January 4, 2016
Meghan had once read somewhere that one couldn't know what "hot" truly was unless they'd been in 120 degree heat with eighty pounds of gear strapped to their body. A movie she'd seen, maybe. Didn't matter, shit still sucked. A hot gust blew at her face, carrying a sand payload bound for any crevice it could reach. Meghan pulled her shemagh closer and slung her rifle over her shoulder.
"Who ordered the pound of sand that's working its way into my fucking boots?"
The shout came from behind her, muffled by the tight fabric of her head covering. She turned back. "I think it was your dumb ass when you kept jinxing us this morning, saying it was gonna be a good day, Spears!"
A third figure piped in from further down the line. "Yeah, dick, you know damn well there's no good days in the sandbox!"
"But did we die? No? Then it could be worse, you pessimistic shmucks!" He held a fist up and shook it.
That, she thought, was certainly true. The past few years had splashed a number of paints onto the canvas of Meghan's life. Splotches of orange when a mission was successful. Swaths of red when she lost friends, comrades, brothers in combat. Swishes of blue when those goddamn Seahawks won the Super Bowl, and spackles of green when they blew it in the last minute next year. A spurt of purple when David had asked her to marry him…
…and an explosion of pink when she said yes.
Whoever the artist was behind her painting was an expressive soul, but she wasn't going to question their decisions. All things considered, she was perfectly happy… if one ignored the ever-sweltering climate of her post in Bagram Air Base.
They'd spent the better part of the last two weeks trundling through the desert, scaling mountains, and traversing canyons to recon a grid square with a watch list target. The mission statement allowed for the team to make their own determinations on dispatching any hostiles, so long as the objective was achieved without open conflict, but the bastards didn't even have the common courtesy to present themselves for an early grave! The countryside must have been part of the conspiracy, with the howling winds battering Meghan's team constantly day in and day out, and the sun tossing mirages at the squad. By the end of the mission window, she was convinced a mountain lion would come along in the middle of the night and make things even more interesting.
Despite it all, however, they'd done what they had to, and with minimal whining. Meghan led her team onto the road leading to Bagram, cresting the final hill and flashing the signal for re-entry. At this point, the only thing on her mind was how badly she needed a shower.
She turned. "Debrief in 10 mikes, then you're all free for the evening. Dismissed."
A chorus of "ma'am" echoed her, and Meghan headed for the command center.
Major Grenier wore a tired expression, weights pulling at the bags below his eyes. Sleep hadn't come easily for some time, and good news were few and far between. It turned out that the house of cards that was the Middle East just refused to stay standing, no matter how many times they set fire to it. The report from Meghan's team gave a glimmer of hope that just maybe something would go smoothly, but he held fast to the guarded optimism that had hung over him for years.
Grenier slid his hand down his face, blowing out a weary sigh. "Lovely. Thank you all, dismissed."
He rubbed at his eye as the team picked up their gear and slowly shuffled to the door. He hummed as a thought flashed into his mind and called out. "Castellano! Hang back for a moment."
Meghan looked to the others and tilted her chin towards the door. She leaned her rifle against a desk and clasped her hands together. "'S happening, boss? Am I in timeout?"
Grenier chuckled warmly. "Not quite. You caught me on a good day, so I won't even bring up your shirt hangin' out of your pants." She smirked, but made no effort to act like she was at all bothered.
"Anyway, no. There's someone here to speak with you about an… interesting opportunity." Grenier motioned to a door at the back of the room, where the plastic flaps swayed aside to allow a woman to enter.
She was a tad shorter than Meghan, but exuded raw authority the likes of which Meghan hadn't seen since, well, herself. Her hair was exceptionally well done up, makeup perfectly accentuating her flawless black skin, suit arranged in a sharp luster that practically forced one to pay attention. Meghan subconsciously straightened up, tucking her shirt in as subtly as possible.
The woman stopped just short of Meghan, stoic expression quickly melting into a sly smile and offered her hand. "Meghan Jane Castellano. I've had an eye on you for quite some time. They say that you're remarkable in every sense of the word, and I can safely say that they were not lying."
Meghan blinked to refocus. "I— ah, appreciate it ma'am, but you've got me at a disadvantage."
"You can call me Six. I'm here on behalf of a multi-national program, looking for top talent to bring into the fold. We need the best of the best, people who have broken and continue to break the mold. You fit that description to the last detail."
Meghan glanced at Grenier, who had yet to even attempt to address either of them. "A recruitment trip, then? I imagine the Navy might have something to say about that, though if you say it's multi-national… Which agency is heading this? CIA, FBI? And what's the job?"
"We're called Team Rainbow. A counter-terrorism agency with the funding and support of the world's nations, with the mission of neutralizing the most dangerous criminals and killers. We collect talent from the best of the best in renowned CTUs, and temper them into the shield protecting the world." Six slid a folder to her, a collection of individual profiles within.
Meghan scanned each one, absorbing the details that made up every one of the world's best. Cut from every cloth, from all races and creeds. They were like her – coming from backgrounds of all kinds, but willingly putting themselves through the wringer just to prove that it would not break them. Their resumes were outrageous; on every page she saw operations and initiatives that caught the world's eye – and these were the people making them happen! The stage didn't get any bigger than this, the stakes didn't get any higher.
Meghan locked her eyes on Six, a clenched fist holding position on the table. "I want in."
Six smiled again, crossing her arms. "I had a feeling you might."
Meghan spun around and looked at her commanding officer, "Major Grenier, I want to officially request a—"
He held his hand up. "It's already approved. Actually, when Madame Six came looking for prime candidates, your name was the first one on my list. Your experience as an intel officer made the choice easy."
She softened her gaze, and gave him a single, shallow nod before looking back to Six. "When do you want me?"
They shook hands once more, and Meghan felt lightning course through her veins. "You can report to our United Kingdom based facility in May. Until then, you're free to serve your superiors here."
"Thank you, ma'am, I very much appreciate your confidence in me, and thank you for the offer."
"I know you do, and I appreciate your willingness to be a part of our team," Six crossed her legs. "Oh, and one more thing – you were the second person here at Bagram that I talked to. I think you'll be very interested to know who the other was."
"Son of a bitch, she wasn't kiddin.'"
Meghan sat down at a metal table near the back of the cafeteria, across from a man she had come to know quite well.
Craig Jenson.
Their palms smacked together with a resounding crack, fingers curling together before pulling apart and forming a fist to bump the other's hand. Meghan couldn't scrub the grin from her face – she was buzzing from the news. She had remained in near-constant contact with the men from her SQT team; surviving hell itself together tended to bind a group, for better or worse. The people that she graduated the program with were all family, for certain, but these guys?
They were her brothers.
Harris had been stationed in Qatar for the better part of a year, doing largely what she was – desert recon, occasional search and destroy. Keller, the last she knew, was still with his team in Little Creek back home. Nelson, the lucky bastard, got to slum it at Bagram with her. And so, she had come to find out, had Jensen. It wasn't very often that they got the opportunity to work together, but whenever they were on base at the same time, they were bound to be found in the same places.
Meghan smiled and tossed a full canteen at him before twisting the top off of her own and downing the contents. "Didn't know they let cavemen into the club! Goddamn, Craig, that thing is massive. You sure there aren't animals taking shelter in there?"
"They have the same acceptance policy as they do for Amazons like yourself. You got bigger arms than most of the dudes, you're makin' 'em feel inferior!" Craig laughed as he dodged the water bottle whizzing by his head.
"Ass." She muttered, smirk betraying her attempted expression.
Meghan wasn't a stranger to the idea of fear. It was a common response to the unknown, expressing uneasiness when presented with something equal parts dangerous and exciting. The difference between fear that strengthens one's resolve, and fear that causes their foundation to crumble, is how they leverage it. Acting as a tool of war can be daunting by itself, and adding the pressure of being the tip of the special operations spear gives even the toughest of warriors pause.
The best approach to braving the storm, she found, was utilizing every port made available to her. In the devil's lair that is the Middle East, these ports were few and far between, but she had found hers. Craig became her partner in crime, her confidant, and one of her best friends. The ability to speak one's mind with no fear of social barrier, where any topic or joke was welcome, was truly freeing. They could discuss the day's training regimen, how the home life was going, and more recently, how their pet projects were going.
"How's this for freaky coincidence, Meg? Of all the psychos and head cases here, they asked us to be in their new pop band."
"It's pretty unreal, but I don't think it was all coincidence. You remember the thing that happened in the house mockup back in Alaska? What you said about an agency no one had ever heard of?" She crossed her legs and rested an elbow on the table.
He quirked a brow at her and scratched his chin, but realization spilled onto his face. "Damn, guess we were guinea pigs from the start, huh?"
"Maybe, but now we get to be secret agent guinea pigs." They shared a boisterous laugh, drawing the looks of a few of the others eating their dinner. Craig stared at the shadow cast by the whirling fan hear the ceiling before snapping his fingers.
"Oh right, I meant to ask you: Six mentioned a pretty hefty R&D budget for whatever neat-o toys the team wanted to try out. You gonna bring your spy kit for dummies with you?"
She scoffed at him. "Only if you decide to bring your saran wrap rifle window with you."
Craig placed a hand on his chest, voice laced with sarcasm. "I'll have you know that my 'saran wrap' keeps both fruits and vegetables fresh and crisp, even in the pressure cooker known as Afghanistan!"
Meghan couldn't help but chuckle at his antics. This was what helped her stay grounded, no matter the situation. She had him to get through training, she had him to stay mentally right on base, and she'd have him to tackle this completely new experience, with completely new people.
"With a pitch like that, I think your callsign should be Shamwow. You'll be a hit!"
"Mm, I dunno, I was thinking Slapchop. Sounds more edgy."
"Sounds more like something a twelve year old would say." Mock indignation painted his face once more, a look that Meghan thought he could pull off on command better than he should've been able to.
He really is a princess, with that look on his mug.
"Well, you look kinda like Barbosa, if he was younger and less gray."
Craig hummed. "You know, I don't hate the pirate theme. I might think about that one," He lifted his leg onto the bench, sitting with his arm resting on his knee. "You got any ideas for yours?"
Whether or not Meghan knew it, the answer had been obvious for her entire life. From the time she could understand speech, one name was attached to her life. Even to that day, Meghan's father still called her 'Angel.' And over the course of her life, she could point to individual milestones that forged part of the metaphysical armor she wore on a daily basis.
Meghan was fiercely protective of her family
What moniker would she use in the field, where she was a force of nature, standing guard for her team against the unknown? She crossed her arms and leveled a smirk at Craig.
"Valkyrie."