Writers Note: GTG is NOW IN PRINT! I am waiting on a final proof copy to physically see if the end product is ready for sale. Once it is, I will update here and list where it will be available for sale! I have updated this recently to include the revised version of chapters 1 and 2. Enjoy!
Acknowledgements:
Tom: For putting thoughts in my head. My resume is still out there, sir!
Sean: For reading it constantly, suggesting BLOG revisions and pointing out the low spots!
John: For telling me how things on the ground REALLY are. Pajeros...say it with me...PA-JE-ROS.
Victor: For being a friend and an unsung hero. Nobody knows what the support elements of these shadow warriors go through more than you, bro. They don't give out medals for the shit you guys do, but they damn well should.
Clancy: For proving to me that a flawed warrior really can do, and not just teach.
Marcinko: For showing me another path and instilling in me the values I hold dear.
Ernie Emerson: For inspiring in me what a good man really is, though I've come nowhere close to being one myself. Your example proves to me that it can be done.
Kates(my BUD/S proctor): For seeing me for what I really am, and inspiring me to serve my country anyway. You probably don't remember me, but I damn sure remember you.
Mark: For going where I could not go. Stay safe brother.
Mike: For his technical expertise in the field of tactical medicine and terminal ballistics and above all, for being an incredible friend. Your service is not unknown or unappreciated, brother!
Now, without further adeau, here is the Prologue and chapters one, two, and three:
Prologue
Nobody in the company planned for it to happen this way, could have never imagined how large their company had grown. And in such a short amount of time. It truly was unexpected, though it was not unappreciated. They’d started life as a simple source of training and equipment back in the early 1980’s. Their expertise spread by word of mouth as the founder of the company, a man known by his close friends simply as Gray had kept his teaching methods close to his chest. He’d spent a long career in the clandestine services, dedicating his life to the ideals laid out in the Constitution. Life. Liberty. The Pursuit of Happiness. That was all there ever was. Life, to Gray was simple. It was made of simple choices. Be happy or be sad. Choose life or choose death. Choose good or choose evil. Of course, to most people in the world, life was represented not in black and white, but in a nearly infinite series of gray tones. It was ironic, his name and his outlook on life.
He’d joined the United States Navy before he’d graduated high school. Back then, the recruiters weren’t nearly as careful as they are now. Not that Gray minded. He’d served as his father had and as his grandfather and great grandfathers had. The Navy wasn’t his country’s oldest service, but to him it didn’t matter. It was about tradition. Honor, courage and commitment. Those were the values of the modern Navy, but they’d been that way since it’s inception. Gray had scored on the average throughout his naval career. He was an enlisted man, a nobody really, but he’d served with honor in his way. He had risen to the rank of Chief in twelve years, which was about average for a man in his rate. He’d commanded his small group of men well and was generally liked by those above and below him. He was a hard man, salty from his time in the service. But he was a fair man. Then came Vietnam. Gray watched as the Navy transformed itself. The draft took it’s toll and the country tore itself apart. For the first time in his life, Gray was terrified that his country would dissolve, fading into history like the Roman Empire, or the Ottomans. History had a way of gobbling up even the greatest of it’s societies, replacing them with whatever could survive in the new world left in it’s vacuous wake.
With the war in Southeast Asia came a resurgence in special operations and Gray, through fate, or fortune, or sheer dumb luck found himself at a crossroads. He’d developed a special talent, through God knew what experiences, but the talent was there, never the less. He could see through men. Smell their motivations, their fears. At first it disturbed him, but after a while he grew accustomed, even learned to use his natural talent. One day an intelligence officer came aboard and Gray‘s life changed forever. Gray’s curiosity got the best of him and, despite being told not to interfere with the dealings of this intelligence officer, he inserted himself into the situation. As a Chief, he was in charge of the watch rotations for his part of the ship and he’d insured he was in the room the night the operations took place.
Gray watched, studying the intelligence officer, his hawk-like eyes taking in every detail, missing nothing. Then he’d made his move. The intelligence officer had made a mistake, had missed a detail that Gray had not and he’d stepped in. In his mind, he’d done it for his country, for the men downrange, the people in harm’s way. He’d later reflect that his first step into this shadowy world had been done with faith in his heart, and loyalty. He took secret pride in that fact. The intelligence officer, realizing his mistake, thankful of the face saving and life saving alterations this Navy Chief had made to the plan took note. Talent such as Gray’s was rare in a person and, when discovered should not be squandered. The operation successfully completed, the intelligence officer had disappeared from the ship, never to be seen or heard from again. At least not directly and not by Gray.
Time passed and the war continued. Gray had been redeployed, this time as a senior enlisted man. His new task was as a liaison of sorts at the Pentagon. He’d served two tours in Vietnam and his betters had felt he could be used back home. He had no idea, though later he’d surmise that the intelligence officer he’d helped that fateful day had pulled the strings, setting into motion what Gray considered to be his coming of age. His assignment: Advising and generating policy surrounding the processing of intelligence coming out of North Vietnam. And from that day, Gray began to build an army.
Gray’s career flourished and he was there the day Operation Eagle Claw had failed so dramatically. He’d known many of the men downrange and had raged against himself for being so helpless, for failing to bring to light the obvious flaws he’d seen in the mission planning and execution. He’d lost friends. But worst of all, he’d lost faith. The command structure above him had forgotten the lessons of Vietnam already, despite it’s recent history. Gray voiced his opinion and watched, with horror and dismay as his career was taken apart. He was shunned, cast outward. His belief in America persevered, however, but he’d seen the signal from the lighthouse and knew it meant danger. And so, with decades of service and a uniform burdened with tin and honor, Gray left. And he took his army with him. And with it, he created what some would call a savior, and what others would call a devil. But it was his, and despite what public opinion might be, it was necessary. Besides, there were those in his government with needs for men like his and Gray and his new army got to work.
Then one day, the War on Terror came to America and she was blown wide open. Gray and his army had seen the signs, had given their warnings, his net spread throughout the world by this time. But again, nobody had heard him. Perhaps no one had cared to hear him. He was an outsider now, he and his army. He raged, his feelings shared by every freedom loving person who saw those images the day the towers fell. He raged and he wept. Not for the images, not for fear. He wept for America. And when the tears had dried and there was nothing left to feel, Gray gave his army back to America, from whence it had been born.
Chapter 1: Sleepless in Baghdad
3 a.m. local time Baghdad, Iraq
Three in the morning sucks, no matter what part of the world you’re in. The human body was meant to be sleeping at this time. Nature itself seems to recoil at this hour. No animals are about, the daylight creatures asleep, while the nocturnal ones are returning from hunting, gathering, or whatever the hell nocturnal animals do. Even the plants close up, not that there are a ton of plants along Route Aeros. Just enough to conceal death. They were traveling high profile on this run, meaning they were in vehicles that obviously belonged to either Coalition forces or the masses of armed private military contractors who lived and worked in the country. Hopefully the late hour and their substantial mobile arsenal would mitigate things, but Gram’s group was under no illusion that they were the only predators out this morning. .30 caliber PKMs (a Russian machine gun resembling a long-barreled AK-47) were the rule, rather than the exception. The exception, however, was exceptional indeed. Gray Talon Group had recently adopted the relatively new FN Herstal Mk 48 machine gun. Like its little cousin, the M249 it was an exceptionally lightweight and accurate machine gun fielded by Special Operations troops. Unlike its cousin, though, this little puppy spewed 7.62x51mm NATO rounds, rather than the smaller 5.56x45 mm NATO rounds, which were much more effective against hard targets like vehicles and buildings. The other guys in Gram’s “Talon” group were as heavily armed as he. Gray Talon Group, or GTG for short, allowed it’s contractors to deploy with any weapon they could qualify with. The only real thing stopping them from fielding just about any weapon was that particular weapon’s availability in-theater. The flourishing black market in Iraq had seen to it that no operator was left wanting. Gram’s men bristled with toys. Talon-Golf, Gram’s 4-man team, always looked like a bunch of tattooed crazies with all the latest, most deadly gear they could get their hands on. Some stuff was brought from home, some acquired in-theater, and some was provided by GTG. Dressed in khaki cargo pants, light olive drab polo-style shirts and tan body armor, Gram’s Talon team looked ominous speeding down the street, weapons pointed from every conceivable orifice of their vehicles.
Gram, call sign “Beavis” due to his halting laugh, was an ex-Army Special Forces Weapons Sergeant. An avid knife and gun collector, he had grown bored with his job as a Hillsborough County Sheriff Deputy. Granted, being on HCSO’s SWAT team was a fun gig, but most of Gram’s time was spent writing reports, sitting in his cruiser on patrol and generally getting tired of the stupid things people did to one another in his hometown. Gram had grown up in Tampa, loved the water, and thought about joining the Navy when he graduated High School. A buddy of his was thinking along the same lines, but wanted to be in the Army’s Special Forces, like his grandfather had. Gram, an impressionable youth at the time, decided he’d join the Army with his buddy. After a tour with 1st Special Forces Group in the wild, wild East, Gram decided to get out. He’d seen and done some pretty interesting things, but he longed for a normal life. You know, wife, kids, nobody shooting at you through the thick foliage of the southern Philippines, that kinda thing. Married life hadn’t worked out for Gram however and, feeling a bit tired of the Florida scene, he decided to try his hand at contracting. The money wasn’t bad either. Little did he know that his experiences in the Special Forces would find him leading a group of contractors, rather than just being one of the guns.
Gram scanned the road ahead and glanced over at his Talon group’s driver who was concentrating fiercely on the road ahead, the objects in the mirror, and anything that moved into his view. Donny Stevens, call sign “Ducky” always looked cooler than everyone else, Gram thought. His pigeon-toed walk and his full name, Donald, lead inevitably to his call sign. His designer sunglasses and deep, almost Mediterranean tan made him a hit with the girls, until he opened his mouth, that is. Ducky was a self proclaimed “crazy sumbitch.” An ex-Orange County Florida SWAT officer, Ducky had gained a reputation on the streets of Orlando as a hard charger, a no bullshit cop. Unfortunately for him, his shift supervisor was a prick and had the misfortune of having a lonely and attractive wife. Boinking people’s hot wives seemed to be one of Ducky’s specialties. Well, that and his innate ability to hit anything he shot at. To top it off, Ducky drove like a Lebanese cab driver, which is to say the rules of the road did not apply to him. From the moment he strapped in until the second the keys left the ignition of their heavily modified Ford F-250 super duty, Ducky owned the road, the sidewalk, the oncoming lanes, and the desert around them. Ducky had a big mouth to boot, and his rants were so prolific as to cause Gram to cringe at times. Gram fully expected that some day Ducky would lead Talon-Golf straight into an international incident of stupendous proportions, lips first. The only time Ducky shut up was when he was shooting at people. For all his quirks, and there were a ton, Gram couldn’t think of a better man to have behind the wheel or next to him in a firefight. “Talon-Golf, radio check. Hurst, you awake back there?” Gram asked the mic. “Roger that boss. Quiet night so far.” the huge ex-Marine responded.
David Hurzinski, call sign “Hurst” had joked once that he wished they’d get into a contact just so he wouldn’t have to hear Ducky cursing all the time. That ended quickly when their very next convoy came under fire along Route Irish on their way back from a trip to Baghdad International Airport (BIAP). Hurst was one of Talon-Golf’s truck bed gunners for this mission. Hurst was a huge man, fully 6 ft. 3 in. and 260 lbs. He was black as night and had a smile broad enough to see his teeth from 100 meters on a pitch-dark night. Unfortunately for the bad guys, if he was smiling it was because they were already in deep shit. An ex-Marine Force Recon man, Hurst had cut his teeth in the first Gulf War back in 1991. He was 20 then, and much dumber, or so he thought. To look at him was to look at a God, or at least that was the opinion of most of the Talon Group members. He was the only guy in the entire company that actually made the Mk 48 look tiny when he held it, almost as if some malevolent deity had Scotch-taped a G.I. Joe weapon in the hands of a huge, angry, black Muppet. Watching him shoot his beloved Glock 17 was a sight to behold, the weapon practically vanishing in his bear-like grasp. How he got a Polish last name was anybody’s guess. When questioned about his heritage once, Hurst calmly stated that the Polish people were originally derived from a group of African tribesmen who learned to swim, waded all the way to the shores of Europe and promptly boffed all the white women they could find. To hear him tell it, to see the glint in his eye when he said “boff” and to take into account the size and mannerisms of this behemoth, the story was easy to believe if merely out of sheer terror. “Golf lead this is Priest. Don’t let him fool ya, if it wasn’t for me kicking him every few minutes old Hurst would be half asleep back here.” Was the sound heard over the team band by the team medic. “Golf lead, Hurst. Permission to throw Priest off the tail end, over.” The banter continued.
“This is Beavis, permission seriously considered, but denied. Keep an eye out you two. Just because intel says light enemy presence doesn’t mean they’re right.” Gram warned the jokers. “Roger.” Gram heard Priest say. “Roger that boss.” Came the reply from Hurst.
If Hurst had a polar opposite in terms of appearance, Carl Houser, call sign “Priest” was it. Priest hailed from the Chicago area and was a marathon runner. His wiry frame, pale skin, and a background in Naval Intelligence gave him a book wormy way about him. He was an academician gone terribly, terribly wrong. A quiet but irreverent man, Priest was the prankster of the group. He had a Velcro patch purchased from an internet vendor depicting a 12th century Crusader eating a ham hock. Embroidered around the circumference of the patch were the words “Pork Eating Crusader” in both English and Arabic. Priest was the guy that, when greeting Arabs during Talon-Golf’s travels in this marvelous land, would say things like “All Salami and Bacon” instead of the proper Arabic greeting, “Allah Salam Allakum.” He figured most Arabs would dismiss his mispronunciation as he was a foreigner, but once during a pick up at Camp Justice in northern Baghdad he let the phrase slip with disastrous consequences. Unbeknownst to him, the man he greeted was educated in London and had returned to his country just before the 2003 invasion. An argument ensued and a crowd gathered. As Priest reached for his Glock 17, the rest of the team showed up and diffused the situation. This incident did not deter Priest from making the sign of the cross over the Iraqi children that regularly surrounded him as he doled out butterscotches and peppermints back at Talon Group’s HQ building, earning him his nickname and the “dirty Priest“ jokes that followed.
Talon-Golf was traveling along the Baghdad Airport Road, commonly referred to as Route Irish, which is a misnomer. They were actually running along Route Aeros and would later merge into Route Irish near “the curve.” Their mission was to pick up a group of contractors working for a large corporate entity located in the Green Zone. For security, even the contractors sent to retrieve these “packages” never really knew just how many people they were picking up. Talon-Golf was rolling in a three-vehicle packet, with Golf as the lead vehicle, Talon-Bravo as the transport, and Talon-Kilo taking up the rear. Ducky was in his element, calling out obstacles, times, estimates to waypoints on the GPS and drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Gram was riding shotgun with Priest on the .30 cal in the truck bed supported by Hurst’s Mk 48. It was eerie, Gram thought. Even though they were moving at nearly 110 mph, the emptiness of the road this time of night and the lack of any real horizon out the windows made it seem as if they were standing still. Gram felt the familiar pang of sleep entering his eyes. He knew that if he dropped his guard, even for a second, it could mean instant death for his team and worse, mission failure. Gram shifted in his seat and called the next set of waypoints and their estimated times. Then it hit him. The world slowed to a screeching halt. There was no sound, no light, but the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Gram leaned forward, peering through the windscreen, just above the 3x3 inch stars and stripes sticker.
Talon-Kilo had the best view of it, because they were furthest away. The ground just in front of Talon-Golf’s F-250 erupted as if the asphalt was coming to a boil. What appeared as a huge bubble quickly expelled the fiery hot flash and debris of an improvised explosive device. Almost immediately, the radio crackled to life. “Contact right, 100 meters!!” screamed the tail gunner in Talon-Bravo. The call went out a millisecond before the convoy began to take heavy fire from a flat, sparse area to the right, just off the road. The bed gunners in Talon-Bravo immediately echoed that call. The muzzle flashes and tracers from -Kilo and -Bravo’s PKM’s turned night to day, if only for a few moments. They could see muzzle flashes through the dust and debris coming from the bed of Talon-Golf and were happy that at least one of the gunners appeared to have survived the blast. Soon, the entire convoy was engulfed in dust and debris as the vehicles passed through this hell on earth.
Ducky had felt it before he saw it, although as soon as he’d seen Gram lean forward and peer out the window, he knew something was up. Gram had a nose for IED’s which is why they’d been picked as the lead vehicle in this packet. Ducky immediately cut right hard to avoid the blistering explosion of asphalt and debris and was rewarded by the familiar right-side drag that announced his tires were rubbing the shallow curb along the edge of the road. Ducky knew that if he cut any harder, they would have either rolled the vehicle or destroyed the tires, wheels, and axels as they bounded out of control over the curb. For the thousandth time, Ducky cursed the fucking idiots who had put a curb here in the first place. The fact that the engineers who designed this road and the Coalition people who modified it after the invasion had never considered their current situation only pissed Ducky off more. Gram made a radio call. “Talon HQ, this is Talon-Golf, IED, IED, IED!, Current position 5.2 clicks west of Waypoint 2.” Gram said through the chaos. “Talon Golf, Talon HQ, SITREP, over.” a concerned voice queried. “Talon HQ, standby, over.” Gram switched to the team band. “Golf Team, radio check.” He commanded. “Priest, Check!” That was one. “Hurst, I’m still here boss.” Two. “Ducky, still in one piece.” Last one. Then Gram said, “-Bravo, -Kilo, radio check.” “Bravo here, we’re all good.” Gram and the rest of Talon Golf were glad the second vehicle had made it out ok. “Kilo, check, all members are good.” That was the third vehicle in their packet. Relieved, Gram switched back to the HQ channel and spoke. “Talon HQ, Talon-Golf, packet is intact, proceeding to waypoint 3.” He waited for a response. Immediately he heard, “Roger that, -Golf. Keep us advised, over.” Of course they were worried. Any enemy contact was cause for concern. “Roger, out.” Was his short reply.
The packet had ceased firing during the radio check, death having visited Gram and his team once more only to be unable to keep up at 110 mph. “Holy shit, that was a close one!” Ducky announced. “Yeah, we thought you guys were fucked!” hollered the driver for Talon-Kilo. “Keep your eyes open for more ahead. Those things multiply like bunnies.” The rest of the trip to BIAP was uneventful. As the -Bravo crew de-bussed and headed for the terminal, the -Golf and -Kilo crews set up defensive positions around their respective vehicles. Hurst laid his Mk 48 across the hood facing away from the terminal as Priest trained his PKM outward. Ducky hopped out and checked the tires and under the vehicle before assuming a defensive posture at the front of the truck. Cautiously, Gram inspected the driver’s side of their Ford. Lots of scrapes in the paint, but the windows were still intact. That was a weird one. Usually the windows went to shit with a blast that close. Guess that new coating the shop weenies were talking about did the job. Gram walked over to Hurst, being sure not to startle the man, but knowing all along Hurst would know exactly where Gram, Priest, and Ducky were at all times. Hurst was just like that. The man was intense, staring out into nothingness as if the boogey man himself was there. Who was he kidding? Hurst was the fucking boogeyman.
Gram looked right and up at Priest, who was equally intense. Now there was a man that could stay cool under pressure. That blast had seemingly come mere feet from the vehicle, yet the very instant Gram had realized it was an IED, the only thing he could hear was Priest pouring fire out to those who had tried to ruin his night. “Hey boss,” said Ducky “You think that jerk-off that I beat at poker the other night, you know, the one from the Transportation Ministry? You think he was that pissed? I mean, pissed enough to plant that thing?” Ducky joked. A smile crept over Gram’s face. “Only you could piss a man off enough to bury that much explosive under a road, Ducky.”
Fifteen minutes and 27 seconds according to Ducky’s Casio Pathfinder. That’s how long it took for -Bravo to retrieve their package, give them a basic safety brief regarding what to do in case of a contact and head out the front door. As -Bravo came traipsing out of the terminal, one of their gunners gave Ducky a funny look. Gram noticed the man motioning with his head toward whoever was behind him. Gram and Ducky saw her at the same time and both were equally appreciative of the heads up by the -Bravo gunner. She was tall and lean, like a runner with long brown hair pulled up in a tight bun and a business pants suit on that fully accentuated her rather wonderful backside. “Shoot, it was worth almost getting blown all to shit just to look at that!” Ducky proclaimed. “Stow it Ducky, we gotta go back through that shit.” Gram replied. Priest chimed in. “How much money’d you rob off that Transportation Ministry guy, Ducky?” Eager to defend himself from the incoming slight, Ducky responded. “Well, I won it, but it was about a hundred bucks, why?” Priest tightened the noose. “You might wanna have it handy, in case he comes lookin’ for ya again.” Seeing the ribbing too late, Ducky simply said, “Yeah, real funny asshole.”
Gram conferred with the leads from the other two vehicles. -Kilo’s lead, Bud McClellan call-sign “Whopper“ due to his love and longing for the flame-broiled goodness of his favorite treat, suggested they take an alternate route back into the Green Zone. -Bravo’s lead agreed, having seen enough action for one night. Gram confirmed his support for the idea. Although it might be a longer route, intel said that the potential for contact was expected to be light in that zone, which was exactly what the doctor ordered as far as Gram was concerned. Being shot at once an evening was more than enough. As Gram loaded into the passenger side he noticed Ducky had an evil, shit eating grin. “Don’t do it.” warned Gram. “Do what?” asked Ducky, innocently. “You know damn well what.” Gram replied. As Gram checked in with the other vehicles in the packet and Hurst got into position in the truck bed, Ducky blipped the gas just a little, enough to slam Priest into the butt of his PKM, almost knocking his breath out. “What the fuck, Ducky!” cried Priest as Hurst struggled to keep his footing. “Muahahahahahaha, Ducky strikes again!” was all that could be heard from the cabin. “Somebody’s gonna accidentally shoot his ass one day.” Priest said to Hurst only to hear “Yeah, but then who would we have to pick on?”
Gram radioed in. “Talon HQ this is Talon-Golf package secure, we’re rollin’ on alternate route Whiskey, repeat return route will be alternate Whiskey, over.” HQ responded quickly again, the previous contact warranting their full attention. “Roger that, -Golf. Alternate route Whiskey heard. Request SITREPs at all waypoints, over.” Gram had expected it. “Roger Talon HQ, SITREPs at all waypoints heard, out.”
Gram looked over at Ducky. “Awe, they wanna keep tabs on us. That’s sweet.“ Ducky clucked. “Guess so.“ Gram said, dismissing the thought almost immediately. Luckily for them the final destination for their package was a private contracting firm located just up the street from Gray Talon Group’s own regional headquarters building. Gram switched over to the team band, said “Movin’ out” into the mike and shifted in his seat, making sure his thigh rig was positioned to allow easy access to his SIG 226 if he needed it. With that sorted out, Gram shoved his hand out the cracked window, waving his extended index finger in a circle, signaling to the packet to move out. Ducky waved two fingers at the Army soldiers at the two checkpoints they had to cross to leave BIAP. At the last one he noticed that one soldier had a shiny new infrared-reflective patch on his uniform. “You think he realizes the bad guys can see that thing from a mile away?” Ducky asked Gram, motioning toward the soldier’s obviously non-regulation (and probably unauthorized) patch. “Not our problem. You just worry about keeping this heap between the ditches and we’ll be alright.” Deep down, Gram felt bad for saying it. I mean, I used to be a soldier for Christ’s sake, he told himself. What had happened to make him so callous? Women? Boredom? The need to survive? Maybe a little of all that, maybe something more. Gram could remember being happy once, even chipper. That was before his time in Special Forces. To a guy like Gram, posttraumatic stress disorder was something to be scoffed at, but at times like this, he wondered at the possibility of it touching him. Gram wrote it off as post contact jitters, something to be pushed aside until later. He spoke into the mic again. “Talon HQ, Talon-Golf. Approaching alternate Whiskey waypoint 1, over.” Then he waited. “Roger that -Golf, be advised shhhhhhhh friendly vehicle sssshhhhhhhhhhhh.” The transmission was garbled, prompting Gram. “Say again Talon HQ, repeat, say again, over.” The delay was shorter this time, the transmission quality no better. “sssssshhhhhhhhhhhh repeat, friendly vehicle ssssshhhhhhhhhh.” The reception was awful.
Gram was growing more concerned now. First the IED, now this. Bad ju-ju. Then he spoke. “Shit, something’s up. Ducky, keep your eyes peeled. Something ain’t right with the comms.” Gram warned. “Antenna’s fine, boss, I checked it out at the pick up.” Ducky stated, the stress in his voice obvious. Gram switched to the team band.”-Bravo, -Kilo, be advised, we just got a garbled transmission from Talon HQ advising us to keep an eye out for a possible friendly vehicle, over.” The other two vehicles responded immediately. “-Bravo here. We heard it, Beavis, sounded fishy to us.” The next truck back said. “Roger that -Bravo, stay alert.” Gram responded. “-Kilo here, we got a three-vehicle packet at our six. Looks like Coalition, over.” The news put Gram on the defensive. Gram chewed on the new information for a split second, then spoke again. “Roger that, let’s make room for them, but let’s not slow down any more than we have to.” He was being cautious. “-Bravo, roger.” Was the first response, then, “-Kilo, roger that.” Everybody was on the same page. That was good.
Ducky chimed in “Hey boss, does anybody think it’s odd that we’re having trouble talking to HQ, but not to the other vehicles in the packet?” Gram considered that for a second then said, “Well, it could be a hundred things, I mean, the packet is close together, and there may be jammers near the base. Coalition’s been screwing around with some of that stuff lately. Plays havoc with our comms.” Ducky was dubious, but kept his mouth shut, which was rare enough. “Talon-Golf, this is Talon-Kilo. Coalition packet is 200 meters to our rear and closing. One gun truck in front, one flatbed transport in the middle, one gun truck in the rear, over.” They updated Gram. “Roger that-Kilo, lets cut our speed a little and let ‘em pass.” Hram didn’t like slowing down, but didn’t have much of a choice. If Coalition vehicles could keep up, they were usually given the right of way by the PMCs in the region. “Roger that, -Golf.” The tail truck responded.
The Talon packet shifted to the right and slowed, if you want to call 85 mph in low light on a moonless night in the middle of a war zone slow. As the Coalition packet came along side, Ducky cut his speed another five or ten miles per hour, knowing that the Coalition Hummers were already straining under all that armor, ammo, and the weight of the heavily armed men inside. Ducky looked left out of the corner of his eye in time to see one of the Hummer gunners wave at them. “Friendly bastards, ain’t they?” Ducky grunted. Gram just nodded, keeping a paranoid eye on the gun truck, just in case. Then it came again. That old familiar feeling. The hairs on the back of Grams neck stood up once more as he noticed the gun truck was no longer accelerating, but rather keeping pace slightly ahead and to the left of his lead vehicle. “-Golf, this is -Kilo, the rearmost Coalition vehicle is dropping back, over.” The information came too late. Gram keyed the mike, glancing at the last moment to make sure it was on the team band and yelled, “AMBUSH, AMBUSH, AMBUSH!” Just then, the lead coalition vehicle with the friendly gunner opened up on Talon-Golf. Suddenly, the flatbed truck, which had been rolling right alongside Talon-Bravo exploded, hurdling fragments, car parts and fire in every direction.
The noise was deafening, the explosion obscuring the view of the rear most vehicle in the packet. “Contact left, contact left, It’s the fucking Coalition vehicle!” Someone screamed over the team band. Gram switched to the HQ band. “Talon HQ, Talon-Golf, we are under heavy attack by insurgents in Coalition vehicles, repeat, we are under heavy attack by insurgents posing as Coalition, over.” Nothing, then. shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh -Golf, repeat, hostile ssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” Gram couldn’t believe his ears. “Fuck!“ Gram heard himself scream as he switched to the team band. Ducky dropped in behind the HMMWV and stomped the gas, bumping the Coalition vehicle and throwing the gunner off his aim. Just then, Priest opened up on the gunner, cutting him to shreds as Hurst made a radio announcement on the team band. “Bravo is down, vehicle is disabled, repeat, vehicle is disabled, they’re slowing!” Ducky mashed the gas again as another guy dressed in a Coalition uniform popped out of the turret, only to be annihilated by Priest’s PKM before he could even lay hands on the M249 mounted there. Ducky watched the replacement gunners head open up like a watermelon, throwing brain matter and helmet fragments over the front of the HMMWV. Ducky delivered another bump to the HMMWV, causing the driver to swerve to the right, then try to correct. Ducky saw his opening, mashed the gas one last time and performed a perfect “police immobilization technique” (PIT) maneuver. The crash was spectacular by any standard. As the HMMWV overcorrected to the left, Ducky had managed to nail the bastard just behind the left rear wheel well, right in the sweet spot. This contact sent the HMMWV skidding in an out of control left slide. The wheels caught and the HMMWV rolled on its right side, tumbling. Ducky stomped the gas and slammed into the rolling HMMWV once again, yelling “Motherfucker!” as he did so. Part of the HMMWV caught the protruding trip-wire bar welded to the front of Talon-Golf’s F-250, causing the front of -Golf’s vehicle to bounce upward before slamming back to the street. Ducky’s last bump sent the HMMWV hurtling toward the curve and, as it caught, it threw the armored vehicle like a toy off to the right and into the desert in a cloud of smoke and dust, an insurgent inside being ejected in the process.
For the hundredth time, Gram thanked God for Ducky’s driving skills. Gram got on the team band again. “This is Talon-Golf, all vehicles check in!” Gram ordered. “-Kilo, we’re under heavy attack, vehicle has been disabled! We need back up, over!” Came the frantic call. “-Bravo, radio check!” Gram tried to reach them. Nothing. “-Talon-Bravo, this is Talon-Golf, check in damnit!” Gram demanded. More nothing.
Ducky was already turning -Golf’s rig around, heading back up the road to get a visual on Talon-Bravo. “Shit…” Ducky breathed as they approached the disabled -Bravo. Two “technicals” (the term used by special operations and contractors alike to denote civilian vehicles that contain armed troops or heavy weapons), both white Toyota pickups were offloading men from their beds. As the men dismounted, they spread out, spraying the driver and front passenger seats of Talon-Bravo’s F-250. They were trying to incapacitate the two up front, but were being careful not to hit the rear passenger compartment. Ducky willed his F-250 to go faster, but it was not enough. As -Bravo’s only remaining tail gunner popped up to deliver a salvo from his PKM, the insurgents cut him down and reached the left side passenger door. They opened it, only to be met by a hail of gunfire from whoever was inside. The first two insurgents fell, but the third fired into the cabin toward the front, effectively silencing any resistance. Gram’s stomach turned. It all happened in slow motion. The man in back being hit from multiple insurgents and the man in the cabin being shot, right in front of his eyes and he could do nothing to stop it.
Priest and Hurst opened up on the far technical, tearing holes in the sheet metal and flattening the rear left tire as they fired. Ducky slammed on the brakes causing Hurst and Priest to walk fire into the ground between the technical and their Ford. Gram could not believe his eyes, but it all happened so fast, all he could do was gape. With a whisper of “Fuck this shit…” Ducky slammed the Ford into park, threw open the F-250’s driver side door and removed his favorite toy from the custom mount by his seat. Ducky extended the 6-position retractable stock of his brand spanking new Heckler & Koch stand-alone grenade launcher, loaded a 40mm grenade he’d retrieved from a pouch on his vest, slammed it home and clunked off a round at the far technical. It was a perfect shot, entering the passenger cabin through the driver’s side window and detonating against the inside of the passenger door. The vehicle split open and erupted in a fireball of black smoke and shrapnel. Walking forward out of cover, Ducky loaded another 40mm round into the launcher. He dropped to one knee and brought the HK launcher up to his shoulder, aiming at the second technical. Gram was already bailing out and so was Hurst. Priest was laying suppressing fire onto the second technical, afraid to swing left and engage the hostiles closest to -Bravo’s Ford for fear of over-penetrating and killing the principal. Gunfire erupted from the front of -Bravo’s F-250 and Ducky went down, but was scrambling back to his feet almost immediately. Gram and Hurst both saw the shooter, aimed and dropped the man with a combined burst of 7.62 and 5.56 from their weapons. Two bad guys left. As Ducky regained his footing, he managed to lob a smoke grenade toward the F-250 in a vain attempt to provide his team a modicum of cover. Just as the smoke began to billow from the grenade, Gram noticed a vehicle coming down the road and prayed it was friendly. Apparently, God had decided to sit this one out. As the insurgent HMMWV came to a sliding stop, the doors flew open and two men rushed to the side of -Bravo’s disabled Ford, spraying their weapons in the direction of Talon-Golf in the process.
Ducky had managed to recover his beloved HK grenade launcher, cracked it open to check that the round was properly seated and undamaged, slapped it shut and looked up to find the second technical. It was gone. He instead aimed at the new threat, the enemy HMMWV and fired, striking the vehicle on the back portion of the hood, just in front of the windshield. The reinforced steel hood and thick bulletproof glass along with the high explosive round from the HK fragmented, turning the front third of the HMMWV into a fiery plane of shrapnel, broken glass and body parts. The two insurgents sitting in the front never knew what happened. As Hurst and Gram teamed up and, under the cover of Ducky’s smoke and Priest’s PKM moved toward the front of -Bravo’s F-250, they saw the technical. The four remaining insurgents had managed to wrestle the package from the Ford and hustle her into the bed of their Toyota, firing wildly back at the vehicle where the contractors were sure to be. They sped off into the desert in front of a dust cloud, muzzle flashes intermittently marking their position, then faded into the night. “This is Gram! Golf, fall back to the truck! Gram shouted into the team radio.” Came the command.
Ducky made it there first, followed by Hurst and Gram. Ducky already had the F-250 in gear as Hurst clambered into the bed, getting up as fast as he could to establish a firing position. “Gun it, Ducky, we gotta get her back!” Gram nearly screamed. As Ducky slammed his foot to the floor, the vehicle shuttered and wheezed forward. “Fuck, this truck is trashed!” Ducky cried. “God damnit!” Gram cursed, as he thumbed the radio button. “Talon-Kilo, this is Talon-Golf, come in, over.” Gram could feel the panic now. “Talon-Kilo, Talon-Golf, you there Bud?” He repeated. Nothing. “Beavis, this is Priest, we got movement in -Bravo’s truck, near the bed.” Priest warned the rest of the team.
Although Ducky was sitting right next to him, Gram spoke into his radio to the rest of Talon-Golf. “Ok, Ducky, get this heap to a good spot and call into HQ to tell them the direction, vehicle type and contents of that technical! Priest, keep that truck bed covered, Hurst, you’re with me. Move!”
Gram and Hurst burst from the vehicle, sprinting toward the disabled Ford. Hurst covered Gram as he swept the interior of the vehicle taking in the carnage within. Gram saw the front seat passenger, still alive, trying to work his way out of his tactical vest. In all the confusion of the explosion and subsequent firefight, he’d somehow managed to get tangled up in the interior of the vehicle. Gram recognized the man, relieved that he’d survived the close encounter with death, his MICH helmet and body armor having absorbed the close quarters fire from the insurgents by some miracle. “Are you alright?“ Gram screamed at the man. “Those motherfuckers shot me! Hell no I’m not alright!“ came the reply. “I think my vest took most of the rounds, but I’m fuckin’ stuck!“ the passenger said, frustrated he’d been hit, then trapped. Gram removed a small, lightweight rescue tool he’d carried with him since his second deployment here. It was an Ontario knife company rescue tool with a small seatbelt cutter on one end. He leaned in, snagged the hooked part of his fellow operators tactical vest and, in one hard pull, freed the man, who twisted free. That done, Gram moved to the rear and, in one fluid motion, stepped from behind the cover of the armored truck bed and trained his weapon on the man moving inside. He immediately lowered his carbine when he realized it was -Bravo’s PKM gunner, Brad Landers, call sign “Log.” Brad was vainly trying to perform CPR on his fallen teammate, but upon hearing Gram and Hurst, had stopped. “He’s dead, man. He never even fired his weapon.” Brad said. “Beavis, this is Priest. We have multiple vehicles approaching from the rear. Looks like Talon Group markings, but after this shit…” Priest was dubious. “Roger Priest, Keep your PKM on ’em. Team, prepare for contact!”
As the convoy pulled along side, Gram recognized the man in the passenger seat, Tommy Bellamy, call sign “Bell.” Tommy’s driver pulled right up to where Gram and Hurst were and his team de-bussed forming a perimeter. The other two vehicles took up positions on either end of the road, their PKM gunners sweeping arcs in either direction. Tommy was the leader of Talon-Charlie and the lead man on tonight’s emergency on-call and recovery unit referred to as a Challenge Team. “Jesus, Gram, you okay?” Tommy asked. “No, we got three men down in -Bravo’s vehicle, Ducky got hit during the contact, the principal got snatched and -Kilo’s status is unknown.” Tommy gave the signal for one of his men to check on Ducky and said “We’re gonna roll down the road and try to find -Kilo. We’ve already got a Challenge Team heading in the direction indicated by Ducky’s last transmission. We’re gonna find your principal and kill those fuckers tonight.” The way Tommy said ‘find your principal’ stung like hell, but Gram swallowed his pride, stating, “We’re going with you to find -Kilo. I have a feeling it’s not gonna be good.”
Ducky waved off Tommy’s man, saying he ‘felt good enough to bang a supermodel‘, meaning he was fine. The rounds had imbedded in two of Ducky’s carbine magazines, which were strapped to his body armor via pouches. The enemy rounds were stopped by the combined density of the magazine and the armor plate in his vest. After tossing the busted mags in the back of -Golf’s truck, he jogged over to Gram as they loaded into the back of Tommy’s Ford. “Let’s roll” Tommy said as he slapped his hand on the trucks metal roof. Just as they began to move a radio transmission crackled across the Challenge Team’s team band. “Talon-Charlie, this is Talon-Mike. No sign of target vehicle where we are. We’re cutting back toward -Kilo’s last known position, over.” Everybody’s mood hit rock bottom. “Roger that-Mike, -Charlie plus four are rolling that way. Radio back to HQ and let them know we’re gonna need a recovery team to sort out this mess. Have HQ call the Coalition Provisional Authority and let them know the road is outta commission until we can recover our downed men. Tell them they can assist, but try to keep them out of it, if at all possible, over.” Tommy ordered his other Challenge Team leader. “Roger that, we’re on it. See ya in a minute.” Was the response. “Roger, -Mike, -Charlie out.” Tommy finished.
As -Charlie’s Ford came to a stop, it was plain to see that there was nothing left of Talon-Kilo. The burned out husk of what used to be a heavily modified, Oxford White Ford F-250 Super Duty lay cockeyed in the middle of the road, two dead insurgents along the left side, approximately 15 meters away. -Golf team debussed with two men from -Charlie augmenting their fire team. They quickly formed a loose perimeter and inspected the wreckage. Two men were inside, their bodies burned and unrecognizable. Two other men were on the right side of the vehicle riddled with bullet holes, blood soaking the sandy street into what almost looked like velvet cake mix. The scene was too much for one of the -Charlie gunners, who bent over and puked, embarrassed at the momentary weakness. Hurst checked the vitals of the two men, but both were gone. The team leap-frogged back to Tommy’s truck and gave him the bad news. “Talon HQ, this is Talon-Charlie. Come in, over.” Tommy tried to reach GTG HQ. He only heard static in response. He tried again. “Talon HQ, this is Talon-Charlie. Come in, over.” More static, just as before, and then. “shsshhhhhhhhhhsshhhhhhhh, Talon-Charlie, Talon HQ, go ahead, over.” Tommy was relieved. “Glad you’re there, we’re having a hard time hearing you, over.” Tommy said. “Roger, understood. Talon HQ is receiving your transmissions five by five. Go ahead, over.” The operator sounded as frustrated as Tommy felt. “Roger HQ, -Charlie plus four have reached -Kilo. All members are down and the vehicle is a total loss. We’re going to need a recovery team here ASAP.” There was a pause. “Roger -Charlie, Coalition forces are inbound to clear and recover, over.” Came the delayed response. “Roger that. We’ll secure the area and await relief from Coalition forces. Charlie out.” Tommy ended another transmission.
“Okay guys, let’s make sure there’s no more bad guys out there.” Tommy commanded. Just as the team was setting up their perimeter again, Talon-Mike showed up with their two-vehicle packet. Six of -Mikes men were disbursed along one side of the perimeter while the -Golf / -Charlie team took the other side. Ten minutes later, a Coalition convoy with medical crew and wrecker pulled up to the perimeter. After the proper discussion, the Coalition troops set to work relieving the Talon operators and putting out the fire. Exhausted and thoroughly browbeaten, Talon-Golf loaded into Tommy’s F-250 and headed back to HQ. Gram dreaded walking through the front door. This was the first time Gray Talon Group had ever lost a principal and would most likely end up being the worst single-day loss of manpower and assets in GTG’s history. Gram was not excited about being the team leader associated with this debacle, but was even more upset at the loss of so many of his friends.
Chapter 2: Singers and Dancers
6:13 am EST, somewhere in Central Florida
Swampland was abundant in this part of the United States, a fact that the driver of a dark green Land Rover Defender 90 was trying to take advantage of. He had played hide-and-go-seek as a kid up in North Carolina, but it was never this exciting. His current job was to act as a simulated “bad guy” during the testing phase of the Singer project. The Singer, a remotely operated unmanned combat aerial vehicle (RO-UCAV) resembled a model helicopter, but shared the sleek lines of the ill-fated Comanche helicopter. While similar platforms had been in service with the United States Navy for some time now, it took Gray Talon Group’s technicians to really push the miniaturization of the components. This iteration of the Singer UCAV was fully 3 feet long from nose to tail rotor and had a wingspan (including the overall blade circumference) of only 6 feet. It’s diminutive size allowed for easy transport by individuals or by vehicle. The real bitch of the technology was designing a UCAV that was small which could also be launched from a high speed, moving vehicle on land or at sea. Thousands of factors were involved in a moving launch, as was evidenced by the markings on the side of Singer 12. Singer 12’s eleven ‘cousins’ had been utterly destroyed in the previous test phases until a programmer had come to the realization that the pitch of the rotor blades had to be modified in order to compensate for the forward speed of whatever vehicle the Singers were being launched from. Once that calculation had been made and uploaded to Singer 12’s internal flight computer, GTG’s technology section had basked in the glory of a 100% success rate in the cast and recovery phase of testing. Today, however, was the final phase of testing. A full mission profile including the assembly of the drone in the field, cast and recovery from a moving boat, target acquisition and tracking, and finally, execution of a mobile target.
As the D-90 sloshed through the mud and soft grass at the edge of a field, Singer 12 was already making calculations for it’s final approach to the target. One problem that designers were now working around was the high quality of the optics packages available. The optics systems were so small and so effective over a long range that they were able to be installed into even smaller UCAVs than the Singer. The problem now was that nobody had designed a guided missile small enough to be carried on the Singer’s tiny frame. Even if there was such a weapon system, it would have to be so small that the effects of the charge would be moot. After a long, Starbucks-fueled think-session, one designer found inspiration. An avid video game player, the designer had been up all night playing his favorite Playstation2 game. He loved his Playstation2, despite the fact that newer, faster game systems were available. After all, he had one of the Slim line PS2’s, which allowed him to mount the console in his car! The newer game systems were too bulky for that. In the designers favorite PS2 game, the player was given control of a tiny helicopter that exploded on impact, if the player so chose. The designer figured, if it worked in the game, why not in real life? The next few weeks saw the designer testing various high explosive charges. After careful consideration, he decided to go with a British design. Unique to the world of explosive ordinance disposal, this British-made bomb was designed to use a small amount of plastic explosive, shaped in a certain manner, to propel approximately one gallon of water at extremely high velocity toward a specific point in space. Originally designed to disable IED’s, this particular device was also very effective at disabling or destroying most soft targets such as people in the open or even lightly armored vehicles. While still very new technology, the unit was already seeing success in the field in both Iraq and Afghanistan. Once the designer found a way to attach this ‘water-bomb’ to the undercarriage of the Singer drone, he was in business. Before showing the final product to the rest of the design team, he giggled himself into a stupor cutting refrigerators and old, beat up washing machines in half with ridiculous precision.
There was no way for the D-90 driver to know he was being tracked by the Singer drone. Singer 12 had actually been orbiting within a five mile area, locked onto the D-90 for well over an hour while the techs ensured their systems were fully operational. When given the command, the Singer 12 UCAV sprung into action. Unconstrained by the limitations of a human driver, Singer 12 plummeted the 3,500 feet in a direct line toward the still-slogging D-90. Once at 1000 feet above ground level (AGL), the Singer rapidly ate up the distance between itself and it’s target. At 500 feet from the target, Singer 12’s airspeed was nearly 129 mph, a new record for the technicians. At 200 feet from the target, again unconstrained by human limitations, the Singer initiated a radical flare, causing a rapid and violent deceleration. As the tiny airframe bowed under the strain of slowing from 129 mph to 15 mph in half the length of a football field it made it’s distinctive sound. Rotor blades of composite materials, a body of advanced poly-fibers, and a special motor that aided in the deceleration of the rotor blades all strained at the loss in airspeed causing micro-vibrations resulting in a sound not unlike the combination of a cat screaming and nails on a chalk board. The sound undulated in pitch from high to low and decreased in frequency as the UCAV literally screeched to a halt 50 feet from the Defender.
The sound was unmistakable and, to the test driver, signaled defeat. As the Singer UCAV made it’s final approach, micro processors initiated the split second charging of relatively powerful electro-magnets along the skids of the drone. Within a tenth of a second, Singer 12 had charged it’s skids and slammed down onto the hood of the D-90 test vehicle, startling the driver inside. Another tenth of a second later, an electrical charge reached a reduced explosive charge on the belly of the UCAV causing a chain reaction and, within a hundredth of a second, detonation. The white powder charge, used to simulate the water charge that would eventually be carried by the Singer UCAVs, exploded with spectacular results, fully engulfing the front two thirds of the target vehicle in a powdery white mess. Had this been a live fire exercise, the driver would have been killed in the explosion, leaving behind a brand new Range Rover sans engine and passenger compartment. Franklin James, MIT graduate, GTG technician, and avid, self-proclaimed video game nerd had just demonstrated that a hopeless kid from Baltimore, son of Nigerian immigrants, could create and field the most deadly and technologically advanced killing machine ever invented. If only he didn’t have to accompany the field team to Iraq for the first deployment…
5:15 local time Sadr City, Iraq
Nathan Meer (call sign Meercat) was supposed to be on a mandatory 10 day leave. His four-man Talon team, Talon-Victor had come into contact a few weeks prior. While the team had survived, questions had arisen during the mandatory after-action report concerning how the team had gotten into the contact in the first place. Having been cleared of any wrong doing, Meer and his team was sent on a mandatory leave of absence to get them out of the area of operations, allow them to cool down, and just as importantly, to keep them out of the spotlight. With all the press running around Iraq looking for a juicy story, the last thing Gray Talon Group needed was for some reporter to track down one of their contractors, fresh from a contact, jittery, and talkative. Other private military contracting firms had experienced the downside of a free press and, while Talon had no official stance on the presence of the international press in Iraq, they did their best to keep their personnel away from them, just in case. While two of Talon-Victor’s members had opted to stay in-country Meer and his second in command and driver, Jackie Stevens (call sign Jax) had decided to head out of Iraq. Meer and Jax had their after-action briefing with Boss Hog, put in their requests to leave Iraq, and headed their separate ways. Unbeknownst to anyone at Talon, Meer had left the country via Jordan, waited a day, then made his own arrangements to clandestinely reinsert into Iraq through Syria. It had been arduous and expensive, but Meer didn’t mind. His reason for doing so would negate any irritations and the amount of money it cost to cross the border illegally would be shadowed by the profits of his latest little "side job."
Baghdad Iraq, International Zone, Gray Talon Group Headquarters
It had been nearly a week since the loss of his principal and Gram was still fuming. Intelligence gleaned from Coalition forces had identified the vehicle, but as so many things in this shitty country, it had lead to nothing. The vehicle had been reported stolen from a factory several months before but even that information was sketchy as nobody had actually taken the time to verify the registration numbers at the Ministry of Transportation. Gram was scheduled for a mandatory 10 day leave of absence following the formal investigation, which, now that the State Department was involved, looked like it would end…never. Since he was not allowed into the field and he couldn’t leave the complex, he had spent most of his time lifting weights, watching bootleg DVD’s and hating himself. Finally, he could take it no longer.
Gram strolled into GTG’s lobby area in search of his favorite person in-country. Nina Voit was a 40 something ex-cheerleader from Texas, but she didn’t let that stop her from being drop-dead gorgeous and smart as a whip. The fact that she looked hot in khaki cargo pants and body armor sent the Talon boys home with stiff dicks and broken dreams on a regular basis. Gram had a special relationship with Nina, having checked in on her houseplants a few times back in the States, stayed for dinner, and after a few bottles of wine, tucked her in and left, sans sex. This last fact was something Ducky used to his advantage every chance he got. Anytime anyone made mention of Nina, Ducky immediately asked if they meant “the Nina Gram tried so hard to fuck?” It irked Gram that Ducky would say something like that, but then he realized that Ducky was a hopeless dipshit, which made Gram feel a little better. Besides, nobody would believe that Gram and Nina had “got it on”, as Ducky would say, even if it had happened. “Hey there stud!” Nina said in greeting as Gram came into view. “How’s my future ex-wife doing today?” Gram retorted. “Fine, and you? I heard you’ve been holed up in your room, pumping iron and banging your head against the CONNEX box. You doing OK?” Gram paused for a second, then responded “Yeah, but I gotta tell ya, I’m going stark-raving batshit sitting around here all day. You think you could find it in your heart to go up the chain and get me cleared for a shopping trip? Ducky says he needs to refresh the DVD library and you know if we let him go to the bazaar un-chaperoned he’ll probably get himself pummeled to death.” She shifted her weight, brow furrowed a little in mock consideration. Gram continued, “Whaddya think? Will the powers that be let me out of my shoebox, or am I still on their shit-list?” Nina smiled a worried smile and said “Actually, Boss Hog was asking me just the other day how you were doing. I told him you were in serious need of a back rub and a lap dance.” They both giggled, the awkward tension between them somehow making the moment feel like a forbidden high school romance. “So does that mean me and Ducky can go play?” Nina shrugged. “I’ll put in the chit, but I’d say you should take Hurst and Priest, too.” Gram scratched his head, shrugged and said “Sounds good to me. Hurst has been complaining that he ran outta that awful red tea shit he drinks so much. Says it helps with his irritable bowels or something.” Nina grimaced, breathed “Gross! I don’t need to know things like that!” Gram spun on his heels and headed for the door, glancing back at the smiling, waving Nina as he headed toward his team’s quarters.
Gram took his time going back to the common area of his team’s quarters. Part of him wanted to close his eyes and make believe this shit wasn’t happening to him. Part of him wanted to break outta Talon’s camp, snatch up the first asshole he saw and beat him until he told Gram and his team where their principle was. Yet another part of him knew that he had to wait for clearance before he could fart, let alone do anything about recovering his lost package. It had almost been a week and no news. No demands, no proof of life, no claim of responsibility, nothing. As Gram rounded the corner to his dwelling, he made his final decision. When he got into the city proper, he’d look up an old pal of his and see what he could see. “Hey, there’s our peerless, fearless leader, in the flesh!” It could only be Ducky. “Stop fucking with the man, can’t you see he’s hard pressed to stomp someone’s ass at the moment?” Hurst shot. “Well maybe if he got laid a little more he wouldn’t be so tense.” Ducky said, nonchalantly. “Pack your shit turds, we’re going into town.” Gram half-ordered. “Yo Priest, time to restock the DVD collection! Ain’t you been looking for that Debbie Does Pasty White Navy Guys DVD?” Ducky snorted. Priest held up his balled fist, simulated cranking a jack-in-the-box and extended his middle finger toward Ducky. “Oh shit, you gonna take that, Ducky?” Hurst goaded. Gram watched as Priest and Ducky wrestled and wondered how he could survive in this shit hole without his favorite idiots to cheer him up like this.
7:37 local time, International Zone Shopping District
The trip into the bazaar had gone without incident. Ducky and Priest had split up in search of cheap, knock-off DVDs while Hurst and Gram wandered among the fruit sellers, meat peddlers, and trinket salesman that dotted the alleyway. Unbeknownst to Hurst, Gram had gradually been leading them to an alley he knew on a small side street that lead to a square. Under the pretense of wanting to “check out a new shop he’d heard of”, Gram ducked into a tea shop where the alley and the square came together. “You think they got my red tea here, boss?” Hurst asked. “I dunno, maybe. Why don’t you go look up toward the front, I’ll see if I can find a stock boy.” As Hurst wandered toward the main entrance, Gram made eye contact with a young man near the back loading entrance. He made his way toward the man, but was stopped by a number of kids who had run into the rear entrance of the shop. Apparently they were trying to play hide-and-seek or something and thought that the shop was a great hiding spot. In a way, it was, but not just for children hiding from those who are “it.”
As Gram approached the man, he pulled out his wallet. He slipped five crisp hundred dollar bills from it and crumpled them in his hand. The man turned, retrieved something from a nearby box, and stood with his back facing Gram. “Excuse me, do you know where I can find this brand of tea?” Gram asked. Gram handed the man a piece of paper with the name of the tea and another word under it. The man read the brand and the code word and nodded. He retrieved the box and handed it to Gram. In one deft move, the five hundred dollars was exchanged for the box. “Shukran” gram said, thanking the man for his help. As he slowly walked toward the front of the shop, Gram lifted the lid of the tea box. Inside, under an ornate tissue paper was a small cell phone. Gram removed the phone, checked to make sure it wasn’t already on, and slid it into his pocket. He linked up with Hurst at a rack of spices near the front of the store. “Any luck, boss?” Hurst asked. “Is this the shit you like? I hope it’s not, ’cause it’s expensive as hell!” Gram replied. “Yeah, that’s it. It’s worth it, man, believe me. I ain’t never shit so clean in my whole life. This stuff’ll change your whole world perspective.” Gram cracked a smile “It better, because I’m buying. You think this’ll be enough for the both of us?” Hurst stared lovingly at the huge, decorative box and nodded. “Yeah, that oughta do it for a month or so.” Gram paid the shop owner and headed back into the square. “We better find the dipshit duo. Any ideas on where they might be?” Hurst thought for a second, then replied “Probably pissing off the locals no matter where they are.”
When Gram and his team got back to Talon HQ, they all split up. Hurst went to brew some of his tea while Priest and Ducky fought over which DVD to watch first. Gram went into his room, closed the door, and powered up the cell phone. He opened up the phone book and saw a single number saved in the memory. It was a number in the United States, Gram knew by the country code. Gram dug out an international calling card from his laptop case and entered the codes to make a call. When prompted, he dialed the number saved in the cell phone’s memory. The number rang 8 times, then clicked over to voicemail. A computer generated voice chimed “This mailbox is full. Please check your video card memory for further details. To clean this mailbox, press one. To review saved messages, press 2...” Gram hit the ‘end’ button on the cell phone. “Please check your video card for further details? What the fuck does that even mean?” He went through the calling card procedure again, dialed the number again, and once more, heard the same message. “What the fuck…” Gram grumbled. Then it hit him. Check the video card memory on the cell phone, idiot! Gram hit the menu button, scrolled to the video options and checked the stored videos. There it was, one stored video on the phone’s memory card. Gram clicked the button to open the video and hit ‘play.’ The video portion didn’t seem to have much on it. It looked almost like the camera was pointed at a wall or something, but the audio came right through. It was a familiar voice to Gram, someone he hadn’t heard since the bad old days in 1st Special Forces.
Hey asshole! I heard you got yourself in a bind. I figured you’d be getting in touch with me soon, so I set this up for ya. I heard about your missing shoes so I figured I’d see if I could find a replacement pair for ya. I know decent running shoes are hard to get around these parts, but I think I know a guy that can get his hands on a pair. Go back to where you bought this phone and ask the skinny kid in the back if he knows anything about those brown running shoes his ‘cousins’ had on ‘special‘. I’m sure he’ll be able to help ya out. I heard he has some new ones that are pretty nice. I’m talking brand new, like a week old and not a scuff on them, but they might be moving soon, so you’ll wanna get your hands on them quick, before someone else does. Well, anyway, I’ll check ya later, bro. Too bad we couldn’t have dinner this time. Looks like steak is on you next time.
Brown running shoes? Not a week old? Hot damn, that was exactly what he was looking for. A brunette runner, his package. The message said he’d better get going because they might be moving soon. They’re moving the girl. The message also said the shoes were brand new and not scuffed, which means she’s probably OK. Alright Gram thought I gotta get back to that shop and see about some new shoes.
After some eye-batting and heavy flirting, Gram was able to convince Nina to clear another trip into town. It was amazing how easy it was to manipulate the situation. Under the pretense that Ducky had realized he had “mistakenly bought pirated DVDs,” Gram convinced the higher-ups that he was venturing into town to return the illegal purchase to the vendors and retrieve Talon’s hard-earned money. The fact that Gram had timed his presentation of this information right when a journalist was in the room only sped up the process. It was difficult for the news hounds to get stories about contractors “doing the right thing” which made convincing Boss Hog all the more simple, especially once Gram reluctantly agreed to sit down with the journalist and talk about why buying pirated DVDs was so wrong, even though they did it all the time.
This time only Ducky came along with Gram, which was a bit of a concern, but there was nothing Gram could do. Ducky’s presence was integral to the cover story, as he had to play the part of the recalcitrant owner of illegal DVDs. After they returned the DVDs (and after a huge argument with the shop owner resulting in a three hundred dollar “handshake“) they made their way over to the tea shop in the square. “You think you can stay out of trouble for five minutes while I duck in here and get some colon-cleanse?” Gram asked Ducky. “I make no guarantees, chief.” was Ducky’s sarcastic response. Gram gave Ducky a hard look, turned, and ducked inside. It was easy enough finding the skinny kid in the back as it turned out to be the same man he got the cell phone from. Gram thought it was dangerous to use the same courier twice, but figured the risk was worth the reward in this case and put the thought aside. The same procedure was followed as before, only this time Gram asked the “kid” if he knew where one might find some new brown running shoes. The “kid” shook his head ‘no’ but then indicated he had some tea for sale. Gram played the part of the begrudged customer, palmed the “kid” another five hundred bucks and feigned reluctance at receiving another box of tea. Once again, on his way out, Gram popped the top on the tea box, retrieved another cell phone, and headed out the door. “You got ass-problems, too boss?” Ducky queried. “You’re the only ass-problem I have, Ducky. Let’s get moving, I wanna get back to Talon before evening chow.” Ducky paused, stared blankly at Gram and asked “You gonna tell me why you keep buying ass-tea with cell phones inside or you gonna leave me hanging in the breeze when whatever the hell you’re up to blows up in your face?” Shit…busted.
On the drive back, Gram filled Ducky in on what was happening. He explained that he didn’t think the situation was getting any better, that Coalition sources weren’t doing enough and that, for all intents and purposes, it seemed that the powers that be were merely writing -Golf’s loss off as just another cost of doing business. Ducky chewed on that idea for a second and said “Well, she was pretty cute. Hell, she was really cute. You got something in mind?” Gram made a left turn toward yet another Coalition checkpoint. After showing the infantryman his identification card, they were waved through. “Well?” Ducky queried. Gram accelerated through the checkpoint. His gaze settled on the M1 Abrams tank sitting a few hundred yards inside the checkpoint. His eyes focused on the large stencil just to the left of the Abram’s main gun. “Saddam’s Mom” he mumbled shaking his head in impotent frustration. Ducky saw the look on Gram’s face. They were close enough, after all the jobs they’d been on, to be able to read each other’s thoughts. Ducky knew Gram was a thinker, a fact that sometimes unsettled him. All of the Talon guys were pretty intense, Ducky thought, but Gram was different. A lot of the Talon guys came from either civilian or military law enforcement. A lot of them were guys that had cut their teeth in SWAT or other undercover operations. Once that sort of work gets into your blood, Ducky knew from experience, there was no getting it out. He knew what was coming next, knew Gram, knew the -Golf boys, understood the situation. Ducky pondered the idea one last time and asked, “Boss, you want me to let the rest of the -Golf boys know we’re going off the reservation?” Gram stayed quiet, thought for a second then turned his head toward Ducky. Gram‘s normally dull-green eyes were fiery, like small determined emeralds. Gram nodded in the affirmative and Ducky couldn’t help but grin mischievously.
Chapter 3: Tattoos and mp3s
5:45 pm local time, Chow Hall, Gray Talon Group Headquarters Baghdad Green Zone
It was so simple. In this country they were in a very unique position. Gray Talon’s operators were not under contract with the Department of Defense and were not considered soldiers under the Uniformed Code of Military Justice, the military’s version of the Judicial branch of the United States Government (although the scuttlebutt was that there was an army of lawyers Stateside working on changing that). They were not employees or residents of the host country of Iraq and, therefore were not under the jurisdiction of Iraq’s court system either. Lastly, since Gray Talon Group’s official headquarters was registered in a non-extradition treaty country, there was no real way to press any charges or hold GTG’s operators accountable for their actions. To counter the urge to commit crimes or enter into agreements that may be against the interests of the company, GTG’s lawyers made damn sure that every employee in-country signed a veritable forest of paperwork ensuring that any unauthorized actions taken by contractors would result in expulsion from the host country, fines equaling 5 years salary, and an employment blacklisting that would make getting even the most menial job in the fast food industry a long shot. Despite all the fail-safes, Gram realized all he had to do was act and, most importantly not get caught. There was nothing physically stopping him from getting her back. He found himself angered at his failure, sickened by the loss of life, and tired of the situation at large. It only took one look at the name stupidly stenciled on the turret of that M1 tank for Gram to know that this was a different kind of war, something the United States and, as a matter of fact, the world, was completely unprepared for. At least, that was his opinion. While catchy stencils like that had been popular in wars as far back as he could remember, Gram knew deep in his gut that it was just one of a thousand things that had turned the local population inexorably against the “occupiers.” None of that was Gram’s concern however. He was never a policymaker, never wanted to be. He’d done his time in the military and knew the capabilities, the flaws, of U.S. foreign policy. He had tried to find peace back in the States, but a failed marriage and an itch to do something bigger and better had lead him here. Why was he here? The money was good, but he knew in his heart he wasn’t here for the money. He wasn’t a natural born killer, though he’d done his share of that here and in other places. It was the challenge. He was addicted to it. He knew this was one of the most dangerous places in the world. He knew what drove him was his desire to take his team into the mouth of the lion, snatch out it’s tongue, and escape before the teeth clamped shut on them. Losing that girl (he had long since stopped thinking of them as ‘packages’) was a challenge to his abilities. The enemy had told him, in essence “We caught you sleeping, slapped you in the face, caused you dishonor, and got away with it because we knew we could.” Gram was going to prove them wrong. “Ducky…when we get done with chow, I want you to gather the boys for a pow-wow. We’re going to war.”
11:40 pm local time, Somewhere over Jordan, Gray Talon Group Flight Bravo-67
Franklin James had always been fascinated by anything that could fly. From his years growing up in Baltimore, flying kites in a park near his church, he had always wanted to understand how it could be that something as simple as a few sticks and some thin plastic could be shaped and molded into a graceful flying machine. During high school, Franklin took a class trip to nearby Andrews Air Force Base to watch a military air demonstration. After the air show, Franklin’s school group was given a special tour of the base by an Air Force Captain stationed there. He was an F-15 pilot, an Eagle driver he called himself. His name was Jonathon “Wheels” Frazier and to Franklin he was the epitome of cool. Short cropped hair, green flight suit and that confident, perfect smile. Franklin was hooked. He knew right then that he wanted to be an Eagle driver, too just like “Wheels.” Franklin immediately signed up for try-outs for his high school’s cross country team, figuring that Air Force pilots had to be in pretty good shape to do all those aerobatic stunts that were crucial for winning dogfights. That’s when his first bout with asthma reared it’s ugly head. Franklin had never really been into running and the idea that something as inexplicable as asthma could keep him from his dream was beyond his ability to comprehend. He talked to his high school Air Force recruiter, worked on his running, but when the time came he was denied entry into the armed services. Franklin was devastated. He spent the rest of his senior high school year moping around the house and filling out applications for colleges. He was shocked one day when a letter came from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology offering a full scholarship. Franklin’s love affair with aeronautics took flight once again and he spent the next six years of his life perfecting his art. Franklin graduated Suma Cum Laude from MIT and was immediately offered a number of jobs in government and the private sector. While he was drawn to the idea of working for some of the big companies that regularly pulled in large contracts for the government, he was intrigued by one offer from a group he had never heard of before. Gray Talon Group had learned about Franklin’s interests and done a full biographical work-up on him. When all was said and done, they had offered him a job as the head of advanced robotics and aeronautics research, weapons division. The high six figure salary sealed the deal and for the last five years Franklin had been hard at work making new and interesting toys for Gray Talon Group.
Franklin was finally beginning to doze off when he felt a tugging on his shoulder. GTG’s cargo master for this flight was letting him know they would begin their decent into BIAP soon. Franklin had heard stories about the landing at BIAP and had tried to prepare himself mentally for it. As they spiraled rapidly, Franklin could hear the flaps and landing gear deploy, almost simultaneously. He thanked whoever was up there that the pilot of Bravo-67 was experienced at this sort of thing. Franklin was not a religious man, but spinning and dropping from the sky like a stone, at night, in a combat zone could make almost anyone consider the idea. Once on the ground, Franklin knew one of two things would happen. Either he’d get a little jittery and feel nauseated or he’d have an asthma attack. He had taken motion sickness meds for the nausea and he had his inhaler for any sudden attacks, so Franklin felt confident he could get past any problems he encountered. Just then he felt light in his harness and the roller coaster ride continued. A sudden jolt followed promptly by a heavy sinking feeling preceding the touchdown. Franklin immediately reached for his inhaler out of habit but found he didn’t need it, much to his relief. He was told in the briefing to stay with the gear at all times and that he would be directed by the contractors whose job it was to pick him up and transport him safely to the theater headquarters. He escorted the crates that had been his only traveling companions to the interior of the terminal, sat and waited.
Franklin was appalled at the man walking toward him. A man on the large size of average wearing beat up cargo pants, dusty hiking boots, sporting a sinister goatee and a number of ornate tattoos about his forearms was making a bee line straight for him. As the man got closer, Franklin noticed another tattoo emerging from the his collar line. Franklin instinctively, foolishly, turned around hoping there was another person nearby that this nightmarish looking fellow was here to pick up. To his chagrin, he was the only one standing in the strangely large, empty waiting room. As Franklin’s eyes focused, he realized there were two of the maniacal looking chaps. “You Frankincense?” Said the one with the goatee. “Uh…yyyes. Well, no, I’m Franklin.” he replied embarrassed that he had hesitated to answer. “Yeah, that’s what I said… Frankenstein. Grab your gear, we’re heading out, but first I want you to listen to this very important safety brief from my colleague.” Gram said in his best professor’s voice. Gram liked to tailor his speeches to the packages and this dork looked like he’d respond better to a professorial tone, whatever the fuck that sounded like. He’d guessed at the tone, having only completed relevant up training for his old department at a local community college.
The safety brief was Priests favorite part of any delivery mission. It gave him a chance to relax, unwind, and scare the living shit out of the unsuspecting bastards that, for one reason or another had found themselves in his charge. He looked the man up and down, savoring the uncomfortable silence this move always created. When he was satisfied that Franklin was petrified, but not quite to the point of pissing himself, he began. He found it always helped to shout the first word or two to really get the blood pumping. “MY NAME… is Priest and I will be your safety officer for this transport activity.” The sudden shouting made Franklin jump. Priest continued “It’s my duty to inform you that you are now officially in a war zone. We will be transporting you by ground from here to our base of operations in the Green Zone. At no time will you attempt to leave our custody. Doing so will be detrimental to your health in a number of ways which can be described in detail upon your request.” Priest stopped and stared at Franklin, a deadpan look. Franklin waited for him to continue. And waited. “WOULD you like me to explain in detail the ways in which leaving our custody can be detrimental to your health?” Priest said, again making Franklin jump at the shouted first word. “Nnno, um, no thank you.” Franklin said haltingly. “VERY WELL, I will now continue with the vehicle specific portion of this safety brief.” Priest shouted again, causing Franklin to jump for a third time. Gram was starting to chuckle now and wondered if Ducky would lose the bet he and Priest had made prior to leaving Gray Talon’s compound. “WHEN SEATED in the vehicle you will wear your safety harness, bullet resistant vest and helmet at all times.” Priest stated, noticing Franklin hadn’t jumped this time. “Isn’t it a bulletproof vest?” Franklin asked. “Well, that depends on how big-a-bullet it comes into contact with. C’mon Priest, lets wrap this up.” Gram said matter-of-factly. Priest, sensing Gram’s impatience plopped the MICH helmet onto Franklin’s head, buckled the chinstrap and helped him into his vest. When they were finished, Priest wrapped his arm around Franklin’s shoulder like they were old chums and followed Gram back to the waiting three-vehicle packet. “So, Frankey. You ever made out with a mule before?” he asked nonchalantly. “Now wait just a minute! Are you guys for real?” Franklin bellowed. “There is no way I am going anywhere with you two…you two…APES!” Gram stopped in his tracks and turned toward Franklin. “Did he just call me an ape?” Priest said in feigned offense. “Mr. Franklin…” Gram started to say. “It’s Doctor Franklin James.” Franklin shot back, now in full control of himself. “Doctor Franklin, while you may think we are course, uncaring, unprofessional and uncouth, allow me to point out the method to our madness. First off, were you not intimidated by our appearance?” Gram began, knowing how this speech would end, surprised it took Franklin this long to react. “Well, yes, if I am being honest, you two are quite intimidating.” Franklin admitted. “Yes, our enemies, which are also your enemies, feel the same way. When my colleague began to speak, as he raised his voice, did you not jump a little?” Gram asked gently. “Well, yes, at first, but not at the end.” Franklin defended himself. “That’s right, by the third or fourth time, you were no longer startled. We did this for two reasons. The first reason was to gauge your ability to cope with stress. We don’t have a lot of time to get to know you initially, so we’ve found this is a fairly effective way of seeing how you’ll react to sudden jolts of stress. Also it gets your blood flowing, releases a little adrenaline, and causes you to pay attention to every word Mr. Priest here was saying.” Gram explained. “Hmph, well it worked, I did get a little jolt of excitement, but in a kind of bad way.” Franklin again admitted. “So do you understand, as a scientist, why we did what we did?” Gram asked cautiously. “I suppose,” Franklin said “but isn’t there a better way?” he asked. “You’re the scientist, not us. We’re apes, remember?” Priest said as he smiled and wrapped his arm around Dr. Franklin once again. “So, Doc, ya wanna help me out with something? I promise it’ll be fun! Ya see, I have this little bet going…” he said as he stuffed a small, half filled water bottle into Franklin’s hand and lead him to the waiting vehicles.
12:08 am, local time. Outside BIAP.
As Gram and Priest lead Franklin to the interior of their new vehicle, a Mitsubishi Pajero Ducky gave Priest a look and a raised eyebrow, then glanced back at Franklin. As Gram made last minute adjustments to their travel arrangements for the evening, Priest took up his position in the cargo area of the SUV. Hurst made sure Franklin was snug in his seat and asked “You wanna sit on an extra vest we have? You know, in case we roll over an IED?” Franklin looked nervously at Hurst, swallowed and asked “Is that what you usually do?” Before Hurst could answer, Ducky made eye contact with Franklin in the rear view mirror and said “Nah, Hurst has balls made outta steel. If an IED went off between his legs it’d just piss him off.” Franklin looked back at Hurst to gauge his reaction, but Hurst’s face was impassive. He decided to opt for the extra vest, just in case. The GTG operators piled back into their respective vehicles and with Talon-Foxtrot in the lead followed by Talon-Golf and Talon-Hotel they started the pre-move ritual of radio checks and hand signals before heading out toward GTG HQ.
As they did a final weapons check before heading out, Ducky called back over his shoulder to Priest, “So, looks like you owe me some money there Priest!” “Yeah, why’s that?” Priest called back, eyes fixed on Talon-Hotel and the road behind and to the sides of them, scanning for threats. “Do I have to spell it out for you in front of our guest?” Ducky said impatiently. “What do you mean?” Franklin said to Ducky innocently. “Well…” Ducky began, hoping Gram or Priest would stop him. Nobody did. “Well, Mr. Priest back there and I had a bet going on that you’d piss your pants during the safety brief. I bet that you wouldn’t, Priest bet that he could make you piss.” Just then, a small, cold stream of water struck the back of Ducky’s neck, running down the back of his shirt and settling at the base of his spine. “Fuck me!” Ducky yelped as Gram, Priest and Franklin burst out laughing. Franklin continued to empty the half full bottle in Ducky’s general direction and screamed “You mean like this?” To the cheers of Priest and Gram. Dumbfounded, Ducky glared back at Franklin, then Priest, and finally settled his gaze at Hurst. “Shit, don’t look at me, this guy just went up a notch or two in my book.” Hurst said in explanation. The rest of the trip was uneventful but for the mumbled curses emanating from Ducky’s side of the new Mitsubishi.
12:15 pm, Sadr City, Iraq
Sadr City was one of those places that you don’t wander around in alone in the dark. Not unlike his native city of New York. Well, parts of New York Meer admitted to himself, disgusted at the fact that the grit and edginess of his hometown had given way to tourists and chain stores. Well, progress had it’s price and who was he to argue with that. Al Thawra was the original name for this place and Meer wondered if it had been grittier, edgier in the past. From the looks of things, it couldn’t get much grittier than Sadr City. Meer was here to check on a package he had been waiting on for some time now. As the dark complected man lead him to the upstairs of this unassuming two story house, Meer was overwhelmed with the smell of animal feces. Unlike in America, where farms had large, sprawling fields of green that stretched for miles and served as veritable buffets for grazing sheep, goats, horses and cattle, Iraqis put their small groups of livestock on the roofs of their homes, often on the second or third story. As Meer and his escort waded through a gaggle of scrawny goats munching away on straw that would have been deemed unacceptable by the USDA, he considered what he was doing. He wasn’t a soldier, had no real allegiance to any one country, although he’d been born in New York, had lived in New York City, had been there the day those planes hit the towers. He didn’t consider himself a patriot, at least not in the traditional sense. For that, he felt a pang of guilt at not getting all teary eyed when he saw the stars and stripes or heard ‘God Bless America’ on the radio. He viewed the world through skeptical eyes, a cynic in his own mind, analyzing, taking it all in, and dismissing most of what he saw as bullshit. He didn’t have any friends who were killed on 9/11, didn’t know anybody that was personally touched by the event, and to be completely honest, he hadn’t been totally surprised when the attacks had occurred. He was more surprised that others had been surprised. Hadn’t their been plenty of warnings? The same group of bad guys had tried to detonate a metric shit ton of home made explosives with the same intentions in 1993. Wasn’t anybody paying attention then? Hadn’t anybody wondered why anybody would want to do such a thing? Well, that wasn’t Meer’s problem. If anything, in a twisted kind of way, Meer had to step back and dispassionately admire the tactics. Who woulda thought that a couple of passenger planes could do that much damage both physically and mentally? It’s not like his missions in Iraq were doing much about that situation anyway, Meer thought. Not directly anyway. Maybe this little side job could help change all that, though Meer thought. Who knows…One thing Meer knew and was thankful for was that he was alive and those who had carried out the two separate attacks on the towers were dead or in jail, mostly anyway. Meer tried to clear his mind, but shutting his mind off, he knew from experience, was almost impossible. Meer truly only had one thing on his mind. Getting this deal done.
On the rooftop there was a small wooden shack, presumably to store hay and a few hand tools. Even when Meers escort opened the door, everything appeared as it should. Hay scattered haphazardly on the floor, two broken rake handles leaning in the corner and a dirty pair of gloves resting on a tattered, uneven barstool. A small am/fm radio was attached to the wall by rusty chicken wire through holes drilled in the wooden structure. Meer had long since stopped wondering why they were going into the small wooden structure. He turned and closed the door behind him and his escort. As Meer stood there, the man he was with slid his booted foot across the floor, pushing the scattered hay to one side and revealing a small d-ring handle and a recessed door in the floor. It was a small opening, but it didn’t have to be huge to suit Meer’s needs. With Meer’s help, the man hefted a 3x3x2 ft. cardboard box from the hole. The box was in very good shape, of quality material. Meer knew it was not a replica, but the real thing. The apple shaped logo with the bite taken out of it and the beautiful picture of the contents plastered on the exterior stood in stark contrast to the shit hole it was stored in. Meer deftly pulled the folding knife from his pocket, an Emerson CQC7 he‘d had custom built. To his knowledge no other person on earth had one with tan handles and a tan blade, but then again, nobody but “Ernie” knew he had this one, either. The hook resting atop the blade caught on Meer’s pants pocket and swung the blade open with a tink and Meer got to work. The blade sliced through the tape holding the opening of the cardboard box closed and Meer absently wiped the blade sides on his pant leg, folded the knife one-handed and replaced it via the knifes pocket clip to his right front pocket. Meer’s escort held the box open and Meer reached inside, past the Styrofoam popcorn and felt a smaller box. This he opened and from inside he retrieved a small, black mp3 player. Meer pressed the Play button and watched as the small apple-shaped logo appeared on the screen. Just a half second later the backlight came fully on, illuminating the menu options. “They come partially charged, just like they do from the factory.” Meer’s escort said. “I see. Here, put this in your pocket and do as we discussed. I’m in a hurry, so if you don’t mind…” Meer said as he indicated his partner should exit the small rooftop shack.
Meer watched as the man waded through the goats and disappeared back into the house. He reached into his pocket and fished out a pack of Viceroy cigarettes, a small, cheap metal torch lighter he’d picked up from a large retail chain store back in the States (which amazingly outperformed his expensive, collector Zippo), and what appeared to the untrained eye to be an older model, large mp3 player wrapped in a rubberized, protective casing that exposed the screen and input buttons. Meer dug a smoke out of the box, lit it and placed the cigs and lighter back into his cargo pocket. As he took a long pull on the smoke, he thumbed the Play button on his own device. The menu was slightly different on his version, but not so much that a casual observer would notice. He cycled through the menu options, settling on Playlist then Track. With a press of the center button on the mp3 player, a GPS map appeared on the screen. It had a small satellite map overlaying a traditional GPS map and showed Meer’s position in relation to the surrounding terrain. Another small position marker indicated Meers escort. The small yellow triangle indicated direction of travel and a tiny readout at the bottom of the screen showed distance, elevation, wind direction, temperature, geographic coordinates, barometric pressure and another set of constantly changing numbers. Meer knew the last set of numbers were encrypted vectors that would allow anybody with the right equipment to pinpoint the exact location of the modified mp3 player in Meer’s escort’s possession within a few feet in even the worst conditions while on the move. Meer took another pull on the Viceroy, the cheap cigarette now a part of him, infusing his lungs. He watched intently as the yellow arrow indicating his escort left the building he was in, traveled down the street and stopped at a local teahouse where it stayed for a few minutes. The arrow moved, indicating the man was turning around and a moment later, the return trip was shown on Meer’s display. His radio crackled and Meer heard a voice speaking Farsi, a language Meer had long since given up on learning. It was simply too complicated for him and these guys spoke passable English, so why bother? Meer waited, eyes on the display. As the yellow arrow got closer to Meer’s building, he thumbed the menu once again, this time settling the cursor over another menu option that read Multiple Tracks. While this was not a normal menu option on other mp3 players, it did not seem out of place as the word “tracks” could easily refer to music tracks, rather than something more sinister. As Meer selected the highlighted option, a cluster of yellow arrows appeared within a foot of his marked position. Nearly a hundred more arrows were indicated in the dense cluster just beside Meer, though it appeared as a large yellow blob on the display as their proximity to one another obscured their numbers. Good, he thought, looks like they are all working properly. Satisfied, Meer thumbed the Off button and watched his mp3 player power down. He took another short drag off his Viceroy, flicked the rest of the cigarette off the roof and wandered back inside where his escort and guinea pig for this operation was pouring piping hot, sickly sweet tea from a cheap thermos into small, ornately decorated glasses. These “shot glasses” reminded Meer of his days back in college when he and his buddies used to fill themselves to the brim with cheap vodka, whisky and rum, play “beer pong” where they tried to bounce a small ping pong ball into an empty plastic party cup for “cool points” and hit on loose, tipsy freshmen girls. Ah, if his old roomies could see him now.
Meer didn’t particularly like the tea, but he knew it was a customary thing and drank it whenever it was presented as it would be a cultural faux paux not to. It didn’t taste bad, but it certainly wasn’t the “coffee house experience” he’d known in New York. As he finished, the other man spoke. “We have another fifty boxes identical to the load you just saw. They are set to be sold at the various base exchanges throughout the country. Of course, some may be stolen and that can not be helped, but for the most part it appears that everything we have set into motion is coming to fruition.” The words seemed strangely “educated” coming from this man and Meer once again reevaluated his escort. Never underestimate anybody, he reminded himself for the thousandth time. Never.
