“He might be right,” she said. Her brow furrowed as she flipped through the pages of my ‘file’. “It says here that you were part of a convoy that was attacked by insurgents in Afghanistan. According to the report while you were in pursuit of an enemy ‘technical’ and I.E.D. took out the lead Cougar transport and two Hum-vees killing all your superior officers. Word is you assumed command, despite severe injuries. The report goes on to credit your actions for saving the life of two of your fellow soldiers that day. ”
I blushed inadvertently. I figured that was “strike one.”
“While you were commended for your behavior,” She continued stone-faced. “Some might consider your actions reckless and foolish and not heroic. The fact of the matter is that you acted without thinking and acted contrary to your unit’s search and destroy orders.”
I winced visibly at the reprimand.
She continued her barrage, “You risked the lives of your remaining men attempting to assist wounded soldiers instead of pursuing the insurgents who attacked a convoy under your protection.”
“All the hostiles in the immediate area had been eliminated.” I said trying to keep my cool.
“But your men had not yet secured the surrounding area as per military procedure and you attempted to pull Sergeant Hartford from a burning Hum-vee.” “With all due respect, Ma’am, my mother wouldn’t have approved either but I wasn’t trying to be hero.”
“Your mother? Which one - the librarian who adopted you or the crack-whore who died when you were six years old?”
“Listen, Lady, there was a situation and I acted.” I shot back trying to remain calm and ignore the intentional insult.
The ‘old-man’ huffed in amusement. “Strike two,” I figured. Then he asked,
“You violated military procedure and disobeyed direct orders to save the life of a man who would later die on an operating table?”
“The hostiles were no longer a threat to the convoy,” I replied softly. “In my position, Sir, what would you have done?”
He didn’t answer. He simply sighed, leaned back into his chair and stared at me.
Shattering the tense silence the woman barked at me,
“The only reason that you are here right now is because the soldier, whose life you saved, happens to be the son of an influential senator. But you wouldn’t know anything about that. Now would you?”
I leaned back in resignation. As far as I was concerned this ’interview’ or ’interogation’ or whatever the hell it was- was over
“Why did you enlist, soldier?”
“I wanted to serve my country,” I lied.
“Then perhaps you should have been a waiter,” she said dryly tossing the file onto the desk. “Your file says that you joined shortly after leaving college. More precisely three weeks after your adopted father’s un-timely death. Add to that the fact that two thirds of your monthly salary is always wired back to your ‘mother’ in Ohio without fail,” she leaned back on her chair’s arm-rest and steepled her fingers and stared at me with her cold blue-eyes, “I’d say you were lying.”
I averted my gazed said nothing. She was right. “Strike three.” I suddenly didn’t like her much anymore.
“Needless to say your claims of being able to speak German, French, Spanish, Mandarin, Farsi and four other languages are now highly suspect in my mind. What? you just expect me to believe that you just picked up those languages along the way?”
“Something like that-”
“This Unit doesn’t have room for liars,” she interupted angrily. ”Lieutenant Colton! Get this man out of my sight. We didn’t come here to recruit a translator. We came here to recruit a soldier. And not a border-line average one at that.”
I really didn’t like her now.
The barrel-chested M.P. Colton, who had come with Dowling and the “Old-man” to West-point, entered the room and stood next to me. I had already saluted and was being escorted to the door when just by chance I noticed,
“Congratulations,” I said.
“Hold it!” someone shouted. I turned around. It was the old-man.
“What did you say, son?”
“I said “Congratulations” to the Lieutenant. Sir.”
“Why?” the old-man asked rising from his chair.
“I noticed that the Lieutenant is still wearing his stripes and not a silver bar on his collar which would most likely mean that he just received word of his promotion recently. Probably today even. Unless, of course, she made a mistake. Sir.”
Dowling frowned at the suggestion like a spoilt child and folded her arms. The old-man smiled and dismissed me.
Two weeks later, I was assured of two things: firstly, I didn’t strike-out like I had thought. I had passed the interview. And secondly, Ms. Dowling, call-sign: ‘Cougar,’ never made mistakes…
Chapter 3
The Present
April 20th 2021
0435 hours
Some-where over the Pacific
For the three days following Ox’s death the higher-ups kept me and Cougar busy filling out reports and attending “specially convened” post-‘op’ de-briefings on what would later become officially known as the “Stanford Incident.” According to the report submitted by the “Clean-up Team” sent to Stanford they only found two bodies; Ox and Molly. The bodies of the three attackers dressed as janitors, according to the report, had ‘melted’ into a jelly-like pink translucent sludge. A fate also suffered by the thumbs Cougar had collected. Only their clothing and weapons remained in tact for forensic examinations that revealed next to nothing.
For the next week, the C.D.C. (Centre for Disease Control) quarantined Stanford University and stories about a failed biological terrorist attack on the campus were leaked to the media .Needless to say the next few days were an endless barrage of interviews, paper-work and blood-tests for Cougar and me. So when the opportunity to re-join our unit in the field arose we didn’t hesitate. Although, in retrospect, sometimes I wish we had…
Priest roused me from my impromptu nap and signed to me with his hands.
“Ten minutes to the L.Z.”
I nodded, checked my OICWv.2 assault rifle and chambered two rounds. One, a standard 5.56mm, the other a computerized trajectory enabled 16mm explosive round.
The two other A.C.E. unit members, also dressed in full tactical ‘kit’, in the red-lit cabin did the same.
The four other passengers, technicians, silently wet themselves. Their pink- faces were fraught with tension. They must have been thinking:
“What the hell have we gotten ourselves into?”
The noise from the modified AH743 Arch-Angel’s combination of rotors and vector-thrust jet-engines were deafening. Yet, somehow during the two-hour sub-sonic flight, I had managed to fall asleep on Priest’s shoulder.
Joel “Huck” Moody shouted over the din.
“So does this mean you two are going steady?!”Huck was Ox’s replacement. An ex-L.R.R.P. (long range reconnaissance patrol), gunnery Sergeant fist-class. A first class dick too.
“Well, yo’ momma always said she wanted to