by Michael Cole
“Hey, come on,” Ivan said. “I even made you look good! Didn’t you see? I caught the part where you sniped the ugly in the crow’s nest.” Terrie plucked a carrot from the tray and crunched it in her teeth, again shaking her head slowly at Ivan. He chuckled and looked at Rex. “You’d think she was our mother.”
A deep, commanding voice reverberated in the room, “You’re lucky your mother isn’t here.”
All eyes turned to the hallway entrance where Victor Seymour stood. Rex quickly grabbed the remote and shut off the television, then he and the rest of the team stood to their feet. With hands down at their sides and feet placed in a forty-five-degree angle, they stood silently in position of attention. Even Nagamine, who moments earlier seemed to have no care in the world, was suddenly alert and ready. Despite not being on active duty, they still operated like a military unit, and had such a respect for their commander.
Additionally, when caught in the act like this, they knew best to shut up and be quiet.
The room had gone completely silent. The music stopped, and the television was off, and each mercenary stood, staring directly ahead of them. Craig Easley did the same. The fact that he was in his own homemade no difference. In an instant, he was no longer the ‘nerd’. He was a soldier. Terrie was no longer a dressed-up gal preparing for a date. She was a soldier. For Ivan and Rex, they were no longer obnoxious troublemakers. Tim Sutton was no longer the self-righteous, judgmental buzz-kill. Charlie was no longer the wannabe DJ techno-brat. They were all warriors showing respect for their commander.
Seymour stepped forward. First, as he always did, he scanned his eyes across the room, then stepped around the sofa. He could hear each shallow breath taken by the team members. Clearing the corner of the furniture, he scooted the table aside with his foot, careful not to spill the contents. He stood in the newly acquired space, staring at Rex and Ivan. Despite each of them standing six inches taller than Seymour, and weighing sixty extra pounds of pure muscle, Ivan and Rex knew better than to look into his eyes. First there was the respect of chain-of-command. Second, there was additional respect for his background. A SEAL was not one to be messed with.
Seymour picked up the remote and turned the television back on, bringing the split-screen imaging to view. He watched a few quick frames as the brutes stormed the catacombs within the oil tanker, eliminating hostile pirates along their path.
“Mind explaining this?” he said. Though quiet, his voice was sharp enough to cut through ice. A nervous grin creased Ivan’s face.
“Just letting off steam, sir,” he said.
“Letting off steam?” Seymour turned the tv off. “You like snuff films?”
Ivan’s grin disappeared. “Hell no, sir.”
“We just enjoy a little reminder of a job well done,” Rex said.
“This should be plenty of a reminder,” Seymour said, holding the large duffle bag. “You want to blow off steam, go to a comedy show.”
“Yes sir!” Both brutes bellowed, revealing the inner Marine in both of them. Seymour opened the bag, reached in, and pulled out a smaller nylon bag.
“Don’t let it happen again,” he said, and thrust the bag into Ivan’s chest. He did the same to Rex, then proceeded to toss shares to the other team members. Charlie caught his bag like an NFL linebacker. His share was heavier, as he was in charge of maintaining the ShinMaywa Us-2. Of course, Seymour took the largest share, perks of being the founder and manager of the team. After all, in addition to carrying out the operations, he was the one who conducted the business meetings, which in itself was occasionally a paramilitary operation. In this business, you never truly knew anyone’s intent.
After finishing, he straightened out the table, remembering he was in another man’s house. Everyone eased, taking their seats again. He glanced at Terrie.
“You look all set to go out,” he said.
“Bastard just cancelled on me,” she said, her voice sour.
“Told ya, she scares them away,” Sutton remarked.
“Knock it off, before she scares you away,” Seymour said. Sutton zipped his lip. He glanced back at Terrie. “It’ll work out.” He walked back around the sofa, making his way to the hall.
“Sir, feel free to stay,” Craig Easley said. “I’ve got plenty of condiments here, enough for you to hang around.”
“I wouldn’t brag about that, sonny,” Rex said, pointing at the trays.
“I appreciate it,” Seymour said. “But I’ll be taking off.” He started walking out, but stopped and looked back at him. “One piece of advice though…damn, kid, put some meat on that table!”
The room erupted in laughter, and as if on cue, the music came bursting back on. Easley grinned and gave an informal two-finger salute to Seymour, who turned and left, exiting out the front door.
Taking his place in the driver’s seat of his truck, Victor Seymour squeezed the steering wheel with both hands. For most servicemen returning home, being seated in their personal vehicle was a much-desired feeling. For Seymour though, all it brought him was a desire to clutch the handle of a GMV. Every time he returned home, it was his first emotional experience. He did not feel satisfaction, rather he felt a desire to do more.
Becoming a SEAL was something only the best-of-the-absolute-best could do. And Seymour considered himself as such. He was never one to turn down a challenge, or back down from a fight. In his time in the service, he fought alongside men whom he considered his brothers. Together, they conducted missions of legend. Most of which, the public, and even much of the military, had no awareness of.
But it was what he was trained to do. Serving his country was worth more than any paycheck. Unfortunately, his medical officers wouldn’t take his resume, nor his perseverance into consideration. With a few checkmarks and signatures, his military career ended abruptly. Not one to ever lose a fight, he beat the devastating illness that made others see him as unfit. But it didn’t matter. To the doctors, his eligibility was no better than a man breathing his last. Re-enlisting was not an option for him.
Starting up his private business seemed like a way to keep the soldier in him alive. And doing so, he found new brothers and sisters-in-arms. He had a good team. But he quickly realized one thing was lacking: purpose. Each mission was in service of the almighty dollar. He had no problem making a living, but there was no greater good in what they were doing. Conducting missions for clients, two-thirds of which were shady in themselves, could not return the fulfillment he felt during his time in the service.
Gotta just let it go, he thought to himself. It was the same tired phrase he always repeated. It had no effect, other than to briefly cool his mood like a passing cloud shadow in burning sunlight. Its effect was momentary, and immediately forgotten. He loosened his grip on the wheel, and started the engine.
CHAPTER
2
Cassie Hawk smelled the salty ocean air as she stepped out of the black limo. The house they arrived at had an ocean view. Even in the nine o’clock twilight, she could see the waves breaking in the nearby docks, creating a mist that gave the air a wet texture. The house itself was a simple, single story building with a garage. Nothing bad, but not suitable for anything more than a single-person household. It was a tell that they had found the right person. The less connections, the better.
Three men stepped out of the vehicle. Two of them were in their mid-thirties, typical age for C.I.A. agents. At least, from what Hawk had seen so far in her early career. However, she thought the senior agent on her team, Agent Jim Lesher, looked more like a college professor than anything else. Like the other two, he was dressed in a suit and tie, the jacket concealing a loaded Sig Saur. He looked at the empty driveway, and the dark windows. He didn’t need to knock to know nobody was home.
“Move the car onto the road,” he said. “We don’t want to take up his driveway.”
“Sir,” Hawk stepped alongside him. “May I suggest we go with another source. We don’t have the luxury of waiting for…”
“I would rather sacrifice five minutes of timeframe than settle for a less valuable tool,” he said. “Bravo-Unit said they saw him at the corner of Saint and Borjas, heading this way. He’ll be here shortly.”
Hawk knew it was best to shut up and comply. After all, she was chosen for a mission of extremely high importance. Pulling it off successfully would elevate her career to heights that would take others decades. She swallowed hard, fighting to keep from displaying her anxiety. She opened the tan folder she held, and silently read the file for the fifth time.
Subject: Victor Ryan Seymour.
Date of Birth: 09/22/1978. Age: 40. Place of Birth: Austin, Texas. Criminal record: N/A. High School Graduation. Anderson High School, Class of 1996.
Entered United States Navy in Summer, 1996. Initiated SEAL training in October, 1998. Successful completion of BUD/s Third Phase in April, 1999.
Member of SEAL team 5.
Accolades:
Silver Star, for gallantry in action during Invasion of Afghanistan.
Three Purple Hearts.
Distinguished Operations:
Operation Black Tower – Yugoslavia
Operation Plain-Silver – Iraq
Heart Diamond – Nigeria
Battle of Mosul Dam – Iraq
Unnamed anti-terrorism objective – Tripoli, Libya
Operation Gravel-grain – Western Pacific.
Leather coat – Panama.
Glass Bottle – Benghazi, Libya.
Diagnosed with Acute Leukemia in May 2012. Released from service. Honorable discharge.
Declared cancer-free, July, 2017.
Hawk closed the folder, briefly thinking on Seymour’s resume. Despite her position in the C.I.A., she knew there were more operations that were not listed on this particular file. Rarely did any one person know all the details. There was always some undisclosed operation that a select few were aware of.
Hell, look at what we’re doing now. It was clear to her why Lesher wanted Seymour for the job. Highly trained and disposable, two key components for any useful tool.
********
From a block away, Seymour could see the limo’s taillights. Even at this distance, he knew it was in front of his driveway. Calculating precise distance was one of a thousand techniques learned in SEAL training. However, it was clear these were not insurgents. When steering his truck up to his house, it became clear they were agents. The only question was: which agency?
He saw the three men and one woman standing in his driveway, waiting for him. Instinctively, he looked behind him. The road was clear. Whoever tipped them off that he was on his way had likely done so a mile back. Turning his eyes back toward the individuals, he quickly noticed the ever-so-slight bulge in the jacket, indicative of a concealed firearm. Even in the dark, he could still see the earpiece in each individual’s right ear. Except the female. For whatever reason, she didn’t have one.
He pulled his truck into the driveway and parked. He stepped out, leaving the keys in the ignition, and turned to face the group. The older member stepped forward, holding a thin tan envelope.
“Victor Seymour,” the man said. He extended his hand. Seymour looked at it, then back at the man. He knew better. Shaking hands in this business wasn’t just a greeting, rather an automatic acceptance of a proposal. With three additional agents ready to testify as witnesses, there’d be no way to back out.
“Not my first rodeo,” Seymour said. Lesher withdrew his hand and smiled.
“My apologies,” he said. “I’m Special Agent Jim Lesher. Clearly, you’re already aware that we are in need of your services. Please examine these documents.” He extended the envelope toward him. Seymour exhaled sharply. Of all clients, the government paid the best, but was often the first to stab you in the back. He reluctantly accepted the envelope.
The first page inside was a black and white photograph, featuring a man, roughly aged forty, dressed in khakis and a flannel shirt stepping off a helicopter. The foreground didn’t offer many details, but from the perceived texture of the land he was stepping on, Seymour fathomed the man was on an island. He looked up at Lesher.
“Am I supposed to know who this is?”
“That is Dr. Martin Trevor,” Lesher said. “He’s a contractor on a special research project in the Pacific. We believe he and his team have been taken hostage, by a group called the Ilgob Daelyug. That’s Korean, meaning…”
“Seven Continents,” Seymour interrupted. Lesher nodded, revealing a very slight grin. He knew Seymour had thwarted some North Korean operations during his service, and became familiar with the language. Another reason he was a right fit for the job.
Seymour flipped to the next image, which was a satellite photograph of an island. Oval-shaped, with a jagged peninsula in the southeast corner, the small island appeared to be about eight miles in diameter. A second photograph showed the island’s position on a map, positioning it several miles northeast of the Philippine Sea.
“What is this place?”
“That island is called Kuretasando,” Lesher said. He didn’t bother translating, as he knew Seymour was up-to-date on his foreign language.
“Crater Sands.” Seymour had briefly heard of it during his travels. If memory served him correctly, it was one of many islands that the U.S. invaded during the Pacific Theater.
“There’s an old Japanese command post left over on that island from World War 2. A rather large bunker. We believe it was mainly used as a Communications station,” Lesher said.
“What does a North Korean want with a Japanese Island?” the former SEAL asked.
“We believe they’re using it as a testing site,” Lesher said.
“A testing site, huh?” Seymour said, crossing his arms. “Aren’t we in the middle of making peace with that country? I thought ceasing their testing sites was part of the package?”
“Correct,” Lesher said. “As you know, North Korea is a military regime. However, what most people don’t know, there’s often an internal power struggle going on within the government. There are high ranking officials who would like to see Kim Jung-Un out of power. A general in particular, who formed the Ilgob Daelyug. General Rhee is his name. He has his own private command of soldiers, loyal specifically to him and his cause. Because of ties to arms dealers worldwide, he’s got the resources to run this operation.” Lesher allowed a small chuckle to slip through. “From what we know, he calls himself the Supreme General.”
“Classy title,” Seymour said. He looked back to the photo of Dr. Trevor. He lifted it up and held it in front of the C.I.A. agent. “Obviously it’s best I don’t know the precise details…but I need to, at least, know the gist. A weapons testing site on a Japanese Island most people haven’t heard of; a Ph. D that the government wants back…I’m assuming this guy has the goods to some new tech or something that you don’t want anyone else to have, and you’re worried that these goons will force him into working for them.”
“Let’s say yes,” Lesher said.
“One thing I do want to ask,” Seymour said, closing the folder, “this is a very delicate matter, and I can already tell you want it handled immediately.”
“Correct…” Lesher said.
“Okay, so why me? Why not send in an actual SEAL team?” Seymour said. He noticed one of the other agents snickering. “Care to answer that?” Seymour raised his voice.
“Because we said so,” the agent said.
“Meier!” Lesher looked to the agent, who took a step back and quietly looked away.
“You guys think I’m sending my team in there to collect some Top-Secret tech and a scientist, just to be erased in the end by you guys?”
Lesher swiftly turned his eyes back toward Seymour. “Absolutely not!”
“Then I’ll ask again, why me?”
“Our intelligence reports that the group is fronting as a Chinese Research Group called…” he paused, as he couldn’t remember the correct Mandarin pronunciation, “Deepwater Nine.”
“A research operation?” Seymour said.
“Correct.” Lesher straightened his tie. “I’ll assure you, these people are not researchers. They’re common terrorists, hellbent on unleashing chaos on South Korea, and eventually the Western World. However, General Rhee has connections with China, and might use this front as a ploy to declare an international incident. Should they do that, our Government wants to maintain total deniability. Hence, we’d rather go with a private contractor.”
Seymour reopened the file, looking at a third photo. It was another map of the island, only with hand-drawn x’s marked in various areas.
“Care to tell me what these are?” he asked.
“Those are approximate locations to guard shacks scattered throughout the island perimeter,” Lesher said. “If you look at the one on the peninsula, we believe that’s the area they’re using as a docking station. It’s the flattest region of the island.”
“Approximate. Excellent reconnaissance work,” Seymour remarked. He looked at a marking on the island interior. “What about this one?”
“That’s the location of the main command post,” Lesher said. “You need to go in there, collect Dr. Trevor, and get the hell out. If you can eliminate the hostile forces, that’ll be a bonus.”
“Don’t see how we’ll have a choice,” Seymour said. “They’re certainly going to have this place heavily guarded.” He closed the file again. “I have to ask, what happens if they’ve killed this guy?”
“Then collect any and all material you can find,” Lesher said. “Trevor has been making hundreds of pages worth of notes regarding his…work. Bring back anything you find.”
“How will I know?”
“You probably won’t,” he said. “But she will.” He tilted his head toward the female agent. Cassie Hawk stepped forward, maintaining a blank expression while staring Seymour in the eye. He gazed at her, as if studying her. She could feel him reading every inch of her, taking in what details he could.
