MARCH 1, 1991
A BOMBED-OUT HOTEL OFF THE IRAQI-KUWAITI BORDER
0700 HOURS, LOCAL TIME
"Rise and shine, Lieutenant."
Second Lieutenant David Williams was rudely forced from his reverie by the familiar silhouette of his commanding officer, Captain Shawn Willard, looking none-too-pleased by the sorry state of his subordinate. The room stank of week-old stale arak, tea, and cigarette smoke. Half-empty glass bottles of gray, clear, and amber fluid carrying blackened cigarette butts stood on every available flat surface. The sheets of the bed that David was sleeping on were stained with sweat, piss, and bile. Someone had thrown up nearby, judging from the smell, and David had the sneaking suspicion that it was him. His head was pounding, and Willard's stomping around the room as he surveyed the scene wasn't helping.
"Had a party last night, did you? Celebrating the cease-fire?"
Willard's voice pummeled into David's head with the force of a jackhammer. David mumbled something in response, but even he wasn't sure what it was he could have said. Willard's mouth twisted up in a wry grin—or maybe it was a grimace? It was hard to tell. He forcefully grabbed David by the arm and dragged him out of bed. David was in a white undershirt and boxers. Where were his pants?
"You're no use to me like this, Williams," grunted Willard as he guided David to the bathroom, shoving him bodily into the shower. David fell over with a yelp, grabbing for purchase and yanking the shower curtain off of its rod down onto himself. Willard cranked the faucets and David yelled in shock as the freezing droplets pummeled his skin. How could water be so cold? In this heat?
Now fully awake, David's senses were coming back to him, though the headache was no less painful. He pulled himself up out of the tub, trying and failing to keep from slipping on the porcelain and cracking his head open on the tile. Willard caught him to make sure he wouldn't fall over. David awkwardly stood up at attention in an attempt to greet his CO properly. "Good morning, sir!" David grunted.
Willard shook his head. "Get up and get dressed, Williams. You've got new orders. You're going stateside."
David looked at Willard quizzically. "Sir?"
The two men walked back into the luxury suite that David had staked out for his own the previous night as he started to remember. His squad, Lima Company, had found a stash of booze in the hotel lobby and after they'd heard word that President Bush had announced the cease-fire, they had decided to celebrate the seeming end of a successful campaign. At some point, someone must have guided him into this hotel room so he could sleep. Willard gestured to the pile of clothes where David's BDU lay, and David quickly started to dress himself as Willard started to explain.
"War's over, Williams. You're getting reassigned somewhere back home. There's a chopper waiting outside to take you to the airfield, where you'll be picked up to fly back to Virginia."
"What about the others? Are they going home too, sir?"
Willard shook his head. "Our work's not done here, yet."
"Then why me?"
David hiked his pack onto his shoulder as Willard led him to the door. "Information's on a need-to-know basis, Lieutenant, and whoever it is that wants to see you is higher up the chain than me. Maybe you impressed somebody."
David frowned. He was a nobody. There had to have been plenty of others more deserving of going home than him. What made him so special? Willard saw the look on David's face and lightly punched him in the arm. "'Ours is not to question why, ours is but to do or die,' kid. You know that. Go on. The chopper leaves at 0730."
Not even really enough time to say goodbye to more than a few people on the way out then, David thought to himself. Great…
24 HOURS LATER
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
It was like something out of an episode of Twin Peaks. Not five minutes after Lt. David Williams stepped off onto the tarmac of the Ronald Reagan Washington International Airport, was he met by two men in suits and black shades: one with red hair and the other with black. "Good morning, Lt. Williams. Did you have a nice flight?"
"It was alright," David replied as he rotated his head to stretch his neck, still stiff from the long flight.
The red-headed government spook spoke first. "We're here to escort you to a meeting with the brass in the Pentagon. If you'll please follow us right this way, sir?"
David's eyebrows raised so high he thought that they'd float off his face. The Pentagon? Top brass? Whatever this was, it was big—frighteningly so. Whatever he'd done, right or wrong, had gotten the attention of some serious people. If only he could ask these G-Men, but he had an inkling that he wasn't in the position to be asking any questions, and these men would not take 'no' for an answer. David shook his head and followed the beckoning agents, who led him into the back seat of a black sedan.
The drive was short, but quiet. The air felt heavy. David wanted to crack open the tinted window of the door he sat at but thought better of it. The sedan glided smoothly on the road leading up to the military checkpoint, where the MPs checked the agents' IDs. When they eventually parked, David stepped out and looked on in awe at the entrance of one of the most well-defended buildings on Earth.
He was led through winding hallways of varying elevation. The building seemed to be constructed in such a way as to be intentionally confusing to navigate. David supposed that made sense. What better way to buy time for capturing any potential intruders? After what felt like hours of walking, the agents stopped at a nondescript door, leading David through what seemed to be an ordinary office with cubicles throughout. On their way through, they passed by a wall covered in what David could only assume was some of the most expensive and powerful computer equipment that money can buy.
The agents stopped David outside of a wooden door labeled "Conference Room." The blinds to the window were open, and David could see his audience: Secretary of State Richard Cheney, General and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Colin Powell, General and Joint Chief of Staff for the Army Gordon R. Sullivan, and a fourth man with an eyepatch whom David didn't recognize.
"Alright, Lt. Williams. They're waiting for you. Go on inside. We'll be waiting out here," said the dark-haired agent. David gave a shaky nod in return and walked through the door, closing it behind him.
"Good morning, gentlemen," David greeted the group.
"Good morning, Lt. Williams," answered Gen. Powell. "Please, sit down."
As David complied with the general's order, the fourth man with an eyepatch stood up and walked over to the window to the hall, closing the blinds before sitting back down. The man with the eyepatch looked to David to be in his mid-fifties or sixties with graying hair and a well-trimmed beard. He was wearing a long brown coat over what looked to be an Army dress uniform, with a pair of black gloves covering both his hands. His posture made David think he'd had a rod of steel in his spine. As he sat, he was completely still, eyeing David with an intensity that made him uneasy.
General Colin Powell had two manila folders in front of him, one closed, the other open. Based on some of the photographs in the pile littering the table, the open folder must be a copy of David's file: he recognized locations from his previous mission with Lima Company. Powell caught him looking. "Do you know why you're here, Lieutenant?"
David shook his head. "No, sir."
Powell glanced over the documents in front of him, then passed copies around to the other members of the table on his side. It was a show—there was no way everyone at that table hadn't already been briefed on its contents. The whole thing was expressly for David's benefit, and he knew it. He clenched his sweaty fists. What he wouldn't give for a cigarette right now.
"Second Lieutenant David Richard Williams," Powell read. "Born August 5, 1972. Orphan. Bounced around in the foster care system most of your life. Joined the United States Army in early 1990, made O-1 later that year as a Green Beret, after which you were sent with Company L-325 to Kuwait as part of Operation Desert Sabre. That about right?" Powell looked to David, waiting for an answer.
"Yes sir, that is correct."
"You're pretty young for a Green Beret, aren't you?" said Gen. Sullivan. "The average age of even low-ranking Green Berets is 31. Even the younger boys don't tend to be younger than 20. So, how'd you get selected?"
"Says here your most recent foster family, the Williamses, were former military," said Cheney. "You get your daddy to pull some strings? You a butter bar?"
David gritted his teeth before taking a breath and forcing himself to relax. "No, sir. I earned my way in, just like everybody else."
Sullivan looked over some of the photos. "Your company was involved in the destruction of Anti-Air radar in the rear of the Iraqi tank lines. Do you remember?"
"Yes, sir."
"At around the same time, there was a rumor of a stealth operation involving the assassination of some high-ranking members in the Iraqi military—these men were part of Saddam Hussein's personal guard. Do you happen to know anything about that?"
A test. This is a test. David replied, "No, sir. I cannot claim to have any knowledge of such an operation."
"So, you're saying you were not involved on the attempts on these men's lives, which helped to ensure the Air Force's surprise attack on the enemy flank in Kuwait? That you were not involved in any way?" Powell asked.
"Sir, I can claim no involvement or knowledge of any such events."
"And if I were to say the name, 'Operation Desert Snake,' that wouldn't ring any bells for you?"
There was a noticeably short moment of silence as David allowed himself to take a breath before lying to four of the most powerful men he had ever met. "Sir, I cannot claim knowledge of any such operation, nor would I be disposed to discuss it if, indeed, such an operation was to exist."
Powell exchanged looks with the two men on either side of him, before glancing at the man in the eyepatch. The eyepatch man nodded to Powell, before pulling a cigar from his coat pocket. "Do you know who I am, kid?" he asked as he struck a match.
David shook his head slightly. "No, sir."
The old man nodded and puffed, shaking the flame from the match before throwing it into a nearby wastebasket. "No, I don't suppose you would. Technically speaking, I don't exist. There are maybe four people on the entire planet who know my real name, if they're still alive. I'm mostly known in certain parts of the world by my title. They call me Big Boss."
David couldn't help but smirk. It sounded like something out of a Saturday morning cartoon. He looked at the other three men. None of them were smiling. "Don't laugh," said Powell. "In the parts of the world where his title is known, he's known as the greatest soldier to ever live."
Big Boss waved his hand. "It's alright. Can't blame the kid for finding it a little silly." He turned to David. "It's a codename, a relic of the '60's. I was awarded it in recognition of my services in a mission I undertook for the CIA. Of course, no such title or rank exists in the military or the government—it's mainly set dressing. It does have its perks, though. Within the Army, the title confers on me the same status as a Colonel—lets me cut through red tape now and again. It got me the resources and the funds needed to start a little side project of my own, which has since blossomed into something much greater. It's the reason why you're here."
Powell slid the closed folder across the table to David. When he opened it, he was greeted with an image of a fox clutching a Bowie knife in its teeth staring back at him. Underneath the logo, the words 'HIGH TECH SPECIAL FORCES UNIT FOXHOUND' in big block letters. David thumbed through the pages, some of which were almost completely blacked out with redactions.
He looked up at Powell. "Sir, what is this?"
"It's a special unit in the U.S. Army, at least on paper. While the Army has official jurisdiction over FOXHOUND, in practice it's more of an extra-legal paramilitary setup. As far as the public is concerned, this unit does not exist. It's the personal brainchild of Big Boss: it's a multi-ethnic group with members recruited from all over the world, not just the U.S. military; every member of its staff is a war veteran, many of them coming from mercenary backgrounds. They specialize in solo infiltration of combat zones in theatres of war that are too politically sensitive for the United States to be seen intervening in.
"Rhodesia, Mozambique, Myanmar, Zaire, the Congo, Vietnam, Zanzibar, Cambodia, Columbia, the Korean DMZ—you name the region, FOXHOUND's had a footprint in it. Everything from reconnaissance to logistical advisory to assassination and guerrilla campaigns. If it's important to the strategic interests of the United States and her allies, FOXHOUND gets it done; and you've been selected as a new potential candidate."
"You're asking me to join an illegal top-secret military assassination squad?" David said, bewildered.
"Actually, no. We're not asking," Cheney replied, "You've been selected for training because we need someone like you. Your skills and experience are valuable, you already have top secret security clearance, and your youth means the U.S. government will be able to get a lot of mileage out of you. This meeting is a courtesy, nothing more."
"Don't worry too much about it, kid," Big Boss said, waving his arm dismissively with cigar in hand. "You're not being asked to join; you're being asked to train with us. Whether you actually become a member of FOXHOUND will depend on how you do in the final exam. To be honest, I've got my own reservations about you. I only accept the best, and this—," he motions to the file on the table, "isn't enough to tell me that you're it."
David looked to each man in turn. "Gentlemen, may I ask a question?"
"Ask it, Lieutenant," said Powell.
"If you're not sure I'll meet your standards," he nodded to Big Boss, "then why bring me here? Why tell me all this?"
"Because I'm sure," Powell replied, "and that's reason enough for why you're here. Now, there's a car waiting for you outside the building to take you to the transport to the training facility. Do you have any questions, before you go?"
So, it wasn't a choice. David was going, whether he wanted to or not, but next to the anxiety, there was also something else: a thrill, an excitement. He'd been selected—over however many others—to serve his country in a manner that very few people knew existed, in an elite group with a fearsome reputation. To a young man like him, it was like asking a little boy if he wanted to join the G.I. Joes. Immediately, David was struck by the intense desire to prove himself, to show these men that their faith in him was not misplaced.
"About this training. What does it involve, and how long will it take?"
"The specifics will be covered in orientation, but the training itself lasts over the course of a little over three and a half years," Big Boss explained. "First, there's the standard selection courses for physical, mental and psychological fortitude with their respective exams, then several months of technical, medical, and survival training in various disciplines, including land navigation and HALO jumping. You'll also receive numerous courses in guerilla warfare, foreign languages, foreign history and politics, FOXHOUND-specific hand-to-hand combat techniques, and infiltration methods, including stealth, sabotage, and demolition. Your final exams consist of a training exercise that will be a simulation of a mission you might undertake, set up at a stateside United States military base of our choosing, after which you'll be granted your official codename, assigned to a team within the FOXHOUND unit, and you'll be given a minimum three days of R&R before being sent on your first assignment."
"What was that about code names?"
"Like the general said, as an extra-legal paramilitary operation, we send operatives all over the world into conflict zones that the United States can't be seen intervening in. While we specialize in solo and small teams infiltration, operatives will often have a support team to call via radio. Therefore, to prevent information leaks that would clue in people outside the need-to-know of FOXHOUND's existence and the US's involvement, this support team must refer to each operative by a codename. It consists of the name of an animal, preceded by a personal identifier unique to each operative. You'll learn more when you get to our training facilities."
Big Boss puffed on his cigar, letting the silence drag out for a few more minutes. "Any more questions?"
"Where are the training facilities?"
"That's classified. You'll be transported there using various means, but you'll be blindfolded and stripped of your sense of direction. If you make it into the program, you'll be cleared to know the location."
"When do I start?"
Big Boss pointed at the closed door of the conference room. "As soon as you walk out that door, those two gentlemen in suits will escort you back to the airport, where you will board a C-130 that will take you to the first of many destinations."
David and the other men stood up from their seats. David saluted the ranking officers, who saluted him in return. Big Boss walked around the table to stand in front of David, looking him in the eye. "The next time we see each other will be if you succeed in the training, at your induction ceremony. Other than that, we likely won't meet again," said the older man.
"I won't let you down, sir," David said firmly.
"That remains to be seen." Big Boss turned to the Secretary and Joint Chiefs. "If there's not anything else…?"
"No, Boss. That will be all," replied General Powell.
"Then we're done here," Big Boss said curtly as he left the room.
David wanted to ask Powell why he was chosen. Why him, and no one else from Lima Company, or anyone else outside of it, for that matter? Even though he had performed well in Operation Desert Snake, he didn't believe his skills were any greater than any other soldier. The truth was, they weren't—David's place could have been taken by any other Special Forces member; there was nothing unique about David in terms of his skill. David himself never got the chance to ask, because as soon as the meeting was over, he was escorted back to Reagan to board his flight on the C130, but he wasn't the only one curious. Once Cheney and General Sullivan asked General Powell the same question—why David, above all else?
General Powell only had this to say: "There are forces at work in the United States federal government that are far above even all our pay grades. These forces are not to be questioned or trifled with, and when the order is given, the only correct response is to obey." As military men, he and Sullivan knew that better than just about anyone else. These forces have demanded that David join FOXHOUND. For what purpose is a mystery, but as the saying goes: "ours is not to question why."
MARCH 5, 1991
UNDISCLOSED LOCATION
GREAT LAKES TERRITORY
The trip, besides being spent mostly blindfolded, was largely uneventful. After landing in Michigan, David and his handlers were loaded onto a Jeep. David was robbed of his sense of direction, so he would have no idea in what direction he was traveling. They traded vehicles often, with David hearing new voices indicating a change in the personnel escorting him. Once they stopped to sleep for the night. Then they boarded a boat—a ferry? Eventually, once they reached their destination, the blindfold was removed, and David was able to survey his new surroundings outside of the vehicle.
It looked like any other military training complex. There was a large grassy concourse with an obstacle course and a track and field pitch at the center where groups of men and women could be seen marching and performing PT exercises; on other side were rows of short flat-topped brick buildings which David identified as the barracks. At the far end of the concourse were a few larger buildings with triangular green roofs, which he supposed were probably where the admin building and some or most of the classrooms were located. If there was more to the complex, David couldn't see it from where he was standing.
One of the G-Men in his company handed him a sheaf of papers and gestured to one of the far side buildings with a triangular roof. "You're to report to the front desk of Administration, give them these documents, and await further instruction."
No farewells, no further conversation, no opportunity given to ask follow-up questions. The government agents got back into their car and drove off, disappearing into the nearby woods. David walked to the admin building, wondering what made this place so special. When he entered to the reception area, he found two men at the front desk. Both men were in uniform and engaged in what seemed to be light conversation. The one manning the desk looked to be a little older than David, clean cut with a shaved head, likely another recruit.
The man talking to him appeared to be a middle-aged Japanese man with dark sunglasses. The Japanese man had a gruff demeanor, face hardened and tough. He had bright blonde hair—a rarity for a Japanese person, even in the States. The most striking feature about him, however, was his injury—the man had only one arm, with the right sleeve of his dress uniform pinned to his side with a safety pin, and in his other arm he gripped a crutch. As David approached, the conversation stopped briefly as he turned to appraise the new arrival.
"You must be the newest recruit," said the Japanese man, leaning his crutch against himself as he extended his one hand. "The name is Kazuhira McDonnel Miller. I'll be your survival and logistics instructor. Everyone here calls me 'Master Miller.' You will, too."
David shook the extended hand, which was a little awkward since he was forced to use his non-dominant hand due to Miller's injury. "Yes, sir. Lt. David Williams, sir."
David noted a lack of medals, rank patches, or any other status identifiers on either man's uniform, which struck him as odd. Choosing to play it safe, he moved to salute the elder Miller, but Miller waved him off. "We don't do that here," Miller said. "We try to mimic battlefield conditions as much as possible throughout most of your training. In the real world, saluting a CO is a good way to get him shot, so we don't do salutes here, either."
"Is that also why the lack of rank patches?" David ventured.
"You noticed? That's right. While there's no rule against wearing them here on base, it's standard practice for FOXHOUNDers to go on missions in either civilian attire or in specialized uniforms that have the unit patches removed for the duration of the mission. Our methods are a little unorthodox, which has led to the letting go of certain…unnecessary formalities which you may be otherwise used to. But make no mistake—we're still a disciplined force with a strict code of conduct, and you will be expected to act like it. Are we clear?"
A very strange way to open a conversation, but David was not going to break rank. "Yes sir, perfectly clear."
Miller turned to the man at the desk. "I'll leave you to it," he said, before hobbling out of the lobby.
The other man turned to David with a neutral expression. "He's a hard man to approach, but you'll get used to it. Name's Alligator. I'm guessing you're the new guy. You got your papers handy?"
David nodded and handed them over. "May I ask a question, uh, Alligator?"
The man called Alligator looked up briefly from the file he was perusing to acknowledge David. "Ask away."
"I get the practice of not wearing unit patches while deployed," David said, thinking of the times he'd had to wear 'sterile' uniforms during deployment, "but even the Berets wear standard uniforms in garrison. If FOXHOUND is officially under Army jurisdiction, why do they get special treatment? And why the lack of rank patches?"
"Didn't you hear Master Miller? The conditions of this place are supposed to simulate real battlefields. So, all our fatigues are 'sterile,' just like any other SF unit on deployment. As for rank patches, all graduated FOXHOUNDers are the same, there are no higher and lower ranks here—everyone answers to the Boss and the brass but are otherwise of equal status; it's a reflection of the fact that all FOXHOUNDers are supposed to be capable of being solo operators. You can request a unit patch if and when you graduate—a lot of people do, as a badge of honor. But it's not required, and you'd have to remove it while on mission, anyway."
Alligator pulled out a few sheets of paper once he'd finished reading, and set them aside, bending down to reach a filing cabinet. "They'll start you out with team training in your first year, just like any other unit. Put you in familiar conditions that'll help you acclimate to the culture here. You make it to your second year though, and you'll be assigned a personal dorm; maybe you'll have a roommate, maybe not. You'll be expected to do more and more on your own, without help. Where is it…here we are."
He slapped a form on the desk. "Read through, fill out, and sign these. We need to make sure your next of kin and medical information is up to date. I'll enter in what I've got here while you fill it out and have your designation and team assignment shortly."
As David dutifully followed his instructions, Alligator continued, "You were asking why we get special treatment on regs even though the Army owns us. Two reasons: one, we don't technically exist. Gives us a lot of leeway in terms of how we run things. Two, our relationship with the Army is more of a lineage thing than anything else—the Boss was originally a Green Beret himself before he joined the CIA, and he used his contacts in the Army to get the resources required for him to found this unit. Army might be in operational control, but make no mistake, this is and always was Big Boss's baby, and he runs the show here. Aside from a gap in the late 70's and early 80's when another couple of officers he picked filled in for him, it pretty much just always was that way."
"A gap? What do you mean?"
Alligator shrugged. "Before my time. Apparently, Big Boss had a brief retirement from FOXHOUND for almost a decade. Maybe another paramilitary mission. I've never looked too far into it myself, but scuttlebutt says he spent some time in Central America training guerilla forces and cultivating intelligence assets. Other people say he assisted in training the Hamid in Afghanistan. Maybe that's true, maybe it's not. I'm not cleared to know, so I never asked. You know how it is. Doesn't really matter. I don't put much stock in rumors, anyway—the Boss doesn't seem like the sort of person you'd saddle with a simple training op to me, but what do I know?"
David handed back the forms while Alligator typed on his computer. A few minutes pass in silence before a nearby dot matrix printer began spitting out multiple sheets of paper. Alligator grabbed these, putting most of them into David's file and holding up one last one, from which he tore off a strip and handed to David. David looked at it: on this short strip of paper were block letters, stating the following:
'DAVID RICHARD WILLIAMS
DOB: 08/05/72
LOCATION OF BIRTH: ARLINGTON, VA
SEX: MALE
BLOOD TYPE: O NEGATIVE
KNOWN AFFILIATIONS:
UNITED STATES ARMY SPECIAL FORCES GREEN BERET, (RANK: 2ND LIEUTENANT)
KNOWN ALIAS(ES): N/A
ASSIGNED TEAM: SIGMA
ASSIGNED CODE: CRICKET'
David looked up from the sheet. "What is this?"
Alligator reached out, taking it from him. "Is the information correct?"
"Yes, but what are Sigma and Cricket?"
Alligator tore off the personal information from the sheet, leaving only the assigned team and code sections, which he handed back to David. "Sigma is the callsign of the team you've been assigned to. They'll be your squad for the first year of your training here. Cricket is the code name you've been randomly assigned by our database. You'll get a new one if you graduate, but for now, that's the only name you go by from this moment forward. Until you either fail out of training or retire from FOXHOUND, the individual known as 2nd Lt. David Richard Williams no longer exists. Indicate to me whether you understand what I've just told you."
Mystified, David could only nod, while Alligator placed his file into the filing cabinet and locked it away. The click of the locking mechanism had a ring of finality to it. Everything that David Williams was on paper was now seemingly out of reach. Cricket gulped a little as Alligator picked up the phone at his desk from the receiver and dialed a few numbers.
"Good morning, Wallaby. This is Alligator," Alligator said. "I've got a new arrival here I need to escort to his squad for orientation. I need you to send someone to take over the desk while I'm gone. I'm leaving now. Thanks."
Big Boss, alligator, cricket, wallaby—it all felt so surreal, like he'd stepped into a Looney Tunes short. Any minute now, Cricket expected to hear Daffy and Bugs arguing over whether it was Duck Season or Wabbit Season, but there was no hunter with a speech impediment, no stuttering pig to signal the end of the show. But the fever dream he'd entered since leaving Kuwait refused to let him wake up, and he found that he had no other recourse than to just keep rolling with it in the hopes that eventually it would all make sense.
A/N: Been a long time since I last showed any interest in writing fanfics. Figured it was time to try again, as long as my attention span will allow. I think this one shows some promise, even though it's a little heavy on exposition and dialogue for my own tastes. It was originally going to be even longer, until I realized that the last paragraph made an ideal stopping place for pacing purposes. I hope you all like it, and hopefully I should have more for you in the future!