maratonista: (Default)
[personal profile] maratonista
The I in Team (1/10)
R
Jensen'Cougar, Gen
There is no I in Team


The face looking up at Clay from Gen. Jackson’s desk was just familiar enough to make him uncomfortable. The glossy print was pinned neatly to the front of a bulging file. Stamped across it were the words BOP – Hazelton Penitentiary and Federal Prison Camp.

“Let me get this straight.” Gen. Jackson had been the one to give Clay his unit and the last two promotions. Clay knew the General trusted him, but even he had to admit his proposal was highly unorthodox. “You want me to allow your crack black ops team - a team forged for the protection of citizens of the United Sates I might add – to break into a federal prison in order to murder one of the inmates?”

When it was put like that, Clay could see the issue. Fortunately for him, he was just as talented as bullshitting as Jackson.

“No sir.” He said, catching the look of bewildered amusement on Jackson’s face and running with the knowledge that he wasn’t in the shit just yet. “With your approval I want to take my team in to assess the threat to a member of the United States Army whose unique skills have saved the CIA half a billion dollars in the last eighteen months.”

Not that Clay ever planned on telling the kid that.

Jackson sat back in his chair and eyed Clay closely. He was one of a handful of men who could make the Lt.Col feel like a rookie again.

“And that can’t wait until he is granted parole next month?”

Clay looked back down at the file and the face pinned on top. There in was the problem. “No sir, I believe it can’t.” Because Clay had every intention of doing exactly as Jackson accused him, and murdering the motherfucker the first chance he got. Far better it happened in prison and could be passed off as just another unfortunate ‘accident’.

Jackson shook his head. “I won’t condone this, Clay.” He said, but before the disappointment had time to sink in, the General leaned forward and slid the file back to Clay. “Remember why your unit was created.”

Clay took the file and nodded. “Thank you for your time, sir.” With the folder tucked under one arm, he saluted and backed out of Jackson’s office.

In all honesty, he’d not expected an outright ‘yes’ from Jackson, or anyone else for that matter.

But Clay did remember why he had his team, and it was for this very reason.

Fuck the red tape, and fuck the rules.

Jackson might not be officially allowed to agree with him, but it was a fact of the military that despite the American Dream, some men were worth more than others, and Cpl. Jake Jensen was worth ten of his father.




Fort Bragg, North Carolina in July was a dusty, hot, fucked up pain in the ass. Clay had spent half his damn life based out of Bragg. It was as much his home as anywhere, and there was just enough he loved about it to override the fact that he absolutely fucking hated living on base, even for a short amount of time.

Mostly based in the town of Fayetteville, Clay knew every bar worth visiting, and had been banned from over half of them.

They were on crossbow rotation for the rest of the month, meaning that despite the long, boring hours of inactivity, none of them could risk hopping on a flight back home for the very real possibility of a coupe kicking off in the middle of Ass-fuck, nowhere, and the five of them being kicked onto the next C-130.

It left Clay with a pretty testy unit.

Roque had taken to hanging out with old Delta buddies, and Clay sure as hell didn’t begrudge him the change of scenery, while Cougar vanished at 0500 every morning and didn’t return until nightfall. Clay really didn’t want to know what he got up to.

Jensen occasionally dropped into ‘Swick’ – apparently some of his pre-Losers ops involved a high level of psychological warfare, and he was always welcome as a friendly face around the JFK Special Warfare Center. Pooch maintained that they’d just sat Jensen on the end of an open channel radio and he’d talked the enemy into submission. Jensen laughed and despite talking just as much as always, didn’t say a damn thing about his time there.

The 82nd Airborne Division were also based at Bragg, and Pooch seemed to know every pilot serving there. He’d spend most of his days with them doing maintenance with members of the 3rd BCT.

In the evenings, they’d regroup and go for a beer in one of the bars Clay was still allowed into.

General Jackson had hooked them up in a block of housing reserved for troops on rotation. It was a bland grey building, two storeys high with three bedrooms, a bathroom and something that passed as a kitchen-turned-rec room.

When Clay arrived back, he was the last. Pooch’s car and Cougar’s motorbike were parked in the drive, and he heard Roque’s booming laughter and Jensen’s non-stop chatter the second he walked through the door.

He kept the file tucked into the back of his pants, hidden by the fall of his jacket.

“Yo, it’s the boss!” Jensen greeted from his squashed position between Roque and Pooch. They were all crowded around one of Jensen’s tiny laptops and staring intently at the screen. “Youtube, man! It’s fucking awesome! Have you watched Simon’s Cat? Seriously, that fucker is evil.” Pooch rolled his eyes. “Cat’s a fucking creepy! It’s the eyes, man. They just fucking stare at you and I swear to god, when someone finds a way of assessing latent intelligence in felines and accurately comparing the results to the appropriate human receptive, it will prove that they are all evil fucking geniuses.”

Clay nodded, not really paying attention, and pulled his wallet out of his pocket. “You’re in change of mess tonight.” Clay told Jensen.

Pooch looked up from the screen in alarm. “No, Clay, wait. Remember last time? How can you not remember last time?”

“Hey!” Jensen pouted. “It wasn’t that bad!” he protested, shooting Cougar a nasty look when the sniper chuckled from his position by the window. “I’d like to see you do better! Aren’t all Mexicans supposed to be awesome cooks? That’s what TV says! You’re ruining the stereotype, my friend!”

“Jensen’s not cooking.” Pooch clarified, in case Clay had missed his earlier protests.

“I can fucking cook if I want to cook!” Jensen yelled back, then paused and shook his head. “Why am I wanting to cook?” He asked himself. “I hate cooking. Clay, I am not cooking.”

Clay still had his hand on his wallet and waited for them all to talk themselves into silence. Sometimes that took longer than any patient man could handle. He handed Jensen fifty bucks. “I ordered from China Chef.” He said calmly. “Take my car.”

Jensen was so relieved to be spared cooking duty that he took the keys without stopping to question why Clay was entrusting him with his baby.

“Thank fuck for that.” Pooch muttered, shaking his head as Jensen grabbed his own wallet and his jacket from the couch.

“Want me to pick up beer?” Jensen asked, hovering in the doorway. “Yes, I’ll get your prissy, expensive shit.” He said to Cougar, who hadn’t even looked up from where he was sitting.

They’d once gotten Cougar completely wasted, and all he’d said was “this beer tastes like goat piss.”Jensen had then launched into a long rant about the true use limes in Corona. But the point had been made.

The door slammed behind him, and Clay fished out the file.

He didn’t doubt for a second he would have any trouble convincing them. While they didn’t subscribe to murder, they were quick to close ranks against anyone who moved on theirs.

And it would happen, sooner or later.

“Losers, we’ve got a job to do.”

TBC



From:
Anonymous( )Anonymous This account has disabled anonymous posting.
OpenID( )OpenID You can comment on this post while signed in with an account from many other sites, once you have confirmed your email address. Sign in using OpenID.
User
Account name:
Password:
If you don't have an account you can create one now.
Subject:
HTML doesn't work in the subject.

Message:

 
Notice: This account is set to log the IP addresses of everyone who comments.
Links will be displayed as unclickable URLs to help prevent spam.

Profile

maratonista: (Default)
maratonista

August 2010

S M T W T F S
12345 67
891011121314
15 16 17 18 19 20 21
22 23242526 27 28
2930 31    

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags