THE CHANGE
A.S. Thompson
Cover and chapter illustrations and design by Michael Boyajian
"Weekend Warrior" font by David Kerkhoff
Acknowledgements
God.
My family and friends. Words can’t describe how much you mean to me. I love you all.
Again, a special thanks to Michael Boyajian. You have been a great friend and a great help.
Lastly, to all of you who read this story, thank you. Without your support I probably would have stopped at one book. I am truly grateful for the opportunity to entertain you.
...and to Emma Watson. You are beautiful and talented...call me sometime.
Prologue
Fort Redriver
November 10, 2008 (one year ago)
1422 hours
Fort Redriver was situated on the coast of southeastern Massachusetts, on a small peninsula in between two larger bays. The river received its name during the colonial period when a land dispute erupted into a vicious feud between two families. For days, the blood of the fallen poured into the water, tinting the river a crimson red.
Erected prior to the Revolutionary War, Fort Redriver endured until the Second World War. In the spring of 1946, the military base was decommissioned by the Department of Defense for reasons of downsizing and fiscal conservation. For decades, the stone buildings remained vacant, waiting for the opportunity to serve again.
Over forty years later, and despite its dated appearance, Fort Redriver received a second life. From the mid-1980’s until the present time, the Fort has claimed many titles, but its mission has remained the same. Presently serving as the home of the 106th Military Strategy and Logistics Company, Fort Redriver is no ordinary intelligence outfit. Its directive is to oversee special operations involved in counter-terrorism.
The men who served their country at this Army facility have belonged to the highly specialized and highly talented, Delta Force. These operators were not just any trained killers; they were creative, multitalented, master linguists, but most importantly, they were highly intelligent.
Though stationed at the rustic compound, these operators hardly spent any time on its premises. Mostly, they were off at every corner of the earth fighting a covert war, combating terrorism, or training local guerrilla fighters.
This particular winter evening in Massachusetts was colder than most, and the frigid onshore breeze increased the winter chill. A Black Hawk helicopter's blades slowly hummed in the distance, until reaching the landing pad where the deafening sound of the blades was only surpassed by the ice-cold whirlwind it kicked up underneath.
Sergeant Major Craig West, Chucky to his friends and fellow operators, was always last off the transport. It was something that his sergeant major instilled upon him when he first joined the covert military unit. Now that he was the noncommissioned officer in charge of his own team, the words rang truer...
“The mission isn't over until you're safe back at base drinking a beer with your team...your whole team.”
That always made West crack a smile, for the good old days, for pride.
As the rest of Alpha squad grabbed their bags and hustled off the helipad, the pilot turned back to West and said, “Great job, Chucky! And congrats again, old ass! It's been an honor!”
West patted the shoulder of his longtime friend and pilot, Ken Michaels. Ken read West's lips as he yelled, “The honor goes both ways! Thanks buddy! See you tonight!”
West grabbed his pack and hopped off the helicopter. He waved one final goodbye as the Black Hawk took off, and then he followed his men into the compound.
In the receiving bay, the rest of Alpha Squad had begun to download their gear. The tone was less than dismal, but Master Sergeant Jacob Gipps did all he could to keep moral from dropping deeper into sorrow.
“We did everything we could; followed the mission to a T. You boys should be proud of yourselves.”
Sergeant First Class Prince was the youngest of the group and neglected to say anything. The twenty-nine year old went straight into the Army out of high school. He was tough, talented, heroic, and he had seen many battlefields but nothing compared to this last mission.
Sergeant First Class Samuels, on the other hand, had a different opinion. He tore through his sack and scattered the contents across the floor. He was the most reliable shot in the group and accepted nothing less than perfection. The mission results weren't what bothered him- after all, these men were trained to accept every outcome on the battlefield, to fight hard, to fight valiantly and give it their all- it was the impossible choice he had to make.
Samuels pounded both of his fists on the metal table. “Why the hell did that kid go for the gun? How many times did I tell him not go for it?”
Samuels’ best friend and closest confidant, Sergeant First Class Depasqual, didn't have much to say. During the ensuing firefight in the desolate and hell-scarred El Scolarcio region of Venezuela, Depasqual had been on overwatch. As the others carried out their mission orders, Depasqual was busy taking out a truckload of guerilla fighters, and did not see what the others had seen.
“Hey!” Gipps shouted, spinning Samuels around to face him. “Forget about it! That's what you do! You think about it, you'll go crazy. There's no place for crazy here. We're all insane for the work we do, but we ain't crazy. So you forget about it, pretend it never happened. That’s what you do. ‘Cause we need you!”
There was so much that Samuels wanted to say, wanted to scream. His eyes were red from tension and glazed over ever so slightly. No one at their level cried. If they did, they did it in private.
“There wasn't supposed to be kids there, Gipps. The Intel said…”
Gipps cut in quick and hard. “Intel is worth its weight in shit. You know that, we know that. How many ops have we been on where we get to the spot and hell is throwing us one curveball after the next? We react, adapt and act. That's it. You did good, soldier. You did what all of us would have done. You protected your brothers and got the mission done. End of story. Any of us would have taken the shot, but that shot was yours this time. It's a fuckin’ Greek tragedy. You're a damn good soldier, and I'll fight by your side any day, Sammy.”
Samuels nodded his head ever so slightly. He would have cried had he been alone in his room or in the shower. The vision of killing that boy was fried into his psyche and played over and over.
The others watched Gipps whisper something into Samuels’ ear. Whatever it was prompted Samuels to snatch up his bag and walk off.
Depasqual continued to remain silent, but patted Samuels’ shoulder as he passed. He caught a glance from Gipps, then nodded and followed his best friend to the barracks.
Prince stared blankly into his sack. Throughout the exchange, all he had accomplished was unzipping the pack. He was too choked up to speak. He tried to shake the memory, but he too, struggled.
“Prince,” Gipps called out, “check our weapons back into the armory.”
Snapping out of his thoughts, Prince nodded and replied, “On it.”
West arrived and tossed his bag next to Gipps’. He took a deep breath and ran his palms over his shaved head. “How's Sammy taking it, Jake?”
Master Sergeant Jacob Gipps was a stern thirty-three year old man, although his scarred and wrinkled face made him appear closer to fifty. His rough features were as tough as his voice.
“Not good, Top. That was brutal. Even if you're a stone cold killer.”
“Tell me about it,” West responded, dazing off into thought for a split second. He did not want to venture down the memories of his past. Like Samuels’ newest nightmare, West had once made the same decision Sammy was forced to
. “I'll recommend he take off the next mission. Take some time to get right. Maybe take a vacation.”
“Guys like us don't take vacations, Chucky,” Gipps replied with a smile.
“Speak for yourself...I do believe I'm heading for a permanent change of station. Tahiti,” Craig joked.
“It's Tahiti this week, huh? I thought it was Barbados.”
“Come on Jake. That was last week. You gotta stay on point soldier,” replied West. Then he mimicked a doctor and checked Gipps’ head. “You sure you’re not losing your memory?”
A military policeman came around the corner and interrupted West and Gipps. He saluted before speaking. “Sergeant Major West, I have orders instructing you to report to Colonel Kelly's Office, sir.”
“No need to salute, soldier. I'm officially inactive. Well, in a few hours, but roger that,” Craig replied, finishing a salute of his own.
After the MP departed, Craig used his ranking superiority and gave Gipps one final order. “Clean up my gear, Master Sergeant, or so help me...”
Gipps could never take his best friend seriously and attempted to kick Craig's butt as he left.
“Ya, ya, ya. Yes, sir, Sergeant Major, sir! Don't forget tonight. Nineteen thirty hours. Be ready!”
1436 hours
For what felt like the millionth time, West knocked on the office door of Colonel Clark Kelly.
“Enter,” a rough voice indicated from the other side.
West did as instructed and closed the door behind him. He marched to the center of the room and stood within six inches from the desk. He saluted his superior, and in his best military voice said, “Sergeant Major West reporting as requested, sir.”
“At ease,” Colonel Kelly smirked. “Out of the six years I've had you under my command, that was the most formal you have ever sounded.”
“Figured I'd save my best for last, Clark,” West responded, addressing his friend and former fellow operator by his first name.
“Doesn't have to be, Chucky,” Kelly said, in the smallest of hopes that his friend would accept an administrative position. But before West shook his head no, Clark continued, “But I know, there's no way you'd take a desk job.”
The thirty-eight year old veteran had served his country well, but this chapter had come to a close. West smiled and said, “You know me too well.”
“Indeed, old friend. Now, one formal note to address before we get to why you're here. You and your team did an outstanding job. I know that mission wasn't the easiest, but you boys pulled through and all in one piece. Be proud Sergeant Major, be proud.”
“Sir,” West interjected, “if I may, I'd like to recommend that Samuels get some time off. In fact, I strongly recommend it, sir. The kid can use it, especially after what happened.”
“If you say so, Craig, consider it done,” Colonel Kelly responded. He made a note of the request in his ledger, and then set his pen on top of it. “Now, to why you're here. Even when we were taking rounds next to each other, I've always said you were the best...”
The United States had spent millions making Sergeant Major Craig West the best Delta operator. He was well versed in multiple languages, lethal in any theatre of combat and trained in observation, intelligence, and counter intelligence. Even as the Colonel spoke, West’s mind continued to gather intelligence. It began with the other, unidentified man standing in the corner.
West deduced many things in a matter of seconds. He gauged the man to be in his late twenties, and based on his stance and demeanor, had a reserved, type-a personality. He was non-military, wore an expensive suit, possessed no observable jewelry and was clean shaved. All of these attributes indicated to West that this man not only made money, but was a respected and high ranking member of whatever business he worked at.
Furthermore, West noted a moment of odd behavior. Without reason, the man’s head twitched, then immediately, as though out of concern, he pulled out a small, tin canister from his pocket. He removed a white pill and placed it under his tongue.
“...Now that you are on your way out,” Colonel Kelly continued, “I know every contractor will be gunnin’ you. But I know you won't do merc work, which is exactly why I called you in. This man here has a proposal for you. One last mission, one final hurrah if you will.”
West’s left eyebrow raised slightly. “I don’t follow, sir.”
“Look, I wish I could tell you more, but, hell, I don't even get the details. It's that good. All I can tell you is, it's non-government/non-military sanctioned, but it is a matter of national security. The details are privy only to you. To top it off, it pays a pretty penny.”
West was tired and worn out. Twelve hours ago, he was in a shit storm of a firefight and nearly got killed. On the other hand, the temptation of the risky life always had a special place in his heart. It was all about the rush. He was an adrenaline junky on the highest level.
Rather than speak, West stood there, at ease, waiting.
“You have had quite an impressive career, Sergeant Major,” the unknown man said, stepping forward. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an elegant business card. There was no name, no company information, just a telephone number. “You have twenty-four hours to decide.”
West reached out and took the card. Before the man pulled back, West noticed something odd, just under the his left cuff; red tissue surrounded the area of a recent injection site. West filed that piece of information along with the rest.
“Thank you for your time, Colonel Kelly,” the man said, excusing himself without shaking the Colonel's hand. As he passed by West, he repeated, “Twenty-four hours, no more.”
West slid the card into his front pocket, and then waited for the door to close. “Clark, what was that all about?”
“Honestly, Craig,” Colonel Kelly began to say, “I have no idea. I was ordered to receive his appointment from the Secretary of Defense himself. Whatever thisthing is about, it can't be good. After all, they need you. No offense.”
“None taken.”
“I didn't even get his name for crying out loud. Wish I had more for you. He just got here a minute before you. Didn't say anything, didn't even shake my hand. Civis I tell ya,” Kelly said, pulling out a small cedar box containing cigars. He offered West one, but the sergeant major declined with a wave.
Kelly clipped the end and let the tobacco rest in between the gum and right cheek. “I can't believe it, Chucky. Finally done. Who'd of thought guys like you and me would make it this far. Actually, scratch that, I'm not getting into this talk, not ‘til we pull out the thirty year old and a pair of glasses.”
“We still on for later?” West checked.
“Absolutely, see you then, solider,” Kelly said, putting down the cigar. “And congrats again, Chucky. You and your boys did your nation good today. It's going to be a damn shame to see you go.”
“As much as I’d like to think otherwise, guys like us have a shelf life.”
West knew his time with Alpha squad was up. He had served his country for twenty years, and served it proudly. He had done bad things in the name of good. He killed bad men for the sake of the safety of his countrymen. He felt like an old man, and after a lifetime of war, he was ready for peace.
November 11, 2008
0115 hours
West arrived at his off-base housing, arms slung over Jacob Gipps and Clark Kelly. All three used to be in the same Delta squad years before- back when Gipps was a fresh sergeant first class, and West was a master sergeant to the then, Sergeant Major Kelly. It felt like the old days. Only instead of being wounded and carried back to cover, West was shit-faced drunk.
After his meeting with the Colonel and unknown man, West gathered all of his gear and said his goodbyes. At 1930 hours sharp, he and his fellow operators met off base for a retirement party.
They went to their favorite seafood spot, The Wet Net, located at the New Bedford harbor. They chowed down on everything from lobster tails to oyster shooters, and proceeded to wash it all
down with pitcher after pitcher of beer.
As a long-standing tradition, the guys forced West into taking the Sloppy Pelican Challenge. A cocktail glass was filled with varied proportions of vodka, tequila, whiskey, and rum. Mixed into the liquor were pieces of clam, octopus and oyster, and floating on top was a raw egg.
The prize for keeping the contents down was a cleared tab. Rarely did anyone brave the shot, and those unfortunate souls who did, vomited one hundred percent of the time. And true to history, West followed his predecessors. Overall, it was a fun night filled with memories, laughs and cheers.
“Be right back,” Gipps said, heading to the fridge.
“Damn, Chucky. I don’t remember you being this heavy,” Kelly said, taking over the entirety of Craig's weight.
He lugged West's body to the bedroom, and dropped him on the mattress. In the corner of his eye, Kelly noticed a picture of West, Kelly, Gipps and three former Delta operators- those of whom never came back from untold missions.
“Got it,” Gipps said, returning with a large glass of ice water and a trash can for West’s inevitable vomiting.
Kelly set the frame down on its back, then took the trash can from Gipps and set it next to West's bed. “You’re too good to him.”
“Call it my last mission with him-”
“Hey...you guys...” West interrupted.
He attempted to tell Gipps and Kelly how much they meant to him but failed miserably. All that Kelly and Gipps could discern was a string of slurred, unintelligible mumbling before passing out.
“I feel bad for leaving him like this, Clark,” Gipps said staring down at his inebriated former sergeant major. “Shouldn't we do something?”
“Like what? Take his clothes off and tuck him in?”
Gipps laughed a hearty laugh and said, “I'd do a lot for that guy, but I'm definitely not taking that bullet, sir.”
0313 hours
The Longest Road (Book 2): The Change Page 1