The Olympus Device: Book Three (16 page)

Millard continued into the dining room, finding his #2 sitting at the expansive table with a disassembled M4 carbine spread out on the glass surface. The smell of cleaning fluid told the team leader his man was performing maintenance as opposed to repair.

“Change into beach clothes and walk the lakeside as soon as you’re done. Tomorrow, we’ll have to go fishing just to make it look good to the neighbors.”

“Roger that, boss,” the second in command responded. “I’ve never been fishing before. Is it difficult?”

“I’ll put the worm on the hook for you if you’re the squeamish type,” came the smart-ass response.

Grunting at the jest, the seated operator glanced down at Millard’s tattoo and commented, “I don’t have one of those, but that don’t mean I’m a pussy.”

Millard shrugged, “I regret ever getting this ink. My captain was furious when he saw it, and I think it led to my early retirement. But it really didn’t matter. By then, I didn’t give a shit about him, Delta, or the good ol’ USA.”

“Why was he pissed? You’d earned the tag. Why such a tight ass?”

The retired sergeant’s eyes glazed over, his mind reverting to a time that now seemed so long ago, memories of North Carolina’s thick air and dense pine woods ingrained forever. The CAG, or Combat Applications Group, was the Army’s internal code… an acronym for the 1
st
Special Operations Detachment – Delta. Or as it was more commonly known to most Americans, Delta Force.

Millard shook his head, sure the former Marine Recon wouldn’t understand the subtleties. As a matter of fact, he wasn’t so sure of his own grasp. “They don’t like publicity, bravado, or any advertisement whatsoever,” he answered honestly. “Evidently, my little marker was offensive and dangerous to the teams. I’d had enough anyway. Eight years of that bullshit is sufficient for any man.”

“Don’t seem right, Sergeant,” the Marine responded. “I know all you high-speed, low-drag types serving in the big Army had a different culture, but in the Corps, a tat wasn’t any different than wearing your unit patch or awards.”

“Maybe I should’ve joined the Corps,” Millard smiled, wanting to end the conversation. “After you’ve finished polishing that blaster, take another tour of the grounds and make sure the feds aren’t sneaking up on us.”

“Yes, Sergeant. You got it.”

Millard continued to the master bedroom, wanting to double-check the huge closet where their captive was being held. As he strolled through the sizable home, the conversation with the Marine took him back to the days with his old unit.

CAG was the most secretive, selective, unofficial organization in the U.S. military. Primarily housed in what had once been Fort Bragg’s stockade, the detachment had been formed at the urging of Colonel Charlie Beckwith back in the 70s as a direct action, counter-terrorism response unit.

The colonel had been a liaison officer with the British SAS (Special Air Services), and was an early believer in the need for the U.S. military to have the capability to respond to what he saw as a global rise in radical elements using terror as a weapon.

While CAG recruited from the regular ranks of all services, the unit’s selection process was unique in many ways. It was often said that the training cadre wasn’t interested in selecting the “best” man, but was instead focused on finding the “right” man.

Often in their mid-30s, the average CAG operator didn’t fit the profile established by urban legend and Hollywood fantasy. While physical conditioning was a critical component, the unit’s ranks would hardly be confused with a professional football team’s defensive squad.

Physical strength and endurance were required, but in reality, they were secondary considerations. Intelligence and mental toughness were the primary qualifications for selection, along with that undefinable variable of the candidate being able to “fit in.”

Delta was low key, its secretive nature necessary for survival. The unit’s personnel wore civilian clothing, both on and off duty. Long hair and beards were not only allowed, but also endorsed. A CAG operator never knew when he might be inserted in a foreign land and have to blend in with the civilian population. Wearing one’s hair high and tight was a distinct military trait. Having one’s skin embedded with the detachment’s logo was even more telling.

It was estimated that each member of the elite group received over two million dollars’ worth of training and education. The CIA, Secret Service, FAA, FBI, and numerous military schools were all involved at some level, teaching the operators how to perform everything from lock picking to espionage tradecraft. They attended special driving courses, sniper training, and conducted hundreds of hours of advanced combat simulation. Some ex-members claimed that less than 5% of the applicants were selected.

Sergeant Millard had been a member of the 75
th
Rangers when he’d answered the ad in the Fort Bragg newspaper, knowing full well which organization was recruiting new members. Joining Delta was a dream for the young NCO… what he imagined would be the pinnacle of achievement. More importantly, he believed firmly in the unit’s mission – counter terrorism.

It had been the happiest day of his life when he’d finally been selected, the endless rounds of night navigation exercises and grueling psychological exams taking their toll.

Being selected was only the beginning. What followed were months of the most intense training anywhere in the world. It seemed like every day, more and more of Millard’s classmates dropped out.

And then it was over. He’d made it.

For the first few years, CAG had been everything Millard expected, and so much more. He was working with the finest professionals on the planet, the entire organization focused on hostage rescue, direct-action interdiction against up and coming terror cells, and undercover operations against those who threatened the United States.

His missions were justified, essential, and often eliminated potential threats before they could grow and mature. Millard was a content, highly motivated individual.

And then the attacks of 9-11 occurred, and the men of CAG’s world changed forever.

As the wars began, the unit’s mission changed. Once a surgeon’s precise scalpel, CAG found itself being used more and more as a blunt instrument. Time and again, Millard found his role was more akin to that of an ordinary infantryman.

Rather than being assigned clandestine operations against high-value targets, the CAG operators were being called upon to root out mid-management Taliban warlords and village-level troublemakers. The exposure and increased pace of force-on-force assignments took a toll on the unit. Casualties mounted, morale declined, and many of the experienced members began to question their choice of career.

Like all men in his trade, Millard understood death. His primary method of dealing with the remorse of a fallen comrade was to use the importance of the mission to justify the loss.

As the wars grew more intense, he began to see his mates killed for what he judged as unnecessary, bullshit ops that CAG shouldn’t have been involved in to begin with. The effect was devastating.

It was after one such deployment, a mission to root potential ringleaders out of the caves of Afghanistan, that Millard found himself stinking, staggering drunk in Fayetteville. They’d lost two men and found no enemy. CAG was being ground up like hamburger, bled out slowly, and showing little in the way of results.

Stumbling along the sidewalk after closing down one of the city’s many waterholes, the sullen NCO spied the bright neon sign of a tattoo parlor, a facility that primarily catered to the ranks of the 82
nd
Airborne.

Through his bleary vision and alcohol-fogged logic, the glowing light was an island oasis protruding from the otherwise dark sea of closed businesses lining the street. It called him like a siren’s song of lust.

An hour later, he emerged, sporting a new stamp that announced to the world that he was a member of the most elite warrior clan in existence.

It was two days later when his captain noticed the fresh ink. “What the fuck is that?” came the harsh inquiry. “Please tell me that’s a joke, Sergeant.”

Millard understood his misstep instantly. CAG was anonymous. It didn’t exist. It wasn’t acknowledged. And here he was, advertising membership via an arm-billboard, bragging about belonging.

“If you ever get captured, you’re going to pay extra for that,” another officer had stated in disapproval.

“Worse yet, if you ever get killed during a covert op, it won’t be difficult for the bad guys to identify who was fucking around in their backyard. That was a stupid stunt. Get it removed… or modified… or cut off that damned arm, Millard.”

The entire incident served to further sour the already disgruntled soldier. He’d sacrificed everything for the unit and Mother Green. The physical extremes suffered by his body would leave him a cripple in old age. The mental damage inflicted by years of deployments would torture his mind forever.

And now, after nearly a decade of dedicated, near-perfect performance and unquestionable loyalty, he was being chastised and shunned because of a single drunken mistake? Worse yet, the Army was intruding, crossing the line into his personal space.

It was time to go. He resigned the next day, angry, sullen, and feeling as if he’d wasted a good portion of his adult life.

Less than a month later, Millard was approached by a man he’d met after first joining CAG. “How would you like to use your skills and experience for a private firm? The pay and benefits are off the scale, and you won’t have to put up with the Army’s chicken shit.”

He’d been hired two days later, joining Ajax International, a firm that supplied highly skilled military contractors all over the world. While Millard didn’t consider himself a mercenary, any honor in serving a cause greater than himself had ceased to be a factor or influence. Now he was strictly a professional, in control of his own destiny, worried only about the daily billing rate and his retirement fund.

In a way, the American liked working with the men at Ajax. It seemed that their profession cleared away so much of the garbage humanity carried around on its shoulders. At “the firm,” race, religion, or political affiliation meant nothing. It wasn’t unusual to see a Jordanian Red Beret working closely with an Israeli veteran of the Sayeret Matkal, or to have a black, Algerian GIS operator happy to be working with a white, South African Recces.

No one cared about any of the bullshit that plagued so much of the world. Here, there was no Muslim versus Christian, no black versus white. The men working at Ajax had to be able to pass one test: Could they do their jobs and keep their teammates from being killed? It was all that simple.

That level of reality went deeper than just the interpersonal relationships of the team members. It applied to the missions as well.

Millard had guarded VIPs, escorted valuable equipment out of hostile areas, and rescued hostages. There had even been a few snatch and grabs, just like today’s mission.

He arrived at the closet door, examining the two thick steel bars securing the entrance. Both were attached to the metal door via half-inch bolts. There was no way a bulldozer could knock down the barrier, let alone a scared shitless, college kid.

“You shouldn’t be so paranoid,” he told himself. “This one’s going to run just as smoothly as all the others.”

His training kicked in, automatically forcing his mind to recall any lessons learned from past experience. There was the oil company executive’s daughter, the woman kidnapped and held for millions in ransom. Ajax couldn’t locate the victim, but did uncover the name of the Malaysian mobster who had masterminded the dirty deed.

It had been Millard’s first snatch with his new employer, the higher-ups at Ajax deciding that if they couldn’t find the hostage, they’d apply the Old Testament doctrine of an eye for an eye. “We’ll take the boss man, and see if they’ll agree to a swap,” was the ruthless logic. The strategy had worked, the criminal gang happy to exchange the constantly jabbering female for their boss. The fact that they had committed a crime meant nothing to the powers that be. The sergeant was impressed – CAG would’ve had to obtain presidential approval for such a scheme.
Swift justice minus all the bullshit red tape,
he mused.