by Joe Nobody
“Why was he pissed? You’d earned the tag. Why such a tight ass?”
The retired sergeant’s eyes glazed over, his mind reverting to a time that now seemed so long ago, memories of North Carolina’s thick air and dense pine woods ingrained forever. The CAG, or Combat Applications Group, was the Army’s internal code… an acronym for the 1st Special Operations Detachment – Delta. Or as it was more commonly known to most Americans, Delta Force.
Millard shook his head, sure the former Marine Recon wouldn’t understand the subtleties. As a matter of fact, he wasn’t so sure of his own grasp. “They don’t like publicity, bravado, or any advertisement whatsoever,” he answered honestly. “Evidently, my little marker was offensive and dangerous to the teams. I’d had enough anyway. Eight years of that bullshit is sufficient for any man.”
“Don’t seem right, Sergeant,” the Marine responded. “I know all you high-speed, low-drag types serving in the big Army had a different culture, but in the Corps, a tat wasn’t any different than wearing your unit patch or awards.”
“Maybe I should’ve joined the Corps,” Millard smiled, wanting to end the conversation. “After you’ve finished polishing that blaster, take another tour of the grounds and make sure the feds aren’t sneaking up on us.”
“Yes, Sergeant. You got it.”
Millard continued to the master bedroom, wanting to double-check the huge closet where their captive was being held. As he strolled through the sizable home, the conversation with the Marine took him back to the days with his old unit.
CAG was the most secretive, selective, unofficial organization in the U.S. military. Primarily housed in what had once been Fort Bragg’s stockade, the detachment had been formed at the urging of Colonel Charlie Beckwith back in the 70s as a direct action, counter-terrorism response unit.
The colonel had been a liaison officer with the British SAS (Special Air Services), and was an early believer in the need for the U.S. military to have the capability to respond to what he saw as a global rise in radical elements using terror as a weapon.
While CAG recruited from the regular ranks of all services, the unit’s selection process was unique in many ways. It was often said that the training cadre wasn’t interested in selecting the “best” man, but was instead focused on finding the “right” man.
Often in their mid-30s, the average CAG operator didn’t fit the profile established by urban legend and Hollywood fantasy. While physical conditioning was a critical component, the unit’s ranks would hardly be confused with a professional football team’s defensive squad.
Physical strength and endurance were required, but in reality, they were secondary considerations. Intelligence and mental toughness were the primary qualifications for selection, along with that undefinable variable of the candidate being able to “fit in.”
Delta was low key, its secretive nature necessary for survival. The unit’s personnel wore civilian clothing, both on and off duty. Long hair and beards were not only allowed, but also endorsed. A CAG operator never knew when he might be inserted in a foreign land and have to blend in with the civilian population. Wearing one’s hair high and tight was a distinct military trait. Having one’s skin embedded with the detachment’s logo was even more telling.
It was estimated that each member of the elite group received over two million dollars’ worth of training and education. The CIA, Secret Service, FAA, FBI, and numerous military schools were all involved at some level, teaching the operators how to perform everything from lock picking to espionage tradecraft. They attended special driving courses, sniper training, and conducted hundreds of hours of advanced combat simulation. Some ex-members claimed that less than 5% of the applicants were selected.
Sergeant Millard had been a member of the 75th Rangers when he’d answered the ad in the Fort Bragg newspaper, knowing full well which organization was recruiting new members. Joining Delta was a dream for the young NCO… what he imagined would be the pinnacle of achievement. More importantly, he believed firmly in the unit’s mission – counter terrorism.
It had been the happiest day of his life when he’d finally been selected, the endless rounds of night navigation exercises and grueling psychological exams taking their toll.
Being selected was only the beginning. What followed were months of the most intense training anywhere in the world. It seemed like every day, more and more of Millard’s classmates dropped out.
And then it was over. He’d made it.
For the first few years, CAG had been everything Millard expected, and so much more. He was working with the finest professionals on the planet, the entire organization focused on hostage rescue, direct-action interdiction against up and coming terror cells, and undercover operations against those who threatened the United States.
His missions were justified, essential, and often eliminated potential threats before they could grow and mature. Millard was a content, highly motivated individual.
And then the attacks of 9-11 occurred, and the men of CAG’s world changed forever.
As the wars began, the unit’s mission changed. Once a surgeon’s precise scalpel, CAG found itself being used more and more as a blunt instrument. Time and again, Millard found his role was more akin to that of an ordinary infantryman.
Rather than being assigned clandestine operations against high-value targets, the CAG operators were being called upon to root out mid-management Taliban warlords and village-level troublemakers. The exposure and increased pace of force-on-force assignments took a toll on the unit. Casualties mounted, morale declined, and many of the experienced members began to question their choice of career.
Like all men in his trade, Millard understood death. His primary method of dealing with the remorse of a fallen comrade was to use the importance of the mission to justify the loss.
As the wars grew more intense, he began to see his mates killed for what he judged as unnecessary, bullshit ops that CAG shouldn’t have been involved in to begin with. The effect was devastating.
It was after one such deployment, a mission to root potential ringleaders out of the caves of Afghanistan, that Millard found himself stinking, staggering drunk in Fayetteville. They’d lost two men and found no enemy. CAG was being ground up like hamburger, bled out slowly, and showing little in the way of results.
Stumbling along the sidewalk after closing down one of the city’s many waterholes, the sullen NCO spied the bright neon sign of a tattoo parlor, a facility that primarily catered to the ranks of the 82nd Airborne.
Through his bleary vision and alcohol-fogged logic, the glowing light was an island oasis protruding from the otherwise dark sea of closed businesses lining the street. It called him like a siren’s song of lust.
An hour later, he emerged, sporting a new stamp that announced to the world that he was a member of the most elite warrior clan in existence.
It was two days later when his captain noticed the fresh ink. “What the fuck is that?” came the harsh inquiry. “Please tell me that’s a joke, Sergeant.”
Millard understood his misstep instantly. CAG was anonymous. It didn’t exist. It wasn’t acknowledged. And here he was, advertising membership via an arm-billboard, bragging about belonging.
“If you ever get captured, you’re going to pay extra for that,” another officer had stated in disapproval.
“Worse yet, if you ever get killed during a covert op, it won’t be difficult for the bad guys to identify who was fucking around in their backyard. That was a stupid stunt. Get it removed… or modified… or cut off that damned arm, Millard.”
The entire incident served to further sour the already disgruntled soldier. He’d sacrificed everything for the unit and Mother Green. The physical extremes suffered by his body would leave him a cripple in old age. The mental damage inflicted by years of deployments would torture his mind forever.
And now, after nearly a decade of dedicated, near-perfect performance and unquestionable loyalty, he was being chastis
ed and shunned because of a single drunken mistake? Worse yet, the Army was intruding, crossing the line into his personal space.
It was time to go. He resigned the next day, angry, sullen, and feeling as if he’d wasted a good portion of his adult life.
Less than a month later, Millard was approached by a man he’d met after first joining CAG. “How would you like to use your skills and experience for a private firm? The pay and benefits are off the scale, and you won’t have to put up with the Army’s chicken shit.”
He’d been hired two days later, joining Ajax International, a firm that supplied highly skilled military contractors all over the world. While Millard didn’t consider himself a mercenary, any honor in serving a cause greater than himself had ceased to be a factor or influence. Now he was strictly a professional, in control of his own destiny, worried only about the daily billing rate and his retirement fund.
In a way, the American liked working with the men at Ajax. It seemed that their profession cleared away so much of the garbage humanity carried around on its shoulders. At “the firm,” race, religion, or political affiliation meant nothing. It wasn’t unusual to see a Jordanian Red Beret working closely with an Israeli veteran of the Sayeret Matkal, or to have a black, Algerian GIS operator happy to be working with a white, South African Recces.
No one cared about any of the bullshit that plagued so much of the world. Here, there was no Muslim versus Christian, no black versus white. The men working at Ajax had to be able to pass one test: Could they do their jobs and keep their teammates from being killed? It was all that simple.
That level of reality went deeper than just the interpersonal relationships of the team members. It applied to the missions as well.
Millard had guarded VIPs, escorted valuable equipment out of hostile areas, and rescued hostages. There had even been a few snatch and grabs, just like today’s mission.
He arrived at the closet door, examining the two thick steel bars securing the entrance. Both were attached to the metal door via half-inch bolts. There was no way a bulldozer could knock down the barrier, let alone a scared shitless, college kid.
“You shouldn’t be so paranoid,” he told himself. “This one’s going to run just as smoothly as all the others.”
His training kicked in, automatically forcing his mind to recall any lessons learned from past experience. There was the oil company executive’s daughter, the woman kidnapped and held for millions in ransom. Ajax couldn’t locate the victim, but did uncover the name of the Malaysian mobster who had masterminded the dirty deed.
It had been Millard’s first snatch with his new employer, the higher-ups at Ajax deciding that if they couldn’t find the hostage, they’d apply the Old Testament doctrine of an eye for an eye. “We’ll take the boss man, and see if they’ll agree to a swap,” was the ruthless logic. The strategy had worked, the criminal gang happy to exchange the constantly jabbering female for their boss. The fact that they had committed a crime meant nothing to the powers that be. The sergeant was impressed – CAG would’ve had to obtain presidential approval for such a scheme. Swift justice minus all the bullshit red tape, he mused.
Millard vacated the master bedroom, treading across the thick carpeting to check the front picture window and the street beyond. “Why are you so edgy?” he whispered. “This one’s going to end just fine, and the paycheck will put that new Range Rover within reach.”
Chapter 7
The president sat at his desk, staring at an alarming, ever-growing stack of incident reports.
At the bottom was an executive briefing that covered the disaster in St. Louis. Then came Fort Knox, the facility now a smoldering ruin. And finally, there were a series of riots, economic impact statements, and three general summaries depicting doom and gloom over the public’s reaction to the events of the last day.
The entire affair was blowing up in his face, the airwaves already commandeered by public outrage and calls for Congressional investigations. The word “impeachment” seemed to be a part of every conversation on Capitol Hill.
In addition to several prominent government representatives losing their lives, word had finally leaked out that it was a U.S. Navy destroyer that had fired the Tomahawk missiles at Missouri. That ship and crew were now steaming under escort for Miami, the captain under arrest.
Despite the White House staff and Pentagon repeatedly denying any involvement in the incident, early polling indicated the American public wasn’t buying it. Rumors of a cover-up were already spreading.
The FBI couldn’t find Armstrong or Hughes, and neither could the press. There had even been one report claiming that the government had already apprehended the two, keeping them locked away so they couldn’t defend themselves.
Rubbing both temples in a half-hearted effort to soothe a growing headache, the president tried to see a way out for his administration and the government as a whole. The country was on the verge of tearing itself apart.
The irony of it all wasn’t lost on the chief executive. Weathers, with one single attack at Knox, was accomplishing what no other power on earth had ever achieved. “That fucking Texan doesn’t even have to expend any more of his ammo,” the president whispered. “He’s just sitting back, watching us crumble right before his eyes, and probably laughing his ass off with every news broadcast.”
Sighing loudly, the president pushed his anger toward Weathers aside. He needed solutions, not venting. It seemed no matter what he tried to do, things just seemed to be getting worse.
Again, he considered resigning.
If the best minds in Washington couldn’t figure something out soon, that might be his only alternative. Myth had it that Nero played the violin while Rome burned. “I’m not going to hunt cowboys while my country goes up in flames,” he stated to no one. “I can’t let that happen.”
His train of thought was interrupted by Noah entering the room, the look on the chief of staff’s face making it clear he wasn’t bearing good news.
“Um… sir, we have another problem,” said the aide.
A groan escaped the president’s throat, his expression changing into what could only be described as a plead for mercy. “What now?”
“Andrew Weathers has been kidnapped from Texas Tech,” Rhodes stated without emotion.
“What? Are you shitting me? Didn’t I read a report not long ago that stated we had an FBI team watching him day and night?”
“Yes, sir, we did. From the preliminary information I’ve received, it was an extremely professional job. We have an agent from the observation team in the hospital, suffering from severe trauma to the head. There’s a massive search on at the moment, but after speaking with the people on the ground, I don’t hold out much hope that they’ll locate the victim anytime soon.”
When the president finally spoke, the single word made it clear where his mind was going with the news. “Who?”
“At the current moment, we have no idea where Andrew Weathers is, or who has him,” replied the aide.
Less than three minutes after thinking things couldn’t possibly get worse, the president realized he’d been dead wrong. The son of perhaps the most dangerous man alive was missing, presumed kidnapped. Weathers would think the abduction had been ordered by the White House. The father, if still rational, probably wouldn’t be for long.
The president had a feeling that Senator Hughes and his group had something to do with the youth’s disappearance. It all tied together, but there wasn’t any proof just yet.
It was a possibility that Armstrong had loyal followers inside the Pentagon, and that would explain the unauthorized missile launch. Hughes knew his way around Washington and may have helped the admiral circumvent the regular chain of command. The senator had money, contacts, and resources in his arsenal.
Now, a professional kidnapping. It fit.
“Maybe this is the break we’ve been looking for,” the president stated, his reaction surprising Rhodes. “It seems our wayward senator and off
-the-reservation admiral are getting desperate.”
“But, sir… they obviously want the Olympus Device. The attack on the airport was the first attempt. When that failed, they must have figured Weathers would negotiate to have his son returned. That’s not beyond reason. If they get their hands on that weapon….”
“We have to spin this, Noah. We have to somehow put ourselves on the same side as Weathers. Get out in front of this event and control the optics as best we can. Assign our best people to finding the kid. I want our folks on every talk show, news broadcast, and editorial page, shouting to the heavens that we want to help Durham Weathers. Use this to our advantage. Claim that events like this are exactly what we were trying to avoid in the first place. It will help settle the public down.”
