Rating and Rank: E-7, Chief Petty Officer
SKUL Serial Number: AL-03490-SO
Platoon: Whiskey
Team: Saber
Call Sign: Tweeker
"Is that what you want?" screamed Lukas Lattimore before taking a swig of his beer.
"No, Daddy," answered young Ansil, his son, meekly. Ansil was ten at the time, tall for his age, but on the chubby side. He had white-blond hair, baby blue eyes, and a self-deprecating sense of humor that drew others to him.
Everyone...except his dad.
Born to Lukas and Jill Lattimore, Ansil was the youngest of four boys. His dad jokingly called him an accident when drinking beer around his friends. What may have been a joke to Lukas hurt his son deeply though Ansil carried that hurt in silence. Lukas already had Ansil's life planned, and, by God, he'd make sure his son would live out his dreams. They were dreams he wanted for himself at one point; only, he never found the time to put the beer can down.
"That's right!" Lukas screamed again. This time, he wobbled on drunken legs as well. "You damn sure don't want that, Anse, and you know why?"
"No, Daddy," he said in a small voice as his friends dispersed.
"Because that would make you a pussy!" screamed Lukas again. He crumpled the beer can and grabbed another before saying, "Catch!"
Ansil reached out for the ball he tossed, wanting more than anything to catch it, but he didn't. Ansil picked up the ball as a trickle of blood fell over his lip, joined in the corner of his lip by a salty tear. His nose was bloodied, yet he stood stone still, knowing what would come next would be worse.
His friends walked away with their heads hung together. They were talking about him and his daddy; he knew it, and he didn't blame them.
***
WOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMM
With the final horn blow, Ansil's high school career came to a close. No longer a chubby kid, Ansil stood nearly six foot, five inches tall and weighed a lean, muscular two forty-five. An outstanding athlete, he was one of the more highly recruited tight ends in North Dakota history, and he'd just helped his high school win a state championship.
People were everywhere on the field, and everyone was hugging, slapping hands, and clapping shoulders. Ansil, having caught two touchdown passes, was right in the middle of it though he was looking for one person in particular. He finally got a glimpse of her or the curve of her leg in any case.
Sarah Scarle.
Head cheerleader, class president, and prom queen, Sarah was headed to the University of Minnesota the following fall. Scarle, as her friends called her, had the world by the tail and by all accounts, had become interested in Ansil. They hit it off as chem lab partners the year before, and became friends before the first session's test tube had been blown apart.
And now, Sarah looked to him with her patent, heart-melting smile on one side of the field while his dad stood with yet another college recruiter on the other. His mom stood off to the side with the other moms singing the school song.
His dad's legs wobbled. He was drunk, again.
Ansil looked at the recruiter, who was obviously no more interested in being near his dad than he was, and shrugged before turning his back.
Scarle and a group of their friends met him on the other side of the frenetic melee. It took him and a handful of his teammates less than five minutes to shuck their gear, shower and get into clothes.
They hit the open doors of Scarle's car at a run.
Strangely enough, Ansil and Sarah ended up in the back seat.
***
He could still smell Sarah's hair and taste her lip gloss when he pulled his old, beat-up Chevy back into his parents driveway. He stepped from the truck and immediately bristled. He could hear his dad yelling at his mom from outside the house. He almost pulled off and went to a friend's house, but couldn't leave his mom alone.
Wouldn't leave her alone in the house.
He knew who his dad was mad at, and it certainly wasn't his mom. Not really, anyway.
Ansil's dad immediately turned his anger on him as stepped through the door, "Just where in the hell have you been?"
"Out," was Ansil's only reply.
His dad, a big man himself, stepped nose to nose with Ansil. The younger Lattimore could smell the beer on his dad's breath as he screamed, "And you piss away a visit to North Dakota State for what? What!? A piece of ass?"
Ansil's anger boiled over, and he shoved his dad, hard. Drunk and caught off guard, his dad and the beer he held spilled across the kitchen floor. Slowly, he stood, "You little, no good, ingrate." Lukas Lattimore was seething, and spittle flew from the corners of his mouth, "Get out!"
Jill grabbed her husband's arm, "Lukas, no!"
Without looking, his dad shoved his mom away and only managed to turn his eyes on her when she yelped in pain. She had fallen against the counter and cut her forehead.
"You see what you caused me to do, bo..." Lukas Lattimore never got to finish his thought.
Ansil saw to that.
***
Ansil lived with his oldest brother who worked for a bank in Fargo long enough to graduate high school and ship off to the Great Lakes Naval Training Center to begin his Navy career. He wanted to see the world and entered the Navy thinking he'd probably like life aboard a ship. Instead, he fell in with a group of guys who were being mentored by a couple of Navy SEALs assigned to the post. The PT, performed an hour earlier than the class PT, was more challenging than anything Ansil had ever done, but the SEALs warned it paled in comparison to what they would face at BUD/S. Still though, Lattimore loved it. He craved the pushups, pull-ups, timed runs, and swims, and he found himself wanting to live the SEAL-life more and more with each passing day.
There was just one problem. He was already designated to the Navy's Hospital Corpsman (HM) A school upon completion of basic. It took more than a few phone calls and interviews, and he'd still have to complete his A school training before he'd be allowed to begin training as a SEAL, but he would be allowed to make the attempt.
In fact, the Navy welcomed it.
***
Ansil "Tweeker" Lattimore, now a Leading Petty Officer, was the picture of what most people envisioned when they thought of what a Special Operations soldier, particularly a SEAL, looked like. He was a blond headed, blue eyed, heavily tattooed, six foot five inch mountain of muscle that had an extreme addiction to both the weight room and his paleo diet.
As graduate of the Army's prestigious Special Forces Medic Course - 18 Delta or 18D - along with dozens of other training courses, he was an educated warrior in the strictest sense.
As graduate of the Army's prestigious Special Forces Medic Course - 18 Delta or 18D - along with dozens of other training courses, he was an educated warrior in the strictest sense.
Ansil first met Dane Stackwell in 2000, at Camp Billy Machen, where the young Ensign and Class Leader was undergoing SEAL Tactical Training or STT. After three deployments with SEAL Team Five, Lattimore was now teaching combat medicine to the would-be SEALs, and Stackwell's leadership ability and can-do attitude caught the veteran SEAL's eye. Lattimore watched as Stackwell lumbered in, barely able to stand, from the Combat Conditioning Course. The Combat Conditioning Course was a timed thirteen-mile run, in one hundred degree heat, with full gear and weapons. Their entire load over the length of the course was about sixty-five pounds. Along with a distance equating to a half marathon, the course is interspersed with shooting stations in which the trainees have two minutes added to their time for each missed target.
Stackwell crushed the course and recorded one of the fastest times in STT history.
Ansil, the corpsman on duty at the finish line, watched with curiosity as Stackwell listened to the updates from the course regarding the progress of the trainees. He knew Stackwell was close to an enlisted man named Marcus Tolar. The two had been swim buddies at BUD/S, and he knew it was Tolar's - Toad to his classmates - progress that he was the most interested in.
Lattimore became even more interested as the last update came in. Tolar was the last man out but had just moved through the final shooting station with only the last three mile run to finish. Apparently, Tolar was still moving, still running, still on pace to finish under the cut-off time, but by all accounts, was struggling mightily. Hearing the report, Stackwell walked up to Instructor Patterson - the SEAL responsible for the evolution - and asked, "Instructor Patterson, am I secure from the evolution?"
"You are."
Stackwell shucked off his gear without another word, grabbed a couple of water bottles, and stepped back out into the heat. Following his lead unquestioningly, Stackwell's classmates did the same.
Patterson looked to his fellow instructor in confusion, "What in the hell are they doing, Tweeker?"
"Hell if I know."
"You cool with this?" Patterson asked nervously. "Last thing I need is for the whole class to collapse from heat exhaustion."
Lattimore looked around the room. It was just the two of them now. He shrugged, "Too late to stop them now."
Ten minutes later, Tolar rounded the last bend in the trail. Behind him were his classmates, led by Stackwell, and they were cheering him on, urging him to keep pumping his legs.
"Well, I'll be damned," Patterson remarked, obviously impressed.
Marcus Tolar collapsed when he crossed the finish line, but he made it across under the time cut-off.
***
That night, after the evening meal, Lattimore hailed Dane as he left the mess hall, "Stackwell, can I have a word?"
"Sure thing, Instructor Lattimore."
The two walked off into the shadows of the Chocolate Mountains south of San Diego. Lattimore put a dip between his lip and gums before offering the can to Dane.
"I wanted to tell you that was a helluva job out there today," said the instructor to his student.
Dane shrugged, deflecting the compliment, "Preciate it, Instructor Lattimore, but I've always been a pretty good runner."
"Not talking about your time," replied Ansil before he spit. "I'm talking about how you went back out in the shit for your buddy. That's teamwork, Dane, and that's what we want to see out of you guys. You showed nuts out there today, and set a good example for your classmates of what a good officer does - or should do. Always take care of your guys, and your guys will take care of you. Got it?"
"Got it," Dane acknowledged before adding, "but it was Marcus who really showed nuts out there today."
"How so?" asked Lattimore, curious to what was on the Ensign's mind. "He barely made it under the cut."
"But, he did. The dude is five foot nothing and weighs under one sixty soaking wet. He carried just under half his body weight over the course of a half marathon in one hundred degree heat. He's not much to look at, but pound for pound, Toad's the toughest sonavabitch I've ever seen." Dane was quiet for a second then added, "That's balls, Instructor Lattimore."
The two talked for a minute or two longer before Dane walked back to his barracks. Ansil watched him go. He meant for it to be a teaching point from an enlisted veteran of multiple deployments to a young officer who would be leading men - maybe even himself - into battle. Instead, Ansil found himself unsure who had learned more.
One thing he was sure of was the fact he liked Stackwell, and he was sure Stackwell was going to make a fine SEAL officer.
***
VIRGINIA BEACH, VA
2006
Chief Petty Officer Ansil Lattimore was in his usual perch, the corner table of his unit's unofficial hangout away from their base.
His unit was the same one it had been for over four years - DEVGRU. Red Squadron specifically.
They had just rotated back after a long, bloody deployment to Iraq, and as he stared into the depths of his glass, Lattimore started mulling over leaving the Navy. Without warning, another glass clanged against the wooden table, and the opposite chair was filled with a muscular figure with blond hair and blue eyes.
They could have been brothers.
In reality, they were brothers in all but blood.
"Heard Red Squadron was back," said the newcomer nonchalantly.
"Yeah, well, I heard you tucked your tail under your ass and ran," retorted Tweeker in a not unfriendly tone. In fact, he was smiling. "Weird rumors are coming down the pipe. Shit that can't possibly be real. PMCs and just outright vigilante bullshit right here at home." Tweeker pointed a finger his opposite's chest, "And your name is all over it, hombre."
"Bad?" asked the newcomer with a shrug. He had no desire to go down that road just yet, so he changed tact.
"Total shit show, bro," confirmed Lattimore. "Lost some good people this last go-round." The Chief thought for a moment or two, ran his hands through his hair, and whispered, "We're not in this shit to win it. The whole deal is as fucked up as a football bat, and it's getting hard to tell the good guys from the bad."
"How much time you got left?"
"Two months," Tweeker acknowledged between slugs of beer. "Paperwork's filled out, but it's still at my apartment. Not sure if I want back in...what the fuck you care, anyway?"
Dane Stackwell took a slug of his beer, then leaned over the table, "Wanna try on a new suit, Tweeker? See how it fits?"
An hour later, Dane stepped from the bar. He had a plane to catch, and more people to talk to.
Two months and one day later, Ansil Lattimore reported to Section 8's selection course.
His unit was the same one it had been for over four years - DEVGRU. Red Squadron specifically.
They had just rotated back after a long, bloody deployment to Iraq, and as he stared into the depths of his glass, Lattimore started mulling over leaving the Navy. Without warning, another glass clanged against the wooden table, and the opposite chair was filled with a muscular figure with blond hair and blue eyes.
They could have been brothers.
In reality, they were brothers in all but blood.
"Heard Red Squadron was back," said the newcomer nonchalantly.
"Yeah, well, I heard you tucked your tail under your ass and ran," retorted Tweeker in a not unfriendly tone. In fact, he was smiling. "Weird rumors are coming down the pipe. Shit that can't possibly be real. PMCs and just outright vigilante bullshit right here at home." Tweeker pointed a finger his opposite's chest, "And your name is all over it, hombre."
"Bad?" asked the newcomer with a shrug. He had no desire to go down that road just yet, so he changed tact.
"Total shit show, bro," confirmed Lattimore. "Lost some good people this last go-round." The Chief thought for a moment or two, ran his hands through his hair, and whispered, "We're not in this shit to win it. The whole deal is as fucked up as a football bat, and it's getting hard to tell the good guys from the bad."
"How much time you got left?"
"Two months," Tweeker acknowledged between slugs of beer. "Paperwork's filled out, but it's still at my apartment. Not sure if I want back in...what the fuck you care, anyway?"
Dane Stackwell took a slug of his beer, then leaned over the table, "Wanna try on a new suit, Tweeker? See how it fits?"
An hour later, Dane stepped from the bar. He had a plane to catch, and more people to talk to.
Two months and one day later, Ansil Lattimore reported to Section 8's selection course.
***
"You really expect me to believe your unit, one of, if not, THE most capable units in the military today was taken apart...by werewolves?"
The question came from an Army psychiatrist. They were nearly seventy-two hours into the interrogation, and Tweeker was fed up with the bullshit. He leaned into the table until the handcuffs caught and growled, "I honestly don't give a fuck what you believe. I've told you the same story, no matter how differently you ask the questions. So, why don't you run outside and grab the first cockholder you come to, ask him to come in here, and put a bullet in my head. That way, you don't have to look at me anymore, and I don't have to listen to your whiny-assed voice any longer...ma'am."
***
"...your whiny-assed voice any longer...ma'am."
Section 8's commanding officer turned to another screen and said, "Bart, I've got three of my best operators - one of which singlehandedly got this unit off the ground - on the hook for possible multiple murders, and given no one in their right minds would believe their story, they...are...fucked. Need a little help here."
General Pete Pattridge didn't create Section 8 nor did he handpick the men - that was Dane's job - but he was the figurehead charged with leading the operation. At the end of the day, the President and the Joint Chiefs sleep better at night because he manned the helm. Pattridge knew Washington, and could maneuver through most any political environment the city or the military had to offer. This one scared him, though.
"Pete," Rear Admiral Bartavious Briggs began in a gravelly voice, "you were read in on day one and knew, given Section 8's mission, that this was going to happen sooner or later."
"Jesus Christ, Bart!" Pattridge's anger flared briefly before he was able to get a grasp on it. You didn't get to his position losing your temper at every chance. "What do you want me to do?"
"Exactly what you need to," answered the Admiral. "Sit them in an office for a few months, isolate them away from their friends, then interview them again. If they don't break, cut them loose. We'll handle it from there."
"So, you're saying it's real? Jesus, Bart."
"Yes, Pete, werewolves are real, and sooner or later, we're all going to have to make a stand if we hope to stop them."
No comments:
Post a Comment