SKUL Serial Number: SS-18532-SI-1
Platoon Attachment: Whiskey
Team Assignment: Saber
April, 2004
The McDilley Clinic
"Was the medication really necessary, doctor?" asked the newcomer who identified himself as Rear Admiral Briggs only. His question was directed to Dr. Andrew McDilley, director of the McDilley Clinic, a five bed facility contracted by the CIA and several other three letter government agencies who would rather not be known. The clinic functioned as a stop gap for burned out agents who developed murderous and suicidal tendencies along with those who had finally seen too much. The latter, those whose minds had finally broken, the McDilley Clinic specialized in treating. But, strange things always seemed to happen to the patients of the McDilley Clinic. One too many in-house suicides brought the clinic and the scores of similar facilities across the country under the unwanted, unrelenting eye of Congress. An inquiry was conducted by an anonymous Senate sub-committee. The subject of that inquiry is now nothing more than a matter of speculation as it was discontinued nearly as quickly as it had been thrown together.
Someone had dirt on somebody, somewhere.
Dr. McDilley didn't know the man standing before him, but he did know his clearance was much higher than his own. Much higher than he'd ever seen, come to think of it. Another thing that was worrisome to the good doctor was simply the Admiral's appearance. He showed up too soon - hours only - after the last altercation to be coincidental.
Under Admiral Briggs' intense and unwavering stare, Dr. McDilley became very, very nervous.
The patient, who Briggs had been watching with rapt interest through the one way glass, had not raised her head from its bowed position, had not tugged against her bound hands, and had not moved in the slightest. In fact, the woman had not so much as blinked in the last several minutes.
"Yes, the medication was warranted. It's standard operating procedure, in fact. The patient gouged out the eyes of an orderly and nearly killed him before we managed to sedate her. She's a danger to herself and my staff." McDilley cleared his throat nervously, "I barely survived myself."
Briggs' eye patch twitched as the man scratched, unconsciously, at the scar etching his face. He looked at the bandages wrapped around his his neck and right forearm with disdain. "Yes, I can tell your life was in imminent danger of being snuffed out."
The incredulous tone in the Admiral's voice immediately put McDilley on edge. Everything was as he had initially feared. This was no happenstance visit.
Stay calm and stick to the story, he thought before quickly responding. "Yes, well, as I said, the sedatives are part of the protocol when a patient becomes combative." McDilley fidgeted in his seat. He was nervous and getting more-so by the minute.
"Any idea why the patient would have become combative?" asked the Admiral, digging deeper.
A brief smirk, arrogant to the point of being greasy, crossed the doctor's face.
"I'm assuming," the doctor began, "you've seen her file?"
"I have," replied the Admiral simply, offering nothing further.
"Then you know the patient is obviously unbalanced," the doctor said while shifting in his seat. The smirk had been fleeting and was gone now. The Admiral's indifference to the information locked in the patient's file gnawed at his subconscious. Something wasn't right here. Why was he getting the third degree from non-medical personnel?
"Unbalanced?" snarled the Admiral, his gravelly voice going cold. In the blink of an eye, the doctor was pinned against the glass of the one way window. He tried to break free, but the Admiral's grip was like iron. In his ear, the Admiral hissed words that sounded like old, dry-rotten leather. "I hardly call a woman who's fighting off an orderly and the physician attempting to rape her unbalanced."
"Rape," wheezed McDilley across the elbow planted over his Adam's apple. As the air slipped away, the pressure behind his eyes built, "I...don't know...what...you're talking...about."
The Admiral slammed the back of the doctor's head against the glass so hard even the woman in the room looked up passively.
"Elbert, show him."
Struggling to focus, McDilley looked over the Admiral's shoulder where a kid that could not have been long out of high school - if that - was sitting.. He had curly, brown hair, pasty skin, and wore wire-rimmed, Harry Potter-esque glasses. His fingers flew over his laptop's keyboard for a second before spinning it around. Making sure McDilley was looking, he tapped a button and the video began streaming. It showed an orderly dressed in white laying over the woman in the next room. Much larger than the woman, the orderly had gained purchase and was forcefully holding her down, keeping her hands wedged between her head and the mattress with his right hand. The left hand was yanking at his white scrubs in a pathetically undersexed attempt to get his pants down.
The screen also showed Dr. McDilley a few feet behind the orderly.
His pants were already down, and his dick was in his hands.
"Funny thing about these systems," said the brown haired kid, his own voice that of a razor, "is their redundancy. You just never, ever really get rid of any stored information. Probably should have thought about that video camera before attempting to rape a helpless woman."
At that moment the door flew open, and several armed MP's stormed in. Too tempted to slit the doctor's throat, Briggs flung him over a table and across the room where one of the MP's was waiting with open arms and a pair of handcuffs.
"Get this piece of shit out of my sight before I kill him myself!"
The men drug the doctor - kicking for his life and screaming obscenities at the top of his lungs - from the room. On the other side of the glass the Admiral saw a group of men and women - SKUL medical personnel - placing the woman gingerly on a gurney. A banana bag - IV fluids full of vitamins and minerals - was started before the woman was pushed out the door.
Elbert and Briggs walked down to the end of the hall where a window stood and looked out over the northern, wind-strewn beaches of Lake Michigan. For a long moment, they watch the lake water lap against the beaches crowded with driftwood. "I've always been awed by Michigan's upper peninsula, Elbert. The land is damned near friendly...in a raw and uninviting sort of way." His voice carried a hint of sadness for a moment before he looked to his younger charge. At twenty-three, Elbert wasn't far from the doctor's speculations. "I want her stabilized and prepped for travel, and I want to know as soon as she's strong enough to talk."
"Yes, sir," answered Elbert Stratham who stepped between the Admiral and the window. "What about this place?"
"Have the employees been rounded up?"
"Yes, sir," confirmed Elbert. "Arrested by the local deputies and taken in for questioning. All but the orderly. He ate a bullet as soon as they started beating on his door."
The Admiral smiled at that, then nodded, "Burn it. Burn it to the ground."
***
48 hours later
Aboard the U.S.S Silver Moon
Briggs studied the woman for a long moment before stepping out of the shadows of a back room of his quarters. There were three words - and only three - scribbled into her file by her mentor:
Reading her chart, Briggs would certainly agree that she was extraordinarily intelligent. You didn't get to her position, let alone at such a young age, and not be. Being fluent in five languages - English, Spanish, Russian, Arabic, and Farsi - only reinforced the words in her porfolio. Whispers within the community certainly added to her legend as a lethal operative. Just one look upon her almond eyes, dark hair, and olive skin would change anyone's perception concerning the definition of beauty. But, it was something else that drew Briggs to her like a moth to a flame. Something no chart or file could quantify with any accuracy.
He stepped into the main room of his quarters and poured two drinks before sitting opposite his visitor.
"Samantha Steele, I'm Rear Admiral Bartavious Briggs." He reached over his desk and shook her hand warmly. "The woman that's been fussing over you and keeping me at bay, is my assistant, Millie Studameyer."
Millie patted her on the shoulder and said in a motherly fashion, "I'll leave you two talk." She turned her eyes to Samantha, "If you need me, sweetheart, I'll be in the next room."
Sam - that's what she preferred to be called - smiled, "Thank you, ma'am." She placed a hand over Millie's just for a second, allowing time to bleed, before turning back to the Admiral. She had already taken in and understood her immediate area. Oiled teak wood and clunky, leather furniture; the tinge of whiskey fighting for air amid the cloud of cigar smoke; a chess set where a TV should have been...this was the room of the old and powerful.
But, where is this room? she thought.
"I think I need to know where am I, sir?" She emphasized the following, "Exactly."
The Admiral smiled, grabbed a huge cigar - Cuban - from a desktop humidor, and lit it. Several puffs later, he slid a drink across his desk to her, "I promise, before tonight's over with, given you answer my questions correctly, you'll know just where you are."
"And," she began to ask stiffly, "if I don't?"
Briggs just smiled, "You will."
4 hours later
High above the continental U.S.
Her eyes flew open, and her blood began to boil. What she had experienced was no dream, and she would make those responsible pay. She attempted to sit up, but two hands pushed gently yet firmly against her shoulders.
She was fading again, the edges of her vision were becoming black, and her mind began to muddle.
Off at a great distance that she knew really was only inches from her face she heard a sweet voice whisper, "You're safe, sweetheart." The hands pulled up the covers to her chin, just like her mom would, and the voice came again, "Just sleep now. You're safe."
***
48 hours later
Aboard the U.S.S Silver Moon
Briggs studied the woman for a long moment before stepping out of the shadows of a back room of his quarters. There were three words - and only three - scribbled into her file by her mentor:
Intelligent, Beautiful...Deadly
Reading her chart, Briggs would certainly agree that she was extraordinarily intelligent. You didn't get to her position, let alone at such a young age, and not be. Being fluent in five languages - English, Spanish, Russian, Arabic, and Farsi - only reinforced the words in her porfolio. Whispers within the community certainly added to her legend as a lethal operative. Just one look upon her almond eyes, dark hair, and olive skin would change anyone's perception concerning the definition of beauty. But, it was something else that drew Briggs to her like a moth to a flame. Something no chart or file could quantify with any accuracy.
He stepped into the main room of his quarters and poured two drinks before sitting opposite his visitor.
"Samantha Steele, I'm Rear Admiral Bartavious Briggs." He reached over his desk and shook her hand warmly. "The woman that's been fussing over you and keeping me at bay, is my assistant, Millie Studameyer."
Millie patted her on the shoulder and said in a motherly fashion, "I'll leave you two talk." She turned her eyes to Samantha, "If you need me, sweetheart, I'll be in the next room."
Sam - that's what she preferred to be called - smiled, "Thank you, ma'am." She placed a hand over Millie's just for a second, allowing time to bleed, before turning back to the Admiral. She had already taken in and understood her immediate area. Oiled teak wood and clunky, leather furniture; the tinge of whiskey fighting for air amid the cloud of cigar smoke; a chess set where a TV should have been...this was the room of the old and powerful.
But, where is this room? she thought.
"I think I need to know where am I, sir?" She emphasized the following, "Exactly."
The Admiral smiled, grabbed a huge cigar - Cuban - from a desktop humidor, and lit it. Several puffs later, he slid a drink across his desk to her, "I promise, before tonight's over with, given you answer my questions correctly, you'll know just where you are."
"And," she began to ask stiffly, "if I don't?"
Briggs just smiled, "You will."
***
Briggs tossed her rather thick file on his desk, "Fluent in five powerhouse languages, a borderline master thief, who was eventually recruited by the CIA at twenty, and in the field at twenty-three. While impressive, hardly an exception, more the rule, in fact. So, how is it you were the first woman to screen for Green Team?" Briggs was referring to DEVGRU's, the elite counter-terrorism unit formally known as SEAL Team Six, selection and training wing.
"Just in the right place at the right time, really." She brushed her hair out of her eyes.
"I've seen your file, and I don't believe it was as simple as that," Briggs stated matter-of-factly before taking a sip of his bourbon.
"Well, if you've seen my file, then you know what went into my acceptance to screen for Green Team," countered Sam, taking a sip of her drink in like manner.
"I have, but like I said, I want to hear it from you." The Admiral took a healthy - or unhealthy, depending on your perspective - puff of his cigar, "Now, if you will stop wasting our time, Mrs. Steele..." The Admiral sat back and allowed the words linger between them.
Sam was lost in thought for a few minutes. Briggs had no clue whether she was collecting her thoughts or deciding whether to tell the tale, but he suspected it was probably a little of both. In the low light of the room, he saw her face and body relax and knew she had made the right decision.
"Actually, there were nineteen of us that screened, I was just the only one that made it," she said as she finished the drink and walked around to the bar where she helped herself to a bottled water. "This was early in 2002, and as you know, we were already in Afghanistan. Everyone knew Iraq was a foregone conclusion. Even in those early days, most understood we were going to have to play dirty in order to affect any change in the region. Resources were poured into the special operations units at large like never before, and an open-minded approach to fighting was finally being embraced. People began talking, truly talking, and not about rules of war or policy, but about how to actually win. Out of those talks came the perceived need for female operatives who were capable of inserting into special missions units - specifically the Tier 1 units like Delta and DEVGRU - and help provide a more ironclad cover."
"The Artemis Project," interjected the Admiral.
His knowledge of such a top secret project, let alone knowing the project's code name, caused her to raise an eyebrow. "You've heard of it?"
He nodded while taking another sip from his glass, "Helped name it, actually. I pushed, both openly and behind the scenes, for the guys at DEVGRU to take lead on the project. They had worked extraordinarily hard on changing the SF community's perception of their work ethic, and I, along with many others, felt this would help prove it." He held her gaze with his own intense stare, "I'm glad to see I wasn't wrong."
Sam literally beamed at what she felt as praise, and Briggs was again struck by her beauty.
"Thank you, sir, but I have to say, it was the instructors at Green Team who should receive the accolades. They were nothing but professional from day one."
"Good to know," the Admiral said, genuinely proud of his fellow SEAL brethren.
"Yeah," agreed Sam. She was visibly excited now, and you could tell she loved what she had done.
That's good, thought the Admiral though he made no comment. You'll be running similar operations here.
"They took us through an abbreviated BUD/S that only lasted a month but was long enough for me," she laughed at the memory. "We lost three girls during that time. After that, we were put through an intensive combat dive phase along with weapons and jump training. All of this was crammed in between classroom workloads that would make any graduate student cringe. And, that was just to get to the point of screening for Green Team. At that point, there were eight of us left. Nine dropped on request, and one died during the training. Chute didn't open on a nighttime HALO jump."
"Bad deal," Briggs remarked.
"Yeah, sucked big time," agreed Sam. "Anyway, from that point on, we were inserted into a standard Green Team course. That bumped our number back to twenty-two - fourteen veteran SEALS and eight women from various intelligence services."
Briggs pulled her file toward him and thumbed through the pages until he found the one he wanted.
"Five finished the course," he remarked in a voice that was drenched with wonder and respect. "Four men...and you." Briggs tilted his tumbler her way, "Remarkable."
"In fairness," she added in a self-deprecating manner, "there was another that was right there, right there, but she got nailed for hooking up with one of the instructors - the only bit of unprofessional behavior I ever saw. She got the boot, and the instructor's involvement was swept under the rug. He was rotated - quietly - back to his home squadron, and as far as I know, nothing more was said. Sucked, but she should have known better."
Briggs could have asked her more about it, and she probably would have told him, but honestly, he didn't want to know. Instead, he got down to brass tacks.
"So, you survived Green Team," he read another page, "and ended up in Black Squadron?"
"That's right, Admiral." Suddenly, she was tense and guarded.
"Which brings us to how you ended up at the McDilley Clinic."
"Just in the right place at the right time, really." She brushed her hair out of her eyes.
"I've seen your file, and I don't believe it was as simple as that," Briggs stated matter-of-factly before taking a sip of his bourbon.
"Well, if you've seen my file, then you know what went into my acceptance to screen for Green Team," countered Sam, taking a sip of her drink in like manner.
"I have, but like I said, I want to hear it from you." The Admiral took a healthy - or unhealthy, depending on your perspective - puff of his cigar, "Now, if you will stop wasting our time, Mrs. Steele..." The Admiral sat back and allowed the words linger between them.
Sam was lost in thought for a few minutes. Briggs had no clue whether she was collecting her thoughts or deciding whether to tell the tale, but he suspected it was probably a little of both. In the low light of the room, he saw her face and body relax and knew she had made the right decision.
"Actually, there were nineteen of us that screened, I was just the only one that made it," she said as she finished the drink and walked around to the bar where she helped herself to a bottled water. "This was early in 2002, and as you know, we were already in Afghanistan. Everyone knew Iraq was a foregone conclusion. Even in those early days, most understood we were going to have to play dirty in order to affect any change in the region. Resources were poured into the special operations units at large like never before, and an open-minded approach to fighting was finally being embraced. People began talking, truly talking, and not about rules of war or policy, but about how to actually win. Out of those talks came the perceived need for female operatives who were capable of inserting into special missions units - specifically the Tier 1 units like Delta and DEVGRU - and help provide a more ironclad cover."
"The Artemis Project," interjected the Admiral.
His knowledge of such a top secret project, let alone knowing the project's code name, caused her to raise an eyebrow. "You've heard of it?"
He nodded while taking another sip from his glass, "Helped name it, actually. I pushed, both openly and behind the scenes, for the guys at DEVGRU to take lead on the project. They had worked extraordinarily hard on changing the SF community's perception of their work ethic, and I, along with many others, felt this would help prove it." He held her gaze with his own intense stare, "I'm glad to see I wasn't wrong."
Sam literally beamed at what she felt as praise, and Briggs was again struck by her beauty.
"Thank you, sir, but I have to say, it was the instructors at Green Team who should receive the accolades. They were nothing but professional from day one."
"Good to know," the Admiral said, genuinely proud of his fellow SEAL brethren.
"Yeah," agreed Sam. She was visibly excited now, and you could tell she loved what she had done.
That's good, thought the Admiral though he made no comment. You'll be running similar operations here.
"They took us through an abbreviated BUD/S that only lasted a month but was long enough for me," she laughed at the memory. "We lost three girls during that time. After that, we were put through an intensive combat dive phase along with weapons and jump training. All of this was crammed in between classroom workloads that would make any graduate student cringe. And, that was just to get to the point of screening for Green Team. At that point, there were eight of us left. Nine dropped on request, and one died during the training. Chute didn't open on a nighttime HALO jump."
"Bad deal," Briggs remarked.
"Yeah, sucked big time," agreed Sam. "Anyway, from that point on, we were inserted into a standard Green Team course. That bumped our number back to twenty-two - fourteen veteran SEALS and eight women from various intelligence services."
Briggs pulled her file toward him and thumbed through the pages until he found the one he wanted.
"Five finished the course," he remarked in a voice that was drenched with wonder and respect. "Four men...and you." Briggs tilted his tumbler her way, "Remarkable."
"In fairness," she added in a self-deprecating manner, "there was another that was right there, right there, but she got nailed for hooking up with one of the instructors - the only bit of unprofessional behavior I ever saw. She got the boot, and the instructor's involvement was swept under the rug. He was rotated - quietly - back to his home squadron, and as far as I know, nothing more was said. Sucked, but she should have known better."
Briggs could have asked her more about it, and she probably would have told him, but honestly, he didn't want to know. Instead, he got down to brass tacks.
"So, you survived Green Team," he read another page, "and ended up in Black Squadron?"
"That's right, Admiral." Suddenly, she was tense and guarded.
"Which brings us to how you ended up at the McDilley Clinic."
"Yeah," she said in a faraway voice. For a second she was as still as a stone as she stared at her hands. Finally, she took a deep breath and said, "In mid-2003, when the world was fighting a war, me and two other guys from Black Squadron inserted into Iran..."
The Admiral's ears perked, and he put his bourbon down. He'd read the reports; he knew the outcome, but this was the story he wanted to hear.
"...Tehran in those days was an orgy of three letter agencies, many not from our side of the pond. We were there to hunt down and eliminate any hostiles in the business of purchasing and using Saddam's WMD's. There were other HK - hunter/killer - teams spread across the region in Turkey, Syria, Yemen, even Egypt."
"How'd that go?" asked Briggs incredulously.
Sam chuckled bitterly, "You can imagine. It was like chasing a ghost. The WMDs just weren't there. No one, and I mean no one, knew anything about any biological or chemical weapons. We were just about to pack up shop when the hint of WMD hit the airwaves. From transmissions, we gathered they had been moved in and stored in a warehouse about five klicks south of the city." She took a last gulp of water and crumpled the bottle. Briggs could tell she was shaking at the memory. "I trained for direct assaults and went on them, but that wasn't my primary role on the team. I was there for intelligence gathering and to act as command and control which was the role I was playing the night we hit the warehouse. The guys went in hard while I monitored radio traffic and watched the live feed from their helmet cams. The werewolves were waiting on them, and tore them apart in seconds, leaving only ribbons of flesh as a reminder of their lives." She winced at the memory before adding, "Sometimes at night, I can still hear Roger screaming, but the worst dreams are when I think of Tommy. We all called him T-dog. He didn't scream. He couldn't. His throat had been ripped out."
Sam held herself for a long while sobbing softly, and Briggs gave her all the time she needed. Finally, she said, "Anyway, it took me a week to cross over the border and into Iraq. I was dehydrated and at death's door when a squad of Royal Marines from Great Britain happened to see me wandering aimlessly across the desert. I don't remember too much after that, only where I woke up." She tilted her head, "And, you know all about that."
Realizing the story was over, the Admiral stepped to the bar and poured another drink. He motioned to Sam, wondering if she wanted the same. She declined. Drink in hand, he sat back down, took a sip, and leaned over the table, "Werewolves...really?"
Sam looked like she'd been slapped. She thought this man truly believed her story, but now, obviously he didn't. Her eyes turned to slits, and her voice was cold and stiff, "Yes...sir."
Briggs took a swig of his drink, smiled, and tilted his glass in her direction, "How 'bout I show you around the place?"
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