Ranger One Shots/ Merc 101

Mercenary 101, The Early Years.....

A Series of short stries about Ranger's [possibly fictitious, even to him] early years. The photo isn't a pefect Ranger...but I like his looks.

Ranger’s 21^st birthday.

the present day...or about Book 5

Ranger pulled out the paper that was jamming his desk drawer. Huh, an old photo, four dirty kids in light desert cammie BDUs. Nice guns. He flipped it over, saw the date.

Tank leaned over Ranger’s shoulder and said, “Man, that was a birthday to remember! ”
******************
back in the day, 9 years or so previously...

Today is August 12, XXXX. And here I am in friggin’ No-name-istan, on my first solo group mission. My name is Ricardo Carlos Manoso, US Army Rangers / Sgt. 1^st Class, Special Operations (delta). The time is 0100. The name is nebulous, the time is correct.

 

Today is my 21^st birthday.

A year ago I was a snot-nosed, arrogant college kid, bored shitless, studying business at Rutgers U. in Jersey. College was okay, good parties. But so slow, one class here, one class there, nothing to really challenge a guy’s mind. I was restless, surely life offered—uh---more.

I finally talked to my dad about it. He was home on leave and he had sensed my disquiet. My dad is a career Army Intell officer. And he happens to be a really nice guy, a handsome, big-hearted, happy Cuban-American who needed a steady career to support all us bambinos. He was not one of those spit-shined martinets who terrorized the wife and kiddies and we were not Army brats raised on a base;  we lived in my mom’s family house in Newark. Dad went on, shall we say, missions? Military Intel is one if those don’t ask/don’t tell jobs.

The oldest son in my family is always named Ricardo Carlos, so my dad is called Ric, my abuelo (grandfather) is Ricardo. I was called Carlos officially, but usually that was reduced to Carlito. And for many years it suited me, in a pretty-boy sort of way. God is not fair, the looks that are so lovely on my sisters were ridiculous on a budding gangbanger, 11, 12 years old. I made up for my looks by being fast and mean and tough. What can I say, I’m used to how I look and now that thank god I have passed puberty I look more like a guy and less like my sister. The muscles I got here in the Army have helped. And the short hair and the dirt.

Anyway, Dad listened and then he told me that Uncle Sam could use a guy like me, think about it…so here I am. When I signed on, did basic, it was good. Challenging. Hard. I could use my body the way it needed to be used, to be stretched and honed and toughened. I was good, one of the best they’d had in awhile, I guess. I had lot going for me. My gang days had taught me to use weapons with ease, both knives and all kinds of street guns; I was a distance runner, fast, lean, strong. When I was little and so frickin’ pretty that people thought Celia and I were twin sisters, I got bullied a lot. So my mom signed me up for Tai Kwon Do lessons. That’s Korean Kung fu. I was good at that too, the fast agile thing again. I was a fifth degree black belt before the Army ever began teaching me---'self-defense'.

And I am smart. The Army needs smart, everyone can’t be a follower, someone has to think this shit up and implement it, you know what I ‘m sayin’? And like my dad I am good with languages, grew up speaking English and Spanish of course and I can get by in Italian and French. The Army has taught me Arabic and Farsi, and rudiments of other useful languages.

I was asked to ‘’volunteer” for the Rangers. Hell yes! And then this special ops group here. Four guys on a mission tonight. In a few hours we’ll grenade this encampment and keep a major battle from happening. Then we’ll slip off into the night and the US Army was never here.

 

I look over at my guys. They are resting but alert and watchful. My second in command is a big black guy from Louisiana. Played college football, learned a lot of languages. We call him Tank.

Tank looks at me and I signal that we’ll move out at 0300. He nods and hands me an MRE (Meal-Ready-to-Eat). He mouths the words, “Happy Birthday, Carlito.” I nod and take the food, such as it is.

I think, Thanks, buddy. But Carlito doesn’t exist anymore. Now I am a Ranger.

The end

 

EPILOGUE: present day

The man known as Ranger, Ricardo Carlos Manoso, finished reading the notes in his Top Secret Classified dossier. The story was good, it covered all the bases, it contained enough elements of truth to be believable. Livable. Some of it actually happened, too. After all, it wasn’t the events that were secret (although of course they are), it was the man.

And a Tank from Louisiana made him smile.

the end