PRE-ORDER BABYLON WILL RISE
Release Date December 5, 2024 |
BABYLON WILL RISE
Of all codewords used by the United States military, Empty Quiver is one no service member wants to hear uttered. Now, two decades after they were stolen, two nuclear weapons emerge from the shadows in the hands of an international arms dealer.
THE RACE IS ON. With the lives of millions at risk, the government goes through every contingency plan in its arsenal—desperate to end the crisis without causing panic. But when the consequences of failure have dire global implications, no option is left off the table. ONLY ONE TEAM CAN WIN. The Omega Group, a covert organization that works outside the restrictions of government oversight, has the skill and discretion necessary to succeed where no one else can. Led by Troy Evans, their highly skilled and close-knit team often works alone. But not this time. The team dynamic is tested when a new and unexpected member is attached to the latest mission. FAILURE IS UNACCEPTABLE. Troy and the expanded Omega Group will have to utilize not only their wits but every trick in their playbook to assure success. But what if their crafty enemy is playing an unconventional game? BABYLON WILL RISE. (Release Date December 5, 2024) |
Prologue
Lake Dukan, Iraq
March 17, 2003
Alwan Makki Khamas lit the Sumer king-size cigarette and took a deep drag as he breathed the pungent smoke into his lungs. After he held it in for a moment, Alwan let the plume out in a slow, methodical exhale. His weathered, thick fingers clutched the dull yellow-tinted cigarette as his other hand rested on his left hip. His wife of thirty years, Rena, despised his love of the Sumer cigarettes, but still, he smoked two packs a day no matter how much grief his nasty habit might provoke at home.
The waxing gibbous moon glowed in the night sky and illuminated the barren desert that spread out before him for miles in either direction. Alwan wondered which direction the invaders would use for their initial barrage. They were out there somewhere just beyond the distant horizon. According to intel reports, the shock and awe would soon rain down from above. Saddam met with his senior leadership three days before and assured the men gathered within the bunker located deep beneath Baghdad that the army would repulse the attack. Alwan was at the meeting with Saddam. He and the other senior military leaders knew their boisterous leader spewed forth lies, and they stood no chance against the bombardment about to be unleashed by the great Satan. It mattered not. He and the other military brass would continue to lead their men until their end.
Will this be my last glance at the bright moon before the end comes? Alwan asked himself between drags of sweet nicotine.
He rubbed a tender spot on his shoulder, and his thick hand brushed against the insignia of two swords crossing with two stars and the republican eagle above the swords. Alwan spent his entire adulthood in the Iraqi army, attaining the rank of lieutenant general two weeks before he turned fifty. He believed in the cause and the sacrifices such beliefs required. Saddam may be a madman, but Alwan was prepared to die for and with him if they were invaded.
He glanced down at his Rolex Oyster Perpetual watch; it was 1:24 a.m. The timepiece kept excellent time for a knockoff he bought a year before on the south side of the citadel in Erbil, part of Kurdistan in northern Iraq.
One of his men approached from behind. Alwan pivoted before the man reached him.
“Lieutenant General!” The junior officer spoke in a frenzied tone.
Alwan took another drag and blew it out in the officer’s face. “Yes, Mohammad. What is it?”
“The sound has returned, and it’s growing louder. Also, the walls are shaking.”
The half-smoked cigarette dropped to the ground, and Alwan crushed it under the heel of his boot. Several weeks before the sounds and vibrations began, steadily, they grew louder and more pronounced. Alwan reported the strange occurrences up the chain of command. General An-Arbar, the man directly above him, assured Alwan it must be seismic activity, and a member of the Iraqi geologic department would come out to monitor the situation. Not surprisingly, nobody ever came.
Alwan breathed in one last gasp of fresh air before he followed the junior officer into the long tunnel that led to the underground structure hidden deep within the mountain range.
Seven minutes later, the two men arrived at the rear of the facility at the spot where the sound originated, and the vibrations were the strongest.
As he placed his hand against the wall, the vibrations shook violently. Alwan thought the wall might give way as the force grew stronger.
What is going on? Something’s not right. This growing tremor isn’t an earthquake.
With a concerned frown, his voice growled at the young junior officer. “Get command on the phone immediately. Whatever is happening, it’s not natural.” As the last few words escaped his lips, the shaking grew more intense before it stopped.
Alwan looked at the wall and back at the junior officer. Both men exchanged curious stares before they shrugged.
With the sound stopped and the shaking abated, Alwan put his ear against the wall and strained to make out a faint tap-tap-tap sound. After a minute, silence greeted him no matter how hard he pressed his ear against the cool concrete.
“What do you think it was?” the young officer asked. “And why did it stop?”
A sudden and vicious blast fractured the wall into a thousand pieces as chunks of concrete permeated the stale air.
The high-impact explosion violently tossed Alwan and the junior officer into the air. Both men flew across the tunnel and crashed against the opposite wall.
Alwan regained consciousness a minute later. He was slouched against the concrete wall, covered with not only his blood but also chunks of bloody flesh and skull fragments. The body parts were all that remained of the lifeless young officer, who lay at his feet in a dead heap. A massive bowling ball-sized chunk of concrete rested where his head should be instead.
A high-pierced squeal rang through Alwan’s head as the force of the explosion decimated his eardrums and left him mostly deaf. As his ears rang, his eyes switched from the headless body of the junior officer to the gaping hole in the wall.
A steady stream of men poured through the opening. The putrid smell of chemicals from the explosives intertwined with burned flesh singed his nostrils.
As he looked at each person who stepped into the facility through the hole, his stare focused on one man in particular, a person he knew only too well.
The man approached where Alwan lay in a state frozen by not only the physical shock inflicted upon him by the blast but also the emotional distress caused by the sudden breach of the facility.
Alwan tried to speak, but no words would form at the corner of his lips as the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.
The man crouched down and leaned in close enough that Alwan could smell the stench of coffee on his breath and see the yellow stains on his teeth.
The person he knew uttered only a few words. “Lieutenant General Khamas. Today, you shall see Allah in paradise.”
Without the ability to reply verbally, Alwan watched as the man stood upright, raised the AK-47 slung over his shoulder, and pointed it at his face.
Alwan clenched his eyes shut and wished the last minute was only a nightmare.
The person who stood above him pulled the trigger once. The bullet split Alwan’s skull, and his head slumped to the side.
A bright light permeated his vision for a fraction of a second before the shroud of darkness greeted Alwan on the other side.
PART I
Chapter 1
Tacoma, Washington
Present Day
Rays of crimson streaked across the sky and reflected off the crystal-clear water as the six fatigued men tried to unwind. The members of The Omega Group took any available moments between missions to bust balls, tell stories, and give each other endless amounts of shit.
“Toss me another cold one,” J.C. Kyle hollered to the person closest to the Yeti cooler. Everybody referred to J.C. as the Jackal, a handle assigned to him while he slogged through boot camp at Fort Moore.
The team lounged around the pool at Terrance Wallace’s ranch-style house in the suburbs of Tacoma, Washington. Nobody called Terrance by his given name. Even his mom called him Sarge.
Everyone enjoyed the ultra-rare day off. A hot day in Tacoma proved to be the perfect time to do nothing but soak in some rays, throw down some brews, and forget about the last mission. Although none of them would ever admit it, they needed a release, an escape from the constant action. The inescapable stress, a byproduct of their perpetual missions, chipped away at their humanity and changed them in small, imperceptible ways.
Captain Troy Evans, the leader of the Omegas, who everyone called Cap, felt the drain on his soul more than the rest. His years of deployments and classified missions took their toll, and he knew deep down that his current path was not his destiny. A single act, the consequences of something that cost mere cents, altered the course of his life. Troy’s smile at his surroundings concealed dark emotions just below the surface.
#
Troy popped the top and lobbed the glass bottle into the air. It was a slow-motion throw that would have made the beer companies salivate. The Jackal glanced up, extended his arm over the clear water, and caught the bottle by the neck without spilling a drop into the pool.
“Nice snag,” Troy said as he flicked the bottle cap into the trash can beside the cooler.
The Jackal looked at the bottle from behind his mirrored, oversized sunglasses, and a toothy grin formed on the corner of his mouth. He took a drag from the Marlboro between his lips, removed it with his free hand, and let out a plume of smoke. “A Corona! Thanks Cap! I figured you would toss one of those nasty imported beers you drink.”
“Hey!” Troy exclaimed. “What’s wrong with my beer?”
“Nothing. But you didn’t grow up in Ireland.”
“Dude, you’re drinking Coronas, and you sure as hell didn’t live in Mexico. There’s no way you’re Mexican.” Troy shook his head.
“I am,” Jesús Soto said from the other side of the pool. He floated on a blue raft and raised his hand high. “And proud of it, you dirty gringos.”
“You don’t count,” the Jackal said.
“Why not?” Jesús’s face distorted into a quizzical look.
“Because you don’t drink, and all Hispanics drink.” The Jackal chuckled.
“Yo, man! That’s just not right,” Jesús said before he added. “And it’s a little bit racist.”
“Stating facts is not racism. It’s the truth.” The Jackal raised the bottle of Corona to his lips and chugged half it down before he took another drag from the cigarette.
“Didn’t Sarge tell you not to smoke in his pool or even near it?” Troy asked.
The Jackal shrugged. “Demote me.”
Sarge let out a deep sigh from over near the flaming hot grill. “You’re already on the bottom of the pecking order, dipshit. There’s no lower for you to go. Put that damn cancer stick out before I jump in that pool and do it for you. Unless you’ve got gills somewhere we can’t see, it won’t end well for you if I have to come in there.”
“Testy, testy, testy,” The Jackal replied as he mushed the cigarette against the side of the Corona bottle. “Considering what we do for a living, enjoying a few nicotine puffs should be applauded, not derided. Hell, I bet if Snoop Dogg was here, all of you choir boys would partake in whatever he passed around.”
“Snoop is clean these days, dummy,” Troy said.
The Jackal rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right. That’s like saying the pope is no longer catholic.” He flicked the extinguished cigarette butt at Jesús as his pool float drifted close to the Jackal.
“Cap!” Jesús yelled as he looked toward Troy. “I’m about to lose my cool with our resident trash talker.”
Troy shook his head. “Next mission if a negligent discharge occurs in the Jackal’s general direction, I got your back, Jesús. Friendly fire is a reality of war.”
The Jackal laughed. “You can’t hurt steel, fellas.”
Jesús splashed water towards the Jackal. “You’re a filthy, rotten, piece of trash. You know that right?”
“Damn skippy,” the Jackal retorted.
“Are the burgers and dogs done yet?” Dave “Digger” Riley asked from a lounge chair intentionally pushed out of the sun and far away from the splash zone of the pool.
“Keep your panties on,” Sarge said. “I’m working on them. You know it’s my day off, and I’m the one who bought the damn grub, right?”
“I can transfer you some Bitcoin if the food broke your budget,” Digger replied.
“It’s all our days off.” Harrison Collins, who everyone called Harry or Doc, sat at the patio table under the oversized umbrella. “And I’m famished.”
“The sun won’t hurt you,” Troy said as he looked at Harry relaxing under the shade. “Try coming out from under that umbrella and get some color on that pale skin of yours.”
“Cap, we spend most of our days under the scorching desert sun. I’ll be damned if I spend one of my few days of R&R baking under it while I’m home. You’re lucky I’m out here instead of inside in the La-Z-Boy recliner with the A/C cranked.”
“Man,” Sarge said. “I can’t remember the last time we sat around my pool and shot the shi…” He never finished the last word. The six cell phones lying in various spots around the pool area made a simultaneous, obnoxious alarm sound.
#
“Dammit!” The Jackal could not hide his irritated tone as he took a final chug from his Corona. “There goes our day off.” His face contorted into a snarl as he tossed the empty bottle into the grass next to the pool.
“I’ll call him,” Troy announced. “Maybe it’s a false alarm.”
“It’s never a false alarm, Cap,” Jesús said.
Troy dialed the colonel’s number. The rest of the men could only hear one side of the conversation.
Yes, sir, we’re all here. How long do we have?
Troy looked at his watch.
We can be there in ninety minutes. Yes, sir, we understand. You’re right. The men are about to be royally pissed off, and for good reason, since some pre-lunch buzzes are all for naught, and we’ve been on rotation for the past three months without a day off.
Troy ended the call. The five other men around the pool area looked at him, their faces downtrodden.
“So?” Sarge asked. “What’s the emergency?”
“He didn’t say, but we need to be at the base in ninety minutes, which means we better get a move on it. That’s just enough time to get quick showers at our places and grab our go bags.”
“Destination?” Digger asked.
“Crystal City, VA. It’s a neighborhood in Arlington.”
“Northern Virginia? What the hell is there besides a bunch of bureaucrats and yuppies?” The Jackal asked.
“A meeting we must attend,” Troy said.
“I guess we don’t have a say in whether or not we go?” Digger asked.
“Of course, you have a choice,” Troy said. “You can either walk to your cars and go get ready, or Sarge and I will drag your slack asses onto the plane in ninety minutes. Option A will work better for us all, especially my sore back.”
“Lovely,” Digger replied.
“Nothing like personal liberty when you’re an adult in the army, huh?” The Jackal asked.
Troy shook his head. “Dude, you gave up any idea of freedom the second you signed on Uncle Sam’s dotted line. Your soul may belong to the good Lord, but your ass belongs to the United States Department of Defense. At least for now.”
Four of the Omegas sulked as they approached the gate leading to the driveway. Troy walked around the pool’s perimeter and cleaned up discarded bottles and trash while Sarge turned off the grill before heading inside to take a fast shower.
Troy cleared his throat. “The Pentagon thanks you fine gentlemen for your splendid attitudes about giving up another stretch back home.” He said this before the four men walked through the gate.
The Jackal flicked off Troy, while the others just shook their heads as they continued toward their respective vehicles.
With a toothy grin, Troy replied, “Love you boys, too. See you on the plane in eighty-seven minutes.”
Lake Dukan, Iraq
March 17, 2003
Alwan Makki Khamas lit the Sumer king-size cigarette and took a deep drag as he breathed the pungent smoke into his lungs. After he held it in for a moment, Alwan let the plume out in a slow, methodical exhale. His weathered, thick fingers clutched the dull yellow-tinted cigarette as his other hand rested on his left hip. His wife of thirty years, Rena, despised his love of the Sumer cigarettes, but still, he smoked two packs a day no matter how much grief his nasty habit might provoke at home.
The waxing gibbous moon glowed in the night sky and illuminated the barren desert that spread out before him for miles in either direction. Alwan wondered which direction the invaders would use for their initial barrage. They were out there somewhere just beyond the distant horizon. According to intel reports, the shock and awe would soon rain down from above. Saddam met with his senior leadership three days before and assured the men gathered within the bunker located deep beneath Baghdad that the army would repulse the attack. Alwan was at the meeting with Saddam. He and the other senior military leaders knew their boisterous leader spewed forth lies, and they stood no chance against the bombardment about to be unleashed by the great Satan. It mattered not. He and the other military brass would continue to lead their men until their end.
Will this be my last glance at the bright moon before the end comes? Alwan asked himself between drags of sweet nicotine.
He rubbed a tender spot on his shoulder, and his thick hand brushed against the insignia of two swords crossing with two stars and the republican eagle above the swords. Alwan spent his entire adulthood in the Iraqi army, attaining the rank of lieutenant general two weeks before he turned fifty. He believed in the cause and the sacrifices such beliefs required. Saddam may be a madman, but Alwan was prepared to die for and with him if they were invaded.
He glanced down at his Rolex Oyster Perpetual watch; it was 1:24 a.m. The timepiece kept excellent time for a knockoff he bought a year before on the south side of the citadel in Erbil, part of Kurdistan in northern Iraq.
One of his men approached from behind. Alwan pivoted before the man reached him.
“Lieutenant General!” The junior officer spoke in a frenzied tone.
Alwan took another drag and blew it out in the officer’s face. “Yes, Mohammad. What is it?”
“The sound has returned, and it’s growing louder. Also, the walls are shaking.”
The half-smoked cigarette dropped to the ground, and Alwan crushed it under the heel of his boot. Several weeks before the sounds and vibrations began, steadily, they grew louder and more pronounced. Alwan reported the strange occurrences up the chain of command. General An-Arbar, the man directly above him, assured Alwan it must be seismic activity, and a member of the Iraqi geologic department would come out to monitor the situation. Not surprisingly, nobody ever came.
Alwan breathed in one last gasp of fresh air before he followed the junior officer into the long tunnel that led to the underground structure hidden deep within the mountain range.
Seven minutes later, the two men arrived at the rear of the facility at the spot where the sound originated, and the vibrations were the strongest.
As he placed his hand against the wall, the vibrations shook violently. Alwan thought the wall might give way as the force grew stronger.
What is going on? Something’s not right. This growing tremor isn’t an earthquake.
With a concerned frown, his voice growled at the young junior officer. “Get command on the phone immediately. Whatever is happening, it’s not natural.” As the last few words escaped his lips, the shaking grew more intense before it stopped.
Alwan looked at the wall and back at the junior officer. Both men exchanged curious stares before they shrugged.
With the sound stopped and the shaking abated, Alwan put his ear against the wall and strained to make out a faint tap-tap-tap sound. After a minute, silence greeted him no matter how hard he pressed his ear against the cool concrete.
“What do you think it was?” the young officer asked. “And why did it stop?”
A sudden and vicious blast fractured the wall into a thousand pieces as chunks of concrete permeated the stale air.
The high-impact explosion violently tossed Alwan and the junior officer into the air. Both men flew across the tunnel and crashed against the opposite wall.
Alwan regained consciousness a minute later. He was slouched against the concrete wall, covered with not only his blood but also chunks of bloody flesh and skull fragments. The body parts were all that remained of the lifeless young officer, who lay at his feet in a dead heap. A massive bowling ball-sized chunk of concrete rested where his head should be instead.
A high-pierced squeal rang through Alwan’s head as the force of the explosion decimated his eardrums and left him mostly deaf. As his ears rang, his eyes switched from the headless body of the junior officer to the gaping hole in the wall.
A steady stream of men poured through the opening. The putrid smell of chemicals from the explosives intertwined with burned flesh singed his nostrils.
As he looked at each person who stepped into the facility through the hole, his stare focused on one man in particular, a person he knew only too well.
The man approached where Alwan lay in a state frozen by not only the physical shock inflicted upon him by the blast but also the emotional distress caused by the sudden breach of the facility.
Alwan tried to speak, but no words would form at the corner of his lips as the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.
The man crouched down and leaned in close enough that Alwan could smell the stench of coffee on his breath and see the yellow stains on his teeth.
The person he knew uttered only a few words. “Lieutenant General Khamas. Today, you shall see Allah in paradise.”
Without the ability to reply verbally, Alwan watched as the man stood upright, raised the AK-47 slung over his shoulder, and pointed it at his face.
Alwan clenched his eyes shut and wished the last minute was only a nightmare.
The person who stood above him pulled the trigger once. The bullet split Alwan’s skull, and his head slumped to the side.
A bright light permeated his vision for a fraction of a second before the shroud of darkness greeted Alwan on the other side.
PART I
Chapter 1
Tacoma, Washington
Present Day
Rays of crimson streaked across the sky and reflected off the crystal-clear water as the six fatigued men tried to unwind. The members of The Omega Group took any available moments between missions to bust balls, tell stories, and give each other endless amounts of shit.
“Toss me another cold one,” J.C. Kyle hollered to the person closest to the Yeti cooler. Everybody referred to J.C. as the Jackal, a handle assigned to him while he slogged through boot camp at Fort Moore.
The team lounged around the pool at Terrance Wallace’s ranch-style house in the suburbs of Tacoma, Washington. Nobody called Terrance by his given name. Even his mom called him Sarge.
Everyone enjoyed the ultra-rare day off. A hot day in Tacoma proved to be the perfect time to do nothing but soak in some rays, throw down some brews, and forget about the last mission. Although none of them would ever admit it, they needed a release, an escape from the constant action. The inescapable stress, a byproduct of their perpetual missions, chipped away at their humanity and changed them in small, imperceptible ways.
Captain Troy Evans, the leader of the Omegas, who everyone called Cap, felt the drain on his soul more than the rest. His years of deployments and classified missions took their toll, and he knew deep down that his current path was not his destiny. A single act, the consequences of something that cost mere cents, altered the course of his life. Troy’s smile at his surroundings concealed dark emotions just below the surface.
#
Troy popped the top and lobbed the glass bottle into the air. It was a slow-motion throw that would have made the beer companies salivate. The Jackal glanced up, extended his arm over the clear water, and caught the bottle by the neck without spilling a drop into the pool.
“Nice snag,” Troy said as he flicked the bottle cap into the trash can beside the cooler.
The Jackal looked at the bottle from behind his mirrored, oversized sunglasses, and a toothy grin formed on the corner of his mouth. He took a drag from the Marlboro between his lips, removed it with his free hand, and let out a plume of smoke. “A Corona! Thanks Cap! I figured you would toss one of those nasty imported beers you drink.”
“Hey!” Troy exclaimed. “What’s wrong with my beer?”
“Nothing. But you didn’t grow up in Ireland.”
“Dude, you’re drinking Coronas, and you sure as hell didn’t live in Mexico. There’s no way you’re Mexican.” Troy shook his head.
“I am,” Jesús Soto said from the other side of the pool. He floated on a blue raft and raised his hand high. “And proud of it, you dirty gringos.”
“You don’t count,” the Jackal said.
“Why not?” Jesús’s face distorted into a quizzical look.
“Because you don’t drink, and all Hispanics drink.” The Jackal chuckled.
“Yo, man! That’s just not right,” Jesús said before he added. “And it’s a little bit racist.”
“Stating facts is not racism. It’s the truth.” The Jackal raised the bottle of Corona to his lips and chugged half it down before he took another drag from the cigarette.
“Didn’t Sarge tell you not to smoke in his pool or even near it?” Troy asked.
The Jackal shrugged. “Demote me.”
Sarge let out a deep sigh from over near the flaming hot grill. “You’re already on the bottom of the pecking order, dipshit. There’s no lower for you to go. Put that damn cancer stick out before I jump in that pool and do it for you. Unless you’ve got gills somewhere we can’t see, it won’t end well for you if I have to come in there.”
“Testy, testy, testy,” The Jackal replied as he mushed the cigarette against the side of the Corona bottle. “Considering what we do for a living, enjoying a few nicotine puffs should be applauded, not derided. Hell, I bet if Snoop Dogg was here, all of you choir boys would partake in whatever he passed around.”
“Snoop is clean these days, dummy,” Troy said.
The Jackal rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right. That’s like saying the pope is no longer catholic.” He flicked the extinguished cigarette butt at Jesús as his pool float drifted close to the Jackal.
“Cap!” Jesús yelled as he looked toward Troy. “I’m about to lose my cool with our resident trash talker.”
Troy shook his head. “Next mission if a negligent discharge occurs in the Jackal’s general direction, I got your back, Jesús. Friendly fire is a reality of war.”
The Jackal laughed. “You can’t hurt steel, fellas.”
Jesús splashed water towards the Jackal. “You’re a filthy, rotten, piece of trash. You know that right?”
“Damn skippy,” the Jackal retorted.
“Are the burgers and dogs done yet?” Dave “Digger” Riley asked from a lounge chair intentionally pushed out of the sun and far away from the splash zone of the pool.
“Keep your panties on,” Sarge said. “I’m working on them. You know it’s my day off, and I’m the one who bought the damn grub, right?”
“I can transfer you some Bitcoin if the food broke your budget,” Digger replied.
“It’s all our days off.” Harrison Collins, who everyone called Harry or Doc, sat at the patio table under the oversized umbrella. “And I’m famished.”
“The sun won’t hurt you,” Troy said as he looked at Harry relaxing under the shade. “Try coming out from under that umbrella and get some color on that pale skin of yours.”
“Cap, we spend most of our days under the scorching desert sun. I’ll be damned if I spend one of my few days of R&R baking under it while I’m home. You’re lucky I’m out here instead of inside in the La-Z-Boy recliner with the A/C cranked.”
“Man,” Sarge said. “I can’t remember the last time we sat around my pool and shot the shi…” He never finished the last word. The six cell phones lying in various spots around the pool area made a simultaneous, obnoxious alarm sound.
#
“Dammit!” The Jackal could not hide his irritated tone as he took a final chug from his Corona. “There goes our day off.” His face contorted into a snarl as he tossed the empty bottle into the grass next to the pool.
“I’ll call him,” Troy announced. “Maybe it’s a false alarm.”
“It’s never a false alarm, Cap,” Jesús said.
Troy dialed the colonel’s number. The rest of the men could only hear one side of the conversation.
Yes, sir, we’re all here. How long do we have?
Troy looked at his watch.
We can be there in ninety minutes. Yes, sir, we understand. You’re right. The men are about to be royally pissed off, and for good reason, since some pre-lunch buzzes are all for naught, and we’ve been on rotation for the past three months without a day off.
Troy ended the call. The five other men around the pool area looked at him, their faces downtrodden.
“So?” Sarge asked. “What’s the emergency?”
“He didn’t say, but we need to be at the base in ninety minutes, which means we better get a move on it. That’s just enough time to get quick showers at our places and grab our go bags.”
“Destination?” Digger asked.
“Crystal City, VA. It’s a neighborhood in Arlington.”
“Northern Virginia? What the hell is there besides a bunch of bureaucrats and yuppies?” The Jackal asked.
“A meeting we must attend,” Troy said.
“I guess we don’t have a say in whether or not we go?” Digger asked.
“Of course, you have a choice,” Troy said. “You can either walk to your cars and go get ready, or Sarge and I will drag your slack asses onto the plane in ninety minutes. Option A will work better for us all, especially my sore back.”
“Lovely,” Digger replied.
“Nothing like personal liberty when you’re an adult in the army, huh?” The Jackal asked.
Troy shook his head. “Dude, you gave up any idea of freedom the second you signed on Uncle Sam’s dotted line. Your soul may belong to the good Lord, but your ass belongs to the United States Department of Defense. At least for now.”
Four of the Omegas sulked as they approached the gate leading to the driveway. Troy walked around the pool’s perimeter and cleaned up discarded bottles and trash while Sarge turned off the grill before heading inside to take a fast shower.
Troy cleared his throat. “The Pentagon thanks you fine gentlemen for your splendid attitudes about giving up another stretch back home.” He said this before the four men walked through the gate.
The Jackal flicked off Troy, while the others just shook their heads as they continued toward their respective vehicles.
With a toothy grin, Troy replied, “Love you boys, too. See you on the plane in eighty-seven minutes.”
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