(no subject)
TWO
2007...
There were two kinds of new recruits. The first was the kind that acted like they were too big for their own britches. They walked around like guard dogs, their noses in everyone's business but their own. They kissed ass, ratted out their fellow officers, and were generally a pain to live with. Most quit or got thrown out before getting to any of the elite units.
The second was the kind that had jumped into the deep end without taking a look to see where they'd land. Scared puppies came to mind; their eyes always wide and their hands always shaking. They generally kept quiet, did as they were told, and by the end of basic had found a higher ranking officer to cling to and be protected by. Some called them bitches, but most of the time, they caused less problems than the pit bull types.
It was one of the latter, however, who was staring with his mouth agape as Jensen as he wrote 'O NEG' on a roll of duct tape, pulled off the impromptu label, and stuck it onto the side of his boot. The young kid kept watching as he put tape around his grenades so the spoon wouldn't fly off, and then went on to make sure his kit passed the Shake, Jump, and Jiggle test. It seemed a miracle that his equipment didn't make a lick of noise as it was put through its paces; a skill the grunt had yet to acquire.
His gun sights zeroed, Jensen finally looked up from all his checks. His eyes fell on the rest of his men, all of them either ready to go or just finishing up their pre-mission checklist. Cam shot him a grin, his eyes moving from Jensen to the kid, mischief clear. One shake of the head from Jensen, however, and any prank-pulling notions were thrown out the window. As Cam's commanding officer, he had final say in shenanigans, and now was neither the time nor the place.
Unlike the Rangers, Delta never had the big 'hooah' huddle before going out. They had their briefing, they got their heads in the game, and went out to do what they had to do. Today's mission-should everything go according to plan-would be just as simple.
The AC-130 Spectre gunship had been doing its job since two that afternoon. A small unit of Delta operatives were needed only to apprehend and extract a few persons of interest that were believed to be in the target area. It was a snatch and grab and in a format Jensen had trained and executed more times than he could count.
At twenty-eight, he was more accomplished than any guy his age he that knew of. Master Sergeant in one of the most elite counter-terrorism units in the world, a top marksman, and in a job that he well and truly loved. His buddies back home were all working menial gigs; drinking too much and yelling at their TVs when Dallas lost. While he didn't judge them for it, Jensen knew he was doing something greater. Every day was a learning experience and every day he grew stronger and wiser in his position; leading others with the calm assurance of a man who didn't just take it as a job, but as a way of life.
Jensen smirked in amusement as his right-hand man, Chris, did his usual pre-raid ritual. When Chris was home, the man listened to nothing but country, but the minute he got shipped anywhere, the heavy metal came out and stayed out until he was back on American soil. Jensen got a kick out of pretending it was because Chris' parents would disown him if he listened to the 'devil's music', when in reality it had more to do with psyching himself up for combat than with undermining his parents' belief system. As usual, Chris sat at the very end of the hangar, his head nearly slamming into the metal behind him as he mouthed the lyrics that whoever was screaming in his ear had written. Hands relaxed on his knees, he would've been mistaken for someone meditating were it not for the headbanging.
Seeing his CO coming towards him, Chris smiled, standing to greet him.
“You sure you don't wanna try it, Sarge?” he asked, knowing full well the answer that was coming. Jensen gave his friend a deadpan look before shoving him into the hangar lightly, a bright smile on his face.
“I'd rather keep my hearing, Sergeant.” Chris nodded his understanding, not put out as he walked with Jensen towards the HC-130 they would be jumping out of.
The afternoon's mission included a HALO jump, which meant that on top of what they'd normally carry, they'd have their bail kits on them too. Jumping from a high altitude, reaching terminal velocity, and then opening the chute far later than was commonly done was all part and parcel of their training. Today, the hours spent falling to the earth would be put to good use. Going in late afternoon would give them the advantage of being hidden by the setting sun and the HALO jump would augment that by dropping them in under radar and without the usual snap&flap of the ripcord and chute.
“You know, one of these days I'm taking you to see Lamb of God and then it's all over, sir,” Chris relented with a grin, his easygoing nature calming Jensen in a way that no Ranger pep talk could do.
“I hope you girls remembered to pee.” Jensen smirked as he climbed into the HC-130; the plane's propellers already blowing dust all across the runway in the middle of the desert. At least it looked like a desert. Somalia was actually on the coast.
“All set and ready to fly, sir,” Cam asserted, his cocky grin firmly in place as he checked and rechecked the harness on his seat. Normally they stood, never flying far enough to support the need to sit. But there was the rare occurrence when Cam would play lazy and today was apparently one of those days. Jensen should have taken it as a sign, but instead he merely grinned, grabbing hold of the wrist strap above Cam's seat and waiting for the plane to take off.
The target building was an old, rundown grocery store and had long been taken over by the ruling militia in the area. According to JOC and the Somali informant they had on the ground, three tier one personalities would be meeting in the building.
“Nothing like getting your toilet paper and your business plans all in one shot, huh?” Kane joked, all of them knowing full well that building raids were the most dangerous kinds of raids to go on. Walls, no matter how old, were always unforgiving. Unlike open spaces, you only had so much room to move, so much room to clear, and so much room to shoot without hitting one of your fellow soldiers.
The plane took off in a hurry, all low hums and quiet little clicks. It had fascinated Jensen the first time he'd ridden in one, how quiet it was on the inside. Even though it lacked the usual airliner commodities of free booze and peanuts, it did the job; got them in under the radar and that was all that mattered.
Today's plan was simple: HALO in, surround the building, arrest the three personalities that their government wanted so badly, extract, and get the hell out of dodge. In his kit was a palm-sized floor plan of the building, drawn courtesy of JOC and their little spy. If it was correct, then it would save them time in finding their targets and make things run that much smoother. If not, it would cause more than a little havoc on the way in and out.
As usual, there were things that worried him. In Somalia, the drug of choice, Khat, coupled with the sun and the salty air meant that its boy-soldiers were crazier than any other country he'd been to. Khat had been on their radar since Mogadishu, but now it was once again the resurgent drug of choice for the world-weary twelve year old with an AK-47. Their small bodies, not prepared to handle even the slightest tinge of it, were overrun by the drug. Add famine, big ass guns, an anxiety level that rivaled a Kamikaze pilot's and you had one very, very fucked up little kid.
He'd been too young for the first battle; the one where the two helicopters had fallen, the one that garnered the attention of everyone around the world. He had still been in high school that year, Jensen's dreams of joining the military slightly wavering when he-like everyone else-saw the bodies of the soldiers being dragged through the streets of Mogadishu by laughing Somalis. After a brief period of fear, anger took its place and Jensen vowed to stay the course if only to help prevent the same events from happening again.
This mission somehow, despite all similarity in execution to the events of '93, seemed different. For one thing, the team was smaller; Nineteen guys weren't going to die on his watch if he had any say in the matter. The objective, location, and time frame were all much better researched than that other mission, all of which helped assure him that he could get his men in and out in one piece.
Jensen watched as the ocean swirled beneath him, filled with sharks and other creatures he had no intention of meeting. Sure, he liked to swim all right. He took his diver's course to get into Delta, but so far as he could help it, Jensen hated swimming in the ocean. He was a Texas boy, so lakes and rivers were more his thing.
Rangers talked too much. When Deltas were on a mission, silence was the key. No one spoke on the plane. They only checked and re-checked, then checked some more to be sure that everything was exactly as it should be. He looked from Cam to Chris to Mike and Steve, all of them fully ready for what was coming; as prepared as one could be for twelve-year olds with guns.
Recognizance had told them earlier in the day that there weren't very many Technicals around. It was a good thing, considering any time there was a Technical, someone always ended up getting a .50 cal to the chest or leg. Technicals, as they were dubbed, were basically trucks with Browning M2 machine guns mounted on the flat beds. It gave the Somalis something of an edge, as it allowed them to change position quickly and to fire in every direction but forward. Putting a bullet through the front windshield of the cab wasn't on anyone's priority list, Somalis included.
Halfway through the ride, about two klicks out, everyone's demeanor changed. As the store came into sight, Jensen realized that it was much smaller than anyone had informed them thus far. JOC hadn't mentioned anything about running a raid in a building no bigger than a storefront with closets for rooms. There was no turning back now though, and they had to make the best of it. Never having been one to be overly religious, Jensen nevertheless said a quick Hail Mary, praying not for himself but for Cam, Chris, Mike, and Steve. It was his responsibility to get them out, not the other way around.
They reached the target altitude flawlessly, the bird doing exactly as it was supposed to. After getting the OK from the pilot, Jensen gave the thumbs up to his crew. The other teams-two of them-were already in place on the ground. They'd been there for weeks, hiding out and doing nothing but observing the everyday life of the people around the target building. The JOC didn't trust their informants as far as they could throw them, so they always had boys for backup.
Cam and Chris gave him the thumbs up back, signaling they were ready to jump. Jensen moved to the side door, opening it with ease. He would be the last to jump, as he had to ensure his men would get out and on the ground safely. Chris went first, giving Jensen a quick pat on the shoulder before he threw himself out, angling perfectly to get away from the plane and still remain on track to land where he needed to. The sun made him nearly invisible to anyone on the street. Not seconds after he was out, Cam was diving out too; one last nod assuring his Sergeant that he was good to go.
With Mike and Steve out, Jensen did a final check and then lobbed himself out the plane, assuming the proper position and aiming to land as close to his team as he could. The ground came up fast and as he watched the altimeter, Jensen silently counted down the pull of his chute. On 'one', he pulled, the typical noises unheard as he navigated himself towards his men. Landing on his feet, he quickly adjusted his equipment, eyes scanning as he worked and moved. The entire team headed for cover as quick as they could.
“All clear?” Jensen asked as he looked around one final time, taking stock of the surroundings and seeing that there were no Technicals around. They got lazy in the afternoons, he figured. But as soon as they heard the first 'kat' of an M-16, or the scream in protest from one of the three personalities' bodyguards, they would know what was happening and they would descend in one fell swoop. It happened in '93 and it was bound to happen again. While the military might have changed their tactics, the Somalis knew what worked and they stuck to it.
Hand signals were imperative for their unit and Jensen signaled for Cam to take one side of the door while he took the other. As they waited patiently, Chris set the door charges. No matter who you were in Delta, you always carried charges. The more explosives you had, the better off you were.
Sure, you could get by with bullets, but why shoot when you could blow?
One of Jensen's many instructors through his military career had taught him that little joke and it never failed to put a smile on his face, even in the most trying of times.
When Chris finished charging the door, they all took a step back, Chris counting out on his fingers so that anyone in the vicinity would know the door was about to fly. Three, two, one, BOOM. Off the hinges and clean across the sand that had been delineated to mark a street; poor excuse for a road, even worse excuse for a door.
They moved quickly after that; Cam taking the right, Jensen the left, leaving Chris, Mike, and Steve to bring up the rear. The place was too quiet for a location that had just been blown wide open and Jensen couldn't help but wonder if there was an ambush waiting just around the corner.
The first room was empty; a fact that had both Cam and Jensen looking at each other as though they knew something wasn't right. Moving with precision, they cleared the first level. Mike and Steve stayed behind while Jensen, Cam, and Chris moved up to the second story where the offices of the grocery store had once stood. With one look, Cam told Jensen precisely how he felt about the whole thing; he didn't like it. It was too empty, too quiet, too clean. With poverty came a disregard for the finer things in life and floors weren't swept if there were any to speak of.
His eyes narrowed, Jensen moved into the doorway of the second story, Cam backing him up and taking his blind spot so that no corner of the room would be left unseen by the muzzles of their M-16s. It too was clear, leaving just one, small anti-room at the very back of the second story. Jensen was tempted to just throw a grenade in and get it over with, but his training-and his orders-stood. So with Cam backing him and Chris keeping watch on the doorway, they went in.
Moving silently and praying to god that what was behind the door wasn't what they were expecting, Jensen and Cam took their positions. The signal of three was given yet again, but instead of blowing the door this time, Cam silently turned the knob and got out of the way to let Jensen's rifle take the helm first.
Much to his surprise, inside the room sat three skinny, middle-aged men, all cowering in fear as if they were seeing three gods from another world. Jensen would have laughed had it not been for the fact that he was doing his job and that it was all still a little too easy a mission. After verifying that-miraculously--none of them had guns, but instead simply carried cigarettes and really, really cheap booze, Jensen, Cam, and Chris broke out the Flex Cuffs and began rounding up the men.
Adding to the oddity of the entire situation, the men cooperated and didn't so much as say a word in their native tongue; knowing full well they'd been caught. Jensen couldn't help but wonder how in the hell three tier one personalities were running around Somalia without bodyguards. He should have known better, should have taken it as another clue; just like Cam sitting down or the plane being so quiet he could have heard a bolt come loose. Instead, he did as he'd been told; arrested the prisoners and began to move them back down to the second floor.
If he had a dollar for every time his mission went so smoothly, Jensen wouldn't be in the army, but as they came down to the second floor, Mike and Steve greeted them with smiles. All of them were assured by the fact that their mission had been accomplished and that extraction was only a few minutes away. The Little Birds, not to mention the AC-130 that had been circling overhead for days, were all within calling distance and their radios were up to par.
Just as they exited, the first shot rang out; .50 cal from a Technical, not two blocks from them. They'd been spotted. Jensen almost wished they had the bodyguards now because, as it was, these Somalis-with no vests, no helmets, no guns of their own-weren't making it out of there in one piece. Grabbing the closest cover he could, Jensen did what they'd always been taught to do; secure the objective and then get to safety. The Flex Cuffs came in handy, as did the rope they always carried with them and, with swift movements the team tied the three men to an exposed water pipe not far from the grocery store. Out of harm's way, they would be safe for the time being, unless the Technicals decided to come around from the other side.
As Cam radioed, Jensen lifted his weapon, intending to put at least half a mag right over their heads. If they were kids, they would stop to contemplate, and in doing so give the team enough time to get to higher ground or some sort of safety. If they were hardened men, used to war and the sound of bullets whizzing past their skulls, they wouldn't flinch. They would send a shower of .50 cals back without hesitation. Motioning for the rest of his team to go around the corner, Jensen put his finger over the trigger and started firing.
The tallest man, the one manning the Browning M2 on the bed of the truck, got grazed-intentionally, of course. As such, Jensen saw that he'd made a mistake. The man was in his forties, all muscle, the sweat making him look twice as bright in the sun. With one swing, the Browning was aimed at him and it was all Jensen could do to run around the corner, away from his team, to get out of the line of fire.
The M2 had a distinctive sound, unlike any other .50 cal machine gun. It was a 'klack, klack' of heavy metal recoiling as huge bullets flew out of the muzzle. Ducking and moving as he'd been taught in the Rangers, Jensen made it down an alley and around to the other side of the building, feeling relief that he wasn't about to get a limb torn off by the heavy, fist-sized bullets.
It only took seconds for him to realize that he'd made mistake number two. In that little, dingy corner were two men, both armed with AK-47s and both looking at him as though he'd intruded on their dinner. Without a moment's hesitation they stopped, raised their rifles, and fired. The bullets seared through his leg first, mid-thigh, missing his femoral by inches but doing enough damage to let Jensen know that if he made it out of there alive, he'd have a limp-at the very least-for the rest of his life. The next rounds hit his shoulder, missing his vest altogether. It was one thing to have a bullet-proof vest, but it did little good when the bullets were hitting the parts it didn't cover.
Grabbing his shoulder, he tried to move but felt himself pinned against the wall as two more bullets ripped into both his leg and side. It seemed these Somalis were fond of torture. As they held him, Jensen did the only thing he could, breaking one of the key codes of the operation. Yelling at the top of his lungs for Cam, he grabbed the muzzle of the gun and tried to block it from being aimed as his head. The next three shots hit the crumbling wall above him and though he didn't flinch, it was close enough that he felt just a touch uncomfortable.
Realizing they had a scrapper on their hands, the two Somalis stupidly let go of their guns and began pounding into him with their bare hands. Fists flew and Jensen felt his face begin to crumple under the fury of the two boys that had more rage and fear in their hearts than any other men he'd met and fought with in his life.
He knew his cheek was broken, but that could be fixed with a little plastic surgery. It was his leg that worried him most as he could see the pool of blood coloring the sand beneath his boots an ugly mauve. If Cam and the rest of the team didn't get there quick, they'd have their first KIA and it would be none other than their commanding officer.
The Somalis seemed to come to their senses as they grabbed their guns again and, instead of firing, used the butt ends to pound into his face, limbs, and even his chest despite the metal plating that was there specifically to stop bullets. Jensen groaned, grunted, and felt the wind get knocked out of him more than once.
In the distance he could faintly hear the .50 cal still going, Cam yelling at Chris, Mike and Steve firing back; their own weapons customized to the point where Jensen knew each recoil by heart and which man it belonged to without having to look. They were caught up as well, but there were four of them and only one of him. Jensen only hoped that they could get out of whatever mess they were in in time to save him.
The two Somalis kept yelling at each other, arguing almost as though they were trying to decide whether to take Jensen dead or alive to their leader. He prayed that he would be one of the lucky ones; that he'd be taken alive and held for ransom even though his country never paid. Finally, they seemed to reach an agreement because the rifles came at double-speed. Tap-tap, tap-tap, all aiming for his most valuable parts.
He was losing consciousness, losing a lot of blood, and if his team didn't get here soon, he'd be losing his life, too.
The butt ends, though not specifically made for smacking people with, nevertheless got the job done. He felt blood in his mouth, in his eyes...everywhere. For a minute, he felt like a kid who'd pissed himself, though piss didn't linger and stay hot. It grew cold and dried on your pants. What was gushing down his fatigues was blood and his leg was starting to numb from the loss of so much of the vital fluid.
Things started to slow as he became aware that they were bashing his skull in, literally. His helmet had come loose at some point and now his head was fair game. His leg felt splayed open and he knew if he looked down that he would see muscle and bone protruding from his pants.
Acting on instinct, Jensen waited for the perfect opportunity; waited for the next blow to come and made a big show of moving his head in one direction as though the punch alone had snapped it back. He lay still after that, not fighting, not doing anything except holding his breath.
Jensen was thankful for the heavy equipment that guarded his chest because, as bulky as it was, it also covered the fact that he wasn't dead, but merely taking shallow breathes in a technique he'd learned in survival training. His instructor, a man who'd been through more wars than Jensen had fingers, had taught him the art of playing dead.
“Certain armies, boy...” he'd say, “comes in very, very useful, 'cause they ain't all that smart.”
Jensen knew these two kids-one who looked no older than fifteen and the other who was just shy of twelve-wouldn't know to check for a pulse, wouldn't know to check his eyes, or if his movements were limp and uncontrolled. They wouldn't know to check if he'd pissed or shit himself as the body tended to do when one died under duress. No, they would just take it on instinct that his chest wasn't rising and falling anymore and that had to mean he was dead. It hurt like crazy, hurt so bad he could barely do it, but Jensen kept up. Holding his breath and then releasing it shallowly, inhaling just as slowly through his parted lips.
The firing grew closer and suddenly, the two boys were screaming. Cracking an eye, Jensen saw one of them get shot in the head, brain matter spewing out of the back like something out of a JFK reel. The next double-tap-as any Ranger or Delta had been trained to do-came swiftly from behind, forehead exploding out like a splash of paint. The world was spinning now, so he didn't really have time to pay attention. He focused on trying to breathe, but knew he was fighting an uphill battle. His leg was probably going to be amputated and he'd be in a wheelchair the rest of his life, not to mention complications from his other injuries, most of which he couldn't even see.
Jensen tried to keep his eyes open, tried to make out Cam's blond hair from under his helmet, remembering only too late that the High and Tights his friends had gotten before leaving would make it hard to tell whether it was Cam, Chris, Mike, or Steve who'd come to his rescue.
“Hey buddy, you're all right, okay? We're gonna get you outta here. You just keep breathing, we got 'em. Little Birds are on their way. Gonna exfil here as soon as we can. You just gotta stay with me, all right? Sir? Ackles, stay with me!” Cam yelled; his voice staying louder than normal as he fought to keep Jensen awake.
A sudden thought occurred to him, one that he hadn't even touched upon in years and suddenly there it was bright as day, and Jensen couldn't be happier for it. It was his father's ranch, just outside of Dallas. Jensen was thirteen, maybe fourteen, and just beginning to harbor the thoughts that would lead him on the path he was on now. He was still innocent, still naive, still much too happy for his own good.
Jensen pictured the horses; their warm, firm muscles bathing in the sunlight as he brushed them. One in particular, Candy, was obviously fond of him and he'd feed her carrots like there was no tomorrow, much to the chagrin of his father. His daily duties were simple: come home from school, brush the horses, see if any of them needed new shoes, close up the stables for the night, and then come to dinner. The little farm that his father bought had, over the years, been renovated into a ranch and the family had thrived off the business, making his childhood a very, very happy one.
Jensen could smell the wheat fields next door, the sweet aroma mixing with the tang of the hay as he lay back and watched the clouds. He'd gotten all his chores done and had a little free time before his mom called everyone to dinner. His brother and sister were off doing their own chores and Jensen laughed a bit as he thought that they wouldn't get this free time. They wouldn't get to stare at the clouds and make shapes out of them. They would have to work and come to dinner, then do their homework and go to bed.
His body relaxed and in the distance he could hear somebody calling, but he wasn't sure who it was. He couldn't hear the gunfire, couldn't hear the Little Birds, couldn't hear anyone but the horse behind him in the stable and the distant sound of a truck passing by on the highway, miles out from their land. He found his eyes closing against the images, Jensen wanting to be back there so badly he could nearly taste it.
It was 2007 and it would be his last battle, though he wouldn't know the title of the skirmish they'd been in until much, much later. Just before passing out yet again, he managed to open his eyes and mumble something to Cam about having to brush the horses and going home for dinner. The blood in his mouth garbled everything, so Cam only heard the words 'dinner' and 'horse'. His buddy managed to smile despite the fact that he was clearly worried and anxious to get him out of there, treated, and back on his own two feet.
He'd gotten the message across to the best of his knowledge and Jensen made peace with the fact that, should he close his eyes once more, he might never wake up. His lids grew heavy again and this time he didn't fight it. He didn't squirm or rage or get angry at God for putting him in such a position. He closed his eyes and pictured the horses, the stable, his father's smiling face. He pictured better, simpler times and let whatever it was that was taking him whisk him off, away from the pain and the blood.
When next he opened his eyes, Jensen found himself blinded by light. It covered every inch of the room he was in and made it hard to see anything around him. Panic overtook him almost immediately and he began to thrash around, hands slapping at everything, trying to find his bearings. Short huffs of breath and growls of anger exuded from him as he tried his best to sit up, knowing he didn't have much time to get out of whatever safe-house he was in.
Jensen's fear grew tenfold as he realized he was completely naked, save for a brown t-shirt draped over his groin. Bile began rising in his throat and he pulled harder against the restraints he knew to be there. He had to get out, had to get to safety, had to find his team.
“Sergeant Ackles! I need you to CALM DOWN!” The sudden voice, clear in its American accent, startled Jensen and he felt his body go limp under the relief.
“You're at the base, Sarge. We're gonna take good care of ya, but you gotta relax, buddy.” It was Cam's voice and Jensen nearly felt like crying, he was so happy to hear him.
The pain began to set in as soon as his body knew it was safe and he screamed in agony. The feeling of a hot blade slicing through his leg made him want to vomit and he knew he was in bad shape; that his leg was mangled and that they probably wouldn't be able to save it. The straps on him tightened and a mask was put over his face.
He didn't feel much more after that.
FOUR