DISHONOURABLE DISCHARGE

Deborrah Smallrich — former army intelligence officer, new mother, and her household’s sole breadwinner — decided to leave her husband and 10-month-old at home, in Wolfville, Nova Scotia to volunteer delivering crêpes Suzette to needy families on the front lines of the war in Ukraine. Passionate about food and always seeking to help out whenever able, Deborrah felt called to do what she could to ease the suffering of the victims of this brutal war.

It was true that the family had payments to make on her Olympia, oh and most of a mortgage still owing on their house perched over the Bay of Fundy; but, Deborrah reasoned, all her debts (like her friends and family and the fields, farms, and vineyards of Wolfville) would all be there when she returned. Yes, as her husband Jakob argued, there were mouths to feed at home and also abundant people in need nearby. It was true, she could have fed the street homeless in Montreal or Vancouver or helped with food distribution in Cuba, Guatemala, or Haiti (or Panama, Colombia, or Venezuela); but, she told him, there was even more dire need elsewhere. It was also true that Ukraine had far less prevalence and severity of food insecurity, malnutrition, and starvation than places all over the globe, locations not nestled within an active theatre of war, such as Bangladesh, Afghanistan, Ethiopia, Burkina Faso, and others; but war, as she always said, was a special kind of horror. For some reason she could not explain, it was the hungry babies in apartment towers currently being pounded by artillery and drone strikes that really spoke to her.

And so it was off to Ukraine Deborrah went.

Jakob got a phone call from Deborrah when she landed in Istanbul. Two weeks later, right before heading into Ukraine she called again. And then a text message arrived right after she crossed the border. The following day he received an email from Deborrah, who was then at a hotel in Simferopol, on the Crimean Peninsula. The message spelled out some of the plan for the month ahead, where she was expecting to be operating, and the names of some of the folks she was working with. Of course, she also wished Jakob and the baby well and wrote that she would see them very soon.

The following week, Jakob got a call from Scullery Global, the aid agency Deborrah was working for. A nice woman explained that Deborrah and the crew she was with were blown up in a Ukrainian drone strike. She explained Scullery was working hard to get more information, but what she did know was that the strike took place after a long shift at the pop-up waffle house in the village of Vodiane, just outside the Zaporizhia Nuclear Power Plant. It was late at night, she said, and the team was heading east, on their way to Mariupol. She explained that, as with all their operations, as a humanitarian aid endeavour, they made explicit all their intentions and movements to all relevant parties to any conflict. Despite that, she said, down a rural road a few kilometres from the town of Polohy, Ukrainian missiles struck their caravan, killing everyone travelling in what she insisted were well-marked Scullery Global vehicles. The woman then said they were still trying to contact the next of kin and that as soon as they were able Scullery Global would be putting out a public statement with more details and the names of everyone who was killed in the attack. She also assured Jakob every effort was being made to obtain as much information as possible about what occurred and why.

The local paper and national media called for background and details about Deborrah and the family seemingly the moment Jakob put down his phone. He was eager to offer them any details he could. It appeared the deaths of Deborrah and her team were quickly becoming a serious international story. Messages and requests for interviews soon flooded in from reporters everywhere who seemed to have tracked down Jakob’s email and social media accounts. The attention was as dizzying as the tragic news, despite him having walked through this very scenario, and a million others, in his mind many times in the past and since Deborrah left on this latest trip.

Jakob’s mother, Biannca, flew out from Montreal the following morning to be with Jakob and the baby. Max, Jakob’s father, who lived in the next village over, drove up later that day, as soon as he got the news. Biancca was reading all the reporting and updating her feed every few minutes to catch the very latest coming out about the incident as she bounced the little one on her knee. Max sat for a time and then paced around the house, and then sat again before doing more pacing. The whole day flew by this way, interrupted only by phone calls and crying.

At some point the doorbell rang. It was the owner of the local trattoria dropping off pizza after hearing the news. Pizza was accompanied by Max making lists of things needing to be done while Biancca continued surveying everywhere online for information on what happened and who was involved. Jakob’s friend Peter dropped in to help put up a MoiTuFund campaign. Of course, life insurance companies only cover freak acts of God and don’t let you take out a plan on yourself if you’re running directly into a man-made war on-going for two years. So, with no money coming in, a new mouth to feed, and a plethora of debts waiting to be paid off, it made sense to appeal for assistance — especially with all the attention. Everyone agreed $25,000 was a lot to ask but probably a good figure given the circumstances. And some of that would be enough to start an education fund for Jakob Jr, too.

As evening came, Peter went, and the baby was put down, Biancca began squeaking and grunting into her devices as she polished off the last of the Hawaiian. Sometimes something discernible popped out, like “hmmm” or “that’s interesting” or “wait, what?” Eventually Jakob’s mother started asking questions. Most of them he couldn’t answer. One question he did have information on was who Deborrah was travelling with. Jakob explained that Deborrah was with an old army buddy, Bukkah, who she travelled with all the time. But all he really knew for sure was that they were both in Istanbul prior to Deborrah heading into Ukraine. 

“Hmmm,” Biancca offered, adding “And was Bukkah also retired, or—” 

“Oh yeah,” said Jakob, “PTSD, like Deb.” They were both veterans of Afghanistan and were both honourably discharged due to psychological impacts. Jakob didn’t know whether Bukkah was in the same truck with Deborrah or if she was in Odessa or even in Ukraine, only that they were both in Turkey. He'd never met Bukkah and had no contact details, either.

Biancca then asked if either Max or Jacob had seen the resumes of the folks Deborrah was with when she was killed. Neither had. “Look at this,” she said, rotating her laptop screen to face the men. The Guardian was reporting that one of the women blown up was a French sniper with tours in Bosnia, Iraq, Syria, Mali, and Niger. Another was a veteran of French Navy Special Operations, Commandos Marine. The other was a Kiwi and an army veteran who’s LinkedIn profile offered that she ran a firm specializing in covert surveillance, executive protection, and transportation of high-value targets. “Darla, Debby, and Daphne,” Biancca noted. She wondered aloud whether it made sense for a team of commandos and military intelligence (suffering from PTSD) to be travelling together, late at night, in an armoured vehicle in the middle of a combat zone to ensure “fresh, chef-prepared” poached eggs and hollandaise made it to farmers who chose not to flee the war to perfect safety just a few kilometres west.

Max assured the room that Biancca’s inquiry was unacceptable. This, Max urged, was not going to become another one of her nonsensical conspiracy theories. He countered that, of course there were Marines moving muffin mix through a battle zone, along a back road in the dead of night in an armoured vehicle. “That’s who does this work,” he insisted, “and that’s how this work gets done. And you don't always get to decide when and where and with whom you work or travel. It's a war zone.”

Biancca shot back, “How many Marines and Intel Specialists do you have volunteering for your gourmet flapjack flipping operation, that you can put four in one truck and send them through an area of active hostility? Wouldn’t these be your expert logicians and organizers, the folks you have to keep people out of harm’s way and maybe ensure you have a secure area of operation, that sort of thing? Wouldn’t you have locals or just folks with far less experience — as in not those with unique and critical specializations — to be running errands or risking their necks? I mean, a Marine is the kind of person you have in your organization, and pay very well, to train folks how to use a weapon, spot trouble, move around safely, communicate effec—”

“They said they were in a ‘deconflicted zone,’” Jakob interjected. 

“How ‘deconflicted’ is a location taking drone strikes?” his mother shot back.

“That’s what she said. That’s what they both said: Deb before she went in and the Scullery lady I just spoke to on the phone. They both talked about the area being ‘deconflicted,’” Jakob recounted for her.

“Deconflicted. That means everyone has coordinated to keep the area clear of threats. That would probably mean they were in a designated zone, on a designated route, in vehicles everyone had photos of, and only travelling at times known to everyone,” Biancca asked her son, “is that right?” 

Jakob nodded, adding that the crew was unarmed and travelling in a caravan of marked vehicles that all sides were fully cognizant of. Max offered, “The company said their vehicles couldn’t have been better identified, and,” he added, pointing at her computer screen, “Zelyonaya already admitted it was a mistake, called it ‘a grave error.’”

“All that may be the running narrative,” Biancca pushed back, “but you don’t have to be a hardened military gal to know that a decal on a rooftop can’t be seen at night, even and especially using a drone’s thermal camera which, almost guaranteed, they must have been using.” 

“Gimme a break,” cried Max, “They have all the technol—” 

“You give me a break,” Biancca rebutted. “Why pretend to be so naive? You’ve both seen that sort of footage. It’s bright, glowing white blobs on a grey background. It’s like the negative of a silhouette, or something. Like a glowing x-ray. You get outlines and edges, you don’t get materials or textures or words or logos. And you can hardly identify even the make and model of a vehicle, especially from directly above.”

Jakob looked his mother in the eyes. “I dunno, mom, this feels like a pretty offensive line to take in light of what’s happened.”

Max jumped in, “Yeah, some Alek Bones, Sandy Brook bullshit.”

“Come at it from another angle then. Explain to me why this charity worth hundreds of millions, and who can justify paying their executive team salaries of $200k to sit in offices in DC, has the folks on the ground in high-risk zones, who can only be essential, high-value crew members, volunteering to risk, or in this case give, their lives to artisanal cinnamon bun distribution? Makes no fuckin’ sense.”

Max replied, “This is what people working for charities and NGOs do. That’s what international aid looks like. What do you think MSF and their doctors are up to?”

“You’re calling me out on the one thing I know about. Doctors earning $400k at home, with $5 million in the bank, a house in the suburbs and a condo downtown (or all of that in their immediate future), have all their expenses covered and are then paid an additional salary of not less than $45k to work abroad," Biancca blasted, "That’s not the same at all, at all,” she emphasised, throwing her hands wildly about, “And that’s despite Scullery and MSF operating on similar budgets,” she noted.

“What are you saying?” Jakob demanded.

“Nothing,” his mother said, adding, “I’m just saying none of this makes sense. All of it is curious. Sure, any part of it alone may be uninteresting; but when you add all these elements together? What, you don't feel obliged to ask difficult questions and probe this from any angle that could make sense, especially when no explanations are forthcoming?”

“Well, give it to us. What exactly are you getting at?” Max asked, answering before she could, “What, a cabal of Ukrainian Nazis, in cahoots with a US charity, was secretly smuggling gold and nuclear fuel rods into Moldova? What are we talking about? And one of the smugglers is your daughter-in-law? Come on.”

“I don’t know, at all, I’m just saying it doesn’t make sense. If one French commando was serving as a security coordinator or even a guard, and she was making hazard pay, and they were working in a densely populated area, you know, as you would if you were trying to help the most people with your food aid, that would make perfect sense. Four on the same team, riding in the same vehicle, at night, in the middle of nowhere, in what is clearly a hot zone being watched by drones? It’s weird.”

“It’s not that weird!” insisted Max.

“It’s not weird at all!” Jakob snarled. “What, to have a security team in a war zone? Is that weird? For subject area experts to work together? For things to need to get done in the evening? How weird is that?”

“It wouldn’t be weird at all, at all," she insisted, "if they were all colleagues from the same regiment, getting back together annually to do good works around the world. It wouldn’t be weird if one was a Navy culinary specialist, one a National Guard machinist, and another an IT person or admin clerk or Air Force recruiter. Or, you know, it wh—”

“You’re saying it looks to you like someone put together a team? Like, what Ocean’s 11? Maybe Gorge Khlooni was involved?” Max laughed.

Jakob laughed along, “Mom, you know that’s entertainment, fiction, right?”

“I’m not talking Ocean’s 11, I’m talking Occam’s razor,” Biancca replied. “You know, ol’ Willy. Lex parsimoniae.”

“So what you’re saying is that, to you, it’s far more straightforward to imagine that a humanitarian non-profit is actually a front for a covert operations team made up of stress disordered vets?” Max asked.

“You think the simplest and most obvious explanation is that some pastry chefs and their Befordshire clangers were being guarded by an elite volunteer mercenary force with a diverse, complementary skill set and from all around the globe. And that they came together last week, all in the same place, by random chance over a passion for food aid?” she responded.

“They had to have security. And who better?” Jakob offered. 

“I have no information telling me that they were 'security'," Biancca recalled, "Deborrah has the same military CV but everyone agrees she was not there working security."

"Just get off it," Max jeered.

“Lavoolin-CNS,” blasted Biancca.

“Oh, here we go,” Max blasted back, rolling his eyes as exaggeratedly as he could muster. Jakob, saying nothing, raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“You remember, the engineering firm. They paid Cindy Park to take the corporate jet, pretending to be on a fact-finding mission for a desalination project, to smuggle Ghadaffi’s son’s bodyguard from Canada into Tunisia, who then snuck into Libya and escorted the son to Niger, despite UN travel bans and an international warrant for his arrest. This kind of stuff happens. Or what about Carly Gostin, the Hyundai/Peugeot CEO who was smuggled out of a Korean maximum security prison in a life-size unicorn piñata by a Bolivian circus troupe?”

“That happened?” Jakob asked.

“There’s a whole documentary on Webficks about it,” said Max.

“Is it crazy to think someone was trying to get in or out of Ukraine,” Biancca enquired, “or trying to move something and that they hired a team to make it happen? There are a thousand other options. Obviously, I'm not pretending to know. But almost anything would make far more sense to me.”

“Okay, but Deb wasn’t a secret agent. And she wasn’t even running security. Or providing intel,” Jakob argued.

“How would you know?” his mother asked. “And wasn’t she just in Mexico?”

“Yeah, but what does that tell you? She was helping deliver food aid. Through Scullery. With Bukkah,” Jacob offered.

“Mexico is not a war zone. Why would she go from there, where she was effective and doing the same good, to somewhere scattered with landmines and Russian tanks and active fire? I mean, Deborrah of all people. Did she ever talk about that?”

“Mom, I’m not talking about this. I’m not—”

“Exactly. Stop fuelling her,” pleaded Max.

Biancca’s phone buzzed. “Must be morning there,” she reported, reading from the screen. She scrolled and read and scrolled some more. “This just in: ‘President Zelyonaya apologizes, removing two senior officers responsible after reviewing report on fatal error killing international aid workers.’ That was fast! A full investigation with consequences and a public statement including culpability and in mere hours?”

“A clear sign of conspiracy," pitched Max, "amirite?”

“You don't find it to be exceedingly rare, effectively an unheard-of case, for the military to behave exactly as you hope they would? Like, what did the US do when Dice Buttange shared with the world footage sought by Reuters, but denied by the military in an FOI request?"

Jacob offered, "A global manhunt, a series of wild smear campaigns, his placement on a Capture or Kill list, his hiding out for a decade in an embassy in London and then spending five more years in a high security prison, where he still languishes..."

Biancca added, "Yeah, while the UN Special Rapporteur on Torture and Australian MPs, too, said his treatment was and remains unprecedented and is a clear example of cruel and unusual punishment. And all of that because the video he released revealed not persons or methods or national secrets but American helicopter pilots killing a journalist and then lingering to kill the folks who came to take him to hospital, including a pair of kids. Right?"

"These are different cases," said Max.

"They are. But the Ukrainians only just landed the damn drone,” Biancca proposed, “and already a full official report and, what, a pair of dishonourable discharges?”

Max clapped back, “You’re a dishonourable discharge.”