The Last Roman p-1

by Edward Crichton

  When I regained my composure, straightening my Hawaiian shirt as I did so, I smiled at her awkwardly. Her expression remained stoic and she fixed her eyes to mine like twin ice boring lasers drilling into the back of my skull in response.

  Yikes.

  McDougal clearly pretended to ignore my antics as though he knew something I didn’t.

  “Lieutenant Strauss, if you would be so kind as to show Hunter here the armory so he can inspect his gear? Report to the briefing room in one hour.”

  “Yes sir,” she responded with a salute.

  Without another glance, or word, she turned on her heel, rifle in hand, and marched through a doorway off to the side of the range. I glanced at McDougal whose stone hard expression twitched ever so slightly. I continued staring at him as I passed by in the direction of the armory, still wondering if there was something he knew that I didn’t. Reaching the door, I glanced out at the complex and noticed every member of the team, save McDougal, had gathered near Santino, and were watching me expectantly. It wasn’t until I passed through the armory door that I heard the soft drone of laughter.

  And I had no idea why.

  ***

  The armory was an impressive sight.

  The rows of gun shelves were lined with numerous weapons from all sorts of countries and manufacturing companies. At the end of the racks were explosives and other more destructive types of weaponry. Beyond were ten lockers, wide enough to hold a single soldier’s plethora of gear. Most operators had multiple sets of gear, swapping out mission essential items, but only using what was appropriate for individual missions. Despite the weapon porn on display in such extravagance, I couldn’t help but notice the dark haired beauty, bent at the waist as she duteously cleaned her rifle, her rather supple and round backside presented for my full inspection.

  I couldn’t help but stare, my head lulling to the side. I tried to quickly glance away and cover my mistake when she turned to show me my locker, but I wasn’t quick enough. She settled with giving me another cold look, and hooking her thumb behind her shoulder to direct my attention towards the only other open locker. Fate, having a sick sense of humor it seemed, decided to take it upon itself to place our lockers across from one another. Crossing to the bench, I sat upon it and accidentally brushed my back up against hers. I flinched automatically at the contact, but she didn’t react. All she did was turn her head to glance in my direction, a slight smile tugging at her mouth.

  Great, not only is she stone cold and mean, but also ambiguously flirty

  Now it really felt like I was back in college.

  I forced myself to clear my head with a quick move to crack the kinks out of my neck, and began a cursory inspection of my gear. With a task so familiar and enjoyable, it was almost easy to put the woman out of my head and focus.

  Everything seemed to be in order. All of my camouflage uniforms were present, as well as two pairs of boots, one black, the other coyote tan. My Navy dress uniform hung neatly to one side, with my wet suit opposite it. All of my other gear was present and accounted for as well, placed neatly on racks, shelves, or hooks. Helmet with camera and optics lens, rifle magazines, radio and throat microphone, night vision goggles, mobile PC, combat knife, medical kit, glow sticks, zip ties, combat notebook, pen, Escape amp; Evasion kit, and a plethora of other tools. Last but not least, placed on top of my foot locker was my MOLLE combat rig.

  Besides my rifle, my rig was the most important piece of gear I had. MOLLE, or Modular Lightweight Load-carrying Equipment, was a system for attaching compatible pieces of equipment together via webbing and snaps. Without it, I would be unable to carry the heavy amounts of gear essential for a successful mission. The vest was festooned with numerous pockets and pouches that were scattered around the stomach area, chest, sides, and back.

  The back of my rig held a CamelBak water filtration device that made hydration far more convenient than a canteen. Alongside it was a small computer cleverly tucked away near the CamelBak to keep it out of the way and cool. It was wirelessly connected to an eye piece that hung in front of my left eye. The eye piece, which was no more than a thin, translucent lens operated as a GPS device, a screen to view videos, a compass, and a rudimentary targeting reticule amongst other things. The computer was synced to my teammates’, so I could intercept data updates from them, such as grid coordinates and targeting data.

  In order to send and receive these updates, a thin, long touch screen interface would be attached to my left forearm. It was covered by a protective sheath, which could be pulled off at its Velcro seams so that I could view and interact with the screen. It had a small, joystick, which had a directional stick and two buttons. It acted like a computer mouse. I could extend the joystick into my left hand with a quick flick of my wrist, making the entire set-up fully functional with my left arm alone and function just as well as the touch screen. Complete with Blue Force Tracking Tech III software, updated only a year ago, I could upload troop positions on a map with a simple touch of the interface, overlay my own map over satellite imagery, or call in airstrikes with a single tap of the finger. The possibilities were almost endless. It was a handy tool, but not one a good soldier relied upon in combat.

  My last piece of equipment lay alongside the back of the locker, entombed in a solid protective case. As I placed it on the bench next to me, I accidentally bumped into my companion once again. I was about to apologize when I realized she ignored my mistake and continued cleaning her own weapon.

  I opened the case and pulled out my closest ally and true love, my HK416 Gen II assault rifle, Penelope, as I had named her. Despite being decades old in design, thanks to the veritable hold on military R amp;D, mine was manufactured only two years ago with many new bells and whistles.

  Penelope had been the loyal wife of Odysseus in Homer’s The Odyssey, my favorite epic. Despite her husband’s absence for twenty years, and dozens of hopeful suitors hoping to take his place on the throne, she remained faithful, waiting patiently until he finally returned. I was a sucker for a good love story, and I hoped that like the woman of myth, my weapon would remain just as loyal.

  The weapon, based originally on the design of the M4A1 carbine, had been a common sight amongst the American military for the past half century. It was always a favorite, due to its ability for customization, reliability, stopping power, and ease of use. Few M4s and other variations of said gun, such as the HK416, looked the same in the hands of U.S. Special Forces, as each carried a unique mark of its owner.

  I reached for a cloth and began rubbing the exterior, wiping away the subtlest pieces of dust and lint. “It’s been awhile Penelope,” I said to the gun, “I hope you’ve kept yourself out of trouble while I’ve been away.”

  I only hoped Helena didn’t overhear me. My theory was that if you love and respect your equipment like you do a person, it will in turn treat you with the proper respect and never let you down. Although, some inferred it to mean you were a crazy person, although I had no idea why.

  After field stripping and cleaning the rifle, as well as inspecting the ACOG-II Scope, SureFire flashlight/laser, and bi-pod, I finished wiping down the exterior and gently put it back in its case. “Goodnight,” I said quietly, hoping my companion didn’t hear me. “Sleep tight.”

  I placed the case back in the locker, gave the entire enclosure another look, tossed my Hawaiian shirt inside, nodded in satisfaction, and shut the cage.

  Donning a more appropriate BDU top from my locker, I announced, “I’m done here. Everything checks out. I’m ready to go when you are.”

  Her reply was to barely even glance in my direction, as she continued cleaning her rifle’s barrel with a long pipe cleaner brush.

  What was her problem anyway? Even I couldn’t have done anything to offend her yet. I guess it wasn’t very polite to nearly fall on her, but she had to have known that was an accident. I couldn’t really believe that her silence was actually starting to annoy me, but it was. I rarely let little things like
that bother me.

  I sighed. It was always the pretty ones.

  “Excuse me, but are we going to have a problem here? You’ve barely grunted a word to me, and I’m starting to get the feeling you don’t like me, which, you know,” I gave her a Hollywood, teeth sparkling, smile, “is hard to believe.”

  She continued to ignore me.

  I was really getting annoyed now.

  “Look, sweet cakes. I’ve had just about as much trouble as I can stand with pretty girls in positions where they think they…”

  I never got the chance to finish. She was on her feet like a cheetah, and again staring icicles upwards into my skull.

  I gulped. It was the only thing I could do as I stared back into her overwhelming beautiful, but currently frightening, eyes.

  “So?” I asked, trying to stay brave. “Anything to say?”

  The words were barely out of my mouth when her fist connected with my right eye socket, pitching me backwards into my locker. Stars flashed in my vision and the rest of the world went black when my head slammed into the locker behind me. When my mind cleared seconds later, I shot my right hand to my face, wishfully hoping to delay the inevitable swelling and darkening.

  Speechless, I just stared at her, completely confused and taken aback by her assault. I wanted to yell at her and hit her right back, but it was probably a good thing that I kept my mouth shut and my hands to myself. She might kill me.

  I checked my hand to make sure my face wasn’t bleeding, which thankfully came back clean. Risking one last look at my attacker, I turned for the door and began to head away from the crazed woman who had hit me for seemingly no reason. She was already back at work cleaning her gun, oblivious to our encounter.

  Despite the pain, I couldn’t help but smile.

  ***

  The multiplex was eerily silent when I returned to the common area. Everyone, save McDougal, had gathered in the mess area and was in the midst of socializing and chow. Noticing my approach, they all stopped what they were doing mid motion and turned to look at me. Santino had a glop of noodles hanging from his mouth, while Bordeaux had paused as he sipped a steaming drink.

  I stopped in front of their table, hands on my hips, and looked each man in the eye. Each wore a passive expression and for a few moments the five of us did nothing but stare at each other before all of a sudden, the four men at the table burst out in playful laughter. In the midst of their laughter, I couldn’t help but noticed Wang pass a few Euros to Vincent.

  “Something I should know, gentlemen?”

  Santino was the first to stop laughing, but he had to catch his breath before explaining the situation.

  “Jake, man, it’s nothing personal, but before you got here, all of us, including Miss Van Strauss,” he said the name, emphasizing it in a haughty and disrespectful manner, “had lunch, chit-chatting. She told us how she had just broken up with some longtime boyfriend of hers or something because he’d cheated on her when her time in the service kept them apart. Sad, right? Well, here’s the funny part. She said she’d kill the next guy she saw that even remotely pissed her off. I guess it doesn’t help that you kinda look like how she described him. Tall, wavy brown hair, broad shoulders, dashing good looks, as soon as I saw you I knew there would be trouble, especially considering your awkward way with pretty girls,” he paused. “I’ll never understand how that works by the way.”

  I continued to stare at him stoically.

  “Vinnie over there won the bet.”

  I glanced over at the aging priest accusingly who merely shrugged, smiled, and continued to eat.

  “He said she’d throw a punch. I said she’d knee you in the balls, and the boxing twins over there thought she’d go easy on you, but I knew you’d do something stupid to get her all worked up. So what happened? Strike out swinging?”

  My response was delayed as the group noticed our female comrade exit the armory and head directly towards another set of doors, opposite the ones she emerged. She spared a single, distant look in our direction, glowering.

  “Didn’t even make it to the on deck circle,” I reported as we all watched her leave.

  Santino stood up, placing a hand sympathetically on my shoulder while some of the other guys snickered at me.

  “Don’t worry, my friend. Maybe it’s still the off season.”

  ***

  Grabbing a tray of food, consisting of Salisbury steak, tater tots, and an unknown gelatinous substance, I joined the rest of the team at their table. Needless to say, I was famished. I hadn’t eaten anything since before I left for Washington, at least twenty four hours ago. I continued receiving jeers from my teammates, but took them in stride, knowing that the “Strauss” situation had been a good ice breaker.

  The guys were conversing as I ate my meal, but I started growing restless not knowing a thing about them. Popping a few tater tots in my mouth, I decided my stomach was full enough to start a conversation.

  “So, Wang,” I started, mumbling with my mouth full, “what’s your story? How long has your family been in England?”

  Wang waited until he finished chewing his food before answering. It may have seemed like a culturally insensitive question to, but those in the military didn’t take such things personally. In the American armed forces, any given unit may be comprised of an African American from East Harlem, an upper class white guy from New England, and the product of illegal parents from south of the border. In these units, each of those men became brothers, trained to care for and do anything they could to protect each other. Sure, racial slurs and ethnic jokes ran rampant, but everyone shrugged them off, fully aware that they were only meant in good fun.

  If only the rest of the world was so culturally accepting we wouldn’t be here.

  Mouth clear, Wang leaned back in his chair, and spoke in a heavy Welsh accent.

  “My grandparents fled the Great Cultural Revolution in 1966 and made their way to England with my father. My grandfather ran a dojo in a quiet countryside, but when local Red Guard members came to the area, he knew it was time to leave. My grandparent’s life was a quiet one, and they despised the Communists and their hope to wipe any memory of old China from the history books. So they took up residence in Cardiff, Wales, and opened a new dojo. My father took over when my grandfather died a few years back.” He paused, and took a quick drink from his mug. “And, aye, before you ask, my father married a local lass and I was but a wee product of both worlds.”

  He smiled, “and a jolly good product at that.”

  I chuckled at his intentionally overdone accent, and quickly determined I liked Wang. He seemed level headed and dedicated, but a little cocky, typical for elite operators. A good man to have at your back.

  I glanced over at the large Frenchman. “What about you, big guy? Any interesting stories?”

  Bordeaux put a hand over his chest in a sarcastic gesture. “ Moi? But, of course. I have many stories. Besides McDougal and Vincent here,” he said pointing at the aging priest who was sipping a cup of tea, “I almost have more years on me than any two of you combined, with plenty of stories to go with them.”

  I inspected the man’s face, but couldn’t find any evidence to prove he was any older than thirty five. Remembering what he looked like with his shirt off, if he was as old as he claimed to be, he must be immune to aging. Hopefully, he wouldn’t mind sharing his secret.

  “And what about you, mon ami?” He continued. “We’ve all had some time to get to know one another, but we know nothing of you.”

  “Me?” I asked, as I realized pathetically that there wasn’t much to tell. “I’m just a country boy, I guess. Born in the Midwest and raised by hardworking, but well-to-do parents, I enjoy very bad movies, long walks on the beach, and love good 80s music.”

  The guys smiled at the lame and cliche attempt at humor.

  Wang coughed politely into a fist. “I hate to break it to you, Hunter, but there’s no such thing as ‘good 80s music’ as you call it.”


  Santino leaned back in his chair and pointed at me like a child. “See, Jacob, even the Brits don’t like it. I’ve been telling you that since I’ve known you” He turned back to Wang. “He even likes Duran Duran. Who likes them?”

  Wang turned to look at me and shook his head very slowly and completely deadpanned.

  “Who’s Duran Duran?” Vincent asked.

  “A rock band from the 80s,” I answered quickly before Santino could bash them. “They’re good.”

  Santino rolled his eyes and laughed to himself.

  “I’m partial to the Beach Boys myself,” Vincent commented.

  “Really?” Santino asked suspiciously.

  Vincent looked hurt. “What’s wrong with that? Can’t an old man enjoy quality music as well?”

  Santino smirked. The Beach Boys were about as classic as music came in his opinion. I always enjoyed them though.

  “Of course, sir,” Santino replied as he held up his hands near his shoulders, and raised and lowered them like a scale. “It’s just that when I add together European and Priest, the Beach Boys isn’t exactly the answer I get.”

  It was my turn to smirk. Santino generally came off as dimwitted as a retarded donkey, usually in one of his ridiculous attempts at humor, but I knew better. The guy was Delta, the most hardcore of them all, next to my SEALs, of course.

  They were trained not just to infiltrate, but to completely immerse themselves in a society, blend in, and systematically take it apart from the inside. You wouldn’t know it by looking at him, or especially speaking to him, but Santino was one of the smartest guys I knew.

  He spoke Russian, Arabic, and Spanish fluently, and I knew he had been in the process of learning Mandarin Chinese in preparation for possible future operations in the area. The guy was a ghost, able to slip past borders on a whim, mingle amongst the natives, get the job done, and get home safely, making it all look easy.