We Won't Go Quietly: A Family's Struggle to Survive in a World Devolved (Book Three of the What's Left of My World Series)

by C. A. Rudolph

  Alan’s face fell out of shape. “Uh, Wu-Tang?”

  “Yes,” the short-statured yet well-built Asian replied. “Is something the matter?”

  “No. Not at all. It’s just that you’ve chosen a heck of a nickname.”

  “What makes you say that?” Woo Tang quizzed.

  “Well…it’s Wu-Tang. Like the Wu-Tang Clan, of course. Right?”

  The man tilted his head to the side like a dog mystified by a command. “What is a…Wu-Tang Clan?”

  Alan looked confused, his expression dulling. “Well, the rap group, naturally.”

  “The rap group?”

  “Well, yeah. You know, with Method Man, Raekwon, and Ol’ Dirty Bastard—at least before he passed away from a drug overdose a while ago,” Alan explained.

  Woo Tang shook his head again. “I’m sorry, but I have no idea who you are referring to.” He paused. “Was this bastard fellow a friend of yours?”

  “N-no. Not at all.”

  “Okay. At any rate, I am sorry to hear of his passing.” Woo Tang’s voice was genuinely sincere.

  Alan shrugged and gave in, an unsure smile coating his face. “It was a long time ago. Are you certain you’ve never heard of them?”

  “Yep, I am certain. Nope, I have never heard of them. Sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” Alan said, his tone indicating mild disbelief. “I’m sorry for even bringing it up. It’s just that it’s a…well, a very unique nickname, and a fairly popular band.”

  Woo Tang smiled genuinely. “I’m glad you like it. It is much better than most other nicknames I was provided when I first joined the teams. Maybe I should look up this rap band—they might have a song or two I might enjoy.”

  “I guess I forgot to mention,” Dave began, inserting himself into the conversation, “most of the guys you’ll meet in the next few days might prefer to be called by a nickname, a call sign, or some other epithet, Alan. Just like me, they’re big fans of discretion. Tang here is one of the exceptions…he just prefers this nickname over others.”

  “Imagine being a skinny little Korean boy growing up in inner-city America with a last name like Tang,” Woo Tang said with a smirk. “You can probably guess some names I was christened with.”

  Lauren giggled as her gaze found a long scar on Woo Tang’s cheek, stretching from his hairline to his lower jaw. “How did you get that scar?”

  Woo Tang faked his surprise. “I have a scar?” He paused to provide a moment of superb method acting. “Sorry, only kidding. I received it during a knife fight.”

  “It must’ve been a pretty big knife,” Lauren mused.

  “Well, machetes are pretty big knives.”

  Lauren’s eyes grew wide. “Someone cut your face with a machete?”

  The Korean-American soldier leaned in and whispered, “Yes—and it bled bright red like a perforated artery. It is okay, though, I lived to tell about it. You should have seen the other guy.”

  “Don’t let him fool you,” Dave interrupted. “Woo here is an ordained expert with anything that holds an edge. I’m actually surprised to see him without his katana today.”

  “I confronted a man armed with a sword once, using a butter knife I borrowed from Cracker Barrel,” Woo Tang said dryly, his eyes squinting at Lauren, his humor barely detectable. “After I finished spreading him to death, I returned the knife shortly after, and it was just as dull then as it was when I borrowed it. So only a portion of Dave’s statement is true.”

  Dave nodded, seemingly distracted. “Oh, yeah. Must’ve forgotten that snippet. I had two helpings of hash brown casserole that day. Good times.”

  “And, as I have told you before, Dave, it is not a katana. It is a jingum, used for Haidong Gumdo,” Woo Tang corrected.

  “Of course it is,” Dave dismissed, now in the process of summoning the remainder of the group using hand signals.

  With his men gathered around, Dave’s arm moved in an introductory gesture. “Standing before you are my terrestrial preparations for Zero Dark Armageddon. They’ll be training here along with us for the foreseeable future.”

  A tall man, appearing a bit older and more seasoned than the rest, stepped forward and stood just to Woo Tang’s side, offering his hand. A tattoo on his forearm of a skull wearing a beret, bearing a striking resemblance to the one Dave Graham owned on his forearm, caught Lauren’s observant eye.

  “Staff Sergeant Tim Reese,” the tall man said, his voice deep, concise, and rapid. “Former United States Army Special Forces. I served with Sergeant Graham overseas. I guess you could call me the unit XO—Dave’s right-hand man.”

  “Pleasure to meet you,” Alan said as he took Tim’s inordinately sizable hand.

  Tim nodded fervently and introduced himself to Lauren, who took his oversized hand with a timid smile. He turned his head, motioning for two others to join them, and they made their way forward while Dave mimicked the gesture.

  One of the men was around six feet tall, had a stockier build than the others, and had a long, unruly beard to go along with a jungle of tousled, coarse facial hair. He didn’t appear elderly, or even much older than the others, but the lower portion of his beard was as white as snow, almost as if he had dyed it to look that way.

  The other man was shorter and far skinnier and wore a pair of thick plastic-framed eyeglasses with a retaining strap attached to the temple tips. He appeared nervous and timid, and had his head turned away as if he were trying hard not to look anyone in the eyes.

  “The one with the polar bear fur on his face is Specialist Joe Cross,” Dave said, his head turned to Alan, his hand held outward. “The bashful one beside him, we call Neo. He’s our commo guy and all-around electronics junky.”

  “They call me Santa,” the bearded man droned. It was almost impossible to see his mouth move through his whiskers. He stepped forward with an open hand.

  Alan smirked. “Let me guess, because of the beard?”

  Santa shook his head in the negative. “No. It’s because I come bearing gifts, and I ensure prompt, courteous delivery of those gifts to deserving folks. So you better watch out, and you better not cry.”

  Santa reached for Lauren’s hand and she took hold of it. “Um, what kind of gifts?” she asked.

  “Young lady, when this Santa comes to town, it’s to reward those who’ve been naughty,” he joked. “The gifts I bestow are the ones that have a tendency to go boom.”

  “Santa is EOD,” Dave filled in. “At least he was, anyway. He’s got an affinity for stuff that explodes and makes a lot of noise.”

  The bearded man shrugged. “I spent so much time taking them apart, I decided to try my hand at putting them together,” Santa said, with one eye widening. “Turns out I’m pretty darn good at it. Had my footlocker in the barracks full of homemade IEDs I’d put together with spare parts. People say—I’m not exactly…right in the head.”

  The other man stepped forward awkwardly and adjusted his glasses. He appeared younger than the others—possibly in his early to mid-twenties and still had not made eye contact with anyone around him, familiar or unfamiliar. “I’m Theo—Theo Parsons,” he said, his voice rapid and anxious. “I’m the RTO—the radio telephone operator, even though the specialty technically doesn’t exist anymore. It’s more like an RO, without the T. They call me Neo.”

  Alan shook his hand and contemplated whether or not to ask his next question, especially since it pertained to yet another pop-culture reference. “It’s nice to meet you, Neo. Pardon me for asking, but could that nickname somehow be related to the movie?”

  “Of course it is,” Neo spouted off while his facial muscles twitched. “What else would it be?” He then backpedaled and disappeared behind the others, his only introduction with Lauren being a quick wave she quizzically returned.

  Alan glanced over to Dave, who shrugged dismissively. “Don’t mind him,” said Dave. “If he’s not playing with a radio or cleaning a rifle, he isn’t happy.” Dave snapped his fingers loudly at the remai
ning members of the group, who were standing not far away. “All right, jarheads,” he barked, “front and center.”

  Both men, appearing around the same age with nearly identical high-and-tight haircuts, hesitated at first, then made their approach as they took turns pushing and punching each other in the arm.

  The first to offer his hand was some variety of Latino, given his noticeable indigenous traits. He had a dark complexion, unblemished skin, and eyes black as night.

  “What’s up?” he said informally, his voice revealing a Spanish inflection. “I’m Sanchez. Master of surveillance and target acquisition. Marine—excuse me, jarhead scout sniper.” He turned around and glared at the others, throwing his arm in the air. “But these gringo maricones like calling me Taco because they’re a bunch of racist malparidos.”

  “Quit your bellyaching, scarface,” one of the men in the group shouted. “Wanna say hello to my little friend?”

  Sanchez shook his head, held out a hand again, and smiled lightheartedly. “See what I mean? See what I have to deal with every day? I’m nothing more than a ‘cockaroach’. The white man is relentless—always trying to keep the brown man down.”

  Alan shook the Marine’s hand, smiled, and laughed.

  Sanchez looked to Lauren, seemingly embarrassed. “Oh, damn,” he said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to curse in front of the lady. That’s my bad.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ve heard worse,” said Lauren. “You can trust me on that.” She turned to look at her father, and Alan lifted a brow.

  Sanchez nodded. “That’s good. I mean, that’s a good thing—especially if you’re going to be hanging around this crowd of putos,” he said, and formally introduced himself to her. “I promise, though, I’ll do my best to bite my tongue.”

  “James Stewart,” the other Marine said, holding his hand out to Alan. “No relation to the actor. I’m the unit corpsman—it’s devil-dog speak for combat medic, just don’t call me one. It’s blasphemy. The unit calls me Stewie unless they’re hurt and need a Band-Aid for their boo-boos, that is. Then they call me Doc like it was my Christian name.”

  “You are not a special snowflake, Stewie,” Dave barked. “Your MOS isn’t a matter of OPSEC, either. You’re a riki-tik with a goofy haircut, just like Sanchez—a glorified swab jockey who wears face paint and camouflage.”

  “Hey, careful there, Dave,” Woo Tang said. “Us swab jockeys have feelings too, you know.”

  “Sorry, Tang. But you know how my histamine levels get ate up every time Uncle Sam’s misguided children come around.”

  While Alan and Lauren spent a moment getting familiar, Dave moved away, looking high and low, both around and behind the group. “Where the hell is Richie Rich? I swear to Christ, that Gomer would be late for his own funeral.”

  “He’s a typical E-2 boot, LT,” jeered Sanchez. “That Charlie Foxtrot maggot is probably somewhere taking a nap or screwing around with that stupid coche of his. That thing is such a piece of mierda anyway.”

  “Or he could be chatting up that pretty little girlfriend of his,” Santa added, combing his beard with his fingers. “His iPhone is molded to his hand, Taco—he never leaves home without it.”

  Sanchez nodded and smiled. “Right, Santa? Homeboy loves himself some FaceTime. And I must say—that girl of his is a little hottie with the body…”

  Sanchez and Santa fist bumped, but soon after, shamefacedly apologized for their comments in front of Lauren’s younger audience while she giggled at their antics.

  “Well, what are we waiting for…let’s get this party started!” Sanchez hollered. “I don’t know about you guys, but I came here to shoot today, and my trigger finger is itching like a mofo.”

  Dave Graham raised a brow. “I don’t believe for a second that’s the only skin irritation you own, bullet catcher. That being said, I second the motion.”

  “Hey, look at that…another racist comment,” replied Sanchez. “Culero. Why am I not surprised?”

  The men grouped together, gathered up their gear, and started off hurriedly in the direction of the rifle and pistol ranges while Fred Mason and Dave Graham moved in to follow.

  “Hey, Dave, why did he call you LT?” Alan inquired loudly. “I thought you told me a while back, you were career enlisted?”

  Dave rotated on his heels and turned his head over his shoulder. “Times are changing, Alan, and we’re changing with them. You’ll be learning a lot more before long.”

  Lauren poked her father in the arm. “We came here to shoot, too, didn’t we?”

  “Well, yeah. Among other things. Go on, go with them. Make me proud. I’ll be down shortly.”

  Alan observed a moment after Lauren had caught up with Dave’s group, analyzing her interactions with them, and theirs with her. Although using his fatherly watchful eye, he was unable to detect anything he thought disagreeable.

  These men were welcoming the two of them into their midst with open arms—as if they had all known each other for years, just as Dave Graham had done when Alan had started coming to Point Blank and then again when he’d started bringing Lauren along.

  Everything happening now was going as Alan had wanted it to, but at the same time, felt so out of the ordinary and surreal. Not a day went by when Alan didn’t second-guess his decisions, up to and including this one. After meeting these men and seeing how quickly they had taken to Lauren, he resolved from this moment forward never to question the decision to involve her again.

  “I guess…family isn’t always about blood,” Alan muttered to himself.

  When he turned around to head to his car to grab guns, ammunition, and gear, Alan was surprised to find Woo Tang still standing nearby long after the rest of the group had left. Alan ambled over to him with a quizzical look. “Everything…okay?”

  Woo Tang looked at Alan coyly and then inched closer to a comfortable chatting distance. His eyes shifted to the ground and looked around as if he’d dropped something. “Everything is squared away, from what I can see.”

  “That’s good,” Alan said. “I thought maybe you might have been peeved with me about the Wu-Tang thing and were waiting to get me alone.”

  The Korean smirked. “No, not peeved at all. If I were you would know it.”

  Alan grinned, looking a bit unsettled. “I had a feeling you were going to say something like that.”

  “Would you mind if I asked you a personal question?”

  Alan thought a moment, then shrugged. “Not at all.”

  “Cool. I do not want to sound disrespectful—so please do not take it that way. I am not a father, and I know very little about children and, with that, nothing at all about being a parent. But I have to ask—do you believe your daughter can handle what you are involving her in?”

  “I’ve never sheltered her,” Alan said resolutely. “Her mother and I have always allowed Lauren to see the world for what it is. As such, she’s become a fierce, deliberate, resilient young woman who questions everything and everyone—even me sometimes.”

  “Well, that’s good to know. And to hear. She’s been good so far, then?”

  “I think so,” said Alan, his head cocked to the side. “Why do you ask?”

  Woo Tang stared off in the distance. “Because the timeline is about to change. The skills she has obtained to this point will not hold a candle to what she is about to experience. This goes for you as well.”

  Alan rubbed the back of his neck as a sense of anxiety washed over him. “Can you explain what you mean by that?”

  “I can try. I can begin by saying the men you just met are some of the most distinguished warriors ever to serve this nation,” Woo Tang said, his eyes portraying the enormity of his words. “They are all specialists. Born to kill, trained to do so swiftly and efficiently…masters of their tradecraft, experts in their field. They are very—talented, and Dave Graham is a bona fide mastermind at discovering the talents they possess.”

  He hesitated. “I served with Tim Reese on sever
al ops we worked together in Africa. He moves and shoots and thinks just as fast as he talks, maybe even faster. And he is a brilliant strategist, very intelligent, as most are in Special Ops.

  “Santa’s nickname used to be Tank. He was so bestowed because he was the only EOD tech who never wore a bomb suit to a single render-safe call. So the men in his unit claimed his skin must have been made of tank armor. He has no fear—of anything. It is amazing he is still alive, but I am not fully convinced it is his fault—he may actually be immortal.

  “Sergeant Sanchez likes to crack jokes, but he himself is most definitely not one. He is an expert marksman and made a real name for himself in the Middle East. He can calculate thousand-meter shots on moving targets in his head on the fly without a spotter, a feat not easily imitated.”

  Woo Tang took a breath. “Neo seems a little strange and backward when you first meet him, but I have seen him do remarkable things, especially under pressure. I believe him to be somewhat autistic and, in that regard, a savant of sorts.

  “And the kid…the one they call Richie Rich, the one you have yet to meet…he is something special, too. He is kind of a pain in the butt at times. He can be a bit arrogant. But he is good—real good—and backs his big mouth up with skills to pay the bills.”

  “So what about you, then?” Alan asked with interest. “Are you just as distinguished as the rest?”

  Woo Tang shrugged humbly. “I am an operator, Alan Russell. A 5326-combatant swimmer, a Trident wearer, in the flesh. I play with swords, get cut by machetes, and win fights with butter knives. I suppose there are many terms that describe me, but you can call me distinguished, if you like.”

  He smirked and moved closer to Alan, patting him on the shoulder. “Just so you know, I am not telling you these things to scare you away, so please do not infer it as such. Dave has personally vouched for you and your daughter, and that is good enough for me, same as it is for the others you met today. He is a man of his word, and his opinions carry much clout. I just want to make certain you believe your young lady can handle what is about to transpire. If the shit ever does hit the fan, I assure you, Alan, there will be a war, and that war will be fought on American soil, and we, along with many others like us, will be amongst those fighting it. What we are training for and preparing ourselves for is definitely not for the faint of heart.”