by J.M. LeDuc
Chapter 12
The base had been totally dismantled in the two week break. Nothing stood except for the cement hangar in the middle of the property. The four men sat around a table in a small room which had been designated as the control room during the exercise.
“As you have probably surmised,” Seven drawled, “what you men were put through was no ordinary training exercise.” He eyed the troops. They were stone faced. “When the President and Joint Chiefs put this little shindig together they were looking for the best of the best and hoping you all would fail.” Seven’s final words shocked the men.
Seven stood and balanced himself on his crutches. He pulled out his tobacco tin, pinched off a bit, and stuck it behind his lower lip. “It seems I have some explaining to do.”
“It seems you do,” Brent said.
Jefferson balled up his fists in anger. “Damn right, you do.”
“Yep,” was all Fitz said.
Seven spit in his cup. “Man, where do I begin?”
“Beginning always seems to work for me,” Brent answered.
Seven sat back down and nodded. “What I’m about to say is above top secret and you’ll never be able to prove or disprove any of it, so don’t try. Understood?”
Everyone nodded.
“Five years ago, the Armed Forces tried to put together the best men available from all of the Special Forces for what was to be the greatest counter-terrorist force this world has ever seen.”
Brent could see Seven’s pulse start to quicken. He stood up and went behind a make-shift bar and grabbed a bottle of sixty year old, single malt whisky. He poured four glasses and passed them around.
“Something tells me, we’re all going to need this.”
Seven tossed his down without a second thought and then poured himself another.
“Mistakes were made. We didn’t know it at the time, but it didn’t take long for them to come to light,” Seven said. “The first mistake was that the squad was one hundred strong. A great group of soldiers, shit, a great group. The best I’d ever seen—until now.”
“Why was that a mistake?” Fitz asked.
“As you can imagine,” Seven said, “everything was extremely covert. There were just too many men to watch over twenty four hours a day, seven days a week.” He tossed down the second shot and continued. “Anyway, on to the second mistake. The troops were chosen by Admiral Metcalf and General Stanton: two of the joint chiefs.”
“Why was that a mistake?”
Seven looked at Jefferson. “It made them partial towards their own branches of the service. Animosity grew within the ranks.” He waved off further questions. “But still, those matters could be dealt with.”
“Seven, this all sounds personal. Were you one of the hundred?” Brent asked.
Seven nodded.
Brent swigged his shot and filled the glasses all around.
“Our first mission was to dismantle a drug cartel in Somalia,” Seven said. “That’s where the third mistake was made. We were given our orders forty eight hours prior to leaving.” Seven took a deep breath. Anger surfaced as he continued. “The brass should have never given us orders and sent us home. They should have kept us in one area until we left.”
Fitz started to sweat. “What happened?”
“Men talk to wives, wives talk to friends, and on down the line,” Brent interjected.
Seven nodded. “When we engaged the enemy, we were caught in a cluster. A real shit storm. When the shooting started, all our training went out the window. Too many men going in too many directions.”
“Divide and conquer,” Brent mumbled.
“What?” Jefferson asked.
Brent went to explain, but Seven finished for him. “The rebels were able to cut us off from each other and disable our communications equipment. Men panicked.” Seven picked up his glass and then thought otherwise. “Men died.” His voice trembled as he finished. “Ninety three men died. The rest of us were able to escape through the jungle.
“When we arrived back home, Project Phoenix was disbanded.”
“I knew there was a Phoenix,” Jefferson barked.
“Yeah, Sergeant, there was a Phoenix,” Seven said. “It was considered a black mark on the U.S. military. Right up there with Custer at Little Big Horn. I was so disgusted, I left the force and . . .” This time he didn’t hesitate when he picked up the glass. He tossed it back, like water. “I went back to Somalia with three of the other survivors and sought revenge on the cartel. Killed every last one of them.
“I assumed that the three others who went with me had left the service also. I was wrong. They were AWOL. We received word that we were considered criminals back in the states. The three were apprehended by military police entering an allied country. I managed to stay out of sight and decided that if I couldn’t fight within the system, I would fight outside the system.”
“You became a mercenary?”
Seven nodded. “Yes, Lieutenant, I became a soldier for hire. Two years ago, I received word that my mother died. I came back to pay my respects and was arrested at her funeral. I spent twenty three months in Bragg and then Admiral Metcalf paid me a visit. He told me of his plan to put together another squad.
“If Phoenix was such a big mistake, why would the Joint Chiefs and the President want to try to put another squad together?”
“They didn’t, Professor.”
“I’m confused,” Brent said.
“Me, too,” Jefferson added.
Fitzpatrick just crossed his arms and slouched.
“It had become a battle of egos. A pissing match between Metcalf and President Mitchell,” Seven explained. “Metcalf went to the president with my file of extracurricular activities. He said if one man could accomplish what was in that file, then an elite squad could accomplish even more. Mitchell refused at first, but eventually gave in with certain stipulations.”
“Stipulations?” Brent said.
“Will you shut up and let me finish,” Seven said.
Brent held out his hands as if to say, ‘the stage is all yours’.
“The president wanted to prove that no man, no matter how good of a soldier, could pass the training suggested by Metcalf, and the Admiral agreed as long as I was allowed to lead the exercise.” Seven grabbed a box from behind the bar and limped back to the table.
“I didn’t want any part of a doomed experiment, but I owed the man. He stood up for me at my trial and if it weren’t for him, I don’t want to think what my sentence might have been. He said he could have my sentence retracted, my slate wiped clean if I would run this exercise.”
“So you set us up to fail,” Jefferson said.
“No, I knew if I could find the right men, a force like Metcalf envisioned could work, so I agreed on certain terms.”
“Which were?” Brent asked.
Seven held up a finger. “One, I picked the trainees. You began this exercise with members of all the Armed Forces regardless of rank as well as a few ‘people’ I met during my solo years.” Another finger went up. “Two, I picked the location of the exercise, and three,” up went the last finger on his right hand, “the squad would be four men, not one hundred.” Seven repacked his lip and spit. “But . . .”
“We were supposed to fail,” Brent said. “The only problem is we didn’t.” He leaned in across the table. “So, now what do you do with us?”
“This is where it gets a little dicey,” Seven drawled.
“This is where it gets dicey?” Jefferson said. “Damn, I forgot we were at Disneyland before now.”
Seven smiled. “You see, Metcalf won. President Mitchell wasn’t too happy about that. He said that he had agreed to a squad of four and only three men made it, therefore the point was moot.” He paused to spit and take a sip of water. “That’s where I came in to save the day.”
Fitz cocked his head to the side like a confused dog. “Huh.”
“This was set up to be a four man squad and that’
s what it will be.” Seven eyed each man, “I’m the fourth.”
Jefferson leaned back in his chair and laughed. “Shit, I got to take my orders from you? Damn.”
“ ‘Fraid not, Sergeant.”
Jefferson righted himself. “Now I’m as confused as Fitz.”
“Let me finish and then everything will be clear.”
“Clear as mud,” Jefferson said.
Seven raised his eyebrows and nodded. “President Mitchell was and is still not in favor of this squad. He said that if we, Admiral Metcalf and I, wanted to proceed then we would be on our own. The squad would be paid by the U.S. government, sort of, but neither the government nor the military would ever come to our aid if we were in trouble. We would never be sanctioned by the United States. Our country would deny any knowledge of our existence.”
Jefferson sighed. “Like I said, clear as mud.”
Seven sucked on his lower lip. “It gets muddier, Sergeant.” He stood up again and leaned his arms on the table. “Here’s the hard truth, gentlemen. One of the main criteria I used when choosing the original five hundred trainees was that they could have no family.”
“What?” Brent said.
“Each of you has no living relatives.” Seven went around the table. “Venturi, your parents died when you were two. You were raised by your grandfather who is now deceased. Jefferson, you were raised by your mother who was killed in a drive-by when you were sixteen. Your father is, well, he never was in the picture. Fitzpatrick, you were raised in an orphanage in Ireland and then in foster care until you were eighteen and old enough to join the Army.”
“What’s your point?”
“The point is, Professor that President Mitchell’s one safety measure was that none of you will be missed when you’re gone.”
“Gone!” Jefferson said. “Where the hell are we going?”
Seven leaned in once more. “If you choose to take this assignment, you will be going off the grid and I mean totally off the grid. Your identities will be wiped. It will be as if you never existed. Your paycheck will be deposited in a numbered offshore account and you’ll be given aliases that will change often. There will be one person in the Pentagon who will know of our existence and she and she alone will be our contact. All our orders will come through her to Captain Venturi.”
“Venturi?” Jefferson said.
“Captain?” Brent exclaimed.
“I know a leader when I see one,” Seven said. “If everyone agrees to this assignment, Captain Venturi will lead Sergeant Fitzpatrick, Sergeant Major Jefferson, and me.” Seven saw their smiles. “Before you get all excited, remember that no one will know you ever got these promotions. As far as anyone knows, we were all killed on that mountain. If any of you decide not to accept the assignment, we will have all been found and will eventually be sent back to our present companies. I have to stress this is an all or nothing decision and your answers will be kept secret.”
Seven pulled contracts out of the box he had put on the table and along with their promotions, he passed them around. “You have twenty four hours to decide. We meet back here tomorrow at twelve hundred hours.”
Brent took a pen out of his pocket, signed his contract and passed it back to Seven.
“I seem to have left mine in my uniform, may I borrow your pen, Captain?” Jefferson asked.
Brent passed him the pen and Jefferson signed his name on the dotted line.
Fitzpatrick proceeded to do the same.
Seven stood up, smiled and then broke into a thunderous laugh.
“Welcome to the Phantom Squad, boys.”
Look for “Cursed Days”
September 2012
Cryptic messages written in Old Testament languages.
A pleading from the Vatican.
The probability of terrorist involvement.
And that’s just the beginning of “Cursed Days.”
Brent Venturi and the Phantom Squad will go in search for what the ancients have called ‘the messengers’. At stake, the mythical Ark of the Covenant.
Some say the ark contains divine powers: powers of heaven and hell. Some say it was destroyed along with Solomon’s Temple. Others say it was stolen by King Solomon’s son and taken to Egypt. Only the messengers know for sure.
In the third installment of The Trilogy of The Chosen, the Covenant Team will race throughout the Middle East in search of the messengers and the ultimate prize, but they are not alone. The Brotherhood of Gaza is also in the hunt. Their motive . . . world domination.
The only clues to the search were written at the time of Moses. The only rules to the search: The Chosen One must take the ones who came before him. His only warning: Evil Finds A Way!
Welcome to “Cursed Days,” where every day could be the last.
About the Author
J. M. LeDuc is a writer of inspirational fiction; in the thriller genre. He is a native Bostonian, who transplanted to south Florida in 1985. What started out as a reprieve from the cold weather became a permanent move due to meeting and falling in love with his wife of twenty-three years, a native Floridian; Sherri. They are the proud parents of a twenty year-old daughter; Chelsea.
When asked, why he writes, J. M. responds, “The answer is actually quite simple: It’s just part of who I am. I was blessed to have had a mother (under whose maiden name I write) who loved the written word, and passed that passion on to me. When I was eight years old I was diagnosed with a rare congenital joint disease which prohibited me from playing sports, so all my adventure was pursued through writing and reading. By the time I reached high-school the doctors gave me permission to actively participate in sports and I threw myself into the fray headfirst.
“I started out with snow skiing and quickly added the adrenaline rush of skydiving, scuba diving, and triathlon racing. My adrenaline pumping adventures culminated by competing as a bull and bareback rider on the rodeo circuit out in Colorado and Wyoming. I later got into survival/adventure racing, in which the races would last from 4-5 hours to 4-5 days.
“My competitive days quickly came to an end with bilateral hip replacements in both 2000 and 2003. From that moment on I once again turned my adventurous spirit inward and quenched my thirst for adventure through my writing. You’ll find that many of the activities that I have been personally involved in become part of the protagonist’s personality.”
J. M. is an active member of the Mystery Writers of America, Florida Writers Association, and the Christian Writers Guild.
You can contact J.M. LeDuc at [email protected].
