by John O'Brien
“But, with that said, the Organization takes very good care of its people. You’ve seen some of that here. If required, we have our own hospitals and medical clinics available. Primary health care is with civilian facilities, but paid for by the Organization as outlined in your contract.”
“I may have to actually read through that,” McCafferty comments.
“You’re not the only one,” Gonzalez says.
That widens the scope of what I’ve become enmeshed in. If they have their own facilities, then they are much larger than the image I had rattling around in my head. I had assumed this was some shadow government operation, and it still might be, but for a group with this kind of resources, there would be rumors. Shadow groups are exactly that: shadows, the hint of what cast them. I wonder just how extensive this organization is; international involvement? Worldwide? Where do this many resources come from? All governmental monies, even for shadow organizations, have to pass through congressional funding. Although there aren’t specifics mentioned, black budget ops still have to get their money, usually in the form of three-thousand-dollar toilet seats and seven-hundred-dollar hammers. But this? Hammers aren’t going to pay for this.
“Okay, I get having to keep teams separate and the secrecy, but how can you do that within a hospital environment?” I question.
“Well, if a hospital is needed, then it is. However, it isn’t a service that is utilized much. The selection process sees to that. But, if you do find yourself in one, there are private rooms, and you have to remain in them. There’s no wandering the halls without explicit permission, and even then, you’ll always have an escort,” Lynn answers.
“Are we still in the selection process?” Gonzalez asks.
“Yes and no. The process is a continual one. But, you can consider this a probationary period,” Lynn replies.
“For the team, or as individuals?” Gonzalez further asks.
“Yes,” Lynn responds. “Now, enough of the questions. I’m retiring to a comfy chair and a good book.”
Lynn pushes back and rises, depositing her plates and tray into their proper places. I watch as she walks through the dining facility and out the door.
Damn, why couldn’t I get some guy, or at least someone homely? I’ve done something to piss off the Creator.
“Jack?” Greg says, a smile on his lips.
“What?” I reply, glaring at his insinuation.
I notice the others smiling at me, their eyes alight with mirth.
“Fuck you all,” I say, rising and heading back to my room.
* * * * * *
The training continues until we are automatically reacting to situations and each other. In the background of each of our minds is the knowledge that this isn’t for normal combat, but none of us mentions that we’ll be chasing nightmares. That still seems to be beyond my ability to comprehend. Perhaps the others feel that way as well, thus the reason it remains in the background. One day, I pull Lynn aside.
“Look, there is such a thing as too much training. I feel we’ve reached a pinnacle here. Training is one thing, but there’s nothing like proving the team in the field. You know that. I think we need an assignment that will cement the teamwork and the confidence we’ve built,” I say.
“You think you’re ready?” Lynn questions.
“Well, I’m not such a fool as to think we’re ready for monsters…and may never be. And certainly not something like penetrating the Lubyanka, but I do think we’re ready for something a little easier,” I answer.
“Have you ever done that?” Lynn queries with a smile.
“Done what?”
“Broken into the FSB Headquarters,” she responds.
“How far do NDAs extend?”
“Not past the issuing agency and/or personnel annotated on them,” Lynn replies.
“Well, there you go,” I state.
“How’s your Russian?”
“I tend not to rush anywhere…or into anything,” I reply.
“I’ll see what I can find. In actuality, most of the missions you’ll be sent on will be relatively mundane. We take them on to keep everyone sharp, because like you said, too much training, like too much downtime, and the edge becomes dulled.”
Chapter Seven
We remain a few more days in the training facility, mostly to rest up and conduct table top exercises. In addition, we discuss and practice various entry methods. Early one morning, while bags are lugged to a nearby airfield, the drone of a C-130 penetrates the chilled air. Landing in a cloud of dust, the gray behemoth rolls to a stop and drops the back ramp. The Air National Guard aircraft markings and the flight-suit-clad crew members don’t escape my notice. Although they look military, my gut feeling is that it’s just a cover; that the aircraft and crew are part of the Organization. If so, I may ask for my own 130 to be assigned to us. Mostly just for the sheer pleasure of jumping back into the cockpit—most of our operations won’t be to the local fast food joint with the car parked in the lot.
After taking a seat inside the cargo compartment, the rear ramp doors raise, and the training facility slowly vanishes until it becomes a thin line, then gone. The drone of the two engines still turning is a familiar one, the low heavy hum causing the entire aircraft to vibrate. The remaining engines are started, and before long, they spool up as the 130 begins rolling down the dirt strip. The deck tilts upward, becoming steeper until it seems as if the aircraft is hanging on its propellers. There’s a sinking feeling in my gut as the nose is pushed forward and the angle lessened.
Combat takeoff. Nice. Fuck, I miss that shit.
Long rides in the back of a 130 are best spent immersed in a book. It’s loud, the droning making it necessary to shout, cold, and filled with the ever-present vibrations. However, after some time, that all can be pushed into the background. But, on this ride, we have presents to open once we reach altitude. Crates stored within are opened, and we grope through the contents like a group of seven-year-olds on Christmas morning.
The carbines are an M-4 derivative chambered for a 6.5mm round, which will give us a bit more stopping power than the standard one. That will make the chance for battlefield ammo replacements next to nil—it’s a new round, not likely to be found lying around. We’ll have to pack what we need. We could add weight and carry broken down M-4s, but I don’t see myself putting one together in the midst of a firefight. And, if we do find ammo, then there will likely be unused weapons lying about as well.
The weapons come with a variety of modifications that are similar to the SOPMOD II block of upgrades. I note some exceptions. Instead of having a separate night vision and thermal scope, these are combined into one unit. A SpectreDR style sight is included, but altered with a 6.5mm ballistic drop reticle. It’s a heavy scope to lug around, but I like the ability to quickly change from a close-range to a longer distance sight picture. The 6.5mm ammo we’ll be supplied with are subsonic rounds, but Lynn informs us that we’ll be able to use many variants depending upon our requirements. Henderson and Denton receive upgraded replacements for their M110s, each with match-grade barrels and subsonic ammunition.
Taking a closer look at each of the mods, I notice a few minor variations. Pointing these out, Lynn tells me the suppressor is modified to use the gas pressure to reduce recoil without altering the pressures surrounding the bullet and therefore throwing it off target. It’s also designed to make minimal noise.
“The brass hitting the carpet will be louder,” she assures me.
Our NVGs also have thermal capabilities. Overall, I’m again impressed at the capabilities of the Organization—some of our toys are still just prototypes, still being developed by various think tanks.
We’re given the choice as to handgun calibers, but the ammo must be interchangeable between ourselves. Amid the penetrating drone filling the cargo compartment, the argument…I mean discussion…ensues. This is an endless one among weapon aficionados that won’t end even after the expanding sun has engulfed the earth. I
n the aftermath, with eyes swollen shut and deep bruises, and I think one person tossed out the back, we settle on the 10mm for its stopping power and accuracy.
Even with our new toys and increased stopping power, I’m still not sure how in the hell we’re going to be effective against the creatures we’ve each faced. In my mind, I picture driving a tank to the entrance of the cave and waiting outside with flechette rounds. I’m not sure that would even work. Even though I’m one happy camper with our new playthings, I don’t see how they can help much and I’m still holding out for some James Bond facility with gadgets beyond comprehension.
Once the thrill is over, I make my way to the front to chat up the pilots only to find a sealed door. The only way to talk with the crew up front is through the intercom. I guess they aren’t kidding about keeping separation. I’m guessing that it’s to keep identities secret, with the exception of the crew chief in the bay.
Eventually, the drone of engines decreases and the deck tilts as we begin our descent into, well, wherever. As with the takeoff, the 130 spirals down as if we were in a combat zone and expecting anti-air. We’re met on the ramp by an armada of Suburbans and a cargo vehicle. A forklift offloads our onboard equipment and we’re driven off base to another facility.
* * * * * *
I rub the area behind my ear, the skin still numb. Supposedly, the site will heal without scarring. The process was an easy one, the subdural implant only a slight bump that will be hidden. The implant will allow personal communications over a decent range and can be switched for longer range comms with the inclusion of satellite communications. We were told it has the capability to be switched across a variety of wavelengths, programmed by a wristband comm center.
In addition, we’re each given several antennas that have been paired to our individual devices. This will eliminate the personal radios and the larger one used to communicate over longer ranges found in other operational units. We only need to be within twenty yards of one of our antennas and we’ll be able to communicate. The antennas themselves are able to transceive over each of the wavelengths selected with the comm center and also have the ability to hop frequencies. Each of the channels is secure with the burst capability. This is just another very cool toy we get to play with, and, still having the creatures in the back of my mind, will make some things much easier.
While we recuperate in the facility, we’re shown the controls and functions, which can be changed with voice if desired. I’ll admit, I feel a little nervous about having something implanted in my head, and I can’t help but wonder what else the device holds. I’m sure of tracking, because we can track each other’s position via GPS, displayed on a small handheld monitor. My imagination leans more toward having small explosive devices that will go off if we misbehave. The fact that we can turn off the unit does little to allay my worry.
As we rest from the incisions, Lynn announces that she’s found an assignment for us. Even though we’ve trained together and I have a good idea of strengths and weaknesses, taking a new team into the field makes me a little nervous. I have to remind myself that they’re here for a reason, and our sessions have given me little to worry about, but there is a big difference between training and the real thing.
In the field, the stakes are raised and that adds a huge degree of stress to the situation. People can do some odd things when fear is allowed out of its bubble. I’m not saying people should be fearless—fear does add a heightened alertness—but it has to be controlled. That allows the use of strengths garnered through added adrenaline without being constantly ready to flee. Keeping it under control allows a conscious thought process instead of merely a reactionary one. Training cements the appropriate reactionary response into thought and muscle memory, throwing a few items into one’s bag of tricks. The field is to test those under stressed conditions.
After a couple days to recover from and get used to the implants, we’re flown into Creech Air Force Base, Nevada. The large sandy basin in the middle of the desert is dotted with dull green from scrub brush and surrounded on all sides by tall rocky ridges. The conversation on the flight was limited due to the droning of the 130 engines and because anxious to see what comes next. It’s been an interesting excursion so far, but I would like to have an itinerary for this field trip, even a verbal one. It’s not like we’re going to flee at this point, and the lack of info has me worried about what our eventual stop holds.
It’s already warm inside the 130, but when the ramp is lowered, heat rolls in off the desert like we opened one of hell’s furnaces. Any moisture on my body, either real or imagined, is whisked away in an instant. I check my water bottle to make sure the arid air hasn’t claimed it as well. Walking down the metal ramp and into the sun is like stepping into a kiln; each inhalation is like swallowing fire.
We’re near a huge hangar at the very edge of a taxiway guarded by security personnel inside of a red line on the pavement that surrounds the building. A guard checks our IDs and compares them to his clipboard before waving us through without a word. Individually, we’re allowed past the line and told to remain inside another red line forming a corridor to a doorway cut into a gigantic sliding hangar door. Stepping inside is like walking through a teleportation device as we enter an arctic environment. By which I mean, it’s air conditioned, but it’s enough to raise goose bumps on my arms from the sudden transition.
Inside, my attention is immediately drawn to two C-130s sitting on the polished paint of the concrete flooring. It’s not what I was expecting to see, instead thinking we were here for another briefing. However, the red lines around the building should have given me the indication that this facility was secured in a more permanent nature. These past weeks have been a whole lot of new without much guidance, and each step seems like a new foray down the rabbit hole. I wonder if someone doesn’t get some kind of sick pleasure from springing one surprise after another on us.
Parked ammunition carriers along the edges of the hangar make me take a closer look at the 130s. I had brushed them off upon entering, in part due to my eyes adjusting to the different light levels. I’m surprised I didn’t notice the barrels protruding from the sides right away. The two parked AC-130s have the sinister look of immense firepower barely contained.
Off to the side, sharing the hangar, are a pair of Blackhawks with Army markings and a third C-130 configured for cargo use.
“Okay, I assume this is something other than showing us a couple of gunships,” I say to Lynn.
“Well, these are assigned to us,” Lynn replies.
“By that, do you mean solely to us? Or split between us and other teams?” I ask, staring incredulously at the two beasts.
“These are solely ours. One carried as a spare, because when we need them, we need them immediately. They are meticulously maintained, but you know by now how shit goes wrong at exactly the wrong time,” Lynn answers.
“And one of these will be with us on our missions?” I inquire.
My mind doesn’t wander to the joy of having a gunship for our personal use, but to what kind of missions we’ll be going on that would require one. I also know that their use could be limited depending on where we go. For one, if we have to go into an urban environment, we can’t exactly bring hellfire down onto the populace. That would take some explaining, and I’m fairly confident the Organization’s priority is conserving its secrecy over the loss of a team. Plus, the 130 isn’t exactly invisible or quiet, even with enhanced countermeasures. We won’t be able to fly endless circles over hostile territories if it comes to that.
“I’m assuming these come with limitations as to their use,” I say.
“Unfortunately, yes. Their use will be annotated in any mission orders. However, to the greatest extent possible, I’ll be aloft when you’re on the ground,” Lynn responds.
“Why didn’t you tell us all of this at the outset?” I query.
“Where would the fun be with that?”
Oh, so it’s Lynn who has the sick p
leasure.
“Fair enough. Anything else that you’d care to share with us?”
“Nope,” Lynn replies, turning and walking toward one of the aircraft.
“Well, come on,” she adds, looking over her shoulder as we stand rooted.
The interior looks mostly like any other AC-130 I’ve been in, with the exception of a small control center added within the firing command center. Lynn informs us that it’s her station, where she’ll have access to a variety of information. I have to admit that I’m only half listening to what she is saying. There are also pull-down bunks in the rear. Again, I’m impressed at the sheer amount of dollars that have been thrown at a team of six. Normally, in the special ops world, those resources are shared and called upon when required. This seems almost overboard. The resources the Organization has at its disposal are beyond my wildest imagination. With the military resources present, my thoughts have circled back to this being a governmental shadow operation
“Military hardware residing in top-secret military bases has the reek of the two entities being in collusion,” I state.
“Let’s just say there’s an agreement, but I’m not privy to what level. And the crew isn’t drawn from the military. They were screened and are contracted just like all of us,” Lynn replies. “Speaking of which, if you’re finished not listening to me, let’s go meet them.”
“I was listening,” I respond.
“Uh huh. I’m aware of when my words are hitting a brick wall.”
In a side room, introductions are made with two aircrews that are to respond to this base when orders are initiated. I have a new level of respect for Lynn when I learn that she has to coordinate everything upon receipt of an assignment. I can’t even coordinate grocery shopping with a list. We chat for a bit to become acquainted, leaving out a lot of what we did in our previous lives, but telling some stories anyway.
“Okay, it’s time to go,” Lynn says, looking at her watch and then rising.
