by Keith Wease
Daryl was older, in his late twenties, and, unlike me, had already had some combat experience before being recruited by Mac and was just a little smug about it - an attitude I was looking forward to erasing with a demonstration of my superior skills. I guess I qualified as being a little big-headed back then, too. Of course, both of us would have it knocked out of us very shortly. Daryl was my opposite in looks: just under five foot ten and stocky where I was tall and thin. He had short, dark-brown hair and brown eyes and the general look we usually defined as black Irish, although he had no trace of an Irish accent.
I disliked him on sight, probably because I've always had an instinctive distrust of brown eyes, a prejudice which I'll cheerfully admit is perfectly ridiculous. Daryl, on the other hand, seemed to take a liking to me in a condescending manner, and as training progressed, he kind of adopted me as his younger brother, more than once pulling someone off me when tempers flared. I gradually warmed up to him and, a few months later, felt ashamed of my initial feelings when he took a bullet pushing me out of the line of fire on our first mission. He came through it all right, but I felt like a heel.
Frank had greeted us like old comrades, surprising the hell out of me. It seemed I was past the probation period and was now part of the group, officially acknowledged and accepted rather than being treated like some intruder. It turned out that Frank was our surveillance and interrogation instructor and had come to us from Army Intelligence. He was friendly and talkative during our drive out to the Ranch, but I noticed he was careful not to give us any hint as to his personal life or background other than the reference to his former unit.
We went through the same routine as on my first visit, but this time people looked at us and actually waved as we drove up. Frank explained that the Ranch had been reserved for new recruits only the first time - Daryl had been there too, even though I'd never seen him. This time only the survivors were present for final training and security had been relaxed accordingly.
Frank let us off at a different bungalow this time and told us we were bunkmates. "You two are the last to arrive," he said. "Initial briefing is at twenty hundred in the opposite end of the canteen building. You've got about an hour to settle in and get a bite to eat. Don't be late."
I never did find out how many of us started the first phase of training, but only nine of us survived it - at least in this group. I found out later that we were the second such group. How the initial instructors were selected and trained I don't know and was afraid to ask. When Daryl and I walked into the canteen, everyone was there, including one woman, much to the surprise of both of us. Somehow I'd gotten the impression that this was a men-only club, which just goes to show you how wrong my first impressions often were.
I caught a glimpse of someone in an apron heading through the door behind the counter - our shy cook, I guessed - but otherwise it was laid out the same, even to the watery mashed potatoes and synthetic beef. I was mildly surprised to find the peas replaced by green beans. Apparently Mac - or whoever planned the menus - didn't feel we were entitled to anything spectacular by way of our culinary preferences, regardless of our highly regarded talents. Well, that was okay with me. As an old ranch hand, I'm a meat and potatoes man most of the time although I do like a freshly prepared fish now and then - preferably one I've caught myself.
As we found a table, there were nods of welcome and even a couple smiles, but nobody jumped up to introduce himself - or herself. Actually the woman was not bad looking, in a cold, calculating sort of way. Her red hair was trimmed a little shorter than I liked and her clear, green eyes looked considerably older and more experienced than the rest of her. There were no freckles that I normally associated with that color of hair and her mouth looked a little odd before I realized she had a hairline scar running from her left ear to the corner of her mouth. The rest of her was slim and taut in a pair of tight denims and some kind of a woolen blouse or shirt. Finishing it off was a worn pair of sneakers.
After that brief look due to the surprise of seeing a woman - girl, really; she couldn't be any older than my 23 - in that presumably male group, I turned away with no further masculine interest. I mean, as a good New Mexican, I lived in the land of blue jeans and squaw dresses, of bare brown legs and thong sandals, but I prefer the impractical, fragile, feminine look of a woman in a dress or skirt and stockings and high heels; and I can see no particular reason for a female to appear publicly in pants unless she's going to ride a horse. I'll even go so far as to say that the side-saddle and riding skirt made an attractive combination, and I regret that they passed before my time.
Please don't think this means I'm prudish and consider it sinful for women to reveal themselves in trousers. Quite the contrary. I object on the grounds that it makes my life very dull. We all respond to different stimuli, and the fact is that I don't respond at all to pants, no matter whom they may contain or how tight they may be. Daryl obviously didn't have my hang-ups and continued to stare at her until she glared back challengingly. With a faint flush of embarrassment, he also turned away and sat down next to me. "Looks like this might be more fun than I thought," he said in a low voice. "I wouldn't mind having a piece of that."
I looked over at him. "Yeah," I said. "Not bad at all."
I mean, with a certain type of guy, especially in the military or other organizations where men gather in groups, you've got to pretend to be leching after every woman in sight or he'll think you're not normal. It turned out that my new bunkmate was one of those who, having once started, could discuss the subject indefinitely while we ate and drank a couple of beers. I'd had a long day and I found it hard to keep from yawning. Not that sex itself bores me you understand, but talking about it just seems like a pointless form of masturbation.
Presently Vance walked in, which gave me an excuse to break into Daryl's erotic monologue. I stood up as he saw me and came over to shake hands and welcome me back. I introduced him to Daryl and they shook hands in that measuring way I was beginning to recognize, the one that says, "can I take this guy?"
I invited him to sit down, but he looked at his watch and said, "It's getting close to eight, we'd better get next door." He seemed to feel no need to use military time; maybe he'd never been in the military. I realized I didn't know. "The master of ceremonies doesn't like to be kept waiting," he elaborated with a small smile.
"The master of -"
He laughed. "MC," he said, "Mac. It is a joke."
"I'm not up on all the jokes yet," I said.
"This briefing is no joke, however. Mac is not the joking kind." The three of us walked out the door to go around to the opposite entrance. As at a signal, the others got up to follow us. We all found seats and sat there until, precisely at eight o'clock - twenty hundred hours to be militarily correct - Mac walked in, looking just the same as he had the day before. Even the suit looked the same, although I doubted it was the same one. No one could stay that neat after a long plane and car ride.
Still relatively fresh from OTS, I started to stand up as we were taught to do when a superior officer enters a briefing room. Vance put a restraining arm on my shoulder, saving me from the small embarrassment suffered by two others who did stand briefly before looking around in confusion and sitting down again. Mac didn't crack a smile.
"Gentlemen - and lady," he nodded in the direction of the lone girl in the room. "You are about to start a training program - at least continue one - which is unique in America's history. While working with the military, we are actually operating apart from it and will dispense with the military formalities. I am called Mac, not sir, and the same goes for your instructors, Frank, Vance, Abraham, Fedder and Rasmussen." He pointed to each in turn. I looked at each one as he named them, congratulating myself on identifying them as instructors in the canteen. A couple, Frank and Abraham especially, looked older than the rest of us, but they, as well as the others, stood out somehow. I'm not sure quite why, other than all of them seemed to have a "finished" look - and don't ask me
what that means.
Mac was continuing, "Frank will be your surveillance and interrogation instructor. Vance, here, will conduct small arms and hand-to-hand training, a continuation of your earlier education. Abraham will take you through the intricacies of codes, ciphers and similar intelligence skills. Fedder will teach you about explosives, Rasmussen about the more exotic forms of mayhem and together they will show you how to perform with a partner. I will occasionally be here to add to your education as best I can."
I was disappointed that he didn't mention rifle, knife and fencing training, not that I felt I needed them, but I was still young and naive enough to want to show off. I got my chance sooner than I thought.
"There is one change in our faculty. Vance, who normally also teaches rifle and knife classes, has informed me that you would be better served with a different instructor. So, one of our students here, Eric, will take over those classes."
I started to look around before I realized he meant me! I was shocked and immensely flattered all at once. I also remembered Vance's comment on not being too proud to use an expert and realized it was practiced all the way to the top. I think it was at that point that I really knew I had found a home. I caught Vance's eye and nodded to him in thanks. He nodded back with an amused look. I refrained from looking at any of the other students.
Mac said dryly, "I take it from your expression, Eric, that Vance did not tell you as I asked him to. Well, Vance does like his little jokes." Addressing the rest of the class, he continued, "Although Eric is the first of you to perform as an instructor, I sincerely hope he will not be the last. In this unit, we will need every resource we can get. Whenever any of you displays a special talent, if you can teach it to the others, you'll be asked to do so."
Thus expertly smoothing over any ruffled feelings, he continued, "This assignment has taken you out of the mainstream of the war, but it's still a war of sorts and you can consider yourselves still soldiers of a sort, but I'd rather you wouldn't. Don't make up any pretty mental pictures. If you were working for a criminal organization, you'd be known as enforcers. Since you're working for a sovereign nation, you can call yourselves ... well, “removers” is a very good word. It describes the job with reasonable accuracy."
Mac always did have a knack at getting to the heart of the matter. We were all instantly sobered, which I would imagine was his intent. I had always thought of myself as rather cold-blooded, but this guy had me beat in spades.
"You are being given a thorough course of training, courtesy of Uncle Sam. It's possible that Uncle, being a peaceful sort, wouldn't approve of everything in the curriculum, but what Uncle doesn't know won't hurt him. Security has its advantages, and we're very top-secret here. We're supposed to be developing some kind of a mystery weapon, I believe. Well, one might call it that. After all, the greatest mystery on earth, and the most dangerous weapon, is man himself.
"During your training here you are going to be taught many skills which, for obvious reasons, cannot be practiced fully - at least if we want you all to survive the course - as it is not practical to provide victims upon which to practice."
I heard a low chuckle somewhere behind me, but I was watching Mac's eyes and could see no hint that he was joking - I got the impression that the cold-blooded bastard would have not hesitated to "provide victims" if he thought he could have gotten away with it. I'm not criticizing, mind you; it
would have made our training more effective.
Completely deadpan, he continued, "There is also a certain amount of training that has to do with mental conditioning which cannot be practiced at all. We simply pound it into your heads and hope it takes. Each profession has its rules of engagement and code of conduct; however in ours, the penalties for lapses are unusually severe and often fatal.
"Rule one," he held up his index finger. "The mission takes precedence. We will not knowingly send you on a suicide mission, but if your success requires your death or the death of another - including your comrades or even innocent bystanders - that is regrettable, but necessary. We are at war, after all, and our missions will most likely be necessary to save many other lives." There were several nods around the room. This was standard military procedure, although I had my doubts about the veracity of his suicide mission comment.
"Rule two. You are not expendable, except when it conflicts with rule one. We will have a considerable amount of time, effort and money tied up in each one of you. After your mission is successfully completed, your only concern is to return alive, regardless of the breakage. If you are captured alive, you will make every attempt to escape. There is one exception to this rule that brings us to rule three:
"The first thing you are taught in the military is the axiom that you must not tell the enemy anything other than name, rank and serial number, if captured. In this unit, that nonsense does not apply. With enough time and effort, anyone can be forced to talk. If you have potentially dangerous information in your head - a situation we will make every attempt to avoid - you are expected to avoid being taken alive and a means to that end will be provided to each of you." He paused a moment as we absorbed that idea.
"Other than that, you are free to say anything you wish, to avoid torture that might render you unable to escape. I hope that's clear to everyone. Unlike the movies, I have found that a smart, scheming coward generally outlives the brave, courageous hero who laughs in the face of danger and stupidly does or says precisely the wrong thing and gets himself shot. Not that I'm implying anyone here is a coward; there's just a time to act cowardly and a time to act brave and I hope - for your sakes - that you learn the difference."
I had no particular problem with this philosophy but I could tell from the fidgeting that one or two of the others were having a hard time with it. Well, what do you expect from a generation brought up on the exploits of Clark Gable and Errol Flynn and Gary Cooper? Mac seemed determined to hit us with everything at once. I wondered if everyone would still be here tomorrow.
He wasn't done yet. "Rule four. We don't play the hostage game, ever, in all its permutations. If your target grabs someone as a shield, simply shoot through the two of them. If your partner is captured and your surrender is demanded, you don't. Period. No matter whom is held hostage for your behavior, we … don't ... play ... that ... game. When in doubt, see rules one and two. That is not to mean that rescue attempts are not allowed - quite the contrary so long as the mission is not jeopardized."
He didn't bother to pause. By now he probably figured - correctly - that we were all pretty numb. "Rule five, and the final rule. No one dies in vain. If you're betrayed you are expected to remove the betrayer if at all possible. If someone feeds you a Mickey Finn or poison and is stupid enough to hang around to see you pass out or die, you will assume that person is not a friend of yours and take appropriate action, preferably fatal. If you find yourself in a position - quite possible, even likely - where your death is imminent, I expect you to die with your gun empty, your knives used and your grenades expended, and as many dead bodies around you that it is humanly - or inhumanly - possible to accomplish. Any questions?"
He waited for a moment but there were no takers. "Good. I'm not one to spend a lot of time discussing philosophy, but I feel quite strongly about this next point. You've all heard the rumors coming out of Germany and its subjugated countries. Mass murder, genocide and atrocities of all kinds. Actually, from what I've learned, the rumors only scratch the surface.
It's the modern dilemma. It would be simply marvelous if the human animal weren't aggressive by nature, so a lot of people figure they can stop it from being so just by having everybody pretend it isn't so. The only trouble is, they won't sit down and calculate what's going to happen if the prescription doesn't work on everybody who takes it.
"What happens is that arrogant thugs start shoving people around, serenely confident that none of their brainwashed, nonviolent fellow-citizens will be willing to, or able to, lift a hand in effective self-defense. Once you star
t raising whole generations on the lovely, unrealistic principle that the use of force is always evil and unthinkable, that you should be willing to endure any indignity and pay any price rather than spill a little blood, why, you've set yourself right up for them. For the intimidators. For the people who haven't the slightest qualms about using force or spilling blood. For the ones on whom the pretend-we're-all-nice medicine didn't work. All the bullies and dictators and little-league Caesars. And a big-league monster named Hitler.
"I doubt that there's ever been a war in history where the good and bad sides have been so clearly defined. However, regardless of my feelings - or yours - on the subject, you have my word that I will never accept a mission designed to target someone solely because he's a vicious bastard. It would be too hard to draw the line, and sometimes it's hard to tell. All of our targets will be determined from a military or security viewpoint - what will further our military objective, save lives or protect vital information - and if the target is otherwise a nice, friendly, warm human being, that's just too bad. That is the reason this unit was formed and the reason for the rules.
