The Longest Road (Book 2): The Change

by Thompson, A. S.

  West sprung out of bed and barely made it to the bathroom. He proceeded to spend the next forty-five minutes puking his guts out. After pounding four glasses of ice-cold water, he took 1000 milligrams of Advil and went back to his bed, still feeling drunk.

  As West sat at the edge of the mattress, something felt off to him, even in his current state.

  The picture frame, he thought.

  He picked it up and in the ten-seconds that he stared at it, more than a million memories surfaced. Some good, some terrible. But as he set it down in its original spot, he knew that his lifetime of good and bad deeds meant something. He had stopped many terrible things from happening. He prevented wars and genocides and stopped terrorists and drug lords. He no longer knew that he was a good man, he believed it. For the first time in his career, he believed he was a tool for good.

  West located the military fatigues that he wore earlier in the day and reached into the front pocket. He pulled out the business card and stared at it for a solid minute before dialing the numbers.

  The phone rang twice, and then someone said, “Your answer?”

  West cleared his throat and replied, “I'm in.”

  The person at the end of the line gave West a location and time and then hung up.

  West pushed the "end" button on his phone and hung it back in its cradle. He lay back down and thought,Good things, Chucky, good things.

  Outskirts of New York City, NY

  November 21, 2008

  0655 hours

  Even though a courier had delivered a first-class, round trip airline ticket to his house, West opted to drive his 1994 Chevy truck down to New York. The all-terrain tires on his beat-up, pickup squished their way through the gravely mud.

  West's eyes slowly scanned the unfamiliar environment back and forth.

  This would be the perfect place for an ambush, he thought.Completely exposed, zero retreat options and this intersection has choke point written all over it.

  West made mental notes like this. It was one of the many reasons he had survived so long in his line of work. He observed everything, a skill that he first learned from his favorite fictional detective, Sherlock Holmes.

  Located behind a particularly derelict building, West identified his destination. He counted eleven rental cars, one government issued Chevy suburban and one unmarked Audi GT Spyder Convertible, all parked in front of an open steel door.

  Next to a Honda Civic at the end, West backed in his pickup. He took his time exiting the Chevy. Through the cover of dark-tinted sunglasses, he performed one last three-sixty of his surroundings before heading toward the steel door.

  At the crest of the entrance, West removed his glasses to allow his eyes adjust to the dim lighting. Initially, he observed no one. The room was barren, save for a variety of abandoned and rusty equipment. Spiders, insects, and other vermin had now claimed this warehouse as their own.

  “Cozy,” he snorted.

  West continued to his left following the faint sounds of talking. He passed through a room with rusted meat hooks and a dilapidated conveyor belt; his mind envisioned the meat packing facility in operation, blood, guts, and all.

  As he pulled back the plastic flaps that divided the processing room from the next, West located the meeting room.

  Within a matter of seconds, West had scanned and observed everything. He counted twelve metal folding chairs and eleven men huddled around them in various groups. There were two groups of two, one group of three and a group of four. After further observation, he could tell that these men were not ordinary civilians; their postures, how they constantly scanned the room, the way none gave their backs to a doorway or window, even the concealed weapons bulging from waistbands, pockets, and ankles. But the easiest tell by far, was the various military tattoos. The men were all Special Forces.

  “Chucky?” Came a voice from the nearest of the groups of two. “There's no way...that you, buddy?”

  “I’ll be damned. If it isn’t Skinny Hepson,” West replied. He walked over and greeted his longtime friend with a bear hug.

  Benny “Skinny” Hepson and West had enlisted in the army the same year. They became friends, hitting it off immediately. They both went through Ranger school and were equally tough as nails. They remained close despite being called off to different war zones. Eventually, both tried out for Delta. During the selection process, Skinny suffered a broken ankle and was forced to quit- not by choice.

  West ultimately passed selection and was invited to join the special ops unit. A year and a half later, Skinny recycled and passed selection, but their hopes of being in the same unit would never come to fruition. They both were on different squads and saw different fights. Every now and again, they ran into each other, but this was the first time in four years.

  Skinny introduced the other man standing next to him. “Chucky, I want you to meet a good friend of mine. This is Freddy Diggons.”

  “A friend of Skinny’s is a friend of mine,” West said, extending a hand. “How do you do?”

  Freddy Diggons was an Air Force Combat Controller who Skinny had worked with on multiple occasions. Combat Controllers like Freddy, were assigned to various special ops teams, and they played a pivotal role calling in calculated air strikes and conducting special reconnaissance among other things.

  “Likewise,” Freddy replied, “I’m doing fine, just wish we knew why we were here.”

  “I hear ya, I’ve been wondering since I was approached a few weeks back,” West said. To both continue his intelligence gathering and catch up on old times, West asked, “What have you guys been up to?”

  Skinny and Freddy reciprocated pleasantries, and gave abridged accounts of their lives. Afterwards, they went on to discuss the other operators. Freddy and Skinny pointed around the room starting with the other group of two.

  “Both those guys were Scout Snipers, worked with them a couple times,” Freddy said, pointing to a pair of brutes with Marine Corp tattoos. “That group of three are mixed. The guy on the left is a Combat Controller a year below me, and Skinny was telling me the guy in the middle was Force Recon and the other is a-”

  “Delta,” West said, cutting Freddy off. “Who are those last guys?”

  Skinny took over. “Ninety-nine percent sure they are SEALs, but I’ve never met them. Don’t even know which team they belonged to.”

  Interesting, West thought.

  After further discussion and observation, West, Skinny, and Freddy determined that all of these men were seasoned special ops veterans except for one in particular; he was more like a kid, and as loud and obnoxious as one, too.

  The young Navy SEAL was a sandy-blond, wavy-haired guy in his late twenties. West didn’t need to observe the man’s youthful appearance to know that he was younger than the rest. The kid’s cocky mannerisms said it all.

  For a minute, West, Freddy, and Skinny, stopped their own conversation and listened to the kid. They overheard him talk about his last assignment; about how he saved two of his friends with two bullets in him among other miraculous, and most likely trumped-up, details.

  When the three men couldn’t take any more, they meandered over to a table filled with coffee, donuts, and assorted fruits. The others stacked food on their paper plates, but West wasn’t hungry.

  Coincidentally, the group of two and three ventured over and introduced themselves. As the men talked and guessed about their recruitment, the cocky blond haired kid walked over with his posse of SEALs behind him.

  “Briggs, but everyone calls me Daytona,” he said extending his hand to West. “Glad you could fit us in your schedule; some of us like to be on time. What happened, Gramps? AARP card wouldn't work at Denny’s?”

  West held his tongue and certainly didn’t shake hands. He continued to size up the kid. West had respect for each veteran in the group, except Daytona. To West, respect was earned, not something that can be shit-talked or given to some kid with a serious ego problem.

  Skinny, on the other ha
nd, was always the hot head out of the two. He fired back with insults of his own.

  “I didn't know they let little boys in here? Hey, when you’re old enough, you should join the military. I’d say Army, but you look more like a sissy Navy type.”

  As the trash-talking and shoving continued, a group of individuals entered silently from the far corner. West noticed the Secretary of Defense, the same young man from Colonel Kelly's office and an older woman who West estimated to be in her late sixties. Those individuals were surrounded by eight armed Secret Service agents with their standard glasses, suits, and .357 caliber pistols tucked against their waist.

  The room was called to order by the younger man. “Gentlemen. I ask that you please take your seats. We would like to begin now.”

  Despite the young man’s initial efforts to start the meeting, the playful jeering continued. When one of the Marines joked that, “The Navy doesn’t fight wars, they just carry Marines to them,” the SEALs were fuming. They retorted that Marines were, “Just a bunch of stupid grunts.” And when the Combat Controllers laughed, the Marines told them to “Make like every war and stay out of it, Chair Force.”

  “Gentlemen! Please! Take your seats,” the man repeated, this time louder and with a command presence.

  The men looked over, and each recognized Secretary of Defense Norman Chiller. Out of respect for him, they disbanded and took their seats. Each chair had a specific name attached to it along with a pad of paper and pens. After some loose chatter and final taunting, the meeting began.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. First off, let me say that your nation owes you a debt of gratitude for your service. The things you have done for the sake of freedom, it is beyond words. And I know that you have paid the price in blood, sweat, tears and loss,” the Secretary of Defense said, beginning his speech. “But your nation needs you again. By now, all of you should know why you are here. You were hand-picked. What has to be done can only be done by you. There are leaks all throughout the government and military. We need seasoned men who are no longer employed by the government, but who still maintain a very specific skill set...”

  The special operators glanced around the room. Minutes ago, they were heckling one another, now they realized the brotherhood that they must once again embrace. A tone of mutual respect by way of head nods was signaled from one man to the next.

  “...What I am about to tell you is grave. We are up against an E.L.E.,” Secretary Chiller continued, “An Extinction Level Event. A global killer. A few months ago, we received credible Intel that a biological threat unlike any other was being developed. Three weeks ago, it was confirmed that the threat was nearing completion. Many brave men and women gave their lives to retrieve this intelligence. It is up to you, our final defense, to stop the threat from happening.”

  Secretary Chiller paused, and then nodded to the younger man. The signal prompted the man to set up a portable screen and computer. After striking a sequence of keys, a projector powered on and a Power Point-type presentation began. In large, black font, one word lit up the white screen.

  “This, gentlemen, this is your enemy-”

  Before the Secretary could read the word, Daytona spouted out what he believed was an Arabic word. He followed with an amateur translation of it. “Something about a brush?”

  “The word is ‘fareshtegan-eh marg’,” West pronounced in perfect Farsi. “It means ‘Angels of Death’ in Persian.” Then, he turned his head to the row behind him and said, “Maybe you should go back to school for a little bit longer and let the grown-ups talk.”

  Laughter erupted from the section of special operators. Even the other Navy SEALs snickered.

  Daytona glared at West, but West turned to give his attention back to the Secretary of Defense.

  “Well done, Sergeant Major. You are correct. Now, let us get back to the matter at hand. The name would lead us to believe that the terrorists of ‘fareshtegan-eh marg’ are Iranian in nature, but to be honest, we have no idea of their nationalities or allegiances. But we do know that these men are highly trained and the worst of the worst. They have been nearly impossible to track and are excellent in the skills of tradecraft. And like many other terrorist groups, they utilize a cell-structure for anonymity...”

  As West was taking notes, he glanced over to Daytona. The cocky SEAL wasn’t scribbling so much as a doodle. More interestingly, Daytona appeared to be barely listening, almost bored.

  Odd. He must have a photographic memory or is the most unprepared operator I’ve ever known, West thought.

  “...I cannot stress how important this is. If this bio-threat gets finished and released, there will be no stopping it. Which leads us to why you are here. Like the terrorists themselves, you are going to act like a cell, an anti-terrorist cell. That way, if one of you were to get captured or compromised, there will be no way to know about the rest of our plans...”

  At this time, two Secret Service agents walked over and handed each operator a large, sealed, manila envelope.

  “...Inside these packets are your specific assignments. These are to be read in private and not shared with anyone, not even among yourselves. We cannot risk an information leak. For the time being, I can tell you that your basic mission outline is to track, locate, and inject key members of ‘fareshtegan-eh marg’ with this,” Secretary Chiller declared, holding up a small vial containing a clear liquid. “This substance is similar to a radioactive tracking isotope, but has been reformulated and retrofitted to include nanotechnology that makes it completely untraceable, self-powered, and will record imagery once the nanobots make their way into the retinal cavity. Gentlemen, this unlike anything that has come before it, and combined with your skills, we will track these bastards’ movements...”

  West received his packet last. Stained in red were the words “DESTROY CONTENTS AFTER COMPLETION.”

  “...Your missions are time sensitive and you are to begin immediately. Your passports, cover stories, and currency, have been placed inside your vehicles. Mission critical supplies have already been shipped to your safe houses. Anything you need, ask and you shall receive. Like I said earlier, you are our final defense. Now, if you have any questions, please stand and ask. The floor is yours.”

  Skinny Hepson was the first to stand.

  “Sir, everyone here knows who you are. We know who the Secret Service agents are, but with all due respect, sir, who are the other two? I only ask, because if this mission isthat sensitive, then why are there unessential persons involved?”

  The younger man stood, buttoned his suit jacket and said, “I’ll take this, Mr. Secretary. My name is Albert Stone. Let me ask you a question, Master Sergeant Hepson. Will your question, in any way, help you complete your mission?”

  Skinny was taken aback. “I-I guess it wouldn’t, but-”

  “Then I suggest you keep logistics to us,” Albert replied with blunt arrogance. “Now, are there anyrelevant questions?”

  Next, one of the Marines stood and asked, “Why aren’t active special ops units taking care of this?”

  Albert appeared visually frustrated. He shuffled his feet, and then made a twitching motion with his face.

  “Excuse me one moment, please,” he said, turning his back to the operators.

  The others couldn’t see what West observed from his vantage point. He watched Albert reach into his coat pocket and pull out the same small metal box from Colonel Kelly’s office. Albert proceeded to place a white pill under his tongue before turning back to face the operators.

  “Apparently, Staff Sergeant Donovan, you haven’t been listening. There are leaks within the government, and you are no longer in active duty,” Albert responded, clearing his throat. “All of you have held years of service and have been vetted and vetted again, and again. You are patriots. More importantly, the best of the best. Again, I stressrelevant questions.”

  For the next few minutes, other operators stood and asked questions ranging from transport to post mission debriefing
. There was even one about payment for services rendered.

  When it seemed as though there were no more questions, West stood and asked, “What is this group really after? What’s their endgame?”

  Albert had immediate responses for the previous questions, but for West’s, he paused momentarily. He inhaled deep and in one breath said, “These terrorists are in the process of creating an unknown, biological weapon in order to exact a simultaneous worldwide attack in an attempt to create pandemonium and destabilize the world economy. They are anarchists at its purest definition. They have no known agenda other than to murder billions. To destroy, in one strike, what has taken the world thousands of years to create.”

  Albert drew a shallow breath and finished, “To answer your question, what is their endgame, it is simple. They have none. They are evil, Sergeant Major West. Pure evil.”

  Hmm,West thought.There’s always an endgame...

  The others seemed to buy the answer, but West wasn’t completely satisfied. After years of acting behind the scenes and stopping events such as this, West had a hard time believing. The pieces fit together, but the puzzle didn’t make sense. To him, it was like staring at a piece of modern art. There may have been meaning, but he wasn’t getting it.

  The explanations that he and the other operators had received during the briefing appeared merely adequate, possibly rehearsed. Furthermore, in West’s opinion, there were other, not to mention younger, equally if not higher qualified men than this room of has-beens.

  Secretary Chiller stepped forward to conclude the meeting. “Thank you very much for your service. The people of the world will forever be indebted to you, but sadly, they will never know it.”

  Afterwards, the VIPs and Secret Service personnel exited the room, officially ending the meeting.

  The Marines, Air Force, Army, and Navy operators said their goodbyes and wished one another well. They took to heart how important their roles were, and as instructed, began their individual assignments without delay. Everyone except Freddy, Skinny, and West stayed behind.