a/n This is a mercenary 101 story, a
brief glimpse of Ranger's life during his ARMY years.
enjoy
One of Life's Little Journeys
We were on a bare bones noisy transport, a C130 belonging to Army
Special ops and we were coming home from killing fields of, well, wherever. Who remembers? Just another day/ another
job.
My spec ops team---think Delta
Force, only more so---had just successfully completed yet another covert
mission, a job so black, it never happened. But of course---it did. We aren't really soldiers despite
the rank and serial numbers on our dog tags. No, we are operators, so silent,
so deadly, so feared that just the whisper of the words OMEGA
cause warlords and terrorists and drug cartels to panic, run, and hide. Not
that they can hide, of course,
because not only am I very well-trained, I have skills, special skills, for
special ops. And I will find them, just like I found the targets this time.
My name is---well, they call me
Ranger. I am 25, feel like 110. Being the best takes a psychological toll
unnoticed by our handlers, who only see fit young men, what used to be called cannon
fodder in the old days of war.
Most of the guys are deep in
exhausted states of sleep, but my XO, my second in command, is awake and
watching me. He is called Tank. Get it?
We're maybe five noisy hours out
of XXXXX. I figure we're over the Atlantic Ocean by now. I look at Tank who
says, "Now,
the way I see it, boss, is that the only
reasonable question to ask after that is: what the fuck is going on?"
I jerk my chin a little.
?
"Rangeman, we gettin' too
old for this sheee-it." Tank's soft Louisiana accent gets stronger when
he's tired---when he's really exhausted, he gets all East Coast/went to
college-y. But that rarely happens, does it? "Gotta be more to life than
this."
I shrug. So far, I've fucked up civilian
life big-time. Twenty-five years old and I already have an ex-wife and a baby
girl who doesn't know her daddy. I rub my forehead, headache coming on, think, Maybe that's not right...Julie and I, we
do have a bond. And I think she knows I love her more than life itself. But
still.
We sit in exhausted silence for awhile.
Finally I say, "I've got a plan, but I think I'm going to need your help."
Tank says, "Ok. I'll do it."
I give him my best stare. "I
haven't even told you what it is yet."
My XO shrugs his huge
linebacker's shoulders, says, "I know. I'm in, boss. Hunnerd percent."
And pitching my voice above the
roar of the jet engines, I outline my idea to go mercenary. Big dreams of
running our own ops, choosing our own confrontations, walking away from the
shit we don't want, don't need. I tell Tank and the other guys, who have
started listening in too, all my plans---great futures, lotta money.
We bang fists and yell, "Let's
do it!" Hoo-Yah. [yawn]
Look at us, so young so bright so
stupid: We got home and found out the world of deep covert ops had a different
plan for us. Ranger Manoso, the Trenton bounty hunter was slowly born.
... ...
...
Ranger's quiet voice fades away as his story concludes.
Steph says, "That's sad, I
think."
Ranger stares into the darkness,
his eyes trained on the building he and Stephanie are staking out. His face is
blank, he displays a total neutrality that only slightly detracts from his
exotic beauty. Stephanie wonders what the years of keeping that silence, that
blankness, have cost this man. Then she realizes it is his armor, his defense,
his way of distancing his soul from what he has done. For the greater good, of
course. For our country's freedom.
Ranger says, "It's the way
it had to be. We have a job to do, the free world needs its black operators,
babe."
"Can't someone else do it
now? You've given them so many years."
"We all have a role,
Steph."
"Whatever that means."
" I can't change what is, I
can't change what I do or who I am. You have to choose."
"Then I choose you."
"I know."
the end
