RW11 - Violence of Action (3 page)
Next I made some not so discreet phone calls around Washington, as in “Bite-My-Sack-D-fucking-C.” As an up-and-coming naval officer with a talent for intelligence work, I’d learned that knowing shit—really good shit—about people, places, and things is a must if you want to wage Rogue war on the world at large. Some of the voices calling loudest for my decapitation were also the subjects of long-held and informative little entries in my personal database. After crashing through the various security firewalls my tormentors had built around themselves at their offices and homes I set about enjoying a few short but immensely
productive
conversations with my detractors. Chats with those whose own questionable behavior and peculiar habits I’d carefully logged while coming up through the ranks. “You fuckee-fuckee me and I’ll fuckee-fuckee you bigger, harder, and faster!” I told each suddenly squirming goody-goody two-shoes at the other end of the line. One by one they got my message and—would you believe?—the self-serving chest pounding lessened up on the Hill and down at the Pentagon.
Blackmail, you say? No, just Washington power politics at their most pure.
Once this initial round of chitchat was over, I moved on to a few face-to-face meetings with some old-and-not-so-dear friends who’d smelled my blood and were clamoring to get on board the “GET DICKIE” bandwagon. One such fan, a former SEAL officer I’d nicknamed “The Little Ensign,” made the tactical mistake of accepting my invitation to meet for lunch at the posh O-Club at Fort Meyers next to Arlington National Cemetery.
We hadn’t cottoned to each other during our earliest days on the Teams and our dislike of each other had only intensified as we were each promoted up the Navy ladder. My personal intelligence network informed me my old nemesis was rattling his tiny little saber again. Old rivalries never die. I’ve made my fair share of enemies over the years and they never tire of taking cheap shots whenever an opportunity arises. I’d offered one such “officer and gentleman” the chance to fight me fair and square, man to fucking man, on the beach during a SEAL Team reunion in Little Creek, Virginia. He declined. Then he whined to anyone who would listen that I was crazy to challenge him. The fucking pussy was as yellow as the piss that flows out of my prick after a half case of good German beer. He couldn’t handle the ass whipping he knew he deserved and would have gotten. In the land of the Rogue Warrior, there are straight shooters and there are back shooters. I’ve noticed most of my enemies prefer the latter role.
Anyway, The Little Ensign showed up for his free lunch looking awfully smug; no doubt he thought I was down-and-out and planning to ask him for some sort of favor. His South Carolina drawl had only gotten thicker over the years and the Citadel ring on his finger glinted every time he moved his hand. We shot the shit over the meal, each of us probing the other for those openings where you can shove a fucking knife in and hit something vital. I’d first learned the Art of Diplomacy during my tour as an embassy-based naval advisor in Cambodia during our nasty little war in Vietnam. When I went to Washington (as in D.C.), higher-level table-turning and informed statecraft were taught to me by the very best in the business. If I say so myself, I’ve only improved with age. The beady-eyed little bastard sitting across from me was about to fucking find this out the hard way.
With lunch over and a crisp hundred dollar bill fresh from my wallet sitting atop the politely delivered check, it was time to take the safety off my weapon. I mentioned to The Little Ensign that I’d been hearing some disturbing things lately. Things with his name attached. Things having to do with me.
“Why, what in the world do you mean, Dick?” he drawled, his palms upturned, an oily mask of phony innocence plastered on his bulldog ugly mug.
“I mean just what you fucking heard me say, cockbreath!” I replied. “You never had what it took to join SIX, and you’re still pissed as all hell that I wouldn’t look the other way and let you come to the party anyway!”
I could see in his eyes that I’d nailed it. Yeah, the rat-bastard remembered his interview with me as vividly as I did. He’d waltzed into my office thinking he was going to bamboozle me with his family pedigree and all the bullshit he’d managed to pull off during his career, but he’d ended up limping out the door with his gold trident shoved sideways up his ass. He never figured out if you wanted to make it on SIX you had to run the gauntlet—MY gauntlet—and come out the other end bloody but still standing. SIX was my command, my responsibility, my job, my fucking life. The Little Ensign may have been a dandy SEAL elsewhere, but he wasn’t Team SIX material and never would be.
“Suck my dick, Dick.” He sat back, arms folded across his chest, his plump little belly rolling down and over his silver SEAL Team belt buckle.
“No can do,” I said. “You’re the only cocksucker at this table. You’re gonna walk out of here with my dick in your mouth, and you’ll remove it only long enough to call your people and tell them what a wonderful time you had with your old pal Marcinko. You’ll tell them how clever you were, getting me to trust you after all these years. You’ll tell them that I confided in you I’m considering taking legal action against some powerful and influential individuals—as yet unnamed. The allegations will include defamation of character, slander, and even libel once the evidence I have gets into my lawyer’s greedy little meat hooks.
“Then you’ll do what you always did when you were kissing ass in the Teams. You’ll pound your little tail on the deck and yap loudly about how important this information is and how you’re going to ‘cultivate’ our new relationship. You’ll say that you and your friends can really fuck me over by your passing on to them all the nasty old secrets I may tell you. But in reality, asshole, you’re going to keep me briefed as to what the fuck is on their agenda. That’s what good little informants do. They rat on anyone who is stupid enough to trust them.”
I stopped and waited, letting the realization of what was now happening to him sink in.
“Fuck you, Marcinko!” His fists balled up and for an instant I thought the little cocksucker was actually going to take a swing at me. He’d thrown the dice and they’d come up snake eyes. Now it was time to blow him out of the water.
Over the years I’ve learned the key to effective diplomacy is to let your opponent’s theatrics and emotions sail past you without comment. You deal strictly with his actions, with the facts. So I let my lunch guest vent his rage but I didn’t respond in kind.
“I appreciate your position,” I offered politely. “However, lets be frank with one another. I know about the federal judge you were pushing to go after me a few years back and the totally illegal surveillance you’ve had placed on the Manor.”
His face paled. I noted with satisfaction how his hands began to tremble slightly. I had him by his fuzzy little balls and I was now about to squeeze them
velly velly
tight. And tightly squeezed
cojones
are painful. I know this because my own nuts have been tightly squeezed a time or two…and not by somebody sexy initiating foreplay on the way to the main course.
“I also know you went a little ‘rogue’ yourself upon retirement.” This revelation hit home like three rounds of high velocity 9-mm ammunition coming out the business end of my favorite Glock. “That anti-government bullshit won’t play well with your pals on the Republican side of the aisle, not to mention the yogurt stirrers on the Democratic side. Especially now with the war on terrorism and all. They
hate
anything remotely tied to your brand of patriotic—or should I say racist—fervor.
“There’s not much about you and your little scams that I’m not aware of,” I said in the most matter-of-fact voice I could muster. “But let’s not waste our time belaboring the point.” I sat back in my chair, palms flat on the table, my diplomat’s face now given way to the warrior face I’d worn as a career killer for the United States Navy.
“Dick,” he uttered so quietly I had to lean forward to hear him. “That shit’s over. I’m doing okay now. Good job, good contacts. You know how it is…”
Fucking-A, I do.
He was mine.
“You tried to fuck me, son,” I growled. “You came here thinking you’d break it off in my ass…on my time…on my dime. You were wrong.”
He looked me dead in the eye but I could see he now understood how bad a hand he’d played. He could only hope to get out the door with some dignity left. You never crush a man when you’ve got a use for him. It was time to close the deal and send The Little Ensign off with his little white sailor hat held tightly in his hands.
“What do I gotta do?” he murmured.
“Anything aimed my way you’ll report back to me. At the same time you’ll stop-all-engines any of the bullshit you’ve hatched on your own. If any of our other ‘colleagues’ from the bad old days in the Teams ring you up and want to play
Fuck Marcinko
, you’ll string them along and then report it to me immediately. Anything less and I’ll put a Limpet mine beneath your hull and sink you in place. Any questions? Good. You’re dismissed.”
As I watched him shuffle out of the dining room I reminded myself I had a few more such meetings to hold with other detractors. Meetings meant to douse the fires being fanned against me by my own kind. I didn’t figure on hearing much from The Little Ensign. He was lousy informant material. I figured the little bitch would find a way to drop out of the political ballgame and that was good enough for me. One less enemy on my flanks meant I could concentrate on my front where the real fighting takes place.
Up front and personal.
Make a fucking note. The best defense is a hard-assed offense. I
never
fight fair. I fight back. And when I go to war it’s all or nothing. The bottom line strength of your commitment is what often carries the day in war or in business. I’ve never questioned my commitment to anything once I’ve given it. My enemies have learned this the hard way. My friends—and I’ve damned few of those—know never to worry about their six if I’m on it. I’ve grown older, wiser, and a damn sight meaner with age. I’m a gray-backed Grizzly with whom
you will not fuck
unless you’re bound and determined to get your ass punched, kicked, bit, and shoved into the dirt. The Rogue Warrior’s Rules on Taking Prisoners:
Don’t.
Truth is, I don’t have to hate you to kill you.
After sealing the watertight doors behind me and leaving word with my attorney I was not to be bothered, I hit the road. Taking a chunk of royalty money out of the Rogue Warrior® bank account, I bought a Dodge RAM and camper and had both custom-painted in SEAL Team gold and blue. I outfitted the Beast, as I named my new all-terrain war wagon, with the luxuries of home and set out with map in lap and a fresh bottle of the good Doctor Bombay at my side (on ice, of course!). Along with my favorite Glock 26 and a half a dozen extra magazines of 9-mm brain busters, for good measure I threw in a new Stoner .308 battle rifle with a 4-power Leupold scope attached. America hasn’t been a safe place for a man or woman on the road for some time now. Properly armed and willing to be dangerous is an American tradition and I’m all for tradition when it comes to keeping my frogman’s ass in one piece.
There was another reason for my locking down the Manor and getting the fuck outta Dodge. I’d spent the best years of my youth and most of my adult life fighting my country’s wars without question or complaint. As a result, my body as well as my mind had been beaten up, fucked over, messed with, and generally hammered to the point where every damned thing hurt, ached, or haunted me when I woke up each and every damn morning. Teammates had come and gone. Friends were few and far between. My love life sucked—and it had been months since my cock had been. Legal battles, first with the Navy and then with parasites in the civilian world, had dangerously drained what financial independence I’d managed to rebuild for myself after graduating from Federal Pen University
Momma Cum Loudly
. On top of
that
bullshit, the hundreds of missions I’d spent getting the shit kicked outta me while chasing down the enemies of my country, cutting off their fucking heads, and then shitting down their bleeding throats, had taken their toll.
Fuck. Wouldn’t you buy a damned truck and drive off into the sunset yourself?
I knew I needed to fall back, regroup, and rebuild before I could put together a new team. Then I’d return to the fray bigger, badder, tougher, and more dangerous than ever. I wasn’t going searching for myself like some fucked up tea-drinking do-gooder in an orange skirt. No sir, I was an old, beat-to-shit war dog on the road to heal his wounds and learn as many new tricks as possible along the way.
I spent a week heading west, driving eighteen hours a day. When I stopped it was either for gas and a quick meal in some shithole along the highway, or for a quick swim and bath in a river or stream I’d found on the map. Whenever someone thought they recognized me from my books or a past television appearance I’d blow them off with a curt nod and then fire up the truck and get the fuck back on the road. Life was simple. Eat, drive, drink, and sleep wherever and whenever I felt like it.
When I reached Utah I swung off the main road and headed up into the mountains. After two days of exploring the broken crags and peaks overlooking the flat fucking wasteland of the Mormon Prophet’s paradise I found what I was looking for. For the next week I lay still as a corpse on a tiny sun-blasted rock ledge with my Stoner in hand. Peering through its scope I mentally designed a killing ground 700 meters deep and 500 meters wide. For the first two days I watched and recorded every living creature that made its home on my range. The larger animals I would let live. The smaller ones, however, I considered good training aids and therefore fair game.