“How did things go in Ireland?” McCoy said. “Family doing well?”
“It was too long in coming and passed by too quickly,” Whelan said. “But yeah, everyone’s fine.”
McCoy sipped some more coffee and turned more serious. “What’s your assessment of our status, the preparedness of your colleagues? It’s been, what, almost twenty years since your last combat operation?”
Whelan considered his response carefully. The General’s career, reputation, and perhaps his life were on the line, as was true for Levell and the other members of the Society. “Some of us are more ready than others.”
“You’re being enigmatic. I presume you’re referring to Almeida.”
Both men sipped their coffees for a while. “He’s not in the kind of condition he should be for a mission, physically and emotionally,” Whelan said. He paused and looked at McCoy.
“Who else?”
“Stensen is ready physically, but he’s a loose cannon. He’ll more than carry his share when the killing starts.”
McCoy had been pondering the contents of his coffee cup. He raised his head and said, “Are you aware he’s a serial killer?”
“Yeah.”
“It seems, however, that he only kills bad people.”
“Yeah, based solely on his definition of ‘bad’.”
“Are you suggesting that those two should not be included in the mission?”
“That’s going to depend on the nature of the mission. I’m just suggesting some of us might become casualties, and others of us might occasion unnecessary collateral damage.”
At that moment, Kirkland materialized in front of them, startling McCoy and causing him to spill some of his coffee. It burned his hand.
“Jesus, Kirkland, where the hell did you come from?”
Kirkland was casually twirling his jō stick in his right hand. “Just out for my morning constitutional, General.”
McCoy shook his head and rose slowly and stiffly from the tree stump. He walked over to the urn and poured himself another cup. “Coffee?” he said.
“I don’t touch the stuff,” Kirkland said. “Makes me jumpy. Interferes with my combat instincts.” There was a sly smile on his face.
“Well, we certainly wouldn’t want that to happen, would we.” There was more than a note of sarcasm in McCoy’s tone. He turned to walk back to his tree stump perch.
Kirkland reached into the pocket of his windbreaker and made a slight flicking motion with his hand, so fast as to be almost imperceptible.
The cup in McCoy’s hand shattered, sending hot coffee splattering onto his pants. “Ow, dammit”, he said. “What are you doing? Are you crazy?”
Kirkland nodded at a tall Fraser fir behind and to McCoy’s right. “I was practicing my shuriken technique on that tree over there,” he said, referring to the Japanese throwing star. “But I missed. Guess I need more practice.” Kirkland grinned at Whelan, who just shook his head.
McCoy, still angry, grabbed a new cup and poured more coffee. “Sometimes I think all of you bastards are as crazy as Stensen.”
“Possibly,” Whelan said, “but no one does what we do as well as we do it.”
Taking a sip of his coffee, McCoy said, “Very soon you’re going to get an opportunity to prove that statement.”
* * *
All of the Dogs, except one, were up in time to have breakfast. Almeida, as usual, missed it. Afterwards, as the day was breaking, they all went for a long training run on a narrow dirt road. It wound up the steep slope of the mountain and through the damp, earthy-smelling forest. Angry at missing breakfast, Almeida sprinted off the front. He very quickly ran out of steam and was swallowed up and passed by the others like an overzealous rider in the Tour de France. He cursed them as they pulled steadily away from him. Stensen gave him the finger.
The run, which circled the top of the mountain at an elevation of almost six thousand feet then returned to the base camp, occupied most of the morning. Following an hour for lunch and recovery, they engaged in martial arts and hand-to-hand combat training. Rhee Kang-Dae, Levell’s personal assistant, and Paul Fontenot were among their training partners.
The sessions were long and physically demanding. Almeida provided the comic relief. Unwillingly. Each time he finished last in an exercise, he complained bitterly that the outcome had been rigged or that the others had cheated. Nevertheless, he regularly bragged about his superior prowess as an athlete, lover, fighter, and substance abuser. For the most part, the others tolerated him, but there were points where Almeida’s behavior crossed the line. Today was one of them.
Kirkland was working with Almeida in a simulated combat situation. Almeida had a SOG SEAL Team knife with a powder coated seven-inch combo-edged steel blade. In this case, the edges and point had been dulled to avoid serious injury, but it still was capable of inflicting damage. Kirkland was unarmed.
Almeida feinted a couple of times, then attacked. He was quick. Kirkland was quicker. Using a smooth, flowing Tang Soo Do technique, he blocked Almeida’s thrust, applied a wristlock and swept him to the ground, disarming him at the same time.
Almeida landed hard on his back. For a moment he seemed slightly stunned. He looked back at Kirkland and a snarl formed on his lips. Jumping to his feet, he said, “You got lucky; that’s all.” He lowered his head and charged Kirkland. Using another sweeping technique, Kirkland threw him once again. Almeida hit the ground even harder this time.
After a few moments, he sat up and shook his head as if to clear it. When he was able, he climbed slowly to his feet. He looked around and spotted an axe used to chop firewood. Someone had left it resting against the trunk of a tree. He snatched it up and charged Kirkland again. As he raised the axe over his head, Larsen swept in with the speed of a jungle cat and yanked it out of Almeida’s grip. At the same moment, Thomas swung a heavily muscled forearm into Almeida’s exposed throat, clothes-lining him.
All activity in the camp stopped as everyone turned to watch the action. Almeida lay on the ground in pain, struggling to regain his breath following the blow. Thomas straddled him. Pale blue-gray eyes fixed on Almeida, he said, “Give it a rest, Rafe.” Almeida managed a nod as he massaged his throat. Thomas leaned down and grabbed the front of Almeida’s shirt. Swiftly, and without effort, he pulled him to his feet.
Almeida croaked, “Get your fuckin’ hands off me.” Thomas released him. And he staggered backward a step, then turned and stumbled toward the Cabin.
Whelan and Levell looked at each other for a moment then Levell motioned with his head toward Almeida’s retreating back. Whelan gave a nod in return and followed Almeida into the Cabin.
Inside, Almeida turned to him and said, “What the fuck do you want?” His voice was still raspy.
“It’s not what I want, Rafe. It’s what I have to do.”
“Fuck off, I ain’t got nothin’ to say.”
“Good, I’m not here to listen to you. You’re not in the same condition the rest of us are. And your attitude is worse.”
“So what. I’m more than a match for any Norm.”
“Maybe,” Whelan said, “but not as much as you should be. You’re putting the mission at risk. And you’re putting each one of us at risk. You’re the weak link, Rafe.”
“Yeah? So what are you gonna do, fire me?”
“It’s too late in the game for that.”
Almeida digested this last statement. “You mean you’re gonna snuff me. Jesus Christ! A guy is dealing with really shitty personal problems and his reward is to be killed. What the fuck!”
“Look, Rafe,” Whelan said, “I don’t want to see that happen either. We’ve known each other a long time, even been friends at times. You saved my ass when we were sent to assassinate Bosnian Serb commanders during the siege of Sarajevo in ’92, and the mission fell apart. But you’ve just about worn out your welcome here. Levell and McCoy are putting together an exercise that will wrap up our training. I’ve asked them to give you one more shot a
t proving you belong. But fuck this up, and it’s all over for you. Really over.”
Almeida slowly turned around, his gaze locked on the floor. “Thanks, Whelan,” he said softly, hoarsely. “I’ll give it my best.”
44 North Carolina Mountains
It was seven o’clock in the evening. Despite the effect of Daylight Savings Time, dusk had descended in the valleys of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The moon was only a sliver, but the thick covering of branches would have obscured even its full glory. The temperature, warmer during the day, had mellowed into the fifties. Dinner was over and the cooking crew had cleaned up and left for the day. Only six men remained at the Camp—Whelan, Larsen, Kirkland, Stensen, Thomas, and Almeida. They were sprawled in a rough circle around a small campfire, each grateful that the long, demanding training period was almost over. Levell and McCoy would roll out their final training operation in the morning. Following its successful completion, they would finally learn the nature of their mission.
Whelan sat on the soft, damp ground with his back against a towering Fraser fir. Something in the air akin to the scent of Christmas trees tantalized his memory. He thought of home. Ireland. And Caitlin, Sean and Declan. He took a sip of Black Bush from the coffee mug he was holding. The forest was quiet, but not silent. The sap-filled logs crackled softly as the fire consumed them. Insects clicked and buzzed. There were animal sounds far off in the distance. In the still night air, they seemed closer. Overhead, well above the tangled ceiling of branches, a small, single engine plane droned a lonely path across the dark, empty sky.
Larsen and Thomas were sharing a fallen log as a makeshift bench. Larsen was drinking his fourth Diet Coke of the evening, while Thomas matched him can for can. Kirkland sat on a tree stump sharpening his favorite wakizashi, a Japanese short sword with a blade less than two feet in length. Stensen lay on his back on the soft, decaying forest floor. His eyes were closed, though he wasn’t sleeping. Almeida sat cross-legged on the ground, a bottle of cheap tequila in the diamond shaped area formed by his legs. It had been full when he began; now, it was much closer to empty. He had a small towel laid over one of his thighs. It held slices of lime.
No one had spoken for a while, then Almeida said, “I’m glad this fuckin’ gig is almost over.” He took a pull from the tequila bottle and chased it with a bite of one of the lime slices.
“Is that so?” Stensen said without opening his eyes. “As if you have a life to go back to.”
Angrily, Almeida said, “Fuck you, you fuckin’ weirdo. I got plenty of life to go back to. Lotsa chicks. Big money jobs. The whole nine yards.”
“Really?” Stensen said mockingly. “If that’s so, why are you here in the first place, big shot?”
Almeida tried to ignore him by taking another slug of tequila.
Stensen continued. “You’re here for the money the Society’s paying us, because you haven’t got a pot to piss in.”
“Oh yeah, smartass? What are you doing here?” Almeida didn’t wait for a response. “I’ll fuckin’ tell you why you’re here. You’re a fuckin’ killer, plain and simple. Levell and the others offered you a chance to whet your bloodlust and you fuckin’ couldn’t say no.”
“Wow,” Stensen said. “Imagine a little redneck cretin knowing how to use words like ‘whet’ and ‘bloodlust’. And in the same sentence, too. There may be hope for America’s public school system after all.”
“All right,” Whelan growled, “get off each other’s ass and stay off.”
Larsen smiled the faintest of smiles and said, “The Alpha Wolf has spoken. Everyone take heed.”
Whelan chuckled and said, “You mocking me?”
Larsen broke into his non-menacing grin and raised his can of Diet Coke in salute. Whelan raised his mug in return. What a bunch of oddballs, he thought and shook his head.
“You know,” Thomas said, “Nick raised a good point. What the hell is each of us doing this for?” He turned to Larsen seated next to him.
The Man With No Neck laughed, a rare occurrence. “That’s easy. I’m getting away from my wife.”
Everyone laughed. To know Larsen was to know of the uneasy relationship he had always had with his wife, Sharon. And, like the others, he thrived on danger. Levell and McCoy were providing him with the opportunity to do both of the things he liked best.
“At the risk of stepping on your overly sensitive ego, Rafe, I think Nick pretty much spelled out what brought you here,” Thomas said. “But what about you, Nick? Why are you here?”
Stensen, still lying on the ground with his eyes closed and his hands underneath his head, stretched languidly and sighed. “It was time to move on. Civilization, with its twisted concept of justice, was closing in on me.”
“Twisted concept of justice?” Kirkland said. “You mean society’s ideas of fair trials, lengthy appeals and decades before actually executing perps, or maybe just letting them go because prisons are crowded or for some other inane reason?”
“Yep, that would be it,” Stensen said.
Kirkland nodded thoughtfully. “I see your point.”
“So, what brought you back, Marc?” Thomas said.
Kirkland looked up into the rapidly gathering darkness for a few moments before saying, “Do you guys remember watching reruns as a kid of an old TV western called ‘Have Gun, Will Travel’?”
“Yeah, I do,” Almeida said. The others nodded.
“It was about a gun for hire in the Old West. A guy named Paladin traveled around helping people who were being oppressed by the ugly side of human nature.” Kirkland paused and sighted down the razor sharp edge of the wakizashi’s blade, turning it slowly, lovingly in his hands, first one way then the other. Satisfied with what he saw, he leaned down and laid it gently on a cloth next to his right foot. “The show must have made a real impression on me, because that’s what I do for a living.” He looked at Whelan. “Like that little job at Remy’s bar down in Louisiana.”
Whelan nodded in remembrance. He said, “So, this operation gives you three squares a day, decent cash flow, and a chance to continue righting wrongs.”
“That pretty much covers it,” Kirkland said. He turned toward Thomas. “All right, Quentin, why’s a guy with a cush job in academia risking his neck?”
“Yeah,” Almeida said, “and with all that college pussy around to hit on, you’re either out of your mind or gay.”
Thomas ignored the comment and drained his Coke, dropping it next to the three empties at his feet. “Well, dudes, it’s really very simple. Yes, I’m in a good situation, and it’s better than I imagined it would be. But there’s just one thing.” He paused for effect and grinned. “I couldn’t live with myself if I let you bozos go off and screw up a mission or get yourselves killed.”
There was a momentary silence, then the others laughed and hooted. “Shit,” Almeida said, “if it wasn’t for watchin’ out for your black ass, this mission wouldn’t be very challenging.”
Thomas laughed. It came out a deep rumble, like distant thunder. “Spoken like a true red neck, Rafe.”
Slowly, one by one, all heads turned toward Whelan. “What about it, Bren. You have a family and a good life in Ireland. What brings you here?” Thomas said.
“Yeah,” Almeida said, “you’re not even an American. Why should your Irish ass give a shit about the US of A?”
“Actually, Rafe, I was born in Ireland, but naturalized as an American citizen in my teens. Under the laws of Ireland and the US, I’m a citizen of both countries.”
Almeida had a puzzled look on his face. “I think you’re making that shit up.”
“Ignore the evil dwarf,” Kirkland said. “Tell us what brought you back to the unit.”
Whelan picked up a twig from the ground and examined it. “It’s the same reason each of you is here. Like it or not, we were born for this.” He began to doodle in the soft earth with the twig. “Plus Levell and the others believe the future of this country is in danger. If they’re right, none of us wan
ts to see that happen.”
“Ah,” Thomas said, “the age old battle between good and evil. The yin and the yang.”
“That’s not quite correct, Professor” said Kirkland. “Yin yang merely expresses the interdependence between seemingly polar opposites, not the irrevocable divide between good and evil.”
Thomas stared at Kirkland for moment. “Thanks for clearing that up, Obi Wan.”
“Quentin does get my point,” Whelan said. “If the light goes out here, it will be extinguished around the world. I don’t want my children and grandchildren to inherit that nightmare.
“Levell, McCoy, and all the other members of the Society are risking their lives and fortunes to stop it if they can. So it really is as simple as choosing between good and evil.” He turned his head slowly and made eye contact with each of the others, one by one.
No one was laughing now. “Damn, dude,” Thomas said after a while. “At this point, do you think the six of us can make a difference?”
“Of course. Ordinary people make a difference everyday. And we’re anything but ordinary.”
45 Final Exercise
Levell and McCoy were satisfied with the results of what they termed “booster training”, the preceding six months of conditioning, combat simulation, and other exercises designed to scrape twenty years of rust off the Dogs’ unique skillsets. But they first wanted to test the results of the training. They, along with other members of the Society from the highest levels of the Department of Defense and the CIA, had carefully planned a final exercise. For participants in the exercise, a ten-man squad of the Second Platoon, Bravo Company, Third Battalion of the Army’s Seventy-Fifth Ranger Regiment was chosen. The unit was a special operations combat formation, and among the U.S. Army Special Operation Command’s most agile and mobile forces.
Sleeping Dogs: The Awakening Page 22
