Abby would never again underestimate the value of being warm.
December 12th
Have you ever heard of the expression “bone cracking cold” Mr. Journal? The thermometer tells me it’s a pleasant 12 degrees Fahrenheit outside, and I can see the wind blowing the trees back and forth in the faint moonlight. I would hate to not have heat right now. When it gets this cold, people die even with heat.
How am I you ask? I am pretty Fucking A Mr. Journal. Huzzah for painkillers. I’m trying hard as hell to moderate my vikes so I don’t get dependant on them. I knew a few guys in the Army who got a little hooked on pain killers and it was hell for them to get clean. Last thing I need to do is take a few too many because I can’t deal with the pain and wind up getting addicted. I already have enough fucking problems without that. More shit going on than a one armed wall paper hanger.
Speaking of problems! My infection seems to have halted its forward progress. The ink lines I drew a few days ago are mostly gone, but enough of them are still there that I can see the redness hasn’t moved. The little red line is gone too. The pain has subsided dramatically as well, and that’s not just the vicodin talking. It’s really much better. Very fucking stiff, and it’s still difficult to get around, but we are miles away from where we were a few days ago. My right foot is almost all better. Being off my feet all day yesterday and today has done a world of good. There are a few ugly little bruises that are dark purple where the teeth got me, but as long as I don’t hit them on something it’s fine.
As you can imagine, it’s been a little slow around the homestead. I haven’t been outside since I got in on the 9th after my pharmacy shenanigans. I moved the recliner closer to the windows of the common room here in Hall E so I can see the campus grounds a little better. I’ve got a decent vantage point where I’m sitting to the front door, and as long as I’m not blacked out from the painkillers I think I’ve got it under control. I can easily shoot the .22 while sitting here so it should be all good.
I’ve been carefully tending my potted plants. Sheer thrill for you there. I put away all the food I got from the two houses I cleared before the farmhouse the other day. I beat off twice. Pretty sweet.
Oh I sorted those sports cards. Lots of really cool stuff. Nothing super duper old but a lot of great cards. I could definitely open my own card shop if the world suddenly rights itself. Like that’s happening.
So I am as bored as plywood Mr. Journal, and I have nothing but time on my hands. I think I’ve got an hour or two before the pain pill I’m about to take shitcans my ability to form crappy sentences, so I think I’ll tell you a little bit about myself. I haven’t talked much about myself lately, well actually I haven’t talked at all about myself. Lots of little mentions of things here and there, but no real stories, or information. It’s long overdue that you learn a little bit about me the person.
I shall remedy that! Slowly but surely. I also wanted to fill in the story about my second trip to Moore’s and the few weird things that happened between late June and mid September when I started the journal. Not a ton to talk about there, but enough to get a good entry in or two. With no new info coming in while I heal, I might as well tell you about older shit.
I grew up in a small town in the middle of nowhere near the east coast. Millions of people grow up in towns just like it all over the world. As a kid I hiked, fished, played a lot of sports with my brothers, and read profusely. I was the rare jock-nerd. I played football, specifically Tight End and Linebacker. I also played some baseball. I was a catcher. I got scouted for football but nothing ever came of it. My brother Caleb was offered basketball scholarships to several places but declined to go in the Marines instead. Always thought he was moron for that.
I had a little trouble with the ladies until I was a senior in high school. My mother was quite frankly a bitch to us kids, and I think I was scared of girls until I realized it. I’m still not sure what my mom’s issues were, but my brothers and I always thought that she was angry about marrying our dad because she was pregnant. I think she always felt like she missed out on something because of us kids. Whatever. She was snarky with us our whole childhoods and we resented her for it. We knew she loved us, but she took shit out on us a lot. Spiteful bitch, I think is the phrase. I think I was scared any girlfriend I fell in love with would either be just like her, or get scared off by her, so I avoided any kind of real relationship with girls.
Don’t get me wrong, I had some fun, but I was unable to take it seriously. I really feel bad now, years later about it. I misled a lot of young girls for selfish reasons and I can’t take it back or say sorry about it. I just hope they look back on their relationships with me as fondly as I look back on them myself. The ignorance of youth I suppose. I wish I was brave enough to be a more honest kid. Regret is a motherfucker.
My whole family revolved around the military. My grandfather served in the Army, my father did 8 years in the Air Force, my older brother Caleb did 4 years in the Marines, I wound up doing 5 years in the Army, my two younger brothers Tommy and William were both still active duty Navy when it all went down. I hope they’re okay somewhere on a boat, or in a base.
Service was a thing in our household. My father didn’t expect us to serve in the armed forces, but all us boys knew we would. It was the Ring measuring stick. How far could you go? Were we more bad-ass than dad? I think of all of us my brother Tommy was the most bad-ass. He was one of those freaks of nature that could run jump and swim forever. He went into the SEAL teams out in Coronado and thrived there. We didn’t get to see him much. Those guys are always out fighting somewhere now. God I miss him. I think he and I were the closest.
I joined straight out of college in ‘99. I realized that after I finished my business degree I wouldn’t use it. Oops, right? I really wanted to make my dad proud, and I really always wanted to follow in my grandfather’s footsteps in the Army. During college I satisfied my hunger for action by working as a bouncer and bodyguard. Saw some impressive shit those years. I couldn’t even tell you how many times I’ve laid hands in a rough manner on people. I moonlighted for a few security places around here after I got out of the military too. Free concerts, late nights with pretty girls. It’s addicting, the thrill of confrontation. Good times.
All of my family called me an idiot ground pounder for going green, but I was happy. I enlisted as infantry, and I got my wish. Right after I finished all my infantry schools 9/11 happened. It was a good time to be a grunt I guess.
My units never deployed to Afghanistan, but we did eventually get sent in to Iraq when we invaded. I did one tour in Iraq from early ’03 to a little over halfway through ’04. Remember when Bush declared the end of combat operations? I was on a plane heading over there when he gave that speech and I assure you, there were plenty of combat operations.
My best friend in the Army was a guy that I met right after I went into my unit. Kevin Whitten. When we met he was Specialist Whitten, just like me, but when I left the Army he was Sergeant Whitten. He and I were acorns from the same oak tree. You want to talk about a hardcore motherfucker.
He and I were on the same fire team our whole tour in Baghdad. I would gladly have fed both of my balls to Cujo back at the farmhouse to have him here right now. He and I both re-enlisted when our stop-loss ended at the tail of ’04. We were insane, not gonna lie. Kicking in doors, patrols through al-Mansour, firefights with the Mehdi Army, convoy protective details on Route Irish, shit it was hardcore. We did everything, we volunteered for every QRF detail we could. I think Whitten did it trying to get me to tap out so he could finally admit he was scared too, but neither of us did. Too proud to admit any fear. We were lucky idiots.
When we re-enlisted we did it under the condition we could go to Ranger School. We both wanted to be elite, and RIP, or the Ranger Indoctrination Program was one of the Army’s first steps to get there. We sailed through the initial 61 day school like champs. We were near the top of the class coming out of the Florida phase o
f the school and we had inquiries coming at us to join the 75th Ranger Regiment. Those guys are fringe Special Operations Mr. Journal. Borderline black ops shit. Happy as could be, us two.
We returned to Fort Benning in Georgia and that’s when my wheels came off. It was the ass end of ’04 and we were killing time until the graduation ceremony. One of the DIs at the school invited us out for some drinks that night at his apartment off base to celebrate, and we went. Kevin and I got completely trashed. We were so proud of the fact that not only had we kicked Ranger School’s ass, but we’d done it and bested almost everyone else. We wound up crashing at the drill instructor’s place that night.
The next day we were brought up before our company commander and summarily ass invaded. We were told that we were essentially AWOL, and we were to be thrown under a bus, driven over, then backed over again for good measure. Our careers in the special operations community was over before it began. Kevin had no college education, his family had nothing. He was dirt poor South Boston Irish all the way and if he got rolled from this, his life was over. He’d work in a fish packing plant in Quincy if he was lucky. If just I got rolled, I would be fine.
I offered myself up. I told my platoon commander I’d accept the court martial and full responsibility if Kevin was allowed to skate. After some screaming at me he took it up the chain of command, and it was done. A few days later the paperwork was finished, and I got discharged the day before graduation. One day I’m riding on the clouds, the next day I’m booking a plane ticket home trying to figure out how I was going to tell my parents I was kicked out of the Army.
It’s not all bad news. My platoon commander was an asshole, but he pulled some strings and had the discharge written up as a medical separation. Apparently I had a chronic ankle problem that precluded me from a military life. His “favor” saved me the dishonorable discharge. That would’ve been a death sentence on my record I think. The real treat was when Kevin dropped me off at the airport.
He and I bullshitted about everything, about some of our crazy times in Iraq, and all over the place. Soldiers find the craziest ways to entertain themselves. Makes for great stories. We laughed a lot as we waited for my plane. Anyway, Kevin hugs me, and puts something in my hand. It was about three inches long or so, and made of fabric. He shook my hand and told me the squad felt I had earned it, and he hugged me one last time and left me.
After he left I opened my hand and looked. It was my Ranger tab. I hadn’t graduated, but the guys in my squad felt I’d earned it. I can’t even tell you what that feels like. My men, my boys, my fellow brothers felt I’d EARNED the tab.
Fuck Uncle Sam.
I heard from Kevin quite a bit after that. He did three years in the 75th Rangers and wound up seeing some bad news bears shit. Those guys have a very high operational tempo, always deploying. Somewhere in northern Iraq he took some shrapnel from a VBIED and got discharged medically. A legitimate medical discharge that is. A few months later he had his DD214 all squared away and was working for private military contractors all over the world. He called me a few months before everything went south and told me he was on his way overseas working for the State Department doing executive protection for some high falootin diplomat. Hope he’s ok. I tell you this with complete certainty, if there’s anyone that is okay, it is him.
That’s my military life. Lots of highs, lots of lows. I wouldn’t do it again, but I’m glad I did it. I told my family the real story, and they understood. Actually my dad understood, my mom didn’t care either way. Shit like that happens in the military more often than you know. Neither of my younger brothers have had any problems like mine though, and I’m happy for them. Maybe they learned from my mistake.
After getting out in ’04 I wasn’t sure what to do with myself. My old buddy Steve, the one I already told you about Mr. Journal, worked here at Auburn Lake PA. He asked if I was interested, and I interviewed, liked the idea of doing damn little and getting paid for it, and I took the job. I’ve been here ever since.
So that’s a lot more about me. I think I might try and build up the testicular fortitude to talk about Cassie soon. Maybe tomorrow or the next day. It’s still very sensitive for me. This week has been strangely good about my feelings, but I ‘m gonna chalk that up to the power of the pain killers washing my memories away Mr. Journal.
Tomorrow I will try and tell the story of how we met. Tell you a little bit about her. I might even try and explain why I never married her. I should probably try and figure that out too. I’m still not sure why I didn’t.
Talk to you tomorrow Mr. Journal. Thanks for listening.
Sua Sponte.
-Adrian
Jerusalem
Tel Aviv Israel, 0515 local time
“This’ll be a pretty standard in and out. Myself, the Senator, Kyle and the aide will be in the middle vehicle. Lead vehicle will be team A with Alan, John G, Mike, and Quan. Tail vehicle will be team B and will have John F, Corey, Nate and the other two aides. It’ll be a little cramped, but it’s a short trip to the ribbon cutting in Jerusalem.” Kevin Whitten addressed his team of operators from a plush high backed leather office chair. They all sat around a ridiculously expensive long mahogany table deep in a subbasement of the U.S. Embassy in Tel Aviv Israel. The walls were a neutral beige color and the lighting was harsh and fluorescent.
Kevin shuffled the paperwork in front of him detailing the trip for later that morning and looked for any information he might’ve missed. He had aerial photography, CIA intelligence reports, FBI input forms, and the written statements of a half dozen locals that worked covertly for the embassy doing information gathering. Everything on the paperwork said easy in, easy out. Kevin was always suspicious of anything that had the word “easy” on it.
Kevin was dressed like the rest of his team in the room. He wore khaki cargo pants that were fitted close. No extra fabric or loops to catch as he moved. He wore a plain dark blue button up shirt over a $5,000 ballistics vest. Slung low on his right thigh was his handgun, a Glock. He had a plain white baseball cap and sitting in front of him on the expensive table were his Wiley X ballistic sunglasses. Even sitting you could tell Kevin was a rugged man. Not a large man by any means, barely reaching five foot nine, but his body was corded, and his shoulders broad. His weathered skin showed years of rough living, but his eyes showed the life of someone who’d felt a lot of adrenaline. Kevin would eternally be the 13 year old boy adventuring wherever he went. Now, he carried real guns instead of BB guns.
Kevin’s team was dressed nearly the same as him. Like him they all wore the same style pants, and had the same button up shirts and bulletproof vests, but none had his white cap. They either had no hats at all, or they wore dark colored baseball caps. Kevin was what they called a white cap, or a protective detail leader.
These men were all employees of Warden Protective Group, or WPG. WPG was a newly formed private military contracting company that had been picked up by the U.S. State Department to fill in the void with diplomatic security overseas. Each of the men and women that were operators for the company were decorated veterans of various militaries from across the world. Kevin was thankful to have his British, Australian and Vietnamese men with him. WPG hired the best to protect the best.
“We are rolling in 2 hours. Team leaders will have HK416’s, and team A will be full gear as well. Team A is the counterassault force if needed.” Kevin rifled through the paperwork again, noting the relative calm Jerusalem had experienced of late. Pleasant change of pace he thought to himself. “Extraction location is here at the Embassy. If that fails we’ll extract to Ben Gurion airport in Lod. Drivers make sure you know the route in and out. It’s all in your briefings.”
“Kevin, how long are we going to be out for? I have a video conference call with my wife and kid at noon?” Alan, the leader of Team A and the detail’s sole British representative asked. He was a tall ex SAS member and if you didn’t know he was a trained killer, you’d of thought he belonged selling
you your home insurance. Alan scratched his graying goatee as he waited for Kevin to answer.
“Shit Alan I would guess you’re gonna miss it. Sorry mate.” Kevin winced at his longtime compatriot. Kevin had put his years in, and he hated shooting down the older guys with families. In this profession, there were too many long trips, and far too much danger to miss phone calls home. Plus he knew Alan’s wife and little daughter personally. He’d spent a few leaves with them at their flat in Manchester.
“It’s alright man. I’ll just call home later.” Alan scratched his bald head trying to hide his frustration. Everyone hated it when they missed a chance to call home.
“Alright, two hours, make sure your gear is ready to roll and double check the three SUVs. I want a full comms check on the vehicles as well as our personal mics. All signs point to a calm day for us folks, and now that I've jinxed us all, dismissed.” The team all stood up and left, heading off to take care of their last minute tasks. Waiting in the hallway was a cheap suit wearing junior aide to the Embassy staff. He looked Jewish to Kevin, dark skin, dark hair. The yarmulke was a dead giveaway he thought. In his hand he held a sheaf of papers.
“Come in.” Kevin sipped his coffee as the young official strutted in urgently.
“Mr. Whitten this briefing just got released by the DOS. Senator Henke thought you should see it. He thought it might be of use to you.” The aide held the paperwork out as it if were the Holy Grail itself. He had a serious look as if this single briefing was going to change the world. Kevin stifled a laugh at the seriousness the kid exhibited. No briefing was ever that important he thought.
Kevin recalled his name finally, “Thanks Aaron, you making the trip to the ribbon cutting with us?” Kevin sat the folder down on the huge mahogany desk in front of him and sipped his hot coffee again. Black, with a smidge of sugar.
Alone No More Page 13
