Sovereign Rule E-Book

Craig Rainey

• Herausgeber: Craig Rainey Creative, LLC
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

An elite corporate security operative is framed for a kidnapping, forcing him into a life and death struggle which threatens to reveal a plot that could lead to the end of the world as we know it.

Carson Brand believes he is leaving the problems he had with the DEA and the FBI behind when he gives up his work as a federal contractor. Taking a job with Sovereign Services, an elite private security firm, lands him once again into the complicated world of national and international intrigue. Framed for a kidnapping he did not commit, Brand has to elude the FBI’s Abduction Task Force and a state police force convinced he is one of the FBI’s most wanted.

Learning that one of their elite operatives has gone rogue, Sovereign Services acts quickly to salvage what is left of their spotless reputation and sends a team of their most deadly killers to rescue the daughter of one of the richest men in the world, and exact deadly retribution for Brand’s betrayal.

Sovereign Rule follows Carson Brand’s fall from grace from the most dangerous corporate security firm on the planet. His only chance to save the life of the girl he is accused of kidnapping, and his own, is to uncover a conspiracy that goes to the highest levels of the federal government. High-ranking officials focused on global power will stop at nothing to ensure their plans remain secret.

Leseprobe

Copyright © 2022 by Craig Rainey

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Craig Rainey/Craig Rainey Creative, LLC

Austin, TX 78660

https://craigrainey.com

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Sovereign Rule/ Craig Rainey -- 1st ed.

ISBN 978-1-7371820-5-4

OTHER CARSON BRAND NOVELS

STOLEN VALOR

DARK MOTIVE

REASONABLE SIN

NATIONS LAW

ALSO BY CRAIG RAINEY

MASSACRE AT AGUA CALIENTE

THE ART OF PROFESSIONAL SALES

HOODOO WAR

For Ryan, A Prouder Dad There has Never Been

Within Anarchy lies a vacuum in which the state may not survive, and a people shall certainly perish.

CRAIG RAINEY

Contents

PROLOGUE

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

Epilogue

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PROLOGUE

MARK WILLIAMS KNEW HE WAS IN HIS LAST DAYS. It surprised him how easily he could admit it. Most of his life had been a series of way points, like steppingstones in a shallow pond. Like most people in his life as he moved along those points of dry safety, he endeavored to avoid falling from them into shallow waters.

Those waters were shallow because they represented no real danger, only sadness and pain. His human nature dictated he stay on the path for the rules’ sake. The steppingstones of life were the chapters of life none of us want to read, but all of us must read. The pain of those chapters is the seasoning of a full life.

His steppingstones comprised those things in life he dreaded but knew were unavoidable. The first was the death of a pet. The next was moving with his parents from his childhood home, leaving his school and his friends behind. In his twenties his grandparents died. He wept uncontrollably at his grandmother’s funeral. She had been as much a mother to him as her daughter. In his forties, Mark lost his father to COVID. His mother followed soon after.

Tomorrow his steppingstones would come to an end. His life had advanced so far that the pond had become very deep, and he was a long way from shore.

As he grew older, he wondered how much time he had left. At forty-five, he guessed that number was no more than twenty of thirty years. Two or three decades seemed a short time, but manageable, easily ignored with the help of a busy work schedule.

When he learned he had only two years remaining, well that had come as a shock. His only consolation was that he had chosen the day and time of his passing.

Now that it was here, he couldn’t help but question the wisdom of his decision made two years before.

His FBI salary was laughable compared to what Geo-Global Oceanic Partners offered him for the part-time job. He and Tammy could have lived extravagantly on the income alone from this second part time job. His new employer warned that maintaining his position with the FBI was a condition of employment.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out that GGOP wanted access to someone high up in the Department of Justice. Mark was as high as you could go without being a cabinet official, and he was to be that contact.

He made the decision to take the job because he could not bear the steppingstone in his life which was his son. Justin was born with an incurable genetic mutation. He would live no more than a dozen years before his body deteriorated and he died a painful and horrifying death.

If his son’s life had been the only criterion for Mark’s decision to betray his country and surrender his life, it may have been more difficult. With clarity of the damned Mark recalled the moment at the breakfast table in their sunny suburban home.

Mark waited with his steaming coffee cup in his hands. His thoughts precluded any interest in the coffee. Tammy returned to the table after wheeling Justin to his room. She took her seat opposite him with the same deliberate care she had adopted since the day they brought Justin home from the hospital.

She was fifteen years younger than Mark, but their love was not what others imagined of a couple with so widely separate ages. They fell in love because of what they saw in one another. They married 10 years before. Justin was born the following summer.

They accepted their path. They would commit the remainder of their lives to the care and comfort of their only son, or until he passed. Tammy’s measured manner was a learned trait created from the caution she exercised each day in caring for their son’s special needs. One mistake could mean his life. She would not go down that road.

A moment after she settled in her chair across the table, waiting patiently for his news, he shared this new opportunity with her. He told her of the part time job with Geo-Global Oceanic Partners. He revealed the ridiculously lucrative salary.

Her puzzled expression prompted him to reveal his suspicions as to the true nature of the offer.

She shook her head as she was struck by the gravity of what this new employer would expect of her husband.

“It is out of the question,” she said softly, with a tone she used around their son - firm but soothing.

Mark hesitated before providing her with the last part of their offer.

He watched her closely as he said the rest.

“They have the cure for Justin’s disease. They will provide it immediately if I accept their offer. He will be a normal healthy boy by the end of the week.”

Tammy’s reaction was hardly a reaction at all. If he had not watched her with the eye of a detective interrogating a perp, he would have missed the faint flutter of her eye lids, the quick intake of a shallow breath, or the hardly noticeable flush of her skin, which passed as quickly as it arrived.

The decision was made. Beneath the mask she created to hide the regret of the necessary hardships she would bear for the remainder of Justin’s life, he saw her faulter. He saw hope.

He would give his life for his boy, but more accurately, he would give it for his wife. Tammy was still young, beautiful, and vibrant.

The life assigned her by Justin’s condition would kill everything that made her the woman he adored. He could not reject an opportunity to save her and Justin, even if it was at the cost of his life.

He decided to keep to himself the part about his death.

That moment at the kitchen table was two years ago. After that day, he answered the calls, providing the information requested. He used the authority of his position to set actions in motion as his new employer demanded.

Much of the information he provided seemed to have little importance or relevance to a large petroleum conglomerate. Most made little sense to him. The innocuous appearance of what he provided soothed his suffering sense of duty and honor.

He experienced fear from a greater peril when he was required to initiate a 6-S edict on a DOJ contractor. The 6-S was a contract for a kill of an individual within the organization. He was not a mob boss, contracting hits on American citizens, particularly those committed to upholding the law. The information he provided; taking instructions and directives from a Chinese operative working here in the US was the last straw – at least he thought it was.

The most recent demand was more than he was willing to do. This was beyond illegal. What they wanted him to create ran counter to his oath of office, his moral code, and his principles.

He pledged to reject this last demand. They had saved enough money that Tammy would never have to work another day in her life. Justin was happy and healthy. He went to school like any other boy. He made good grades and had many friends. No, Mark would not comply. What could they do to him beyond the death he would meet in less than forty-eight hours?

The photo arrived on his phone via text message. It showed his son running on a field, a soccer ball skittering before him. He was at a soccer match with his little league team. The scene was contained in a circle with red crosshairs cutting the image into 4 slices. Mark recognized the circular photo with the crosshairs as a view of his son within the scope reticule of a high-powered rifle.

He wept as he texted his reply to the five-digit sender number.

“I’ll do it. Don’t hurt my boy.”

Mark Williams contacted a man he knew would be right for the job. The phone rang once before it was answered.

“Yup,” the voice said from the other end of the call.

“Steven,” Williams said. “I have a special assignment for you. It is going to seem a bit outside of what I normally ask of you, but I believe you are the man for the job.”

“Whatcha got, Boss?”

Williams conveyed the plan in broad strokes.

Considering the risks involved, Steven remained surprisingly quiet until Williams finished.

“I need you to fill in the details as you are able,” Williams said. “Can I count on your discretion in this matter?”

“Of course, boss,” was the reply. “This one is going to be expensive. It could get very messy. It will be almost impossible to cover the paper trail within the bureau.”

“I know,” Williams agreed. “This is the last one for me. I will arrange for the backing of internal channels to provide you with whatever you need for the mission. You arrange the operation from the field.”

Steven made no response for a long moment.

“Is there a problem?” Williams asked with a return to the authority of his office.

Steven cleared his throat.

Williams thought he detected emotional distress in Steven’s voice.

“It’s been an honor, boss,” Steven said with genuine feeling. “It won’t be long before it is my time to pay as you are doing.”

The phone call went dead.

Williams sat frozen in place at his desk.

How many others were offered a deal by Geo-Global Oceanic Partners? Until that moment, Williams had no idea that their reach went beyond him. Steven’s words confirmed his involvement, a separate deal made for his cooperation.

For the first time in more than two weeks, Mark Williams’ dread of his final days was overshadowed by a new fear. He feared for the nation. What had he done? Was the conspiracy so large that it consumed the entire FBI?

He needed to call someone, to try to fix what he had done over the last two years. The image of his son in the crosshairs of a sniper scope stayed his hand for the moment.

Williams determined to see to his wife and son’s safety, then he would expose the whole thing. His death, or the certainty of a conviction for crimes against the state, meant nothing compared to the danger he could help avert.

He packed his briefcase, leaving his office as quickly as possible.

That evening Tammy received a call from the state police. Mark Williams perished in a fiery auto accident as he drove home. Evidence on the scene and eyewitness accounts attributed the accident to him driving at high speed, losing control of the car, and plunging from the height of an expressway flyover.

1

BRAND KNEW THE FORMER SEALS WOULD NEVER accept him as an equal. None of them believed, with his limited military experience – six years in the Texas Army National Guard –he would successfully complete the Sovereign Services Advanced Course. When he did, only a spare few showed a small crack in their indifference with a slight arch of their brow, or a barely perceptible nod of approval. The others ignored the achievement, doubling down on their opposition, claiming privately he had gotten lucky, or he was not treated as sternly as he should have been. In short, Brand had achieved nothing which would impress them.

Brand was surprised when after only six months with Sovereign Services, Richard “Dick” Riser, CEO, invited him to his Virginia compound. Sovereign Retreats, as he called them, were fiercely coveted amongst the security operators in his employ.

An invitation was a rare achievement. He extended an invitation to only the top twenty-four operators in the organization. The current top ten members, of course, were invited along with the top fourteen of the more than sixty remaining agents.

Among his minimum requirements to attend included BUDS SEAL school graduation and real wartime special operator experience or passing Sovereign’s SEAL minicamp called SEAL PUP (Sea Air Land Practical Uptraining Program.) Although unspoken in public, and appearing in no company literature, he required wet or semi-wet real world practical experience. The candidate must be blooded. That is, he must have experience in the implementation of lethal force in a real-world environment. In other words, he must have killed in the line of duty.

It was unheard of that anyone without SEAL training and graduation from BUDS became a part of the Sovereign Twenty, so word of Brand’s attendance set off a maelstrom of objections from the legacy SEAL contractors in the company.

It was obvious the new guy was a wet-behind-the-ears, weekend warrior, wanna-be super trooper. No one believed Brand had pulled the trigger on anyone, nor did they believe him capable of doing so. There was no effort made to mask their distaste for the new man. Boo’s, angry slurs, and not so subtle behind the hand remarks greeted him wherever he joined the team as a group.

The leader of the Never-Brand movement was a former SEAL officer named Conolly. He was an unofficial leader within the organization and was highly revered within the ranks. Brand’s understanding of the man marked him as a formidable warrior with a violent past.

He was rumored to be Riser’s first recruit and was an unofficial member of the ownership and management of the company. Because of his nefarious acts in the field, it was said had he remained in the military he would have faced certain action by a military tribunal.

To Brand he seemed an unreasonable brute, even by special operator standards. Based upon his observations, every man in the organization feared him and gave him a wide berth. His closest ally was a black operator named Williams. He was a large man with a similar penchant for violence.

Conolly was the leader of four men, including Williams, who made it their private mission to wash Brand out of the organization. Their campaign had waged since the day Brand was hired.

All four were on the plane. Conolly was an existing Sovereign Ten member; the elite point of the spear which was the Twenty. The remaining three were a part of the Twenty.

Two of them, Lansch and Suarez, served as cadre members during his SEAL-PUP training. Their treatment of him had become so obviously cruel that Riser himself had intervened. The harsh treatment decreased but they dubbed Brand “Riser’s Boy” - his pet dog.

By intervening on his behalf, Riser had done Brand no favors with the men.

Brand was seated at the rear of the aircraft and had a clear view of Conolly and his team. Conolly was front left. Next to him was the large black man, Williams. Across the aisle sat the remaining two, Lansch and Suarez.

They journeyed from a private airport just outside of Bethesda to a small private airstrip in rural Virginia. The Sovereign Gulf Stream G800 was modified to seat twenty-four. The flight was full. Two attractive attendants served coffee and soft drinks. Brand forsook his habitual Bourbon rocks for a cran-apple cocktail.

Deep jubilant voices filled the cabin with boisterous tales of past ops, war stories, manly-tales, and good-natured ribbing. Brand maintained the role of silent participant. He was not afraid or intimidated by the others. He felt out of place and unwelcome amongst these blooded warriors. He shared no tales. He did not join in their laughter. He kept away from the attention of the men, and he suffered no ridicule.

He had been with Sovereign Services for more than 180 days. By his estimation, he had earned his place amongst these men. They had sorely tried his will and tested his mettle - nearly to the limits of his abilities. He never allowed others to see how he suffered; nor would he ever share that information with anyone. He accepted that none of his companions would admit he had handled himself with unexpected strength or uncommon resolve.

Brand frowned at his thoughts. He looked up from his self-scrutiny towards the front of the plane.

At the head of the aisle near the cockpit bulkhead, Richard “Dick” Riser stood beside the bar. He surveyed his men mildly. He participated sparingly in his team’s frivolity. He allowed himself only the rare occurrence of a quick smile, or an occasional nod when hailed.

As he often did while in his presence, Brand appraised the man. He recognized in him an indomitable spirit – an undefinable nature which set him apart as the most formidable of them all. He was without a doubt, master of any room he

entered. He was six inches over six feet, and just shy of 300 lbs. Brand guessed his BMI at around 10%. Blazing blue eyes flared within a deeply tanned countenance and a closely cropped black beard. He wore jeans and a sportscoat over a tight black tee.

He ignored the openly fawning looks of the flight attendants as he focused upon his scrutiny of the men. Brand had fallen under his roving survey more than once during the flight.

Six months before, Brand met Riser for the first time in his downtown Bethesda office. Riser hired him immediately based upon the recommendation of Special Agent Dennis Moore of the FBI. During his onboarding with Sovereign, Riser had given him only one directive.

“Moore’s recommendation got you in. It’s up to you to stay in or I’ll see you out.”

By all indications, Brand was in. He was no longer a street brawling construction worker from San Antonio, Texas. He was a highly trained security operative, skilled in a vast array of tradecraft. He was no longer soft or out of shape. His endurance was far beyond anything it had ever been. He felt stronger than he had at any other time in his life.

Most notably, he was mentally tougher. Although the memories troubled his nights, he harbored fewer questions about those he had killed or injured. He recognized this violent and often lethal aspect of the job as consequential, an unavoidable sacrifice for a successful mission.

Much of his improvement, physically and mentally, was due directly to the SEAL mini-camp that Riser insisted all non-SEAL personnel attend. He endured the training amongst others without SEAL experience. Most were former law enforcement or prior service military. A few were ambitious civilians trying to earn a higher position within the company.

Despite frequent claims from the instructors that minicamp was no more than a shadow of real SEAL training, the Ring Out rate was identical at sixty percent.

Brand was thirty-one years old, and he suffered. He completed the program by committing all he had towards completing the course. He barely got through it. The instructors openly displayed their surprise he had not joined the bell ringers.

The BUDS training was difficult, but his years growing up at Canyon Lake gave him a valuable leg up. Being a child of the water, he had worn fins most of his life and the hardship of swimming countless meters in the pool, then running exhausting miles immediately afterwards didn’t torture his ankles as it did the other trainees. Many of the candidates pulled the bell lanyard at that point in the training.

Whether from his general knowledge of how tough SEAL training was, or insight gleaned from frequent boasts from his instructors, Brand knew he in no way experienced the full brunt of BUDS/SEAL training. The training was intended to provide a basic understanding of the hardships the others had endured to earn their titles. It was a secondary benefit if the candidate gained a level of skill from the training.

Despite the belief that the training provided only a limited exposure to the punishing reality of BUDS, he gained valuable combat and arms skills from the techniques taught in the course. No matter what the other candidates or the SEALs thought of the course, he committed himself to learning all he could and worked to gain proficiency in any lesson presented in the course.

Brand emerged from his reverie and glanced around him. He was again impressed that against the odds, here he was amongst some of the toughest men on the planet. He didn’t claim to be one of them, but he knew it took something special to occupy a seat on that flight.

The disregard from the others was annoying but not surprising. He never relied upon his military service for respect or credibility. Few military servicemen and women viewed National Guard service as legitimate military experience. Weekend Warrior, Civil Super Trooper, Part-time Soldier, and Hobby Troop. These were but a few of the names he endured.

The only reason any of the men knew about his military experience was his leaked employment application, which listed it under the military experience question. Despite the ridicule, he kept his head down and committed to the requirements of the job as best he could.

Brand’s motivation to earn a place on the team was two-fold. The first was the lucrative six-figure salary and bonus structure within the compensation package. The second, he had nowhere to go where he was not sought by cartel sicarios or international hit teams. Simply, he reasoned where would he be safer than amongst the most highly trained and fiercely formidable fighting men on the planet?

No one including Brand would have given him one chance in a million of being invited to compete for a spot on the elite team. Being a “Twenty” meant working the top assignments and earning large performance bonuses exclusive to those assignments. Membership also guaranteed security operations work in the most demanding of high-profile situations. At that level, there was no following bankers around or driving CEOs to lunch. A lack of any kind of special op’s experience usually excluded consideration for the post.

The jet touched down at a small airfield in Virginia. The Sovereign men deplaned onto the tarmac, carrying identical go bags. Passing a dozen luxury aircraft, Riser and his twenty-four men entered the opulent terminal facility like a military unit, headed to war.

Everyone inside watched the formidable looking group as they passed through from plush lobby to the street entrance of the terminal building.

Outside, they mounted a waiting charter bus and were soon underway on the last few miles to Riser’s remote training compound in rural Virginia.

The bus wound through lush, wooded hills and rugged canyons. At the summit of one of the climbs they turned under a guarded, black iron gated entrance, and entered the Sovereign Field Facility. Despite the uninspiring name, the large stone and timbered architecture, and the wide welcoming entrance resembled an exclusive vacation resort.

Hidden within a thousand-acre wilderness was a cluster of stone and timber buildings comprising the main compound. The largest of the buildings was two stories, fronted by a sweeping porte-cochere.

Brand was last off the bus where courteous facility staff welcomed him. He entered the courtyard. Behind the main building was a pool area which reminded Brand of a hotel vacation resort complete with bar, restaurant cabanas, and private bungalows for overnight stays.

A bellman guided him to his private room on the second floor of the large building. His suite overlooked the pool area. Beyond, were a number of single-story buildings. The one farthest away, a long narrow metal structure, fronted what Brand guessed was a shooting range and weapons training facility. Surrounding the compound on all sides was a rugged terrain of heavy woods and rolling hills. The soft texture of turning tree leaves and matted forest floors was broken by rocky crags and deep ravines.

The bellman instructed him, Mr. Riser required his attendance at the Poolside Café Cabana at the top of the hour. The man withdrew before Brand could offer him a tip.

It was exactly 6pm when Brand took his place at one of the tables near the entrance to the café. When he arrived several members of the team were seated near a low side bandstand. They ignored him as they chatted amongst themselves.

With a band stand and a full bar in the back, the Cabana Café was more bar and grill than café. The motif was a continuation of the mountain resort style of the main building.

Within minutes the men of Sovereign Services filled the room. Other than those dark instances when their gaze fell upon Brand, they were raucous and in good humor.

Riser entered a few minutes later. He made his way to the back of the room where he stepped onto the wide bandstand. Conversations died away as he positioned himself in the center of the stage platform.

Riser scanned the men, making eye contact with each. These retreats were serious business. Except for the rigors of qualifying for the Twenty, the process seemed more recreational than functional to most of those who participated. Riser viewed these Sovereign Retreats as an integral method of locating and placing the most qualified of his men in the best assignments for his clients. The peripheral benefits of morale boosting, and team building were important, but less critical.

“Welcome to this year’s Sovereign Retreat,” he said with a sweep of his hand.

They greeted his welcome with applause and cheers.

“Many of you have been here before.”

Riser pointed at the table of men who were present when Brand arrived.

More applause.

“Some, several times,” he said with a glint of white teeth from within his dark beard. “Welcome to you rookies. I expect you to make the most of your time here, even if you are unable to earn a spot on the Twenty.”

There followed a brief moment where the men searched out the rookies in the room, many glances falling significantly upon Brand. He studied the sweat beaded glass before him, weathering the critical looks.

“Listen up gentlemen,” Riser continued. “For those of you who don’t know, and I hope you are few, we are an organization that focuses on two things. The first and most important – because it ensures the second – is we retain the finest special operators at our highest echelons. The second is: our clients and those who wish they were our clients see us as the best and most admired in the business. In addition to the sixty plus credentialled special operators we maintain on our staff; we also deploy a street level security force of more than 27,000 commissioned security officers world-wide.

“From street level to the leadership within the Twenty, each of us carries the Sovereign label. Only twenty carry the coveted Black Card designation. You are graduates of formal SEAL training or in rare cases, you have completed our SEAL PUP course. Either way, we are a SEAL-centric organization.”

The room erupted in cheers and yells.

Riser waited until the noise level waned.

“This weekend’s exercise is the final evaluation of three required for admission into the Twenty.”

The room erupted once more in cheers and applause.

“The first, as I mentioned, is SEAL experience.”

More cheers.

“The second is the requirement of blood. You have taken a life purposely, aggressively, and in the line of duty.”

Fewer cheers greeted the final criteria. Conversely, the men in the room grew soberly grim.

Riser raised his hands as if to ward off a criticism no one in the room felt.

“You are here because you have fulfilled the first and second of these requirements. The Retreat will determine your place in this organization.”

Brand noticed a growing number in the room casting dark glances in his direction. He knew instinctively they doubted he had achieved the second criteria. Taking a life in combat was a part of the job description when you were full time active duty in a combat zone.

They knew his service in the National Guard would never put him in the position to do so. Weekend warriors deployed in the middle east guarded prisoners or provided other support services. They were in the rear with the gear, not in combat services. They were the epitome of the designation, REMF – Rear Echelon Mother Fuckers.

To everyone other than Riser, he was either a fraud, or a street thug who had pulled the trigger on a civilian.

Brand endured the looks with a hard glint in his eyes. His experiences on the matter were a sore subject with him, and completely personal, off limits to outside observers. He assigned no sense of accomplishment or misplaced self-worth to those he had killed.

His rage grew at the judgmental looks. It galled him that anyone would keep score in killing as he would reps in the gym, or laps swam in a pool. He had done what he had to because he had no other option. He felt no pride in it. He never asked for this life. It called him. He would gladly never have been a part of any of it.

He was a regular guy, a construction worker, before the cartel killed his best friend and then his girlfriend, dragging him into an unforgiving world of kill or be killed. He viewed himself as lucky what was known of his deeds were forgiven by the feds as actions in the line of duty. Dennis Moore, his FBI friend, had arranged that – and this job. Treating a man as more because he had killed was repugnant.

Until that moment he had no idea Moore had revealed information to Riser about his dark past. The breach of trust left Brand feeling more than a little betrayed.

Riser noticed the looks and doubt in his men as they stole glances at Brand.

“Gentlemen,” Riser continued. “Each of you is here because you deserve to be here. I selected you to be here.”

Focus drifted back to their leader.

“This is the order of march. Eat a big dinner. Get some sleep. Tomorrow, we begin. Only twenty of you will make the cut. Four of you will return to Sovereign. Those who do not earn a spot in the Twenty will benefit from the experience and have the opportunity to return next year to earn your place amongst us. Goodnight.”

2

THE MEN ASSEMBLED ON THE WEAPONS training grounds at dawn. Riser was dressed in forest camo as were his cadre, members of The Ten. The members of the current Twenty were dressed as the other candidates, in black combat uniforms. The Ten were the permanent party of the Twenty. The members of The Ten were selected from within the Twenty. Riser alone made the determination who was a part of his elite group.

Brand took in the brightening eastern horizon. The morning was cool. Dew soaked the well mown grass beneath his feet. His boots glistened with the moisture. He felt a pleasant elation as he waited for the exercise to begin. He relished the prospect of action. The Op would busy the others with something other than the unwelcome attention they paid him. Additionally, he experienced a small measure of nostalgia at the resemblance to past military training exercises when he was in the military. He compared his feelings to those he felt in Basic Training, AIT, numerous NCO schools, and most recently SEAL-PUP training.

Riser called for the attention of the troops.

“Men. We have created two seven-man teams for the two-day field exercise. The Ten and I will serve as OPFOR. Your weapons are live; the ammo are rubber rounds with reduced powder charges. The environment for this exercise is semi-lethal. The rubber rounds will sting a good deal but will not kill except in rare situations. No head shots men.”

“Once you join your team, make your way to your individual primary rally points. I have selected your Squad Leaders. Team Alpha is Williams. Bravo is Lansch. They have the mission parameters. From this moment the Op is hot. The only easy days are the first and the last.”

Riser held up a gloved fist.

“It pays to be a winner. Never out of the fight.”

The team responded to the SEAL motto with a loud cry.

“Hooyah!”

Riser gave the rally sign.

“Good luck gentlemen.”

Riser and his Opposing Force team gathered their gear and moved off into the woods beyond the shooting facility.

Williams and Lansch took positions before the remaining men.

Brand shook his head doubtfully. Both men were part of Conolly’s Never-Brand club. Lansch had made his life miserable during SEAL-PUP training. Williams hated him, even going so far as to openly ridicule him at company training and in office meetings.

Williams glared at him now. He spoke first.

“Let’s address the elephant in the room. Who gets the Weekend Warrior?”

Lansch interrupted him.

“He’s with me. Get over here Warrior Brand.”

Brand favored Lansch with a dangerous look, mastering his temper before he moved forward.

“Don’t eye fuck me boy,” Lansch warned him to the laughter of the others.

“Too bad,” Williams lamented with genuine disappointment. “I wanted to lead the noob personally. I wanted to lend my personal touch to make a man of him.”

Williams shrugged for effect.

“Your funeral John.”

More laughter.

“Don’t be so dramatic Davian.”

Brand took his place before the group as the two wrapped up their fun. He gave Williams his full attention.

“Why don’t you give that a try right here, in front of your audience, funny man?” Brand asked of Williams.

Williams appeared surprised that the typically silent Brand spoke, much less challenging him openly.

“Don’t puss out now, big mouth,” Brand urged him. “Conolly isn’t here to back you now. Step up or shut the fuck up.”

Lansch watched the interchange with an appreciative grin.

“Maybe I chose wisely,” he said with a chuckle. “Don’t pick on my team Williams – not if you don’t want to be an early casualty.”

Although Lansch’s words were sarcastic and ridiculed Brand, they stung Williams. He was not willing to be insulted by the Nasty Guard rookie in front of the men.

“You just got lucky,” he warned Brand. “I don’t want Lansch to make excuses about why my team beat his. I’ll deal with you when this thing is over, and you wash out.”

Brand nodded.

“Every man here knows who’s lucky right now,” Brand said. “I expect you to keep your word when this thing is over, no excuses.”

Silence fell on the group.

Finally, Lansch broke the spell.

“Call your team, Williams. The enemy’s out there.”

Lansch and Williams quickly selected their teams. Brand’s team assignment was the only one they had not decided ahead of time.

Each team moved towards their designated rally areas. Lansch gathered his team in a tight circle.