by Peter Nealen
Brannigan briefly considered throwing those words back in the other man’s face, and then thought better of it. It wouldn’t serve any good purpose, and he had long tried to be a better man than Mark Van Zandt and his ilk, anyway. So instead, he just turned on his heel and left the office.
Somehow, he doubted that it would still be there in a month.
***
“We’ve got a problem,” Flanagan announced as Brannigan walked into the cabin.
It wasn’t his cabin. There was an old hunting camp up in the hills, not far from his own home, and he’d managed to rent it from the owner, who was an old-timer who frequented the Rocking-K more often than Brannigan did, at least for a month. “What kind of problem?”
“Well, Aziz came through,” Flanagan said, hardly sounding pleased about it, “but in a way that only Aziz could.”
Brannigan rubbed his forehead. “Is our linguist three hundred pounds of academic?” he asked.
“No,” Flanagan replied. “In fact, the Chinese linguist seems to be good to go. He really is a mountain climber, and I’ve been putting him through his paces. He’ll keep up. He was even an Army infantryman, though that was back during the ‘90s, so he’s got no combat time.”
“So, what’s the problem?” Brannigan asked.
“The problem is the Burmese linguist that he scrounged up,” Flanagan said, pointing. “Though I don’t think there was a lot of ‘scrounging’ involved.”
Brannigan followed Flanagan’s pointing finger, and stifled a groan. The groan then turned to a tight-lipped anger as he started toward the fire pit behind the cabin.
Aziz was lounging on one of the rough-hewn log benches outside the firepit, chatting with their Burmese linguist. Who was a tiny slip of an Asian girl, not much taller than five feet and maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet.
“Aziz,” Brannigan boomed from the doorway. “I’d like a word.”
Aziz looked over, momentarily startled, and had the good grace to look a bit sheepish as he stood up and walked back to the cabin, though that vanished quickly enough as he stepped up onto the porch. “Yeah? What’s up?”
Brannigan clenched his fists as he fought the urge to strangle the other man. “Mind telling me why you thought it was a good idea to bring your girlfriend along?” Brannigan asked, his voice low and dangerous.
“Oh, well, she’s our other linguist, Colonel,” Aziz said smoothly. “She’s native Burmese, speaks it perfectly.”
“That’s great,” Brannigan bit out. “She’s also half the size of most of the men on the team, and I don’t suppose she has any combat training or experience?”
Aziz swallowed. “Well, not exactly,” he started.
Brannigan leaned in, making the other man take half a step back. “I’m still waiting to hear why you thought this was a good idea,” he growled.
“Look, she’s the only person I know who speaks Burmese,” Aziz protested. “And she’s in good shape; she’s a runner and another mountain climber, like Towne.”
“Running and recreational mountain climbing aren’t the same thing as combat, Aziz, and you’re not dumb enough to make that mistake,” Brannigan ground out. He stared the smaller man down, until Aziz was staring at the deck in front of his boots. “You’ve got about three days until the training cycle starts,” Brannigan said. “I don’t know how you’re going to find another linguist on that kind of short notice. But you’d probably better try. Because if we’re stuck with her, because you were thinking with your crotch, and trying to get one over on me because I gave Doc Villareal a pass not to carry a weapon on Khadarkh, then she’s going to be your responsibility. Which means that, if worst comes to worst, then you’ll be the one carrying her out of the damned jungle.”
Brannigan turned on his heel and stalked inside. He’d meet the girl later. Right at the moment, he was far too angry to be polite, and if she ended up coming along, he didn’t want her introduction to the team to be a very angry Colonel Brannigan.
But he was going to make sure that Aziz corrected that attitude in training, or else the man wasn’t going with them.
CHAPTER 5
“I got to hand it to you, Don,” Hancock said. “You definitely came through when I said I needed volunteers.”
“There are always volunteers for this sort of thing,” Don Hart said. He was only barely shorter than Hancock, still broad-shouldered, though he was showing a little bit of a gut. His hair was still brown, as was the enormous, spade-shaped beard spilling down his chest.
It took a second glance for most people to see that his right leg was a prosthetic. He’d gotten that prosthesis the hard way. Hancock knew exactly how; he had been there when the IED had gone off.
Santelli was standing a few feet apart from the two of them, scanning the loose lineup, his face impassive. Santelli had been a drill instructor, many moons ago, but Hancock didn’t expect him to don that persona again, not for something like this.
“All right, gents,” Santelli said, his Boston accent as thick as ever, “Hart says that you’re up for a challenge. We’ll see. We’ve got two days to find out if you’re up for the task at hand. So rest assured, it’s gonna be a long two days.”
“Just what is ‘the task at hand?’” one of the men, a big, clean-shaven, brown-haired man with intense, icy-blue eyes asked. “All we got from Don was that it was high-risk and would probably pay well.”
“That is on a need-to-know basis until after this little vetting course,” Santelli answered. “Understand, if you’re not coming along, you don’t need to know. You make it through, then you get read-in. Them’s the breaks. If you don’t like it, you can walk now.”
The big man shrugged. “Fine, I’m in,” he said. “A couple days of playing in the woods and shooting guns is a small price to pay.”
“If there are no more questions,” Santelli said, “everybody go to Roger’s truck over there, and grab a ruck and a rubber duck.” He pointed to Hancock’s big dually. The bed was piled with loaded rucksacks and blue rubber rifles, standard equipment for training courses. He and Hancock had set up and weighed each ruck the night before, making sure every one was exactly sixty-five pounds.
It was not going to be an easy day for anyone.
As Hancock reached into the cab for his own ruck and rifle, he saw Hart heaving a rucksack and a rifle out of the bed. “Don?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Oh yeah, I’m coming along,” Hart said. “Johnny Jihad might have thought he cut my career short by blowing my leg off, but I can keep up. Try to stop me.”
Hancock studied the other man for a moment, uncertain. He knew that Don Hart had a lot of guts and a lot of stick-to-it-iveness; he’d never have pulled through after his injuries in Iraq otherwise. But this was something else altogether.
“When’s the last time you jumped, Don?” he asked.
“It was a long time ago, but I’ll get it,” Hart said stubbornly as he shouldered the pack. “Trust me, Roger. I’ve got this.” He looked up. “Are we jumping?”
Hancock mentally kicked himself for giving even that little bit of information away. “Maybe,” he said. He decided that he owed Hart enough of a chance to let him try. He didn’t think he’d make it through; between the gut and the prosthetic, he was already at a disadvantage compared to some of the leaner, hungrier-looking men gathering around the truck to grab their gear. He also knew that a large part of that gut was due to alcohol, and it worried him. “Let’s just focus on the next couple of days, okay?”
“Fine by me,” Hart said. He got the pack on his shoulders and staggered, just a little. He wasn’t used to the weight with the prosthetic, and it took him a second to find his balance. “I’m good, I’m good,” he insisted, as Hancock held out a hand to catch him if he started to fall. “I’ve got this, Roger. Really.”
Hancock nodded, a faint frown creasing his face. Well, he’ll make it or he won’t. He’s a grown man. Hancock wasn’t a believer in coddling grown men. He shouldered his own pack and
got ready to move.
“We’ll start things off with a bit of a nature walk,” Santelli bellowed. “Stay with the group; if you fall back more than a hundred yards, you may as well sit down and have a breather before heading back here to the house. You won’t be coming with us.” Without any further words, he turned and started toward the hills behind the farmhouse.
***
The hills weren’t steep, but Santelli wasn’t moving slowly, and he wasn’t stopping. Hancock hovered near the back of the pack, watching the candidates. He wasn’t just looking for signs of weakness; he was looking for general attitudes and demeanors. Were these guys going to put their heads down and bitch, or were they going to keep forging ahead, their eyes up and out, like they’d have to in the Burmese highlands?
One of the leaner ones, a hollow-cheeked man with long black hair, was already flagging within the first mile. He was keeping up, but his head was already down, he was dripping with sweat—and it wasn’t that hot in northern California at that time of year—and he was barely holding onto his rubber rifle, practically letting it drag in the dirt. Hancock already had him pegged. He wasn’t going to make the cut.
It was possible that he’d find the staying power if he stuck with it, got his second wind. But they simply didn’t have time to see. Hancock already had the man written off.
A big, barrel-chested man with a shaved head and very little in the way of a visible neck was keeping pace with the long-haired man, muttering encouragement to him. Hancock shook his head. Vincent Bianco, as much as he looked like an extra in The Untouchables, had been just as helpful and generally cheerful when he’d been in Hancock’s platoon, many years before. It seemed that the man hadn’t changed.
He stretched his legs to catch up with the pair of them, taking a step downhill to go around a scrub pine before coming alongside Bianco. The big man was red-faced and starting to sweat, but that was Bianco.
“How you holding up, Vinnie?” Hancock asked.
Bianco looked over at him. “I’m fine, Roger,” he said, between huffing breaths. “Although I’m already starting to wish I’d stuck with my nice, cushy IT job.”
Hancock shook his head with a chuckle. “Since when did you actually prefer to sit at a desk in front of a computer, instead of lifting weights, shooting guns, and running around outside?”
Bianco laughed. “I still lift,” he said. Which was pretty evident just by looking at him.
“And you don’t have to be quite so ‘underground’ about being an enormous nerd?” Hancock asked with a grin.
Bianco flushed a deeper shade of red, glancing over at the long-haired man beside him. That guy wasn’t paying any attention, though, being off in his own little world of misery. Hancock could see he was “turtling,” withdrawing into his shell. No, he definitely wouldn’t be coming along.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Roger,” Bianco said unconvincingly.
“Suuure you don’t, Vinnie,” Hancock said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell any of the rest about your ‘Magic: The Gathering’ cards. I’m just not sure you’re going to be able to keep your own mouth shut, that’s all.”
Bianco shook his head, half-grimacing, half-smiling, as Hancock laughed. “They weren’t ‘Magic: The Gathering,’” he muttered. “They were ‘Legend of the Five Rings.’”
Hancock grinned even wider. “See, that’s what I’m talking about,” he said. “You always have to argue about these things, and it destroys your goombah tough guy cred.”
Flushing a little darker, shaking his head and struggling not to laugh, Bianco just said, “Fuck you, Rog.”
Hancock chuckled and clapped Bianco on the shoulder again, before continuing to move up the line, watching the rest.
***
The hike kept going, meandering through the hills about as fast as Santelli could move his stubby legs. As short and stocky as he was, Santelli could hike; it was something that he’d always taken some pride in. He’d left long-legged infantry Marines who should have outpaced him easily in the dust. And given the nature of the mission they were vetting these men for, he was not sparing the pace.
Somewhat surprisingly, all but two kept up. By the time they reached the high pasture on the north end of the farm, after having circled the entire property three times, only the long-haired man that Hancock had spotted with his head down after the first mile, and another man, with an “operator beard” and tattoos over just about every bit of exposed skin aside from his face, had dropped out. Hart was hurting, but he was keeping up, with a rolling gait that seemed to compensate for the stiffness of his artificial leg.
Breathing deeply, Santelli stopped and turned to face the ragged line of candidates. Hancock was still at the rear, with Hart and the big Italian kid, Bianco. Most of them were now watching Santelli, and he could read the expectation of a rest on their faces.
They were doomed to be disappointed. He sucked in a deep breath and bellowed, “Contact left!”
***
John Wade had found himself enjoying the ruck march. It had been a long time, or at least it felt that way. He’d been a First Sergeant when he’d retired from the Army, and despite his best efforts, it had been like pulling teeth to just stay in the field with his Rangers. He’d been unable to avoid the inevitable bureaucratic bullshit that goes along with being a Senior NCO, no matter how hard he’d tried. And he’d tried hard, to the extent of making himself an enormous pain in the ass to his superiors, just so they wouldn’t want him around the office.
He’d loved being a Ranger. He’d hated the Army, but he loved the Rangers. And he loved every part of the job. So when the short Boston-accented guy leading the hike yelled, “Contact left,” Wade just grinned like a madman and played along. He snapped his rubber rifle to his shoulder, wishing that it was a real one, and dropped to a knee as he turned to face the “contact.” He wouldn’t yell, “Bang, bang, bang,” like privates were taught to, but he’d have fun with the drill, anyway.
He was close to a small dip in the meadow, and with a lunge, he crossed the couple of yards to it, dropping to his belly beneath the heavy pack and getting behind the rifle. “Base of fire here!” he yelled.
He knew better than to hope for this kind of action on a contract, but at the same time, a man could dream. And he was going to run with the dream while he could.
***
Seriously? What the fuck? George Jenkins hadn’t thought that some PMC’s vetting course could be anywhere near as tough as anything he’d done in the Teams. He was starting to get seriously irritated with that short, Boston-accented Italian who was dragging them all over creation. What was the point of ruck marching for a protective gig? That was all that PMCs did; why would they need to do all this movement to contact crap? He wasn’t in rucking shape anymore. And when they suddenly got a “Contact Left” call, he was momentarily flabbergasted. Training courses were supposed to be event by event; he’d been expecting a break after the hike.
I think I know what the game is. Get them worn out and then hit them with a tactical problem. That had to be it. Stress-test games.
Jenkins was still young, blond-haired and muscular, but he had been resting on his laurels for a while since getting out of the Navy. He was a bit out of breath and sweaty as he grudgingly turned to face the “contact,” and brought his rubber rifle to his shoulder. He didn’t have the urgency or the enthusiasm that Wade was showing, a few yards away, as the big man yelled out, “Base of fire here!” He was tired of these games, and wondered, not for the first time, why he kept trying out for these sorts of gigs.
Because you need the money, dumbass. He hadn’t cashed in by writing a book about his time on the Teams, and as tempting as the money might be, he just didn’t want to face the opprobrium of being a “Navy SEAL Book Writer.” The only other route was PMC work, so here he found himself, dragging ass through the woods like some Army grunt, play-acting at war to convince a short, fat, retired Senior NCO that he could
sit on venue with a rifle for hours while suits talked.
You ain’t gonna make the money if you’re half-assing the drill and bitching in your head. He stood up at the same time as the dark-skinned man beside him. He thought he remembered that the guy’s name was Gomez, except that he hadn’t heard a dozen words from him since they’d showed up at Hart’s door. He was obviously Native American, but if that was why he was doing the silent act, he was taking the stereotype a bit far.
Gomez was dashing forward, moving way too fast for the rucks they were carrying, and Jenkins felt like a lumbering bear as he followed the other man’s rush. He was too tired at that point to count, but Gomez dropped back down, finding a fold in the ground as cover, right at three seconds. Jenkins flopped down beside him, almost sending his ruck over his own head, and had to fight to keep the sixty-five-pound pack from crushing his head into the dirt before getting back behind his fake rifle.
Damn, this sucks. I hope he calls End-Ex soon.
***
Santelli was in no hurry to end the exercise. He stood on the highest spot of the meadow and watched as the candidates quickly set up their base of fire and assaulted through the notional ambush. If he’d had more time, he would have set up something more elaborate, with firecracker strings for machinegun fire, and even artillery simulators, or at least the closest that he could get in the civilian world, which was probably going to be some kind of fireworks. They hadn’t had time, though. They might not be on the same tight timeline as they had been with the Khadarkh operation, but the fact remained that the longer they dawdled, the higher the chance that somebody who shouldn’t might start asking questions about what they were doing. Santelli didn’t know Van Zandt like Brannigan did, but he was still absolutely certain that the former general would sell them down the river in a heartbeat rather than back them up if this little endeavor ever saw the light of day.
Hancock was trudging up to join him, his blue rifle dangling from his hand. He was watching the drill with a critical eye; Hancock was a hell of a tactician, and had had no qualms while still in the military about telling anyone, clear on up to senior officers, that they were fucked up in the field.