The Fate Of Nations: F.I.R.E. Team Alpha: Book One (2 page)

              Carter looked at the captain that McNamara had mentioned. His own green beret, which was tucked under uniform’s epaulet, was nearly as faded as Carter’s and, like Carter, he wore the insignia of the United States Army’s Fifth Special Forces Group. He was slightly shorter that Carter, had sand-colored hair, and discerning, hazel eyes. A smile came to his face as he extended his hand to Carter.

              “Hello Major,” the captain said.

              Carter smiled too. He shook the captain’s hand firmly “Captain Williams,” Carter said.”It’s good to see you. I lost track of you after the Camp 21 op.” Carter chastised himself for not noticing Williams sooner; his fatigue and hunger were no excuse for being inattentive. He and Captain Williams had attended Ranger School together and they had served together many times after that; forming a strong friendship.

              “Do you have any idea what we’re all doing here?” Carter asked.

              “No,” Williams responded. “I was in the middle of an operation when I received orders to withdraw and report here. The orders were for only myself; not my unit.”

              “The same thing happened to me,” Carter said, regarding the other soldiers in the room.

              Another man, a captain in an FNF uniform similar to McNamara’s, stepped forward to greet Carter. His shoulder patches indicated that he was from Great Briton. “That seems to be the story with all of us.”

              The officer was of average height, dark haired and bearded. He had a tan beret which he had been nervously fidgeting with Carter walked in. The captain’s beret marked him as a member of the legendary British Special Air Service.

              “Mason Price,” the captain said in a thick, British accent that hinted of a high-end education, and that Price might have had an aristocratic upbringing. “We were all deployed somewhere at the front lines, or behind them, and then got ordered to drop everything and report here.”  

              A bald, somewhat burly man in an FNF uniform stepped forward. He had the build of a wrestler and wore the identifying patches of the German
Fallschirmjäger
airborne commando teams. “Captain Isaac Muller,” he said, without offering a hand shake. His accent was distinctly Austrian; his bearing harsh and aloof. Carter simply nodded Muller an acknowledgement.

              “Perhaps I should introduce everyone," Williams suggested. “You have met Sergeant McNamara, Lieutenant Muller and Captain Price,” he said.

              “This is Sergeant Rene’ Garba.” A rather short, but athletically built African woman with chestnut-colored skin stepped forward. She wore the black and tan uniform of the FNF with the flag of Sierra Leone on both shoulders. Her hair was a slightly darker brown that her skin, just short enough not to defy length regulations, and bound in ponytail with an end that reached the middle of her neck. Patches on her shoulders indicated that she was a member of an FNF recon/raider unit.  The time when combat units, even elite units, could be exclusively made up of men was gone. The war had taken too many lives.

              Rather than offering a handshake, she offered Carter a cup of coffee. “Nice to meet you, Sir,” she said, her accent was British as well, but it suggested that English was not her first language.

              Carter accepted the coffee. “Thank you, Sergeant,” he said, sipping the beverage and smiling. “This is real coffee,” he commented, astonished.

              Garba grinned at him, “You are welcome, Sir.”

              Williams gestured to a man in the white uniform of the United States Navy; a golden eagle and trident pin marked him as a member of the Navy’s elite Sea Air and Land teams: the SEALs.      “This is Chief Petty Officer Armand Beauchamp,” William’s said.

              Beauchamp had hair so blond it was almost white; and a beard to match. He was Carter’s height, but slighter in build; his face had a weather-chiseled hardness to it. “Sir,” Beauchamp said. “It is an honor to meet you. My brother was one of the POWs you liberated from Camp 21. He made it all the way home.” His voice had a French character to it, but with a distinct southern drawl; Cajun, Carter thought.

              Camp 21 was been a huge prisoner of war camp operated by the World Central Authority near Boulder Colorado. It had held tens of thousands of United States and Free Nationalist Forces POWs in conditions of utter squalor. A year earlier, Carter and Williams had led a Special Forces team and a few hundred irregular militia troops on a raid that had allowed over a thousand prisoners to escape; forcing the WCA to divert thousands of troops from the front to recapture them. This diversion had stalled a planned offensive by the enemy for weeks.

              Most of the escapees had been recaptured or killed, but nearly a hundred had made it back to friendly lines. Carter had been proclaimed a hero by the military press for that operation and was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross. However, given that the raid had freed only a fraction of the camp’s prisoners, Carter wondered why he had received so much praise.

              “I’m glad your brother made it out, Chief.” Carter said, shaking Beauchamp’s hand.

              A young, black-haired Corporal wearing the patches of the United States Army’s First Ranger Battalion approached Carter and extended his hand. “I’m Corporal Caleb Cole, Sir,” the corporal said; his accent distinctly New Englander. He was in his twenties and wore his hair in classically short military ‘high and tight’ style. His face was round and his bright with youth; he seemed almost boyish. However, a glance at the ribbons on the ranger’s chest, told Carter that it was no boy that stood before him. The decorations that Cole had been awarded included a Bronze Star, and two Purple Hearts.

              Following Cole, a short, stocky Marine First Sergeant with very short strawberry-red hair introduced himself. “Steve Adamski, Sir,” the corporal said; “Marine Special Operations Regiment, First Battalion.”

              He was short and stout, with very broad shoulders. He moved with a deliberate, precisely controlled, grace that Carter had always attributed to truly dedicated body-builders; men who had to consciously manage each movement in order to control their great strength. Adamski was a solid mass of muscle that made it obvious that he spent every spare moment at a gym. He had a harsh, humorless face with sculpted, angular cheeks and a hawkish nose.

              “So we don’t know what we’re waiting on; do we know why we’re waiting?” Carter asked

              Williams answered. “When I first arrived, a Marine sergeant simply told me that I would be joined by other people who would be arriving throughout the day.”

              “So, we’re waiting on more operators to come in from the field,” Carter said, finally finding himself unable to resist the roast beef and moving toward the table. He began constructing a sandwich.

              “It would seem so,” Garba confirmed.

              Carter had just taken his first bite his sandwich when the door was opened by the corporal that was serving as escort and a tall, raven-haired woman in a United States Air Force uniform entered. Although she wore the insignia that marked her as belonging to one of the Air Force’s elite Special Operations Squadrons, it was obvious that she had not just come in from the field.

              Her hair was not only much longer than regulations allowed; it was worn loosely about her shoulders, and had obviously been attended to recently by a talented stylist. She wore expertly applied make up and seemed well nourished and rested. Even in the time-worn uniform she wore, she was stunning. She had the kind of body-shape that made almost any clothing look attractive.

              She paused briefly realizing that all eyes in the room were on her. Her bright, green eyes panned appraisingly over the each of the people in the room before identifying Carter as the senior officer present. “Captain Monica Winters reporting, Sir,” she said, coming to stand in front him.

“Not to me you’re not, Captain,” Carter told her. “Whatever’s going on here isn’t my show.”

              “So you don’t know what this is all about either, Sir?” Winters asked; her voice tinged with frustration.

              “Not a clue,” Carter responded. “Everyone here was pulled out of their normal duties and told to report here as quickly as possible.”

              “It was the same for me,” Winters offered. Carter and the others looked at her curiously. Winters realized that her unruffled appearance stood in stark contrast to the rest of the battle-weary group.

              “I was in the middle of a deep cover operation; I won’t go into all the details,” she explained. “The DIAs computer flagged me as the perfect type of woman to attract the attention of certain WCA general. They pulled me out of my squadron about a year ago and placed me undercover as a civilian computer technician on his staff. It took months, but I got close enough to him get access to a lot of classified information that saved a lot of lives. Then, out of the blue, I got orders to pull out.”

              “No one was throwing stones, Captain.” Carter assured her; pointing to the scarlet beret in her left hand. “We all know that a combat controllers and para-rescuemen work for a living,” he added referring to the U.S. Air Force’s renowned special operations units.

              “What is so God damned important?” Winters demanded of no one to particular.

              The door opened then. “How about changing the course of the war? Is that important enough for you Captain?” A deep, raspy voice asked. The door closed behind a United States Army General with a sharply angled, severe looking face and three stars on each of his shoulders. He was of medium height and build, but had a dominating presence born from years of military service.

              Winters, came to attention; Carter and the others mimicked her. “Yes Sir,” Winters answered quickly.

              “As you were,” the General said. “Relax Captain Winters, if they pulled me out of an op, shipped me hundreds of miles, and then didn’t tell me shit about why, I’d be pissed too.”

              The general took a step further into the room; closing the door behind him. “I am General Jeremiah Hicks: commander of this facility. You are all here to be given a chance to participate in a project that may turn the war around for us. This is strictly voluntary but, until you do volunteer, I can’t tell you anything about the project.”

              Hicks paused briefly, waiting for questions, then continued. “I can tell you that will be fatal for some of you; and very painful for all of you. But, if you survive, you’ll be better soldiers; better warriors than you ever were before. I said before that you could change the course of the war, and I meant it.”

              Hicks opened his brief case and removed several legal forms. “If you’re up for it, then sign these wavers and non-disclosure forms. If not, then you’ll be returned to your units and nothing more will be said.” 

              The room fell silent for a moment. All eyes turned to Carter. “Sir,” he said finally. “You said that this project, whatever it is, would be fatal for some of us. I’m sure none of us here are afraid of taking risks, but I also think that I speak for everyone here when I say that we should, at least, be allowed to know what that risk is.”

              Hicks fixed Carter’s Gaze. Carter stared unflinchingly back. “Aright, that’s fair enough,” Hicks said, nodding. “You’re being asked to undergo a medical procedure that will drastically improve your physical and mental capabilities. The process will almost certainly kill at least two of you and, for those that survive, it will be excruciatingly painful.”

              “Just how much improvement are we talking about, Sir?” McNamara asked.

              “I can’t elaborate,” Hicks replied. “But the improvement is beyond substantial.”

              McNamara stepped closer to Hicks. “With all due respect, Sir; you’re asking us to take one hell of a leap of faith.”

              “I know that, Sergeant,” Hicks conceded. “All I can do is give you my word that your participation in the project can help win this war. I wouldn’t ask anyone to take this kind of risk if I didn’t believe that.”

              Carter looked at Hicks and his expression softened. “Your word has always been good enough for me, Sir.”

              Hicks smiled slightly then. “Thank you, Major,” he said.

              Carter sat at one of the tables and signed the documents; Williams followed his example and signed as well, but the others still hesitated. It was silent again for long moments before McNamara sat at the table and took up a pen. “Hell,” he grumbled. “I haven’t made my dumbass mistake for this month yet.”

              Winters was the next to sign and the others followed her. At that moment they became a unit; a shared, unknown danger binding them together. Hicks could feel it happening. He could feel the camaraderie and fellowship building. They were extraordinary people already, he thought. He knew that at least two of them would be dead within a few weeks. He knew that those deaths would be prolonged and painful. He shivered as he watched them; the world seeming to have gotten abruptly colder.

                   [][][]

              It had been three weeks since the group, now designated
Red Team
, had first been brought together. Those weeks had been spent undergoing a conditioning regimen that included daily exercise, carefully planned diets, and medical screenings of all sorts. The aim of that regimen was to ensure that each team member was in as close to perfect physical condition as possible in hopes of maximizing the chances that they would survive the still mysterious procedure they had volunteered to undergo.