a/n: I expect to post a new Anthony oneshot on my blog tonight, or Saturday. June 1, 2, 2012. Come visit! Link is in my profile.
Shelter from the Storm
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Chapter Forty-two ~ Let's Pretend
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A late night, half a world away from Trenton, NJ…..
Ranger
Probably we won't live through tomorrow. Sometimes our clients call these ops suicide missions and what they mean is that if it all goes fubar, they will have committed political or media suicide. Whatever. So they send me. Us.
And then of course there are, like with this current job, true suicide missions, where we the soldiers are willing and able to offer our lives, give our lives, for the greater good. For our country, for peace, or freedom, for the ones we love. So if tomorrow we all die, it should not be totally in vain.
Special Operations handlers spend a lot of time training us to withstand torture. We are taught to mentally distance ourselves from fear and pain. To focus on our inner core of strength. We are taught to visualize an inner haven of calm and serenity—very Zen. And then to recognize—to seek and find—our "happy place."
Is that not the lamest, gayest phrase you've ever heard? Happy place? Sounds like a whorehouse in Taipei. Geez. Do they really think badass covert/black operatives have Happy Places? I don't think so—unless it's a grass hut tiki bar on the beach on some Caribbean island, filled with hot horny women and free umbrella drinks with beer chasers for all.
Happy Place—bullshit.
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Instead I focus on the task ahead. I check and recheck my equipment. I go over the engagement plan again in my mind. My guys are well-briefed, well-trained. I am not gonna nag them. But I can ruminate here alone, in silence, right? And most importantly I focus on the goal, on the end product. I visualize success, not death.
And so in my mind, right now, I am not seeing bombed out smoking ruins or my own funeral…. Instead it's a day far in the future. I am ducking out of the big, unmarked military helicopter, still dressed in my filthy black Spec Ops fatigues. I walk across the tarmac, ignoring the press and the politicians here to laud our bravery.
I look at the small terminal of this tiny once-clandestine airport and standing there on this perfect May morning are Stephanie and Julie, Zoë and Justine. Steph's dark curls are blowing wildly in the breeze, her flowery skirt is pressing close to her body. And Julie stands straight and beautiful beside her, her smile lights up the world. Stephanie's right hand clutches Zoë's and her left arm holds infant Justine wrapped in a white blanket.
Steph and Zoë (but not Julie,lol) are both wearing rainbow Crocs with white ankle socks, and briefly I wonder if this is a nightmare or a dream. But the sun shines on their dark curls and they all smile wide as I drop my gun case and hug them tight.
Okay—just so you all don't worry, the guys got home safely. But sometimes even Ranger gets the blues…
And they lived HEA
the end, series tbc
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