Back For War
A Call of Duty fanfic
Chapter One
Derek Westbrook woke up with a splitting headache. It didn't surprise him, considering the amount of cheap whiskey he'd had the night before. He climbed out of his bed, being careful not to wake the beautiful brunette he'd bedded that night, and clumsily grabbed his trousers and shirt, putting them on as he walked out of his bedroom. He ran a hand through his dirty blonde hair, still cut to military regulations, even after three months of being a civilian.
He'd served eight years, since he was eighteen, but after WWIII he'd had enough of war. I should be with Sandman, he often told himself, and Grinch, when he was drunk as hell, thanks to the benefit of no military curfew, and Truck. He'd been injured by shrapnel in Paris, so was invalided out of the diamond mine gig, where the rest of his team died saving the Russian president, Boris Vorshevsky.
In the aftermath of the war, which ended a day after the rescue, America was looking for heroes, poster boys for the military, to be the face of the recruitment drive which was caused by the mass casualties the US military had suffered. Some pencil-pushing Washington armchair commando had decided that Derek would make a suitable poster-boy. They'd given him a bunch of shiny medals, Medal of Honour, Purple Heart, Silver Star, paraded him round the country, hell, they'd even produced an action figure. The US Government turned him into a real life G.I Joe, and he hated it.
Westbrook had joined the Army to fight, not to smile and wave and look pretty. He'd been taken off active service, when the rest of 1st SFOD-D, better known as Delta Force, was all over the globe, hunting down the remnants of Makarov's army, as well as combating the spike in piracy in the Horn of Africa. The Middle East had died down, for now, the Taliban having signed a peace treaty with the Afghan government, and the rebels securing Syria.
Derek half-limped, half-walked towards the kitchen in his spacious apartment, a luxury that the pay of a private contractor gave him. The limp was from a bullet to the thigh, a present from a Somali pirate. Even still, jobs had died down recently, work being more and more superficial body guarding celebrities that showed Derek off like a new car. He grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge, and unscrewed the lid. He took a swig of the bitter, ice-cold liquid as he leaned against the tabletop. He had noticed the man that was trying to sneak into his apartment, and quietly grabbed his Sig-Sauer P226 from the tabletop, and tucked it into the back of his trousers.
The man was good, and he was quiet. But Derek had been in US Special Forces for six years, Delta for four, and had exceptional hearing. He was picking the lock on the front door. Derek checked the time, eight fifty-six, so nearly all of his bigwig stock-exchange neighbours would be at work. The man took thirty seconds to pick the lock, which impressed Derek. He had a top-of-the-range Yale lock, which was near impossible for an amateur to pick, yet alone in that time. So this guy's a professional, Derek thought. He calmly waited for the door to open, and the man to enter his line of sight before he pulled the Sig on him.
The man was tall, six two at Derek's guess, and well built. He stood straight, and had short, jet black hair. He had the kind of face comic book superheroes might have, with hazel eyes, and a short scar on his chin. He instantly clocked Derek, and pulled a Glock 17 out of his own trousers.
"Drop it." Derek said coolly. The man did no such thing.
"Why don't you, mate." The man replied, with a British accent. The way he was built, the way he held himself, the way he picked that lock, the way he was holding that Glock on Derek now, there was no doubt that the man was military.
"So who are you, CIA, MI6, SAS?" Derek asked. He wondered how long it would be until someone came looking. The man didn't look surprised by his question.
"Task Force Trojan. New coalition CT force. All top secret, naturally." The Brit answered.
"Never heard of it?"
"I did say it's new." The Brit looked at him sarcastically.
"So why are you looking for me?" Derek asked.
"I'd like to offer you a job." Both men still had their guns pointed at each other.
"I'm retired."
"Exactly." The Brit replied to Derek's statement, shooting down his dissuading statement. "Can we please put down the guns, my arms beginning to ache?" The Brit asked before lowering his weapon. Derek did the same.
"How, did you, get into Special Forces?" Westbrook asked, stunned by the man's sarcasm and seemingly whimsical nature.
"Good question. My uni professor said it was a bad career choice, and so did my rich-as-hell stepdad. So of course it was perfect for me. Only took one attempt at selection as well." The Brit mused.
"Do you have a name?"
"Staff Sergeant Marcus Burns. Originally 22 SAS, before I was transferred." Marcus held out his hand. Derek shook it firmly.
"Nice meeting you. Now get out."
"I still need to tell you about the job." Marcus didn't sound surprised.
"Don't care; now get out before I call the police." Derek walked towards the phone to show he was serious.
"At least let me share a beer with you." Marcus pulled out a crate of beers from behind him. "Or five."
"Yeah, sure. I'll drink with anyone if they're buying." Derek gestured for him to sit down. He grabbed the beer he had been drinking from when he noticed Marcus breaking in and sat opposite him.
"Right, now about this job." Marcus broke the peaceful silence.
"I thought this was just a few beers?" Derek asked, annoyed.
"Oh, yes it is, but I've been ordered to at least offer you the job." Marcus pulled out a file from his jacket.
"Do you always carry out orders?"
"Yes. To get into TF Trojan, I was given a Beretta and told to go into a room and kill a man. So I go in, raise the gun and squeeze the trigger, simple as." It sounded like a pretty boring, if not beyond classified and brutal, story to Derek, but Marcus carried on.
"The gun goes bang, and nothing else happens. Turns out the damn thing was loaded with blanks. I had to beat him to death with it." Marcus grinned like it was the punch-line to a bad joke, and Derek looked at him, disgusted. Seeing the American's reaction, he lost the grin.
"I have been told I'm somewhat sociopathic." He opened the file in his hand. Both men still had their respective pistols out, but lowered in one hand.
"The job title is officially Military Consultant, but you'll be as much as part of the task force as I am. You'd regain the rank you left the army with, Sergeant, and be paid the equivalent of a top-tier PMC. You'd continue to live in this apartment, but you'll have to pay for your own flights to the UK for certain training and briefings. For you'd act as my two IC in the field, and help in selection for the task force. Any questions?" Derek was surprised by the offer. He thought he'd be back on a soldier's pay, which wouldn't afford his new home, or the amount of booze he'd been drinking.
And plus, it meant going back to real soldiering.
"When do I start?"