An extremely sharp, high pitched wail was what woke me up. I groped around my nightstand for that stupid little alarm clock, finally finding it and jerking it out from the wall and dropping it on the floor by my bed.
"Finally", I groaned, "why do I even set that stupid little thing? And why is it Monday?"
I never really cared much for Mondays, they were the scourge of the planet and If I was Leader of the world, i'd have Mondays removed from the calender. Of course then Tuesday would become the new Monday, so really what would be the point?Last night we had a party for my older brother Issac's birthday. If we had been slightly smarter than we were we would have done it on Saturday as we didn't have to wake up on Sunday morning. Well, Issac and I did anyway because of Church, but that was besides the point.
My friends and I had eaten too many slices of Pizza, hotdogs and cupcakes to feasibly count and some of us had ended up drunk, I being one of them. I still felt like someone had taken a knife, driven it into my skull through my ear and twisted it around. I had also spent a miserable 30 minutes on the floor throwing my guts up shortly after the party last night and my stomach and throat were still hurting from that one. You'd think for someone who knew that Beer and Cupcakes didn't set well with him that I'd avoid it. Says a lot doesn't it?It also seemed like that when ever I had headaches, and believe me, I had one, I was hyper sensitive to sound. I heard a door down the hallway open, shut and then foot steps coming down the hall. A few seconds later, my door flew open and I felt an empty soda can collide with the back of my head.
"John!", my friend Hudson yelled, "get up!"
Hudson was the second in command for our team, with me being the CO. He was 32 years old, the oldest of all of us. He stood at a towering six feet and eight inches, even looking down on the General who was in charge of our Firebase. He had green eyes and short, light brown hair that stood on end, a little bit. Hudson was a man who looked like he could throw around the incredible Hulk. He weighed 350 pounds, but barely any of it was fat. He was a wall of liquid steel and I always joke that he could probably be shot point blank with a 12 gauge and the shot would bounce off. He was also one of those guys who liked single shot, long range rifles that didn't carry a lot of ammo so he could have room for other things and his equipment of choice certainly reflected that. His primary weapon was FN Hertsal USA's FAL Optimized Support Weapon chambered for the 7.62x54 NATO round. It carried a Hybrid sight, a support grip, 25 round magazine and match grade bull type barrel with a semi-auto modification. His favored secondary was Browning's B32R 9mm burst pistol with a long barrel, laser sight and muzzle brake.
"I was sleeping ass for brains", I moaned pulling the pillow over my head.
"I know that", he answered, "why do you think I threw the can at you?"
"Man how in the hell are you not sick?", I asked as I threw my pillow to the floor.
"For starters", Hudson said, "you and Frank ate all the pizza, so I got stuck with hot dogs."
"You love hot dogs", I said kicking my blankets off and sitting up, reaching for my dog tags.
"Yes", Hudson answered, "but Jackie and Wyatt ate most of them and you know I don't drink, so there, that's how I'm not sick."
I sighed as I sat on the edge of my bed, "I'll meet you at the usual spot, I'm feeling ripe right now and I wanna clean up."
"You didn't take a shower before you went to bed last night?", Hudson asked with a smirk on his face.
"I have a gun in my nightstand", I said looking at him.
"Moving on", Hudson smiled before disappearing around the corner.
Grunting, I sat up and looked around my room. It was well kept, with a desk,nightstand and single twin mattress on a olive drab green and lifeless military frame being the only furniture to speak of. Two guns, a Sacco Defense Mk-48 General Purpose Machine Gun and a Browning B32R rested on the table,as if sleeping. The machine gun was painted in Sahara desert camouflage and carried a Trijjicon Advanced Combat Optical Gunsight, a Wilson Combat Dragon muzzle break and a front grip as well as a tuned Gessile Automatics STG trigger and a box that held two hundred rounds of large .30-06 ammunition. The pistol, also with the camouflage paint job, boasted a titanium slide, enhanced night and day sights, a long barrel and a laser sight, the magwell was also flared, allowing for extremely fast "knife reloads". A tactical knife with 550 grade parachute cord wrapped around the handle often accompanied the handgun in it's holster.In the back was the bathroom. It was small thing, with their hardly being any room to turn around from the toilet to face the sink, but it was private which was way better than what I had in Basic Combat Training, so I tried not to complain.
I pulled myself out of bed and walked into the bathroom. I showered off, shaved, stopping to look at myself in the mirror on the way out.The man looking back at me stood at 6'0 even, had neon blue eyes, tan skin, jet black hair that stood on end and a scar tracing across his neck, reminding him to always check behind the door. I smiled at myself and then got dressed in my standard uniform, three color desert pants and a combat shirt of the same print. I strapped on my watch, grabbed my silver cross and hung it around my neck. My Dad had given it to me when I left for the Marines more than a decade ago and my great grandfather had worn it on the USS Texas in World War One. I grabbed my B32, holster and strapped it to my leg before exiting my room and starting down the hallway.
For whatever the reason, lack of space, budget problems, or just because, my friends and I had rooms adjacent to the Infirmary. The walls around me were a bright white, like what you might see in any hospital or military infirmary while the floor was concrete gray, kinda boring if you asked me, just more of the same. Day after day. I walked down the hallway and to the infirmary entrance, stepping out side. It was already hot as hell and the sun was shining brightly off the sand, I grew up pretty close to the Texas-Mexican border, so heat and sand were nothing new to me. The base where I was stationed,Firebase Charlie,was huge for a temporary post. A high razor wire wall surrounded the base with six guard towers,one in each of the four corners,and two at the entrance. From anywhere on base,anyone with eyes could see the large,105 howitzer cannons witch stood tall and strong, very imposing and threatening if you asked me. There was also a hanger,which held the Warthogs of the pilots who'd recently been stationed here. There were also the main barracks, a wash room, the motor pool and the landing pad as well as the basketball court, firing range and the two mile track which went around the inside of the bases wall.
The mess hall was alive with chatter, the clanking of metal trays, the the always disturbing sweat smell and the smell of the MRE's, or as Jackson liked to call them, the daily disaster. I went to the back and grabbed a tray. The chef had made scrambled eggs with sausage and toast, one of the better MRE's to come out of research. The cooks behind the counter put the food on my tray and I left the line. I quickly found my friends at our table in the back of the room and walked over to the table.
"I had no idea you could eat so much pizza boss", Jackson laughed.
Jackson Tyler, or Jackie as we all called him, was 17 and a new addition to our team, straight out of scout sniper school. He usually dressed in a sleeveless shirt or a tank top and wore the standard desert camouflage combat pants. He has bright blonde hair that was almost gold that he gelled so it would stand on end. He had bright sea green eyes that practically glowed in the dark. Jackson carried a sniper rifle, a Remington 700 that had a ton of parts, carbon fiber stock, titanium bolt, 36x variable zoom lens, ported triangular barrel, is it probably the most customized Remington in the world? Answer, yes. He knew how to use it as well. I shit not when I say that he snapped a pencil in half at 600 yards with that rifle. Like the rest of us, Jackie carried the B32R in reserve, though it didn't have any attachments on it.
"Neither did I", I smiled as I sipped my coffee, "what I do know is that we will probably be Court Martialed if we do that crap again."
Issac returned my laugh, "yeah probably."
Issac, my older brother, was two years older than me at 32. He had brown hair that was of a medium length and eyes that were neon blue, like mine. He stood a few inches taller than me at six feet five inches and could shot the back legs off a fly with his M-16 at a thousand yards while free standing. His rifle was decked out with a reflex sight, free floating handguard,custom compensator and a twenty round clip, all dressed in black. He held the B32R with a laser sight, long barrel and semi automatic modification in reserve, as well as packing some C4 that he was capable of doing some very nasty things with.
"Anyone see where Frank went by the way?", Wyatt asked, "I didn't see him on my way in and he wasn't in his room."
"Nope", Hudson said, "I'll never quite know where that man runs off too."
Wyatt, only 29, was an interesting cocktail of a sniper and a rifleman. He stood at 6'2 with neon green eyes and long black hair that came half way down his forehead. He was skinny, but damn can the man lay a hit,even without his prized rifle. Wyatt's weird looking SCAR-H, was FNH's response to Eugene Stoner's AR-10, though they were quite late in arriving with it. It was equipped with a long 24 inch barrel and a fixed stock with a custom pistol grip and a bipod that clung to the end of the gun. Like on Jackson's Remington, a long Variable zoom lens sat on top the rifle, enabling Wyatt to hit pinpoint at crazy distances well out of reach of Issac's M16,Hudson's FAL or even Jackson's Remington,but not my 48. I could go out to a distance of 1,200 yards if I had to, but my weapon being designed for large amounts of fire, rather than sniping, it's unlikely I could land kill shots. Like the rest of us, he holds Browning's B32R with a laser sight and long barrel in reserve.
Frank was the team stealth expert. He was Hudson's age, stood at 6'4 and had brown hair and hazelish-green eyes. His favored toy was an HK Mp5 with an integrated handle grip, taped magazines, a solid stock and a short barrel with an integrated suppressor. He carried a B32 with a silencer on it and he also had a cache of throwing knives that he could throw like bullets from a rifle, often hard enough that they would stick in a concrete wall.
"You'd think he'd be drunk somewhere", Jackson said, "but in reality he's probably right behind us and we don't know it because we can't hear him."
"Sounds like Frank", I said.
"What does frank sound like?", Issac asked.
"Like this", Wyatt said, "all clear....death gurgle."
"Ehh", I said, "6 of ten."
Wyatt sighed, "eaaugh, I need to work on my impressions."
"Yeah you do", Frank said as he sat down at the table.
"Where the hell were you?", Hudson asked.
"Sleeping", Frank said, "too much freaking beer last night."
"No shit", I told him, "you'd think we'd have learned by now that beer and pizza doesn't mix with us. I spent like a half hour on my bathroom floor throwing my guts up last night."
"Same here", Wyatt said, "there's no way I'm ever having a beer again until next week."
"If it's gonna hit me it will be during what ever strenuous physical activity I may undertake in the next hour", Jackson laughed.
"Do you always speak like that?", Hudson asked, "it's fuckin weird."
Jackson smirked, "depends on how I feel."
"Jackie do you ever actually hear some of the shit coming out of your mouth?", I asked.
"No sir I do not", Jackson answered, "I find it throws off my rhythm."
I sighed and stood up, "I'm hitting the court to see if Corey wants a game."
"That skinny Mexican always wants a game", Hudson said, "I'mma join you."
"Us too", Jackson said as the others rose.
We left the mess hall and walked over to the basketball court which was near the PT area. I could see Corey and a few other guys already there.
Corey was a skinny, 5'11 private contractor who was born in Mexico. He was at Charlie for what ever the reason and he told me that he'd been sending money home to his parents and wife so they could go to the US. When he saw us coming, he tossed Jackson the ball.
"Looking for a game guys?", he asked.
"Of course", Jackie answered tossing it back, "beats the hell outta standard PT."
"Amen to that", one of the Marines with him said.
"Street rules", Corey said, "our ball."
Corey,being the pro player that he was,began to skillfully move around the court,making the fist basket almost instantly.
"Point us", Corey said chucking the ball at me.
"Don't get cocky", I said smirking, "there's still nine to go."
I shot the ball from where I was and it went right into the basket.
"Point us", I said arrogantly.
Corey just smiled and grabbed the ball. Time passed and the game dragged on,with Corey and his friends coming out on top.
"You guys play like shit", I said tossing the ball back to Corey.
"And you don't?", Hudson asked.
"In my defense I wasn't a high school player", I said starring at Jackie.
"Oh yeah, sure", Jackie sighed, "blame me."
"It was John's fault Jackie", Wyatt said, "he's to proud to admit it though."
"If it wasn't illegal", I said narrowing my eyes at him, "I'd flatten you for that."
"Sure you would", our General Holland said walking up behind us. Holland was a very tall, well built man.he was around six feet and seven inches with almost blond hair and creepy, silver eyes with black slit pupils that made him look like a demon.
"When'd you get here?", Jackie asked.
"Just now", Holland answered, "get up to my office, I have something for you, I'll meet you up there."
Before giving us any time to ask questions, Holland walked off.
"Charming", Jackie said as we started for Charlie's HQ, "just, charming."
My team,Task Force Raven,consisted of me as the acting commanding officer,Hudson, Issac, Wyatt, Frank and Jackson. Were a team the enemy told stories about around campfires,even earning the nickname "Ghosts". The six of us walked to the small, half wood, half tent command post and into the back, a metal shed serving as Holland's office. We sat there for a minute before he finally came back.
"Sorry guys", Holland said, "had to take care of those two cooks fighting again."
"What is it about eggs that makes those two so fuckin violent?", I asked.
"I have no idea", Holland answered, "anyway, down to business."
"What are the details?", I asked.
"A couple of our operatives have run into trouble in Cuba", Holland replied, "the Cuban's have announced the event to the public as part of an ongoing propaganda campaign,but have not released the status of the men. Until we hear further we can only hope for the best, officially the US is denying any knowledge but unofficially it's a different story."
Holland spread out two maps on his desk. One was a map of what looked like a villa and the other was an area map of what was defiantly the Cuban coast line. Both of the areas looked to have been converted into makeshift fortresses.
"Latest intelligence has the men being held captive in an converted mission on the coast", Holland said, "you are to infiltrate this mission, locate the agents, then get the hell outta dodge. grab your gear and then get to the landing strip,there's a C-260 on stand by that will fly to the AO,after which you will insert by Zodiac and then make your way in on foot to the objectives."
"Marines",Holland began again, "the Cuban's are prepared to kill these men at the fist sign of trouble, this mission is strictly stealth only."
"Got it", I answered as we left.
We high tailed it back to the barracks and entered our rooms to grab our body armor and uniforms. We followed a different pattern of outfitting than a standard Strike Force, being a Class 2 deniable asset,which had various perks,such as training with Delta Force,being allowed to choose our weapons and uniforms as well as what went into our kits. We walked into our barracks and then entered our rooms. I grabbed my handgun and tags from the table before taking my grey Under Armour body suit that went from the base of my neck down to my ankles as well as covering half way up my fingers. I slipped it on and then pulled my foliage green tech print uniform from the locker and slipped it on over the suit before pulling on my boots,half fingered gloves and set my vest over it. Normally, it held four two hundred round boxes of .30-06 for my Mk-48,but today it held six triple stack pouches for my AR-10,which held a reflex sight,a free floating rail and a heavy chrome lined bull barrel as well as custom stock parts and a bipod. I grabbed my AR from the locker and slung it over my shoulder before grabbing my MOLLE 3-Day pack and filling it with C4,extra ammunition for my weapons,a few MRE's,100 feet of rappelling rope,a flashlight and some smoke grenades to serve different purposes. I slung my pack over my shoulders before locking my room behind me and walking to the end of the hall to meet my friends.
"Everyone got everything?", I asked, "we can't turn around if someone left a handgun out their shit."
"I got everything", Jackson said.
"Me to", Frank told me.
"Same", Hudson said.
"Check all", Wyatt answered.
"We'll let's go then", I said as we started for the landing strip.There was a C-260 that was sitting on the runway. It was a big black plane with six propeller engines and a nose resembling that of the WWII B52 Flying Fortress. This plane I could see had a near 400 foot wingspan and was armed with twin 40mms as well as quad 20's ,some serious fangs for a transport aircraft. It's crew were loading long belts of ammunition into the wings which held the 20's and even bigger bets of 40mm slugs into the fuselage. As we entered the plane,I noticed it had a bad, metallic smell to it.
"Aww!", Hudson gagged, "it smells like fuckin dead shit!"
"It does reek", Jackson said, "I retract my former statement about getting sick during PT."
"Do no throw up in here", one of the mechanics said, "I just got this place clean."
"Bullshit you did!", Issac said through his scarf, "smells like dead crap!"
The mechanic sighed and exited the aircraft as the engines began to spin up. It was then that I noticed a small,glowing crimson object between my boots. I reached down and picked it up, turning it around in my fingers a bit before shrugging and sticking it in my pocket. The aircraft gave a lurch and started forward.
"Looks like were on our way", Hudson said as the plane slowly picked up speed before lifting off.
"How long before we make our drop zone?", I asked the pilot.
"About nine hours",the pilot said, "get comfortable."
"Not like it's a hotel", Frank said leaning back, "but we'll manage."
I closed my eyes and leaned back, I was still feeling sleepy, so it didn't take long for it to take it's hold.