“Good. Then let’s move on. Any other questions that aren’t sexual?”
“Well, we’ve already determined you’re a spook, and a bitch,” he said.
“Super-bitch,” she reminded.
“So what do you do? I guess with all the triple digit agencies, I get a bit lost. Who’s in charge?”
“Langley. Special Activities Division is in charge. I’ve formed a Task Force to fix our little problem. I answer only to the Secretary of Defense. As you well know, this issue is quite disturbing, and a matter of National Security. Right or wrong, that’s why they apprehended you,” she said.
“Fair enough, but you’ve seen my interrogations, right?”
“I see the bruises still, though they’ve healed well. Yes, I’ve seen them. Over sixty-two times. They question you over and over again, they lock you away, they don’t even give you a book to pass the time. Am I correct?”
“Yup,” York responded.
“Well, that’s fixed. What else? And no, I won’t untie you. Not just yet.”
“Get me off these fucking drugs,” he pleaded. “Promise me that, and I’ll talk away. I want my mind back. I won’t lie, and I damn sure won’t change my story. I’ll tell it over and over again if you’ll listen, but please, stop jacking me full of shit.”
“Consider it done,” Elizabeth agreed.
“Really?” he asked, unsure if that was possible.
“You’ll no longer receive any medicines. No more Thorazine, no other narcotics. The doctors will advise to keep you on anti-depressants, and I tend to agree.”
“Nothing. I want it all gone. Shit, I’m so numb I can hardly feel my anger anymore.”
“I think that was the point.”
“It’s all I have, ma’am. Take me off everything and I’ll talk. If not, I’m done. Not another word. You can beat me, starve me, I don’t care. You might as well take me outside and put a bullet in me. I don’t fucking care anymore.”
“I have no such intention. You’ll be removed from all medication, all right?”
“Everything!”
“Yes, unless you show signs of violence once more. You attack the guards, you get sedated. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Once we go a few days, you prove your worth, we’ll chat,” he stated.
“Your next dose is supposed to be in one hour. We’ll chat in three,” she replied, standing, and leaving the room without another word.
45
The snot-nosed Corporal Brian Davis ushered the Marine from Kline’s office. “Where are you headed, sir?”
“Need a change of clothes, then take me to where the Delta boys might be this time of day.”
Corporal Davis glanced at his watch, saying, “They’ve completed their range time, so I’d imagine they’re in the hangers or barracks. There’s a washroom down the hall, Colonel. I can take you after you’ve freshened up.”
“Roger that,” Reynolds replied, grabbing his duffel and entering to change.
Marine Colonel Reynolds wore his desert fatigues, combat books. Though no rank was shown, his name was labeled on his uniform. There was no doubt he was a Marine. He simply looked the role. Professional, astute, standing tall and serious-like.
“You’re the Colonel Reynolds, sir?”
“Only one.”
“Wow,” the young Corporal muttered.
“Means nothing, son. I just do my part like all the rest,” Reynolds said. “Now, if you’ll kindly bring me to meet Delta.”
They walked from the command center, passing rows of helicopters, a giant mess hall, outside showers and rows of tents. The pair rounded a few corners, passing buildings of equipment, men and women working, the base full of activity.
Reynolds received many stares. Some had heard of the man, they recognized his face. They watched in near awe as Reynolds walked toward the corner of the base, a straight line to the secure area of 1st-SFOD-D.
Delta.
A few minutes later and the Corporal stopped. He turned to Reynolds, his voice nasally, saying, “I know General Kline said to take you to see them, but with all due respect, I’d like to head back now please,” the kid complained.
“Why’s that?”
“They scare the living shit out of me, Colonel. I hope you understand that it’s best they not see me on their part of the base. Wouldn’t want to make them mad,” he whined.
“I understand,” Reynolds said with a scowl. “Now get back to your desk, Corporal. I’m sure there’s plenty of paperwork to be done.”
The young man hurried off, ashamed, but not daring give the Colonel another moment to think on the matter.
*
The hanger was massive. On the walls were an array of gadgets and training devices for the men. In a far left corner, on a table, a half dozen M4s were laid out. Magazines and spent casings were scattered, the table in disarray. Various pistols, packs of gear, a giant mess.
This made the Marine shudder. A Marine never left his rifle unattended, and this sight bothered him. But he knew these men were different, that they weren’t Marines, that they were responsible and did what they wanted, right or wrong. Reynolds understood he was dealing with a different breed, and attempted to ignore it.
He entered the wide garage door. Music blared, and directly inside where six men. Two weight benches occupied their time. Laid out in a circle were a few punching bags, a mat to practice fighting with knives, ground techniques, you name it.
Reynolds could hear their grunts as they heaved up massive amounts of weights. He heard the slap slap of a man hitting a heavy bag. Another sat in a chair, cleaning his pistol, telling jokes as the men laughed.
Reynolds stepped inside, clearing his throat.
The music stopped, the men staring at this intruder strangely.
“What the fuck!” Thompson exclaimed. He was the youngest of the Delta group, possibly the most cocky, though that was a tossup with Clements around. His hair was dark, a few inches long and shaggy, his beard thick, yet trimmed and orderly. With his chiseled features and strong physique, he was also considered the good-looking one of the group. Thompson sat up on the weight bench, staring at the man who entered their hanger. “Who the fuck are you, man?”
Everyone stopped what they were doing.
Marcus and Hernandez were both massive Latino men. Marcus was coated in tattoos, some from his previous years of youthful trouble. Hernandez came from a rough neighborhood as well, and both men looked the part. They spotted Thompson, taking turns at the bench. They placed the bar back in place, stepping to the side, spreading out, their chests huffed, their stares sharp.
“We got trouble, Thompson?” Marcus asked.
“Dunno yet,” Thompson replied.
A few feet away was Dale Comstock, team leader. He stood silently, his attention shifting from his men working out to this man who entered their domain, their lair. Dale was the epitome of Special Forces, of Delta. Extremely large with a shaved head, he looked to be in his forties, a large handle-bar mustache on his face. Right now, he did not look happy.
Jefferson stepped close to Dale. He had been hitting the heavy bag, practicing his jab when all went quiet. He was an intimidating man, muscular, shaved head with a thick, curly beard. Jefferson was the only African American on the team, and second in command behind Dale.
The last, a man that went by the name of Clements, sat in the far corner. He was cleaning his Springfield, telling jokes of fucking fat women, bragging about his last score on the range. He, too, glared at this man.
“You lost or something?” Thompson asked, still sitting and sizing up the man.
“I’m looking for Sergeant Comstock,” Reynolds said.
“Who the fuck’s asking?”
“An officer. You him?” Reynolds said briskly.
“Nope. And regardless if you’re an officer or not, Delta hangers are off limits. To everyone, even General Kline. You see, we deal with some pretty secret stuff, and t
here’s rules to this game. But maybe you couldn’t read the sign,” Thompson said, smartly.
Reynolds walked in closer, looking at the men with no fear, his eyes back on Thompson. “I can read just fine, and if you’re not Comstock, I have no business with you . . . at the moment, anyway.”
Thompson’s face flashed a look of anger as he rose. “Now who the fuck are you to talk shit?”
“I’m your new commanding officer,” Reynolds replied.
This shut Thompson up fast. He wavered, attempting to control his outburst, unsure if this was true. They hadn’t heard any word on the matter, but if true, he didn’t want trouble. “You don’t look Delta,” he commented, his voice calmer.
“Don’t think he is,” Hernandez said to his friend.
“That’s right, I’m not. Colonel Chad Reynolds,” he said, introducing himself. “I’ve been brought in as your commanding officer. Now, is Sergeant Comstock here or not?”
Finally, Dale walked forward, patting Thompson on the shoulder, whispering, “Chill, bro.” His face showed no emotion as he neared the Marine, stopping a few feet in front, eyes locked. The Marine didn’t flinch, despite the size and mere presence of Dale. “You’re a bit young for a full Colonel,” he said.
Reynolds grinned. “Just got my wings not that long ago. How are ya, Dale?” he asked.
Dale smiled, extending his hand and shaking the man’s own. “Good, sir. Been a long time, hasn’t it?”
“I’d say. What, fifteen years?”
“At least.”
“I’ve kept watch on your accomplishments, Sergeant,” Reynolds said. “Looks like you boys have seen some heavy action lately.”
“It’s why they pay us the big bucks,” Dale responded with a grin.
Reynolds handed Dale a file folder, and as the man began to open it, the Marine walked past, looking to the rest of the men. As he neared, everyone tensed. It went with the territory, and they were always ready for a fight, even if one wasn’t imminent. Clements strode closer; he was the tallest, the biggest, a country boy from Arkansas that took his pride to the extreme. “No offense, Colonel, but you never answered. Why you here?”
Reynolds ignored him, instead asking, “Mind if I hit a few reps while the Sergeant there reads over the file?” He pointed to the weight bench.
Clements grinned, looking back to Thompson, who also smiled. “Sure, feel free. I’ll even spot ya.”
“Great,” Reynolds said, waiting for Thompson to move so he could take his spot on the bench.
“Want me to take off some weight?” Clements asked.
Thompson chuckled at this.
“Maybe start with a hundred pounds, Colonel?” Marcus suggested, mocking the man.
“Slap on two more twenty-fives please,” Reynolds replied. “If ya don’t mind.”
“Ha!” Thompson laughed loudly this time. “Sure, I’ll be happy to do that.” He turned to Hernandez and Marcus, ushering them out of the way with a grin. This would be funny. Thompson quickly slapped on the extra hundred pounds, securing it so the weights wouldn’t fall off. Then, he turned, saying to Reynolds, “All yours, Colonel. Just let me know if you can’t get it up. I heard at a certain age, that happens to some men,” he finished, looking to Reynolds’ graying hair, grinning.
Reynolds ignored it. Instead, he arched his back, stretched out his arms, eyeing the watchful Delta. Then, Reynolds undid the buttons on his desert fatigues, pulling off his black t-shirt and tossing them to the side.
The look from the men was priceless.
Across Reynolds’ back, in large, black letters was a tattoo. It stretched from shoulder to shoulder and read: Marines.
“Yer a Marine?” Clements asked.
“I knew it!” Hernandez said.
“Thought you said you were spotting me?” Reynolds asked.
“Sure thing, Marine. Let’s do this. And then, if this doesn’t give you a heart attack, maybe you can explain why the fuck you’re in a Delta hanger, old man,” Clements grumbled.
Reynolds laid down, situating himself, then pushing the bar up. Thompson stood behind, though Reynolds knew the man had no intention of helping him if he struggled. It mattered not. Reynolds, in perfect form, put up ten reps, placing it gently back onto the rack, then stood back up. “Needed that. Thanks, boys,” he grinned.
Everyone eyed him. Jefferson, who looked more like a prize fighter than a soldier, meandered over. Clements and Thompson remained frozen, side by side, curious now, not expecting this man was capable of such a feat.
They were bitter, but held it for the moment. This Marine claimed to be their commanding officer, and if true, this might prove to be a problem. Thus far, he’d been respectful, but the sheer arrogance of entering their hanger was enough to fight over.
And Clements especially liked to fight.
“Lifting up a few pounds don’t mean shit to us,” Thompson remarked.
“You sure you’re our commanding officer, or do you think you are . . . Colonel?” Clements added, his voice sarcastic, condescending.
“Perhaps we could hit the range. Maybe show you how to shoot?” Reynolds suggested. Looking to Clements, he added, “Or perhaps a few rounds of sparring if you’d prefer.”
“Now you listen, old man. Sounds like you’re trying to pick a fight. Well, wrong place for that,” Clements said. He was getting hot, and when angry, his Arkansas accent became more pronounced. “If you wanna step in the ring with me, we can arrange that.”
The other Delta members closed in, nodding their heads, clenching their fists. All, except Dale, who remained ten feet away, staring down at the files in his hands. This wasn’t Delta’s first dealings with Marines, and wouldn’t be their last. Their testosterone was thick, coursing through their veins. Tensions grew hot.
“If I were you, Sergeant Clements, I’d calm down. Hate to embarrass you in front of your men,” Reynolds said.
“You want to get this on, Marine? ’Cause you see, I don’t answer to any Marines,” Clements huffed.
“Shut up and settle down,” came the words. They weren’t from Reynolds, though, but from Dale. Comstock looked up, his face serious, his command to be taken as such. “That’s enough, Clements. Back down right now.”
“Shit, Dale, what is this?” Clements asked.
“Yeah, what’s a Marine doing here?” Thompson asked.
“He’s telling the truth is what he’s doing. This is indeed Colonel Reynolds, and yes he’s a Marine. He’s also our new commanding officer, so you punks might want to consider standing at attention.”
The five others obeyed, snapping to attention, backs straight, arms at their sides.
“At ease, boys,” Reynolds said. “Not here to piss you off, just making introductions is all.”
“And you’re our boss?” Clements asked again, confused.
“Roger that. I’ve been tasked by the Special Activities Division to command your team on a mission.”
“Special Activities Division?” Thompson asked, tilting his head.
“CIA,” Dale answered. “Colonel Reynolds here has replaced Commander McClain. He’s our CO, says right here,” he said, shuffling through the files.
“Didn’t know McClain, but heard of him,” Thompson replied. “At least he was Army.”
“Well, Colonel Reynolds is a Marine, and unless you want trouble, I’d suggest you accept he’s in charge here,” Dale suggested. He shook his head, actually amused, looking up to his men. “You boys aren’t thinking now, are you? Colonel Chad Reynolds . . . you haven’t heard the name?”
“I don’t think so,” Thompson answered, the rest slowly shaking their heads, attempting to remember if the name jostled their memories.
Dale looked to Clements, to Thompson and Jefferson. He’d served with them the longest. “All right, let me jog your memories. Do you remember SERE school?”
SERE: Survival, Evasion, Resistance, Escape.
They sure as hell remembered it. The advanced course was perhaps the har
dest they’d ever been through.
“Yeah, I sure do,” Thompson answered for the group. “Bunch of assholes who liked to torture us, I remember. Fucking tough few weeks. Why?”
“Those tough weeks made you into what you are now,” Dale commented.
“I suppose,” Thompson said glumly. “Still don’t know why that matters.
“Because Colonel Reynolds here, way back in the day, was one of the assholes who liked to torture us. He led the school when we were finishing up our Delta training. Advanced SERE training, remember?”
And then they did remember, expressions changing as they stared at the Colonel.
46
Clements thought a moment, remembering back to those years as he prepped to be all he could be. The constant training, being tapped for Spec Ops, going through SERE school.
“Ah, no shit,” Clements finally said, remembering. He then did something particular, something quite out of his norm. Clements was hardcore, the perfect killing machine, and Delta for life. He lived for war, and his teammates were his brothers. He’d die for them at any given moment, and felt great animosity toward anyone who wasn’t Delta. This included Rangers, Marines, any branch, even other special forces, such as SEALs. He especially hated SEALs. But he walked forward on this occasion, reaching out his hand and shaking the Colonel’s. “Sir, it’s nice to see ya again.”
Reynolds shook it, nodding. “Arkansas, right?” he asked.
Clements was impressed. “Yes, sir. Born and raised. You used to called me Ozark.”
“I’ve seen a few come and go, but I think I remember. Wasn’t there but a few years. We talked about boar hunting, I believe.”
“We did, Colonel. That is, after you showed me what a trap was like,” Clements said.
“I remember you taught us a thing or two,” Marcus acknowledged, nodding his head and shaking hands with Reynolds. The other members did the same.
“Hell yeah he did,” Clements replied. “You told some pretty good stories if I remember correctly.”
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