COLLINS,
MICHAEL A.
0877-2543-USMC
3-5 / 1ST MARDIV
For what seemed like the twentieth time during the past few days, Lara ran a calloused thumb on the metallic dog tag's surface, deliberately brushing her skin on the neatly stamped precision lettering. It had been almost eight days since she had last seen the tag's owner, and during that time, her mind was practically running into full overdrive, ever since that wonderful yank had given her these pair of identification tags and his Harvard class ring. It was almost next to bloody impossible to get him out of her restless mind.
In the past week alone, she vainly tried to forget about what they both did during the last time that they saw each other, where she kept on telling herself over and over again that the whole thing was an utter mistake, in part, due to her incredibly (and still completely unbelievable) minor lapse in judgment. But every single time that she did try to forget about the whole thing, her mind would simply replay what had occurred during the relatively short time that they've spent with each other, at how the Marine—Mike—had embraced her in his arms, kissing her so passionately and so damned tenderly that it sure made a long-lasting definitive impact on her.
And this didn't just happen to a regular girl, it happened to her out of all the people in the world, and she wasn't just any regular girl to begin with. It was actually hard to believe that one single guy— a stranger who she just met, by the way—could have the ability to easily make her swoon in such an effortless attempt.
It made her flush just thinking about the whole bloody thing, and she didn't even want to recall the embarrassingly vivid dream she had a few days ago, of how Mike and her were recreating the exact same thing; only this time, they did it on her flat and…
Damn it, she thought to herself, pull yourself together.
School was starting in a few days, and she couldn't afford to just stop and think about that stupendously dumb thing that she did, with that strikingly gorgeous yank.
Whose lips were so plump and unusually soft, and his eyes. Oh God, his wonderful piercing blue eyes…
She shook her head a few times before she could even continue with that surprisingly arousing line of thought.
Oh, who was she kidding? A few minutes ago, she was doing a little bit of light reading with a book about East Asian history, (the one authored by Patricia Buckley Ebrey) when she just stopped reading in the middle of the first chapter and thoughtlessly grabbed the dog tags that were slung around her neck, leading to her current predicament now.
She didn't know whether meeting Michael was either a blessing, to know that there were still good guys out there that weren't just interested in screwing each other's brains out, or a curse; to have met a guy (a drunk one at that) who was so amazing and thoughtful and sweet, who was basically someone you were looking for in pretty much every guy out there, who you could picture yourself being with, and then poof! You could never see him again. Period. Goodbye, and end of story.
But instead of just returning back to reading her book like a sane human being would do, Lara idly wondered what went through to Michael's head when he decided to give up on his tags and his Harvard class ring.
The latter was clearly something of value to him, seeing as these things weren't just found around the corner. But why give it to her, though? Had she—and she fervently hoped— meant something to him? Or was it just a way to amicably break things off before it would even start to something that they both wanted? Either way, both ideas didn't help her one bit, not even in the slightest.
She heaved a long sigh as she returned both of the dog tags and the attached class ring underneath her shirt. So far, she was just plain thankful that her best friend had been oblivious to her mind's torments. If she even had the smallest amount of what's been going on with her lately, she would never even—
"You've been staring at that thing for, like, forever now. What the hell is it?" A familiar, yet extremely unwelcoming voice rang out on her right, making Lara jump figuratively and literally out of her seat.
"God, Sam!" she drawled out in an annoyed tone. "Don't do that! You scared the living daylights out of me."
"What was it you were just holding?" Sam had asked again as she leaned on the door frame with her arms crossed, eyes twinkling with amusement.
"It's nothing." she insisted a bit too quickly, pretending to read back to her book, but then faced her best friend again when she realized something was wrong. "Wait, how long have you been standing there?"
"Long enough," her best friend answered cryptically before stepping inside the neatly cleaned and organized room. "Lara, come on! I wanna see it!"
Each step Sam took to get near her had made Lara subconsciously clutch a part of her shirt that contained Mike's tags and ring, making her realize a bit too late, that what she just did only served to prove her nosy best friend's point.
"It doesn't seem like nothing." Sam stated in an insanely pleased tone which made the young British woman hate her guts. "Now, spill it!"
"Sam, I said it was nothing." She tried replying in a stern manner. "Now, let's leave it be. Alright?"
It seemed to do the trick, because the next thing she knew, Sam's face showed an extremely hurt look, which immediately made Lara second-guess on what she just did.
"Don't you trust me?"
"That's not what I—I do, I do, alright? It's just that…"
"I thought I was your best friend." Sam had said quietly as she looked away.
"You are, Sam!" Lara instantly replied as she stood from her seat, putting both of her hands on her best friend's shoulders to help reassure her. "It's just that…God, I don't even know how to tell you all this and…"
"Then just tell me."
"I can't," Lara shifted away from her best friend's gaze, trying to come up with the words to explain. "I barely know what to—"
"Yoink!"
A slight tug at the base of her neck instantaneously made Lara face forward, and all other thoughts about potentially hurting Sam's feelings vanished instantly, as she was rewarded with the sight of her best friend's backside retreating towards a minimum safe distance; laughing her arse off as she made a hasty exit out of her room.
It took the aspiring archaeology major a split second to realize that she had been played. And it took another full second before her mind and her body finally caught up with her best friend's deception. Of course she'd do something like this.
And how could she had easily fallen for something so incredibly stupid and simple? Maybe she oughta blame Mike for making her lose her edge. That thought made her smile. She highly doubted it. If she ever did have the chance to see that Marine again, she had a feeling that she would do more than just blame him on something so baseless and nontrivial.
With a quick sprint, she launched outside her room to catch up with that deceitful little tart.
"Saaaam! I am sooooo going to kill yooooou!"
"This is bullshit," Ronald Ferguson, head of the CIA's legendary Special Activities Division, cursed out loudly without preamble towards the man from across his desk.
"I'm assuming you've already read the file, then?" The man asked calmly, clearly not troubled with the man's sudden outburst.
"Oh, you mean this file?" Ferguson sarcastically replied while he grabbed a folder with a set of papers in it from the desk's surface, waving the highly-classified documents in front of his unexpected guest like a bunch of trash. To say he was even pissed was an understatement, knowing full well how extremely sanctimonious and arrogant his visitor was, even though this was the first time that they've actually met.
In his twenty some years in the Agency, Ferguson thought that he'd seen it all. But this was just too much. The man in front of him, whose name he didn't even know (not that he actually cared), just sat there in his seat, acting like all was right in the world. He couldn't even begin to comprehend how stupid it all seemed when he first read the damned thing, like everything in it was the plot of a bad mystical thriller.
"Yes," the stranger replied evenly as he started to cross his legs, "that file."
"So, you're telling me that everything in this fucking report is all true?"
"Pretty much."
"And you expect me to just believe all of it? Just like that, huh?" Ferguson asked warily, not even bothering to be polite. But the man just shrugged indifferently before replying.
"What you believe is irrelevant, Mister Ferguson. But like I've told you earlier, we're going to need—"
"Yeah, yeah," the middle-aged Agency man replied uncaringly with a wave, "I heard you the first time, jackass."
"Then what seems to be the problem, then?"
"I'm sorry, the problem?" Ferguson asked in disbelief, then started to laugh humorlessly for a few short moments before turning serious. "I'll tell you what the problem is, Mister Smartass. You're basically asking me to create a unit—a unit that's composed of highly skilled Tier One operators, by the way—to, and I quote, 'specialize in dealing with highly dangerous paranormal and supernatural threats'. Did I miss anything in particular?"
"You pretty much nailed it, Mister Ferguson." The man stated steadily, not even missing a beat. "As I said before, everything you need to know is in that file."
"Again, I reiterate, you're actually telling me that this 'Star Phenomenon' is real? And that whoever gains control of it can subjugate the world?"
"For the last time, yes." The man was starting to get annoyed now, heaving out a rather long sigh after he replied.
"Do you even realize how incredibly stupid that sounds?" Ferguson roared. "Of how a dead queen's spirit is causing all of those crazy, fucked up storms in the Dragon's Triangle? Ha! That is just fucking priceless."
"This is no joke, Mister Ferguson." The man stood up from his seat, hands placed on the desk as he leaned in on the career spook. "You saw those NRO spy-sat flybys in the file, same as me, along with all the scientific research data that our meteorologists had to sift through these past few decades regarding those typhoons. Everything pointed out to one definitive conclusion: that those storms aren't natural."
"Say that's true then," Ferguson leaned in on his elbows with his interconnected hands below his chin, challenging the bastard's claim. "what do you expect us to do about it? 'Cuz according to the same report, you only had one successful landing after all these years. Twice, if you count the SEAL team you managed to trick into getting there eleven years ago. And would you mind telling me what happened to them?"
"You've already read the—"
"Answer. The fucking question." The CIA operative stated in a seriously dangerous tone of voice that refused to broker any further arguments. Again, the man just sighed.
"They were all killed when their Sea King lost control and crash landed on the island."
"Exactly. Because you sent them there, blind as bats, with no intel or support whatsoever, other than their orders, which basically said, 'kill this crazy SOB'. And because of your superiors' stupidity, twelve good men lost their lives that day."
"That's not rele—"
"Oh, spare me the lecture, you bastard!" Fergurson angrily cut him off as he stood from his seat. "Like I said earlier, this file? Yeah, it's bullshit. You wanna know why it's bullshit? Because you people actually have the balls to come in here, in my office and demand—not ask, mind you, but demand—to requisition Tier One assets and waste 'em in some fruitless endeavor, in which they're all going to die anyway, instead of accomplishing something that's actually essential to threats against our national security. No, Mister Smartass, I'm not going to approve on Six's 'demand' for operators on this, 'First Encounter Assault Recon' detachment."
"Surely you would reconsider—"
"I said, no!"
The two men just stood there, starting at each other for God knows how long, as if willing the other to just stand down and leave. But the stranger finally relented and broke away his gaze, focusing instead on the office's nice view of Langley, Virginia.
"So, you're not going to help us then?" The man asked coolly.
"I didn't say that I wasn't going to help you, jackass." Ferguson corrected with an irritated tone. "I said I'm not going to send good soldiers on such a stupid endeavor that would result in their pointless deaths, Christ knows we have a lot of that going on right now in the Middle East."
"Then what do you suggest?" And with that Ferguson smiled slightly, grabbing another folder that was underneath one of his desk's drawers, then sliding it across towards the guest in front of him.
"To tell you the truth, I honestly don't buy into this whole 'Star Phenomenon' crap." Before the man could even protest, Ferguson held up a finger. "But, I am going to help you, regardless, just not through any official resources used by the U.S. federal government."
The man took the folder and opened it, reading it for a few seconds before finally facing the former field agent with a raised eyebrow.
"Isn't this a bit extreme? We wanted to deliver an extremely precise surgical strike, not use a goddamn sledgehammer."
"Believe it or not, this is actually better for all parties involved. There isn't going to be any losses in our primary JSOC assets, and you get to have your target eliminated. Utterly." The man looked back in the folder again, assessing its contents more carefully with a critical eye.
"How would the Agency benefit from this?"
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me," The man said, not taking his eyes off of the file. "What's your take in all this?" Ferguson looked at him silently for a few more seconds before he finally conceded with a curt exhale.
"We received a few unconfirmed intel reports, about the Iranians using said package to equip one of their Quds Force affiliates for an upcoming attack towards a U.S. military installation in Frankfurt."
"You want us to take the package and help prevent a terrorist attack?" The man asked in a slightly amused tone. "Should've known that there'd be a catch."
"Like I said, everyone wins."
"I guess so," the man replied before handing back the folder to Ferguson. "Alright, Ronnie. We'll have it your way. I'll tell Six about your…'alternative' proposal."
"Good," Ferguson said, before adding: "hopefully I don't ever get to see you again." The unnamed man actually smiled at that statement.
"I can't promise anything, Ronnie." The man said in a courteous tone. "But, what I do know is that Trinity thanks you for your years of utmost service." The CIA officer's eyes narrowed in confusion.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean—wait…"
Ferguson didn't get the chance to finish that sentence, as the man instantly pulled out a suppressed semi-automatic from his expensive blazer and accurately shot him in the head, knocking his lights out forever.