The Rookie
Chapter 1: Room Service
17:45:16
March 21st 2014
Karachi, Pakistan
Cpl Nicholas Grant
1st Battalion, Marine Special Operations Regiment
The Pakistani summers are hot, very hot. I need to drink around twice as much as I normally do in the States. I also need to pee twice as much, which makes me even hotter, due to the energy that keeps my bladder at 96 degrees being spread around my body.
Plus the fact I constantly need to keep my face covered to avoid being recognised as a westerner, with cloth facemasks. This makes me even hotter. Yes, I do hate Pakistan.
Don't get me wrong, I like the people, the culture is interesting, the food is good, the landscape is beautiful, but the heat is unbearable. Why can't the climate be like somewhere decent, like Germany, or Austria? Why does it have to be so bloody hot?
I'm staying in a small two bedroom flat, in a run down block in one of Karachi's less violent districts. Even though there have been five shootings in the last week.
I'm living with a CIA man. Phelps, a good guy, used to be in Delta before he became a spook, so he knows what he's doing. But he's still a spook, which means I don't fully trust him.
It's his turn to get dinner tonight. I hear a knock on the door, and grab my silenced Mk23 pistol from the basic oak table. I walk quietly towards the door, pistol lowered in my hands.
"Who is it?" I ask. A familiar voice replies.
"Scarlett Johansson. Who'd you think idiot?" I keep my pistol level. There's a quiver in his voice that tells me something's wrong.
"Anyone else with you?" I ask, cautious that our cover's been blown. There's a MP5SD in the bathroom, but it's too risky going for it now. Which means I have just have ten .45 rounds to deal with whoever is on the other side of that door. Perfect, just fucking perfect.
I step away and to the side of the door as quietly as I can.
"No, there isn't." Is the answer I get, but I can tell that Phelps is lying through his teeth.
"The doors unlocked, come on in." I say. The doorknob turns and Phelps slowly walks in the room. His eyes quickly look at me, and then dart away. He's trying not to reveal my position.
Behind him is the barrel of a silenced Colt Commando, being held by a man in local garb. I quickly change my aim to his body and squeeze the trigger twice.
I hear the familiar muffled thump of a silenced pistol twice, and the man slumps to the floor, dead. The two empty shell casings bounce on the floor with a ding; the air smelling faintly of cordite. Then I hear another muffled thump, and Phelps collapses, the back of his head missing.
Then another man steps through the door, again with a suppressed Colt Commando. I fire another two rounds from my pistol. They graze his arm, missing by centimetres. He then tackles me to the floor, smashing the oak table in two. The impact dazes me; I can vaguely feel splinters in my back. I still somehow shove him off me, and stagger over to the bathroom.
I stumble into the small dirty white room, and grab the MP5SD from next to the sink. I cock it and flick the fire selector to semi-automatic; I don't want any stray rounds that could ricochet in here.
I walk back into the main room. Phelps' and the gunman's blood are mixing together, the crimson liquid covering most of the floor now. Two bullets whizz past my head. I instinctively dive to the right and fire five rounds back.
I'm surprised no one has bothered to come and see what's going on. Guess they're used to high octane gunfights in apartments like something out of Die Hard. This is Pakistan, after all. Either that or everyone is deaf and dumb.
I can tell that the shots are coming from behind the cheap sofa, by the sound of the gunfire. I raise my sub-machine-gun, and walk quickly over to the couch. I lean over the couch and aim at where the gunman should be. But he isn't there. I begin to panic, swinging my weapon round, trying to spot my assailant. That's when I get clubbed over the back of the head, and everything goes black.
09:36:27
March 22nd 2014
Hereford, England
Lt. Gen. Shepherd
TF141
The file in my hands is almost completely crossed out. That's a good sign that the man sitting in front of me is perfect for the 141.
Only the bare bones are left. He's a SEAL, and was a part of DEVGRU. He was on Neptune Spear, and cleared the third floor single-handedly. So he's already made a mark on history. If I give the go-ahead, he'll make many more.
There's his basic information; height, weight, blood type, the usual things. The photo on the dossier is different to the man sitting in front of me. In the photo, he has the hallmarks of a new recruit, such as a crew cut, baby face, still wet behind the ears. The man sitting in front of me is very different. His brown hair had grown, but the haircut was still a give-away that he's military. He also has "The Thousand Yard Stare", the look that you only had after you'd seen combat. He had it bad.
That's when I notice who his father was. It couldn't be, not him. I look up at the man then down again at the file. Yes, he did have similarities with him. Who his father was has probably gnawed at him for his whole life, and career especially. But, I do owe his old man a favour, even if it is nearly forty years old.
That's why I place down the file and give the man a nod. He smiles, obviously relieved with my answer. I reach over to shake his hand.
"Welcome to the 141 Lieutenant Mason, you're now the best of the best." I say warmly. I just hope young David is as good as his father. He'll need to be.
A/N: Well, here's the start of another story. If you're wondering why the opening is so important, all should be revealed in the next chapter. For those of you who don't know, DEVGRU is SEAL Team Six, and Neptune Spear was the mission to kill Bin Laden. Osama was on the third floor, which means if you're attentive you know who killed Bin Laden in my story. This is just to beef up Mason, to try and show how good a soldier he is already. So please favourite, follow and review, and see you for more action from the 141.
Bradykins out.