."
Returning to his bunk, Simon settles int his post-mission routine of unpacking, servicing, and resetting his personal gear. At the bottom of his assault pack, he finds a couple of books he took from Mullaghmore with SPC Rana Chatterjee. He'd forgotten completely about that little tangent, and by now it wasn't worth tohe hassle of shipping these books back to CoFor.
Turning in for bed later that night, Simon cracks open one of the seized books for some bedtime reading. "Station Island," a poetry collection by Nobel Laureate Seamus Heaney, piques his interest. It's a relatively quick read, and Simon is disappointed to find the first third of the collection completely underwhelming. To his surprise, he's forced to put the book down halfway through as a passage resonates:
'The red-hot pokers blazed a lovely red
in Jerpoint the Sunday I was murdered,'
he said quietly. 'Now do you remember?
You were there with poets when you got the word
and stayed there with them, while your own flesh and blood
was carted to Bellaghy from the Fews.
They showed more agitation at the news
than you did.'
'But they were getting crisis
first-hand, Colum, they had happened in on
live sectarian assassination.
I was dumb, encountering what was destined.'
And so I pleaded with my second cousin.
'I kept seeing a grey stretch of Lough Beg
and the strand empty at daybreak.
I felt like the bottom of a dried-up lake.'
'You saw that, and you wrote that - not the fact.
You confused evasion and artistic tact.
The Protestant who shot me through the head
I accuse directly, but indirectly, you
who now atone perhaps upon this bed
for the way you whitewashed ugliness and drew
the lovely blinds of the Purgatorio
and saccharined my death with morning dew.'Mission Results: Success. Zero casualties. 4 EKIA. 40k profit. Data Sheet updated.
Plan Rating: Okay (+/- 0)
Roll (2d4): 7
Plan Execution Result: 7 - Very Good
Mission Difficulty Roll (2d4): 6 - Easier than Expected
Operator Improvisation Roll (2d4): 5 - Competent