Special Missions Unit is what they call it, but it's Black Ops. That's what he is, and now he’s my squad leader and I get to follow his orders. All Matt would say was that he reviewed my file, and I have a particular aptitude for his squad.
Me, Black Ops? He’s nuts.
It seems we go on over-the-border missions that do not exist. The kind of missions that SI sets up, that I should be setting up. I really don't get it. I mean, I'm good with data, numbers, patterns. Not so good with an assault rifle, and he knows it. Just what is he up to?
Maybe it's because of that other night on the roof, that’s when this all started. Maybe he's keeping an eye on me, so he can … what? Arrange for me to die some kind of horrible death?
Isn’t that just hunky-dory.
—
Matt calls the squad together. I don't have any choice but to show up. We're in a room that I'm not sure I could find again. Some mysterious Black Ops secret room that doesn’t exist unless you know about it. Matt watches me as I make my way around the table to an empty seat. I try not to act petulant, but I sit with arms crossed. Matt explains we will have ongoing training as well as prepping for missions, which can be called at any time. Sheree and I are the two new additions. I don't know what happened to the other two, Reed and Chan.
The rest of the squad is Boyd, on communications, navigation, and supplies; Ramón, who is obviously happy Sheree is joining the squad, handles demolition and engineering. Sheree is on weaponry, and Matt says I am information. Jay is our air support, but he's not with us now.
Matt turns it over to Charlie Kingston, who is second in command, the medic, and the tactician. But she's a lot more than a first responder and has some other specialized medical skills that I couldn't quite follow. Something about physiology. She’s tall and muscular, but not big. She looks strong enough to carry Boyd, though. Her dark skin contrasts with her light-silver hair, which somehow looks natural, not dyed. She looks older than Matt, but I can't tell by how much.
“It is necessary for us, this squad, to synchronize, to merge into a single organism,” Charlie says, looking from me to Sheree.
Her speech has an unusual inflection, almost unnoticeable, but I picked it up. She puts a stress on certain a and e sounds.
“To be effective we must operate as one. We will eat, sleep, live, and fight as one. What is required is that you make decisions not based on what is best for you, but on what is best for the squad, whatever the personal cost. Individual heroics are incompatible and create imbalance.
“In order to walk across a room, there is a complex system at work relaying information between body and mind. Yet we don't consciously think about it; it is the unification of mind and body. Each action can be anticipated because we have done it so many times before. But before we could walk, we did have to learn how to walk.” She glances at Ramón and Boyd, and I think Boyd actually squirms. “This squad will learn how to walk as one, learn how to eliminate imbalance and anticipate each other's movements until we can run at full speed as one intrinsic whole.”
She’s precise with her words, which somehow makes her intimidating. When she talks, I bet people pay attention. I watch her and Matt, trying to figure out what their relationship is.
“And, as one body,” she continues, “an arm cannot leave a leg behind. If the leg is injured, the body learns to compensate and finds a new balance to carry the injured limb. We’re each responsible for the others and will give our lives for each other. We won't leave anyone behind.”
I've never heard anyone talk like that before. Nobody says they are part of a separate group, except to say which generation they are. And it's not as if you can choose that. Families might stick together, sure, but that's as far as it goes.
“And if survival of the body requires the removal of a tumor”—Charlie looks at each one of us—“the body acts swiftly and forcefully to excise that tumor.”
It is a warning that loyalty to the squad comes before anything else. A thrum of excitement runs through me at the idea of belonging to such a body, to this squad.
Being in charge comes quite naturally to Matt. He's confident and he never hesitates; he knows what he's doing. I find myself watching him blink as he tells us about the upcoming schedule. He has long lashes that mesh together when they meet, then fly apart, revealing those gray eyes that appear a little different every time I look at them.
I need to work on focusing.
—
We’re off to practice CQC: Close Quarters Combat. This means rapid assault with sudden violence at close range. We head to the training ground, known as the House of Horrors. Matt explains that the goal is to learn to perform a violent takeover in the dark, without any verbal communication.
I bet they don't have to practice this in Intelligence.
I honestly try to keep up and move without sound, to not breathe or blink, but it's hopeless. Everyone else is so nimble, so quick, so sure. No wonder Matt heard me coming on the roof. I catch him looking at me in frustration. I stick my hip out and glare right back at him.
Um, whose fault is this, exactly?
It's not as if I volunteered for Black Ops.
I know I could be responsible for someone's life on a mission, which terrifies me into trying even harder. Letting anyone in this squad down seems like the worst thing imaginable. But none of this comes naturally to me, the way it seems to for the others, despite my climbing experience. Sheree doesn't just walk like a cat, she can leap and shimmy and squeeze and pounce. I'm more like a dog, panting loudly, clicking my nails on the floor, and barking when startled.
So, yeah. Basically, I'm dead.
We take turns at dynamic entry. I'm supposed to kick open a locked door while holding my ten-pound rifle, and surprise whoever is inside. I take a deep breath, bounce up on my toes once, and run at the door. I leap into the air and slam the door with both feet. I land on my back. The door hasn't budged.
“The idea is to kick in the door, not knock first,” Matt points out.
If I could move, I would practice my dynamic entry on him.
—
I'm on an outdoor range with three other new privates from other squads, learning to hit a target with a knife. I don't want to be here. The sun is directly overhead, and the air is dry and hot. I push my hair back behind my ears and wish I'd tied it up today. Matt is in a tight, gray, sleeveless shirt and black combat pants. He looks the other kind of hot as he explains how to throw a blade.
“The weight of your knife is essential. If it's too light, it will wobble and be ineffective. Heavier knives are more stable in flight,” he says.
“The center of gravity should be in the middle of the knife. Lay your knife across your outstretched index finger and adjust it until it is in balance,” he continues, demonstrating with his own long finger.
I stretch out my arm and point my index finger out. I place the knife as instructed. It doesn't wobble at all; it simply falls to the ground. Matt waits while I pick it up.
“To start, you will learn how to repeat the same movements of arm and body, with exactly the same force each time. Once you have mastered this, you will know how far you need to be from your target to be effective,” he explains. “Your wrist must be absolutely stiff when throwing, in order to control the rotations.”
He demonstrates. I watch the muscles of his arms move as he throws, and forget to watch his technique.
We all move into position. My first throw lands closer to me than the target. We practice for an eternity, and the others begin to throw a decent blade. I get marginally better, in that I almost make one stick in the target. Once. Almost.
Matt dismisses us, but as I pass him, he lays his hand on my arm and says, “Not you, Private Grant. Your knife-throwing skills are inadequate.”
“Yes, sergeant,” I reply.
“I expect you to stay until you can hit the target ten times.”
I stare at him for a moment.
“Then I expect you might find yourself disappointed. Sergeant.”
I did not give my mouth permission to speak but apparently it’s not following orders. There’s a fleeting twitch around Matt’s mouth, as if he might smile, but his jaw clenches to bite it back and he glares at me instead.
“You mistook this for a conversation. Now, if you possess an instinct for self-preservation then I suggest you get to it. This is for real, J. Grant. We're playing for keeps.”
He tells me to collect ten blades, and I move into position in front of my target. I pull the blade back behind my head and throw.
The knife wobbles a bit and hits the target but doesn't stick.
“Again,” Matt says.
I throw and miss.
“Again,” he repeats.
I miss.
“Again.”
I finally get three in a row, but then miss.
“Again.” He's sighing now.
I consider aiming my next blade at Matt's head, but he suddenly steps close. Very close.
“It's your stance. Your weight distribution,” he informs me.
He’s behind me and his arms come around. He covers my right hand with his, presses my fingers into the correct position on the knife. His body is against mine, heat rushes up through me, my scalp tingles.
Can he tell? Does he feel it?
He takes hold of my other hand and moves my body with his, throws the knife with me. It is dead on. I've now stopped breathing altogether.
He moves away to pick up another blade to repeat the lesson. We throw together again, and this throw too is dead on. He steps away and hands me another blade.
“Again,” he says.
Fuming, I focus on the target and repeat the movement; my body has memorized it somehow.
Thwack!
It's a pretty good throw.
My eyes go wide with surprise. Without turning my head, I can see a little smile of triumph on Matt's lips.
Well. I am not doing this for him.
Thwack!
I am doing this for me.
Thwack!
I am going to survive this.
Thwack!
Even if it kills me.
—
I have some questions to ask Ramón and Boyd. Everyone in our squad except for Matt and Charlie is together in the mess. Sheree stands at the end of the table, fooling around with her light-fifty sniper rifle; the rest of us sit.
“How long have you been Black Ops?” I ask.
“Eight months, give or take,” answers Ramón, who watches Sheree as he twirls his little grenade on the table.
“So you're both eighteen?”
Boyd nods and runs his hand through his thick red hair. I look around the mess and see that the vast majority of soldiers look under the age of twenty.
“So, what happens to people here? Everyone is so young.”
Boyd shrugs his broad shoulders. “Dead or gone.”
Jay leans in from beside me and looks at Ramón and Boyd suspiciously. “What do you mean dead or gone? If they're not dead, where have they gone?” he asks in a deadly calm voice.
“It's different on the main part of the base, with the regular army, but this is where all the assessment and training occurs, so everyone is pretty young, 'cause that’s when you sign up,” Boyd explains. “And then, if you're smart enough or lucky enough to survive a couple of years here, whoever is in charge decides you must be worth keeping and promotes you up and out. So essentially we've got command, a bunch of officers who rotate in and out of here, and us.”
“Oh, and the Dirty Dozen over there.” Ramón nods toward the group playing poker. “The twelve who survive the longest are the Dirty Dozen. It changes as people don’t come back from missions or get transferred. When there's an opening, whoever's next up is in. Everyone else is dead or gone.”
“Rule Number Four.” Boyd holds up four large fingers for emphasis. “Don't ever be first, don't ever be last, don't volunteer for anything, and you'll be guaranteed a promotion. And if you're looking to stay alive, it's a pretty good guideline for that too.”
Jay and I look at each other.
“I like that rule,” says Jay. “Never, ever, volunteer me for anything.”
“Oops, too late.” Sheree flashes her eyes at Jay. “I signed you up for a suicide mission.”
“As long as you're not on it too,” Jay responds, with a shake of his head. “It's hellish enough with you around here now, can't imagine an eternity.”
“So, the people we're replacing … dead or gone?” I ask tentatively, unsure of the protocol involved in speaking about former squad members who are, apparently, dead or gone.
“Samuel and Viktor,” Ramón says heavily. Sheree leaves the rifle she’s taking apart and comes to sit down beside Ramón.
“It was Matt, Charlie, Viktor, Samuel, and us two,” Boyd begins.
“What is up with Charlie?” asks Sheree. She loosens her hair from its clip and shakes it out. We all hear Ramón sigh deeply in appreciation. Sheree ignores him.
“Charlie? Charlie is the best damn soldier you'd ever want to be on a mission with,” says Boyd. “Well, except for Matt, of course, but they're always together.”
He and Ramón nod their heads.
“I don’t know where she got her training, but as a medic, she is incomparable. There are stories about guys that should have been goners, but she kept them alive. She does hand-to-hand as if she's out for a stroll, and you never, ever, want to land on her bad side,” Ramón tells us. He spins a knife on the table. His slender fingers are perfectly manicured. “Do what she tells you to do, and you'll be happy you listened.”
Boyd is nodding in agreement, as though he’s had some experience being on Charlie’s bad side. The knife stops, pointed at Sheree, and Ramón looks at her suggestively. She stares right back at him.
“Sweetheart,” she drawls, “you'll have to do better than that.”
“Sweetheart,” Jay says to Ramón, but points at Sheree, “you can do better than that.”
Sheree responds with a rude gesture involving her middle finger.
“Charlie?” I say.
“Right. She could have been out of here, but they say she turned down a promotion,” says Ramón. “Her and Matt? They've been together so long, it's as if they can read each other's minds. It can be sort of spooky, but I wouldn't want to be on any other squad.”
“I never see her around,” Sheree says.
The boys glance at each other, and decide that Boyd should talk.
“Well, apart from the squad, her and Matt don’t really go in for the whole buddy thing,” he says, leaning in to speak quietly. “You heard her talk about the squad, she’s dead serious about that, they both are. And let me tell you something for nothing, it’s a privilege to be on their squad. Matt hangs out sometimes, but it’s gotta be tough. They’ve known more than their share of people who are now dead or gone.”
Oh.
“That mission—where we lost Samuel and Viktor? We're alive because of Matt and Charlie,” says Boyd. “We were supposed to retrieve a High Value Target from a house in an isolated position. We get dropped by one of you flyboys”—his thick finger points to Jay— “and proceed to the target location. It's one of these old houses in an abandoned city out there. Except the intel was bad. There was way more firepower there than we anticipated.”
Ramón takes over; he enjoys the drama of a story. “We're making our approach when Samuel goes down in front of me. Boyd and I take cover behind a pile of rubble. Samuel is bleeding out ten feet from us, but we're pinned down by snipers on the roof of the house. We can't move.”
He looks around to make sure we are all paying attention.
“I could see Charlie. She's off to our left, and she can see Samuel. All of a sudden she's moving, yelling at us to move too. She jumps out, grabs Samuel by one arm and drags him over behind a shed. Boyd and I sprint to her position, and as I'm running, I see Matt behind us. He's put himself out there, to draw fire away from us,” Ramón says, shaking his head as though still amazed.
“And that's what I was talking about. It's as if Charlie and Matt communicated with each other, knew exactly when to move”—Ramón snaps his fingers—“and both of them put themselves in the line of fire to save us.”
Ramón looks somber. “Charlie does what she can. If anyone can save Samuel it's her. He was hit in the leg and there was so much goddamned blood. She's grinding her knee into his leg, to stop the blood flow. He's screaming as she's trying to get the tourniquet on, but it's too late for Samuel. It happens real fast, we could see it. He's goes really pale, he's scared and crying. Charlie leans close and whispers in Samuel's ear, calms him down, eases his passing.”
Ramón hesitates briefly. “I think she maybe helped him along. Her hand was at his neck as she spoke to him. I want her to ease my passing when my time comes.”
Boyd takes a deep breath and takes over again. “Samuel is gone and all of a sudden Charlie tenses up and sprints over to the house, dodging sniper fire. We find out later that Matt has already taken down the two at the door and gone in alone. Viktor is supposed to have his back, but he's nowhere. I figure they got him, too. Ramón and I are on perimeter, so we clear the grounds around the house and try to stay out of sight of the snipers. Ramón lobs a nice one, hitting an armored vehicle that's coming toward us with one of his little grenades.”
Boyd is obviously proud of Ramón. They act like brothers.
“Matt must have sent Charlie up while he took the lower level because the snipers are out of action pretty quick. Matt is still looking for the HVT and takes down six inside the house. He and Charlie finally come out and tell us it's clear, no HVT, very bad intel.” Boyd is angry, remembering it. “In the end, Matt took down nine enemy, and Charlie took four, all at great personal risk.”
“But,” says Ramón, “we don't know what happened to Viktor. We search around in case he's injured, but he's nowhere. Matt has already called for a pickup, and we need to take Samuel with us to the designated coordinates, but we can't leave Viktor behind. That's when we find him, and it's gruesome. It's an animal trap, but for no animal I know of. Viktor's already lost the lower part of one leg, and he's bleeding out like crazy. He's alive, but I don't think he coulda been saved. Matt and Charlie are in the lead, and we're carrying Samuel on Charlie's medic stretcher.”
Ramón stops and looks at Boyd before continuing.
“They don't stop. Matt and Charlie keep walking. Charlie does not whisper in his ear. The only way Viktor could've ended up there is if he'd been running away, instead of watching Matt's back.”
Boyd shakes his head sadly. “Matt would give his life for anyone in his squad; he deserves the same loyalty back.”
“Rule Number Two,” says Ramón fiercely. “Always work as a team. It gives the enemy someone else to shoot at.”
“So Matt is awarded his Distinguished Service Cross, and Charlie apparently turned down a promotion. I didn't even know you could do that. And we have been two men short ever since. Matt refused to accept any transfers in, obviously waiting for you two to show up.” Boyd says this as if our being here is some predestined occurrence.
I don't want Charlie whispering in my ear any time soon. In fact, I'd prefer not to go on any missions at all. But if I do find myself in that situation, I know I wouldn't run away, no matter how scared I was.
“What about the other two?” Sheree asks as she moves back to her rifle assembly. “The other two people Matt called when we got our assignments?”
Ramón shrugs. “They'll probably turn up as Specialists at some point. They're the ones with highly specialized skills. Hence the designation.”
—
I head to the gym complex. Not to work out; I'm going to the pool. Another perk of Special Forces, and I was told it's almost always deserted at night. It's an open-air pool, so I can float around and stare at the stars. The building is officially part of the regular base, even though it's in our section and the other soldiers aren't permitted to use the facility. It's one of those bureaucratic technicalities clearly intended to drive people crazy. What it means for me is that I need to adhere to the regular base's curfew restrictions, so I have less than thirty minutes before it all gets locked up. There's a curfew for Special Forces too, but no one pays attention to it.
I kick off my shoes and peel down to my swimsuit underneath. I hastily tie my hair back and dive. I've been covered in a dusting of sand since I got here. This feels so good. I do a couple of lengths and find a corner in the shadows. I lean back, stretch my arms out on the deck, and stare up at the sky while my feet bob up and down in front of me.
Uh oh.
I hear someone approach, and Matt walks up to the pool.
Perfect. It’s my favorite jackass.
I stay hidden in the shadows, not making a sound. I don't think he knows I'm here. I really, really don't want to deal with him right now, so I stay still and watch.
He crosses his arms and pulls his t-shirt over his head. I draw in my breath involuntarily, but he doesn't seem to hear it. I've had to get used to seeing people in various states of undress, but I've never seen Matt. His skin gleams in the moonlight; I can see his muscles working as he moves, each line and ridge are so clearly defined. He rubs his hand over his smooth chest in that unaware boy way and I’m mesmerized.
Wait, what's he doing now? He's unbuttoning his khakis. Oh no, this is bad. Very bad. His pants drop to the floor, and I'm immensely relieved to see swim trunks. He dives in.
Don't see me. Please don't come this way.
He's underwater for too long. I'm not sure where he is, and I look around frantically.
He surfaces right beside me. “J. Grant.”
He knew I was here all along. I attempt to kick him, but it doesn't work underwater, and I end up flailing angrily.
“Hey, take it easy,” he laughs, wiping water from his face.
“Take it easy? Did you say take it easy? What is it with you?” I explode. “What have you got against me? What did I ever do to you?”
“Jess, did you come here expecting things to be easy?” he asks quietly.
When he says my name, my stomach flip-flops.
“Yes, sergeant, as a matter of fact I did,” I snap. “Well, kinda.”
“Do you know why I trained you so hard today?” he asks.
He treads water in front of me, lazily, effortlessly. For some reason, this seriously ticks me off.
“Yeah. Because you enjoy being in a position of power and ordering people around, and…” I start strong but trail off when I see his look.
“I did it because it might save your life,” he tells me. “I wasn't kidding about this being for keeps. This is for real, and if you aren't prepared, and I mean thoroughly prepared, you won't survive. Up to now, it's been playacting. But this is Black Ops.”
I think about the mission that Ramón and Boyd told me about. Now I feel like a bratty kid complaining about having to take lessons before jumping into the deep end. But I forge ahead.
“And that's another thing. Why, exactly, did you pick me for Black Ops? My outstanding good looks and sparkling personality?”
Did I just say that out loud?
Now's a good time to drown myself.
“Well, I have to admit that was part of it, but I'm rethinking the personality aspect.” His voice is low, his eyes shimmer from the moonlight. I can't look away.
His lips twitch on one side, almost smiling. He moves to the edge of the pool and leans back beside me. His arm brushes mine as we bob up and down. I stare straight ahead, paralyzed.
He reaches out and gently turns my chin. The butterfly that moved into my stomach is startled and madly flaps around in crazy circles.
“It was forty-eight,” he says and waits for me to catch on.
“I knew it! There was no way I got forty out of fifty.” I'm momentarily triumphant, but I also get mad and loud. “Why did you—”
His fingers press against my lips, silencing me, and he says quietly, “Rule Number Three. Never draw fire. It irritates everyone around you.”
I resist the urge to ask about Rule Number One when he releases my mouth. I can't quit staring at his lips.
“You did a little too well on that test, and I didn't want you to draw the attention of other … divisions, because I wanted you with me,” he says. Our legs touch under the water and I shiver, despite the warmth spreading through me. “I don't know how, but I know you manipulated the personality test. If that result were true, you'd have much better aim.”
“Why?” I ask in a plaintive whisper.
Matt's arms suddenly reach around me, and he lifts me onto the edge of the pool. He pulls himself up to sit beside me. “Your psych profile indicated an indifference to killing. The exact right outcome for Special Forces—not bloodthirsty or psychotic, but not morally averse to it, either. But that isn't true, is it? That's why you can't hit a target. You're not committed to the kill.”
I look up at the stars as my feet make lazy circles in the water. I haven't thoroughly dealt with this issue, and would prefer to ignore it altogether.
“I wanted to be Intelligence, not a sharpshooter,” I remind him.
“I don't need a sharpshooter. I have Sheree,” he counters. “I do need someone who can manipulate that test. Someone who can detect steganography as easily as you can. You're the only one who did.”
He reaches over and pulls out the elastic that was doing a poor job of holding my hair. “You are exceptional,” he says softly.
My butterfly has gone insane.
“I can teach you combat skills, but I can't teach you that. It's why I asked Sheree to get you qualified. And her methods are exactly why she's on my squad.”
Matt hands me my elastic and pushes off into the pool. He swims a length before coming back to sit beside me.
He looks over. “Curfew. You need to head back.”
I nod dumbly, overwhelmed. Suddenly, he asks if Jay and I are together. That snaps me out of it.
“Well, we're best friends, and we like a lot of the same things.” I nudge him with my elbow and recklessly whisper, “Including boys.”
I jump to my feet, and I see him smile as I turn to go.
—
Ramón slides into the seat beside where Sheree stands, and leans back to look at her with his dark gold eyes and long black lashes. Boyd lowers his large frame beside me and glances around the common.
We've had a week of CQC and I feel part of the group now. No one has a past here; my mother's shame at having birthed a Deviant doesn't taint me here. I'm still not quiet enough in training, but now I know to move when Matt tilts his head, and to back off when he shifts his weight. I've figured out how to keep out of Sheree's line of fire. She says, “You're between my bullet and my target,” with less frequency now.
Sheree is taking down and reassembling a rifle. I'm timing her.
“Well, that explains it then,” says Boyd to Ramón, apparently continuing an earlier conversation. “You had an off day.”
“Yeah, I did,” Ramón replies.
“You weren't, say, distracted?” Boyd glances over at Sheree as she snaps things into place. “Cause we don't need that kind of distraction around here.”
“Will you quit it? You don't need to know everything about me.” Ramón turns away.
“I need to know if you're jacked up,” says Boyd.
Jay sits on the other side of Boyd. He has somehow managed to put a part in his short blond hair. He likes to have control of his hair.
“Jacked up about what?” Jay asks.
“You keep out of this, rotorhead,” Ramón snaps, then turns back to Boyd. “And if you keep this up, I may be required to hurt you.”
Ramón has his hands pressed on the table, ready to leap at Boyd.
“Fine, I don't want to know, anyway.”
“That works for me.” Ramón crosses his arms.
“Wanna get some chow?” Boyd asks, as though the conversation never happened.
“Yeah. Be right back,” Ramón says to Sheree.
“Do you know what I think?” asks Sheree, once they are gone. “I think this is what goes through the head of the average boy. FOOD, nothing, SEX, nothing, FOOD, nothing. Repeat.”
We both break out in wide grins, and she slaps the completed sniper rifle onto the table.
“Time?”
“Sixty-two,” I tell her.
It's not fast enough; Matt wants her to get it down to less than fifty seconds.
Sheree is not dismayed; she is challenged. She pushes her hair back behind her ears and shoves her sleeves up a bit higher. She shifts her weight a few times to settle her feet into the right position, ready to start again.
Jay slides closer to me, taking Boyd's vacated seat. I attempt to muss up his hair, but he catches my arm.
“Go,” I say to Sheree, and she begins to take it down again. Ramón walks by and leans in for a look before sitting down with his chow.
Sheree looks around on the floor, a confused expression on her face.
“Is this what you're looking for?” Ramón asks slyly, holding the missing part. He somehow swiped it right in front of her.
“Give me that!” Sheree reaches over to grab it from Ramón's outstretched hand, but he yanks his hand back and holds it just out of reach.
“Tell me one thing you like about me,” he demands with a grin.
Sheree rolls her eyes, leans forward, and whispers in his ear. He smiles and looks pleased, but the smile turns to shock as she continues whispering. He quickly hands back the stolen piece; Sheree pats him on the head and prepares to start over.
If I don't think about the thing creeping around and spreading that stain on my skin, or the possibility I might have to kill someone soon, I'd actually be having a pretty good time.