"No good decision was ever made in a swivel chair." - George S. Patton
Chapter Three
The Liberator Sports Bar and Grill
Near Fort Bragg, North Carolina
Dib sat alone in a corner booth, sipping his draft beer and absently eyeing the flat screens suspended from the ceiling. Several football games, a car race, and a European soccer game barely earned his interest. The Liberator was a requisite hangout for Special Forces guys and those considered a step up from them- the men and women of Ghostex: Delta 6, an elite and highly classified group of warriors handpicked from SF ranks and highly skilled marines. Ghostex: Delta 6 soldiers were issued the most cutting edge state of the art technology, and it was a great honor to be selected to join such an organization- even though you couldn't tell anyone, because Ghosts don't exist.
From 2016 on the day the Irkens bombed several nations before discovering Earths value to the Empire to mid 2020, Dib had fought with various Marine and Special Forces teams, even traveling up to Canada to fight against invading Irken forces. His work there had gained him the attention of the Ghostex: Delta 6's leadership, and, after dragging him through an intense qualifications process and course, he'd been selected to train and lead a new Ghostex Delta team.
But that glory was short lived.
He and his new group had run a couple of small missions in the States that had gone south because Dib was too used to fighting by the seat of his pants, like his old friend, always charging forward with his heavily armored chassis and machine gun, instead of sticking rigidly to the plan. He'd had that freedom in the Marines and regular Special Forces, and he wasn't always compelled to keep everyone in the communications loop, but the Ghostex Delta soldiers were much more hardcore about their operations, not blindly following orders but executing them with surgical precision and with full disclosure and full accountability on the battlefield.
His newbie team had run a simple intelligence gathering operation surprisingly off planet, on Mars, and that, too, had wound up in the toilet because Dib had second guessed the plan and jumped the gun on the operation. He'd also failed to properly communicate with his superiors. Some things were better left in the field, in this case, off the planet. Sometimes superiors didn't need to hear the uglier side of an operation.
Unfortunately, the Ghosts' equipment had higher ups breathing down Dib's neck 24/7, which really unnerved him, and he sometimes took his frustration on his people. As a consequence, Dib went through team members the way he went through beer, some requesting transfers, others simply being dropped by him. Recent rumors had it that guys who couldn't hack it on other Ghostex Delta teams were being busted down and collected into a group of misfits to be led by Dib.
They would get all the crap jobs like guarding oil tankers, or they'd get some of the most dangerous but least important jobs- since they were the most expendable group in the unit. They would act as "bait" while the other teams swept in and stole the glory. Ironically, even the U.S. military's most elite still had it's bottom o the barrel, and though the Ghosts' least capable operators were arguably ten times more lethal than the average Joe, Dib's colleagues would never let him live down his mistakes and weaknesses.
And speaking of one such devil, "Schoolie," a Master Sergeant with no neck and a complexion as scarred as a crushed beer can, ambled over to Dib's table. They called him "Schoolie" because he dreamed of becoming a professor at the U.S. Army War College. Trouble was, he was too inept to ever get his degrees. He was an excellent warrior but more of a kinesthetic guy who did much better with physical tasks than mental ones.
The drunken oaf shook his head at Dib. "I know why you're sitting alone."
Dib just looked at him.
"They hate you," Schoolie went on. "You've put em' back through the Robin Sage like they were noobs. You're talking trash to them. So they hate you."
Dib took a long pull on his beer and thought about that. He had forced his entire team to go back through the Army's hellish and grueling Robin Sage training exercise, normally reserved for Special Forces candidates, not seasoned Ghostex Delta warriors. Being forced to go back through the training was humiliating enough, but Dib had deemed it important and necessary because his current group was suffering from a severe lack of morale.
He'd hoped that returning to the course might rekindle some of their "beginner spirit" in regard to combat operations. He's been mistaken. His team had resented the training, though they were respectful enough to keep those feelings to themselves; however, their expressions said it all.
"Is there a punch line in there somewhere?" Dib finally asked Schoolie. "A sarcastic remark? Or are you auditioning to become my new therapist?"
Schoolie grinned. "That's pretty good."
"Unless you're picking up my tab, you're dismissed. Sergeant."
"Your people won't even drink with you."
"They're not here yet. Get lost, before I pull rank and things get ugly."
Schoolie snorted. "They're right over there. They've been here for fiteen minutes. You haven't even noticed."
Dib rose slightly so he could look over a small wall between the booths. He realized sagging shoulders that the bastard was right. His entire Ghostex: Delta 6 team- all eight operators- had put together two tables on the other side of the bar. They were sitting around, drinking, joking, and getting ready to order.
"Look at that. Not a one of them came over here to say, 'Hey, Lieutenant, why don't you join us?'" said Schoolie.
Dib dropped a few bills on the table, then stood, bracing himself to confront the group.
"I think you got a situation on your hands, Lieutenant," said Schoolie.
Dib threw up a hand, ignoring the man.
Now Dib's cheeks felt warm. Yes, they hated him, all right. If they could pick up their game and jettison their bad attitudes, he wouldn't have to deal with this.
That he kept forgetting their names certainly contributed to their lack of respect. He had made himself a cheat sheet just to keep track:
Lakota: my assistant. Native American. Wiseass.
Daugherty: the big guy with the tiny voice.
Copeland: the New York mafia guy. Medic.
Riggs: punk chick. Good shot.
Heston: Texas cowboy, movie nut.
Pak: Korean guy, never talks. Reminds me of an Irken. Better keep an eye on him.
Noboru: Japanese guy. Uncle was in NSA.
Schleck: string bean. Sniper. I like him.
Dib paused a moment, slipped the index card out of his pocket, stole a quick look at the list of names, then tucked it back into his pocket and slowly approached the table. They weren't just stereotypical soldiers; they were real people with real hopes and dreams. He knew that, but his job wasn't to stroke them- it was to whip their asses into shape while earning their loyalty and respect.
Easier said than done for a man whose patience was already threadbare from the last two decades of constant warfare.
Conversations broke off, and all gazes fell upon him.
He cleared his throat. "What's up?"
Lakota, who'd taken her hair out of the usual tight bun, looked rather attractive as she raked her fingers through her locks and said, "Lieutenant, uh, I guess we all really need to talk."
"Yeah, about how much we suck," said Copeland in his New York drawl. "This is a weird place to be- back in noob school. I thought I was done wearing diapers."
Just when he'd thought they were respectful enough to keep their complaints to themselves- boom - here they came...
"Copeland, right?" Dib asked.
"Very good, sir."
"You're a medic and a good machine gunner, but they sent you to me because you're a wiseass."
"That's what we heard about you, sir," said Lakota.
Dib grinned crookedly. "I want to clarify that. I've been doing this long enough to realize what works and what doesn't. That's all. I'll do my best to get the job done and keep you alive. That's why we're back here, back to the beginning. This is good. This keeps us humble and honest. I'm not trying to be anything I'm not. I've recently learned I've been skipped over for any further promotions. My record ain't that great anymore. My personal life is nonexistent But I like to think I've got heart. And I'm getting you've got heart, too."
"Sir, this might keep us honest, but I'd rather keep lying," said Riggs, wriggling her brows, her spiked hair hard as icicles. "We all know what you're trying to do, and we appreciate the idea, but the fact is we've all just had bad luck."
"Well, there you go. I appreciate that honesty," said Dib.
"And speaking of being honest, why don't you do the same with us, sir?" said Heston, his voice coming slowly, musically. "Luck or not, we're all getting close to getting busted out of here and sent back down to SF or the Marines."
"That's not true," said Dib, tasting the lie. "Look, we get through this, you prove to me you're ready, and I'm sure something will come along that will-"
Dib didn't finish his sentence. His phone was ringing in his pocket. The caller ID was blocked.
His people groaned as he answered.
He held up a palm when he realized who was calling.
On the way over to the isolation chamber, Dib accessed the network on his smartphone and retrieved the declassified bio on Major Katrina Parsons, tactical operations specialist, code name "Hammer."
When the CIA-JSF[CBRN] had been formed and had better organized all of the United States' military operations through concentrated global network systems, Parsons had become a key player. She'd been raised in a military family, with a father who'd been in the Air Force pilot. She'd attended the Virginia Military Institute and had graduated with the class of 2004. Then she'd gone to the naval academy, received her BS in systems engineering, and had graduated summa cum laude.
She'd been in U.S. naval intelligence and logistics and had gone to serve in the U.S. Naval Special Warfare Command. She had been selected by Scott Mitchell himself to join the JSF division of the CIA. Dib's eyes bugged out as he finished reading the screen. General Scott Mitchell was a former Ghostex: Delta 6 operator, one of the organizations best, a living legend who now led the entire JSF.
And Parsons had been recruited by him.
This was huge. Parsons was a major player with a record that made you hate how good she was.
Dib frowned. And then he really frowned.
Why the hell did Parsons want to talk to him, a scrubby faced gunslinger with a now tainted record?
They reached the base, and the isolation chamber wasn't a chamber at all but a heavily guarded Quonset hut near the nondescript cluster of small buildings that housed Ghostex Delta command. There were no signs, no indication at all that some of the world's deadliest warriors were commanded from this post.
Inside, Dib took a seat before a sixty inch screen, along with the rest of his team. They were instructed to wait there until Major Parsons called again.
At the back of the room sat two men, and Dib had to do a double take, pun intended, because they were, in fact, twins, one well dressed in an expensive suit, the other wearing jeans and a T-shirt that read Mucky Duck Restaurant, Captiva Island, Florida. They were both at least six feet, perhaps slightly taller, as lean as Olympic swimmers, and although they both had the same length blond hair, the jeans guy wore his all shaggy and sticking out, while the suit guy wore his gelled back.
They might be twins, but there was a definite and deliberate distinction between them that seemed more on the part of the sloppy guy than the neat one. Dib smiled weakly at them. The jeans guy nodded. The suit guy looked daggers and folded his arms over his chest.
"Hey, Lieutenant, who're they?" asked Lakota in a near whisper.
Just then a burst of static and series of encryption code numbers scrolled across the screen for a few seconds until an image appeared. On the left was Major Katrina Parsons, too pretty for her own good and remarkably young for her post. On the right was another women, much older, with gray streaks through her medium brown hair. Her narrow glasses suggested she was as much academic as she was intelligence officer.
Parsons cleared her throat. "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. For those of you who don't know her, I want to introduce Ann Grimsdottir, director of the NSA's Phoenix program. I know once you were promoted into Ghostex: Delta 6, you became aware of the Phoenix's existence, but I'm assuming most of you haven't met its director. Grim?"
"It's a pleasure," said Grimsdottir, nodding politely.
Dib stiffened and began to slide back into his chair.
He was a cut-to-the-chase kind of guy and couldn't wait to escape the pleasantries. "Hi, my name is Dib and I like pina coladas and blowing stuff up in the rain..."
The next five minutes went like this: Blah, blah, blah. Blah, blah, blah, oh yes, one more thing, blah, until, finally, something important caught his attention- "... and you'll have two Phoenix's attached to your unit. The target will be Colonel Jul Mik'hini, aka The Empress. Her dossier will be available on the network. Suffice it to say that we want her alive if possible. You are, however, authorized to shoot to kill. But that's a last resort. This women is former IMID and more valuable to us than you know."
Parsons gave them more details about The Empress's last known location and how they would be heading off to Europe within the next four hours. They'd been formally introduced to the two Phoenix's at the back of the room, Jorge and Tristan Volker. Jorge was the clean-cut one, Tristan was the looser free spirit.
Dib has already decided to request full dossiers on the two Elite Forces soldiers, and he hoped Parsons would divulge that information. Bottom line: You wanted to know who had your back- and who might not.
As they left the room, Dib reached out to shake Jorge's hand.
The Phoenix frowned and accepted the handshake. "Nice to meet you, Lieutenant."
"It's not easy, I know," said Dib. "You guys are used to working alone."
"That's right," said Tristan. "I don't even like to work with my brother. And all this military talk gives me an upset stomach. We're spooks, not soldiers."
"I apologize for my brother," said Jorge. "He suffered some head trauma as a child and he's never been-"
Tristan jabbed Jorge in the ribs, then faced Dib. "Don't worry about us, GI Joe. Just give us a long leash, and we'll deliver that bitch on a silver platter."
Tristan tossed his head back, hair flying, and for a moment, Dib wondered if the man was on drugs.
No, just a little weird.
Back in their barracks, Dib gathered his team into a half circle. "You got your wish. No more training. Live fire.. Test of fire. Are we up for this?"
A few of them shrugged.
"Look, they gave us a good operation."
"Yeah, but something's not right," said Lakota. "They wouldn't give us something this important- unless they're making it seem important and it's really not... Or bait. The Phoenix's got the real work. We're just the bulldogs waiting outside to cover them when they leave."
"Not true. And don't get paranoid," said Dib. "Higher knows I've had some nice captures during the early years of invasion, seventeen in all, and those ops went well. Maybe they figure me for a guy who can abduct people. I'm like a UFO, so they gave us this. That make you feel better, Lakota?"
She shrugged. "A little."
Pak, the Korean guy who never talked, widened his eyes and lifted his chin. "Lieutenant, I don't think we should trust the NSA Phoenix's."
Dib frowned. "What makes you say that?"
Heston cursed under his breath. "Lieutenant, he never talks, but when he does, you should listen."
"Pak?" Dib asked again.
"I don't mean to sound unprofessional, sir, but I do have some experience with the NSA through joint operations in the Helmand Province. They always have another agenda. And you heard what the director said about those CIA field operators who went after The Empress. Five dead, three still missing."
"Well, we sure as hell ain't the CIA."
Pak's tone grew more grave. "No, but those teams all had one thing in common- they had NSA Phoenix's attached to their units."
"Could be just a coincidence, but if you haven't learned this about me by now, here's a quick lesson- you need to earn my trust. And so will they."
"I'm not worried, sir. You carry the highest rank in this unit. So you should be."
Dib sighed. "All right, everyone, let's pack up. Bring your civvies. We need to look like tourists. We finally get to insert with real cover. I always love it when they drop us into a city wearing unmarked fatigues- but we're not supposed to look like soldiers."
"Can I wear a dress and heals?" said Riggs.
That query was met by the hoots, hollers and catcalls of all the men, save for Dib and Pak.
"Calm down, wolves. Riggs, that sounds good. Just be ready to ditch the heals when I need you."
"You got it, sir."
"All right, on the ready live in twenty minutes."
They muttered behind him as he spun on his heel and left, heading back to the office to pick up their travel docs. While en route, Schoolie caught him on the sidewalk.
"Heard you were shipping out, got a big mission." said Schoolie, nudging Dib with his elbow.
"Yeah, we're going to rescue your father from the backyard kiddie pool. He's been lying in it all day, getting drunk."
"How do you come up with this stuff?"
"You inspire me."
"Seriously, Dib, just wishing you good luck."
Schoolie proffered his hand.
When Dib glanced down at that hand, he saw another one, darker skinned, and when he looked up, there was Torque Smacky, grinning. "All I want is a race. Just shake hands and tell me you'll race so I don't have to kick your ass."
Dib blinked hard and faced Schoolie. "I'll shake when I get back. Don't want to jinx myself, okay?"
"Okay, Dib. I heard you were superstitious." Schoolie lowered his hand. "Make old Buzz proud."
"Roger that."
Schoolie had just referred to Major Harold "Buzz" Gordon, born on March 17th, 1955, and one of the first soldiers assigned to Ghostex: Delta 6 when the program was formed in 1994. He'd gone to become and Lieutenant Colonel and company commander, working extensively with Scott Mitchell. Buzz was now considered the "father" of Ghostex: Delta 6, while Mitchell was considered the greatest living Ghost. Dib hoped history wouldn't record him as the black sheep of the unit, but you had to do more than hope to change the course of history... You had to act.
And he would.
(End chapter)
