This is the story of Alpha Team, eight extraordinary soldiers who sacrificed their normal human lives to serve their country.

Follow Major Jasmine Chapman, and the events that lead her to becoming a strong warrior of war, finding out what it's like to feel after living a life of stone.

From the desert and urban decay, she comes across events that never happened in her wildest nightmares.

AUTHOR NOTES

This is my first fan fiction (that was shared) so i hope it entertains you.

Feel free to leave a review, in fact i welcome it.

Suicide Squad IS in this story, but is not the main plot. There is much MUCH more, and i hope you can continue to read past the first chapter, which

is a description of the world Jaz enters into, and what is expected of her.

ENJOY! xx

CHAPTER 1

INTRODUCTION

WASHINGTON D.C

I really was marked for disaster.

I'd escaped time and time again, but it kept coming back for me.

Still, this time was so different from the others.

I looked through the scope of the sniper rifle, scanning down the road of the tiny Iraqi town.

Fifty yards away, a woman opened the door of a small house and stepped outside with her child. The rest of the street was deserted.

The local Iraqis had gone inside, most of them scared.

A few curious souls peeked out from behind curtains, waiting.

They could hear the rumble of the approaching American unit.

The Marines were flooding up the road, marching north to liberate the country from Saddam Hussein.

It was my job to protect them.

My platoon had taken over the building earlier in the day, sneaking into position to provide "overwatch"—prevent the enemy from ambushing the Marines as they came through.

It didn't seem like too difficult a task—if anything, I was glad the Marines were on my side.

I'd seen the power of their weapons and I would've hated to have to fight them.

The Iraq army didn't stand a chance.

And, in fact, they appeared to have abandoned the area already. The war had started roughly two weeks before. My platoon, Green Team, helped kick it off during the early morning of March 20.

Our mission was to hit all the Iraqi strongpoints. On our deployment to Iraq, we were split into teams and sent into the dunes, each team with a network of Iraqi military strongpoints, warehouses and barracks alike to be destroyed. Our orders were to sabotage and only kill if that was our last resort. Leave it to 'Uncle Sam' to try and be politically correct even during a war. I had seen what could happen in war, trust me, it wasn't a pretty sight.

Sometimes, the decision to end another human goes down to the simple rule of "kill or be killed". Our mission was a great success as the Iraqi soldiers had already fled their country for fear of being crushed by the US.

Now we were tasked to assist the Marines as they marched north toward Baghdad. I was a SEAL, a Navy commando. SEAL stands for "Sea, Air, Land," and it pretty much describes the wide ranges of places we operate.

In this case, we were far inland, much farther than SEALs traditionally operated, though as the war against terror continued, this would become common. I'd spent nearly a year training and learning how to become a warrior; I was ready for this fight, or at least as ready as anyone can be. The rifle I was holding was a .300 WinMag, a bolt-action, precision sniper weapon that belonged to my unit commander.

He'd been covering the street for a while and needed a break.

He showed a great deal of confidence in me by choosing me to spot him and take the gun. I was still a new girl, a newbie or rookie in the teams. By SEAL standards, I had yet to be fully tested.

I was also not yet trained as a SEAL sniper. I wanted to be one in the worst way, but I had a long way to go. Giving me the rifle that morning was the Colonel's way of testing me to see if I had the right stuff.

We were on the roof of an old rundown building at the edge of a town the Marines were going to pass through.

The wind kicked dirt and papers across the battered road below us. The place smelled like a sewer—the stench of Iraq was one thing I'd never get used to.

"Marines are coming," said the Colonel as the building began to shake. "Keep watching."

I looked through the scope. The only people who were moving were the woman and maybe a child or two nearby. I watched our troops pull up.

Ten young, proud Marines in uniform got out of their vehicles and gathered for a foot patrol. As the Americans organized, the woman took something from beneath her clothes and yanked at it.

She'd set a grenade. I didn't realize it at first. "Looks yellow," I told the Colonel, describing what I saw as he watched himself. "It's yellow, the body—"

"She's got a grenade," said the Colonel. "That's a Chinese grenade."

"Shit. Get the grenade. The Marines—" I hesitated. Someone was trying to get the Marines on the radio, but we couldn't reach them. They were coming down the street, heading toward the woman. "Shoot!" said the Colonel.

I steadied my breath, until I could feel my body stabilize, my trigger finger felt as heavy as lead.

I heard my sniper support with the binoculars give me directions when I was certain I had a clear shot, I pushed my finger against the trigger and released. The bullet leapt out. I shot.

The grenade dropped. I fired again as the grenade blew up.

It was the first time I'd killed anyone while I was on the sniper rifle. And the first time in Iraq—and the only time—I killed anyone other than a male combatant.

Killing someone from far away with a sniper was way different than killing someone with an automatic rifle. People who die from sniper shots never see it coming. They barely have time to register the shock on their faces before their life is yanked from them like a carpet.

A Major General I met once said, "If you hear a sniper bullet coming, the shot wasn't for you".

It was my duty to shoot, and I don't regret it.

The woman was already dead. I was just making sure she didn't take any Marines with her. It was clear that not only did she want to kill them, but she didn't care about anybody else nearby who would have been blown up by the grenade or killed in the firefight.

Children on the street, people in the houses, maybe her child . . . She was too blinded by evil to consider them. She just wanted Americans dead, no matter what.

My shots saved several Americans, whose lives were clearly worth more than that woman's twisted soul. After all, this was what I signed up for and this was what I was paid to do; save American lives anyhow and anywhere possible.

I can stand before God with a clear conscience about doing my job.

But I truly, deeply hated the evil that woman possessed.

I hate it to this day.

Savage, despicable evil. That's what we were fighting in Iraq.

It was as if the people didn't care about their lives as long as they take a few Americans with them.

That's why a lot of people, myself included, called the enemy "savages." There really was no other way to describe what we encountered there.

It was like there was a demon gingering them to die. The more you kill, the more they keep coming. It was an anomaly I could never understand. Even children were involved in this craze to be martyrs.

People ask me all the time, "How many people have you killed?"

My standard response is, "Does the answer make me less, or more, of a SEAL?" The number is not important to me. I only wish I had killed more. Not for bragging rights, but because I believe the world is a better place without savages out there taking American lives.

Everyone I shot in Iraq was trying to harm Americans or Iraqis loyal to the new government. I had a job to do as a SEAL.

I killed the enemy with pleasure —an enemy I saw day in and day out plotting to kill my fellow Americans. I'm haunted by the enemy's successes.

They were few, but even a single American life is one too many lost. I don't worry about what other people think of me. It's one of the things I most admired about my dad growing up. He didn't give a hoot what others thought. He was who he was. It's one of the qualities that has kept me most sane. If you want to know what life as a SEAL is like, you should go get your own Trident: earn our medal, the symbol of who we are.

Go through our training; make the sacrifices, physical and mental. That's the only way you'll know.

Second of all, and more importantly, who cares about my life? I'm no different than anyone else. I happen to have been in some pretty bad-ass situations. People have told me it's interesting. I don't see it.

My boys deserve to be praised more than I do. JSOC (Joint Special Operations Command) credits me with more kills as a female sniper than any other female American service member, past or present. I guess that's true. They go back and forth on what the number is.

One week it's 160, then its way higher, then it's somewhere in between. If you want a number, ask the JSOC officers—you may even get the truth if you catch them on the right day.

People always want a number. Even if the Navy would let me, I'm not going to give one.

I'm not a numbers girl. I don't even think of the people that I have killed in the battle field. After a few days, they all look alike, I am unable to place which face with what body. That was my way, the way of the soldier.

SEALs are silent warriors, and I'm a SEAL down to my soul. Sometimes, the praises threaten to get to my head, I'm human after all. This one time, I thought I was better than I actually was.

I was deep in the forests of Ecuador on a short peacekeeping mission; I had lain still for three days without food, no movement whatsoever except to take a piss once a day. I was covered with leaves in camouflage, so was my sniper support.

I had just a bottle of water to quench my parched throat. I had been crossed by humongous snakes and other crawling animals. I was on edge. We were asked to move in on the insurgents.

I quickly settled in position on top of a tree, my point settled in the opposite tree, every sniper had attached a point or support, another soldier with binoculars who revealed the position of hostiles.

I couldn't wait to kill these guys and get back on my Native American soil; I am that enthusiastic about my country, we should all be. I had to climb a tree to vantage point where I could see the hostiles properly and set up my sniper.

Up on the tree, I could sight these hostiles properly, I felt like I didn't need my point, "It was an excellent shot". I fired successfully and killed the two guards at their gate. I smiled to myself, my point was trying to keep up with me, he was trying to communicate with me but I was too busy killing the enemy.

There was a thatched house which was guarded heavily, I heard something about it on the comms but I wasn't really paying attention. I fired the first shot and it went straight through the thatch and I heard a scream, it was then I realized that they had hostages. My heart leapt into my mouth, I thought I had killed another non-combatant. I quickly stopped dead and listened to my point.

He told me that we were given new orders, "get the hostages out safely". I had committed a blunder in the line of battle. I was lucky to have not killed any hostage.

I've always said that I wasn't the best shot or even the best sniper ever. I'm not denigrating my skills. I certainly worked hard to hone them.

I was blessed with some excellent instructors, who deserve a lot of credit. And my boys—the fellow SEALs and the Marines and the Force Recon who fought with me and helped me do my job—were all a critical part of my success.

But my high total had much to do with the fact that I was in the shit a lot.

In other words, I had more opportunities than most. I served back-to-back deployments from right before the Iraq War kicked off until the time I got scouted for Green Team.

Green Team is a training program for the NSWDG, or Naval Special Warfare Development Group, commonly known as DEVGRU or previously known as SEAL Team 6, the Navy component of the JSOC, Joint Special Operations Command. You must have heard of us on TV, I think the G.I Jane movie or so, the one that had Demi Moore in it. That was a total misrepresentation of the SEALs.

I was lucky enough to be positioned directly in the action. There's another question people ask a lot: "Did it bother you killing so many people in Iraq?"

I tell them, "No." And I mean it. The first time you shoot someone, you get a little nervous before you take the shot. You think, can I really shoot this guy? Is it really okay? But after you kill your enemy, you see its okay. You say, great. You do it again. And again. You do it so the enemy won't kill you or your countrymen. You do it until there's no one left for you to kill. After the first time you pull the trigger, you no longer know hesitation. Every second spent in reconsideration is a countdown to your death. That's what war is.

But, every story has a beginning.

Mine started in North-central Washington DC.

Kowalski and I had waited our whole lives for this moment.

There we stood, in the centre of the Marine Barracks in Washington DC-standing as straight as an arrow and saluting our superiors crisply, expressionless.

Kowalski and I were in the same basic intake, the same barracks, and now, the same graduating class.

He was a West Point graduate, but I started off as a buck private, fresh out of high school.

My mother died in a terror attack when I was eight years old, and my father became a depressed recluse. He wouldn't have cared what happened to me in the force. My older brother Andy enlisted a few years before me, and he was running a tour in Afghanistan. He was a mere Staff Sergeant, in the desert for the last few years.

"Down here, Trig!" called Logan Thibault.

I walked down the line to take my place beside Thibault, mildly curious as to why he was

suddenly so friendly. As I got closer, I saw Kowalski five people back, watching Thibault with the same curiosity.

Thibault was babbling before I was in earshot.

". . . amazing. I mean, it seems like we just met, and now we're graduating together," he gushed. "Can you believe it's over?"

"Yeah, I can," I muttered.

Lieutenant General Blackburn started calling names, one after the other without a long enough pause between; our rows were rushing to catch up.

I watched as Kowalski, suddenly appearing, danced across the stage to take his, a look of deep concentration on his face. I recognized that face, it was his I mean business face.

I had seen that face countless times in training, late nights when we were subjected to the freezing cold of the ocean and the blinding heat of the sun. The same face he had whenever I won him at target practice.

Thibault followed behind, his expression confused.

Only the two of them could carry off the hideous navy blue celebration uniform and still look the way they did.

They stood out from the rest of the SEALs, their muscle and grace otherworldly. I wondered how I'd ever fit into their soldierly farce.

Truth be told, a couple of angels, standing there with wings intact, would be less conspicuous.

I heard LTG (Lieutenant General) Blackburn call my name and I snapped to attention, waiting for the line in front of me to move.

"Congratulations, Miss Chapman," he mumbled to me, shaking one hand, and placing the Trident to the other.

"Thanks," I murmured.

And that was it. an entire year of training, over.

I went to stand next to Kowalski with the assembled graduates.

Thibault was all red around the eyes, and he kept blotting his face with the sleeve of his jacket. It took me a second to understand that he was crying.

Blackburn said something I didn't hear, and everyone around me shouted and whistled.

"Trig!" Thibault blubbered over the sudden roar of conversation. "I can't believe we have done it."

"Finally," I mumbled.

He threw his arms around my shoulders. "You have to promise we won't lose touch."

I hugged him back, feeling a little awkward as I dodged his request. "I'm so glad I know you, Logan. It was a good year."

I was given my Trident-the Navy SEAL badge. Every SEAL got one-it was ours and ours alone.

Although just having graduated from the Green Team, I had joined several ops under the Tier Ones for the experience.

We did it. I looked at the other men, slapping each other's shoulders, and hugging, congratulating each other.

The biggest grins I have seen in months.

He knew their faces so well they were like brothers.

The older guys on this crew, like Kowalski, a Lieutenant with three years in at age twenty-nine, had lived and trained together for years. Some had come up together through basic training, jump school, and Green Team training.

We had travelled the world, to Korea, Thailand, Central America... we knew each other better than most brothers did.

We'd been drunk together, gotten into fights, slept on forest floors, jumped out of airplanes, climbed mountains, shot down foaming rivers with our hearts in our throats, baked and frozen and starved together, passed countless bored hours, teased one another endlessly about girlfriends or lack of same, driven out in the middle of the night from Fort Benning to retrieve each other from some diner or strip club out on Victory Drive after getting drunk and falling asleep or pissing off some barkeep.

Through all those things, we had been training to get a spot on a Tier One team.

It was the first time I was going to belong to a real Tier One team, and I was nervous about it.

The new recruits were selected by the team leaders of one of four top-tier DEVGRU teams- Alpha, or Alpha Dogs as they called themselves, Bravo, Charlie and Echo.

We had chosen teams that we wanted to be a part in, and I had chosen Bravo Team. Purely because I had the most experience with that team, though Alpha would have been the better choice- except their operations were strictly covert and extremely dangerous.

I didn't mind that-it was the commander I didn't like.

His was Colonel Rick Flag- the best of the best. I had run six ops with Alpha Dogs, and I enjoyed it, however, Flag was very hard to work with.

I didn't like him; not because of his strict leadership-no, it was because he was very square, direct, black and white, either you worked for good or you worked for evil. There were ops I wasn't in the position to question- though it seemed it was fit more for superheroes than a bunch of Tier One operators.

The last op, involved us storming an abandoned apartment building, littered with dead police officers who had septagram drawn on their faces. It was one of the few times I was part of a ground team, it felt like I was open. I was used to watching through a scope from high ground. But the terrain in which this op was performed didn't provide such cover. The operation was very fast, we scoped all the floors in the building and we found the woman at the uppermost floor, performing some sort of ritual dance, she was immediately taken away by some strange woman. Colonel Flag's face riddled with disgust. In the end, we captured the target, a small, scared woman who appeared as if she didn't know what she was doing or why she was even there in the first place. The men in the Alpha Team rumoured she was a witch in the body of an archaeologist names June Moone.

Bravo team were mainly based in Turkey. Taking out drug lords and human traffickers, the most evil warlords in the Middle East. It was tough, but it was real.

Their team leader, GQ Edwards, was younger than me by a whole seven months-he was alright to work for. He was a lot easier to get along with, he had a sense of humour and had a brotherly bond with his men. He was Colonel Rick Flag's best friend.

Being a DEVGRU operator was never on my wish list-I was recommended to the training by a senior officer, and so it came to be, Kowalski and I signed up. In fact, we had a bet on each other failing the Green Team training program, so I wasn't sure how our wager would work now.

Going through a year-long training program was required before we could enter the super-elite unit in order to become a Tier One operator. Before our training was even able to start we had to give a list of all the places we have ever had worked, went to school, lived at, and they would question anybody there about us. If anybody we knew said that we wanted to be a SEAL or DEVGRU member, we were kicked from the program. But if we were allowed to continue training then we would have men follow our steps to make sure that we didn't admit to anybody that we were a Tier One member and if we did, we were a security threat that needed to be cut from the team.

In order to get to this position, we had to get past a series of gruelling tests such as being able to run an obstacle course through a jungle that was hours long, being able to shoot four targets with twice with perfection in less than 4 seconds.

These test went on for about a year. We had to enter live fire houses where Close Quarter Battle was taught and there weren't any silhouettes but instead there were actual people that could be mistaken and shot. If we did shoot anybody we would be immediately be kicked from the training. We had to be able to shoot note cards on targets and if we missed a single shot then we would have to buy a pack of beer for the team later on that day.

We were practically shit until we got through Green Team. Then we would be able to join the teams in the team bars and lounges but we had to prove our mettle. We were still the damn new guys and it sucked to be the new guy!

It's sort of like cranking up a fraternity 1000 notches then militarizing it.

If I had a husband, he would probably divorce me and the divorce rate is around 95%.

I wouldn't be able to tell my husband when I had to leave for an operation or where I was going because it could compromise security. I could imagine just leaving my husband and telling him through a phone that I couldn't make it to the party because the base called me in but in reality, I was going to deploy somewhere else around the world.

I would have to live only a few minutes away from the base so I could be called in quick at any time. But I opted to live at the barracks. If I had to travel to certain places as a civilian I would have to use a fake I.D. I would also have to memorize an alibi for this fake personality and nail it every time.

I would most likely accumulate over twenty I.D.'s. I would be clearly separated from any other SOF elements because I had my own secret base that no other SEALs could join. Don't forget JSOC's very own bar. We would have our very own gator cage that is filled from wall to wall with all the gear I could want or even ask for that could stretch from any scope ever created or every gun ever created.

Our platoon's budget would be over the top and everybody in that platoon would be extremely elite to a level not even thinkable by most.

What truly separates DEVGRU from a regular SEAL Team is that DEVGRU Operators are more trained and have fewer rules than regular SEALs. To even get to the ranks of DEVGRU, one must have been a SEAL for at least five years and must undergo a whole different and extensive selection program called Green Team. It involves different concepts of warfare and train operators on more advanced types of combat effectiveness and teamwork.
DEVGRU operators work on an entirely different code of secrecy. Carrying out operations created by the CIA, DEVGRU works closely with its Army Counterpart Delta Force. They have access to a much higher array of weapons and equipment and are even trusted to set foot on highly secret military bases. They are tasked with only the most difficult and dangerous missions.

Kowalski looked more like a Special Forces Operator than I did, and I was jealous. "You're the first woman to make top tier. You'll be fine."

I laughed awkwardly. "They don't look at me that way. Just one of the boys."

Kowalski was my first mate, my right-hand man. He was a comms and tactical expert, having gone undercover with ISIS for a long while, where I was a combat medic and sniper.

"Chapman…"

Reflex reaction. I turned to the sound of my name being called, though it wasn't being called, just mentioned. My eyes locked for a small portion of a second with a pair of wide, jade-green eyes set in a tanned, heart-shaped face.

I knew the face, though I'd never expected him to be staring right at me. I had been foremost in every conversation today. The new DEVGRU operator. Major Jasmine Chapman. Trig. I'd corrected everyone who'd used my full name.

I looked away, bored. It took me a second to realize that he had not been the one to say my name.

"Impressive dossier. Set a new distance and accuracy sniper record, MCMAP (Marine Corps Martial Arts Program) 2nd phase, proficient in most military issue weapons, loads of experience in DEVGRU already. No complaints from or against her. If you don't want her, I do." GQ Edwards was the one reading my dossier aloud, standing beside the staring eyes I recognised as Colonel Rick Flag.

GQ's eyes slid toward me, a movement he meant to be stealthy. "She's interested?"

What did they see when they looked at the strange, well-built woman standing among muscular men that were universally avoided?

They knew I was here to join them. They knew what I was here for. We hustle, we grind, and we don't stop until the job is done. It's hard work, its sacrifice. It's going to places most people aren't willing to go.

Bravery lives in all of us, you either rise to the occasion or you run from it.

You can become afraid of fear or you can break free from the chains that bind you. It's their choice, too.

I frowned, just a small change in the set of my mouth. I could easily be frowning out of boredom.

My fingers ran over the trident, as I looked down at it. It meant something else to be a part of an elite Special Forces team. And the last three months of experience was going to determine my career.

"Alpha Team is picking first," Kowalski mumbled, running his hands through his curly black hair anxiously. Kowalski was a Muslim but grew up in Seattle. He was short and thin, too lean to be the weight-lifting macho man you would think was part of a DEVGRU unit. But he was good. What he really wanted, was to be a jet fighter. One year with Alpha Dogs could get him into any Air Force unit he wanted.

Maybe Flag was staring at him, and not me. Dare I check?

Flag was still staring. How bizarre. I'd never expended so much effort to understand someone in all my life.

Colonel Rick Flag approached our group staunchly, his 'out of my way' stride made me hold my breath. This is it, I thought.

I suppose GQ would want me for his team, seeing as Bravo aren't as strict or elegant as Alpha. I wasn't even sure I wanted that team, either. How long would I last in a team like Alpha Dogs?

The Colonel didn't look at me now, but scanned the faces of the men I was standing next to.

Kowalski winked at me.

Flag looked down at his clipboard and then back up at us. "Lieutenant Michael Kowalski," he shouted in monotone.

Kowalski fist bumped Thibault, and nodded to himself with excitement, clearly trying to contain himself.

I gave him an approving smile, before looking back at the Colonel, 99% percent sure I wasn't going to end up in his elite team.

"Major Jasmine Chapman."

That was what froze me where I stood and had my jaw dropping to the floor. "Alpha team?" I croaked in disbelief.

His eyes locked on mine, and I could see that I'd already given too much away. "Welcome to Alpha Dogs." He swiftly turned on his heels and left GQ Edwards to make his selection. The clipboard slammed into GQ's chest with such force, i was surprised he was still standing. GQ grasped it, and stared after Flag as he left the yard.

Kowalski turned to me and whispered. "Til death do us part, Amigo."

I rolled my eyes.

He grinned his one-dimple smile, clearly pleased to have dragged a halfway civil response out of me, and I gave him a reluctant smile back.

But his smile did nothing about the sharp, cutting blades that raked up and down my body.

I had wanted to avoid Alpha team at all cost. I wanted to be somewhere where I wasn't in constant competition with my fellow soldiers. It was normal tradition to drop the least performing member of Alpha team and replace him/her with a new protege recruit. I didn't want to be that soldier, the one that got dropped.

*.*.*.*

My first practice mission with the Alpha Team will forever remain fresh in my memory. Hours after graduation, we were sent into the coasts of Madagascar to rescue some American hostages. There was a black op to be carried out and it was on a strict need to know basis. I was enjoying thanksgiving dinner with my friend's family that day, she was a marine. I got summoned to the base and briefed about the mission.

We were flown there in a large jet with our gear, vehicles and all. The gear was to be dropped at a rendezvous point but we had to be dropped 500 feet above ground. The gear was mainly for the purpose of extraction, so we didn't really need it until we had rescued the hostages.

This is what we were trained for, do the impossible. We flew for close to nine hours and arrived the coast of Antsiranama, an extreme point close to the ocean in the Island of Madagascar very early in the morning. There was still a shroud of darkness over the country.

Our parachutes were strapped to our backs as we plunged into the enveloping darkness. The calm of the dark is to be revered. We landed routinely with a light splash in the water, our goggles set on night vision and we moved in on the supposed holding site for the hostages.

Our movements were stealth. Any mistakes would lead to the death of American citizens, God's own people and that would be our fault. We couldn't let that happen. The building was situated by the shoreline, easily accessible from the water. We took our positions and surged forward. I occupied the opposite building with my sniper support to provide over watch. I set up my rifle, adjusted the scope and loaded the weapon. The ground trooped pushed the door open and started the rescue.

The hostage takers didn't know what hit them. I killed the enemy at the upper floors, preventing them from reaching where they kept the hostages. I let loose of the trigger time and time again according to the directions of Kowalski.

Colonel Flag on the ground displayed serious skill as he weaved through the hostiles, killing them as he went through like a hurricane. I was watching him in action with admiration. I watched inside the building as the hostages were being rescued, I cleared the stairwell for my comrades, leaving a trail of hostiles. I was still in action when Kowalski shouted, man on the roof! It was a bit too late as the missile launcher released its missile, directly aimed at where I was.