Excalibur Team, a Chronicle Ch. 2

York was now on another C-37, bound for Fort Bragg, North Carolina. He already had his first pick for an Excalibur team member selected. As he sat, now wearing a set of Multicam pattern BDUs, still with the USSOCOM patch proudly displayed, York read through the personnel list of potential team members that Gearing had given him through the early morning sunlight on the plane. It was surprisingly long, and contained some troops from US allies. Gearing had explained that President Tracey had asked some other nations for help on this matter, and had gotten it through favors and skilled political maneuvering. There were even a few female names on the list, and York had to remind himself that the US and several other nations had finally opened up Special Operations to women ten years ago, so naturally several had risen through the ranks to be recognized as skilled warriors. Having been raised by a Vietnam vet dad who was a bit of a hippie from all the Southeastern Asian meditation and incense culture, York had no qualms about having the female gender involved in SpecOps, provided they passed selection like everyone else.

         Once the plane touched down, York breezed through security until he reached Delta’s own section of the base. Walking through the door, York was greeted with many handshakes and greetings, most congratulating him on the new captain’s bars on his uniform. Finally, the man he was looking for met him.

         “Well ho-lee shit, am I dreamin’, or did someone just give my officer friend here another promotion?” the asker was none other than First Sergeant Franklin Ackerman, the point man in York’s now former team, he was also York’s first choice for an Excalibur member. Ackerman was a skinny six-two black, born in Alabama, but raised just about everywhere in the world due to his father’s enlistment in the army.

         “Great to see you too Frankie, what say you step outside with me for a second?” Ackerman looked somewhat inquisitively at York, but responded in his usual sarcastic tone

         “Why captain, this is so sudden…”

         “Jackass, C’mon,” Ackerman followed York outside, tomahawk dangling from his belt.

         “So, what’s up?”

         “Job offer, Frankie boy; long story short, the president wants me to put together a multi-national SpecOps team called Excalibur for complicated jobs. No BS, no budget battles, no over watch from the brass, ‘cept for POTUS and SecDef, oh, and our Intel officer and CO, an ex-SAD Major named Gearing. My first thought was to recruit from the very best in the world available to me, but I figured I’d miss your wise-ass on patrols.”

         “Yeah, I grow on ya like that. So, any ideas yet for team members?” York noted just how quickly his friend hopped on the bandwagon. But Ackerman had a sense of loyalty that rivaled that of most hunting dogs, plus he was being offered a chance to escape some of the most hated parts of being in SpecOps.

         “A few, but I wanted to get your help and input first. I think I've got an XO, gunner, and explosives expert picked out, but two are in Europe. Plus you're a scout, giving us five people; how many more you think we need?” Ackerman thought about it for a moment and replied

         “Need a sniper, maybe a linguist, stealth expert maybe, and a hacker definitely. Figure we should get everyone trained up to advanced medical status so we don’t need a dedicated medic. Oh, and maybe even someone from the SEALs or SBS if we need to go swimming. That makes what, six to nine people? That’s plenty for the kind of jobs a team like Excalibur would do.”

         “Agreed; tell you what Frankie, you research and recruit here in the states, and I’ll get the MG man, and then fly off to Europe. If you see anyone you like, give me a call. By the way, you're Excalibur-three.” York e-mailed Ackerman a copy of the recruitment list on his phone, along with Major Gearing’s cell phone number.

         “Sounds good York, I’ll get everyone over to this Gearing guy, by the way, our new bosses do know that we’ll probably need at least a month of training just for the team to be able to work together smoothly, right?” York had an “oh shit” moment just then, but quickly decided that it would probably be covered.

         “Gearing’s a pro; he was the guy who came up with this whole concept he’ll have us covered.”

         “Yes sir, guess we’ll have the drinks afterwards. Now, can I go to wherever home base is?”

         “There’s a C-37 on the runway, tail number Yankee-Bravo-Three-Six-Niner which will take you there, it’s somewhere in Colorado. Gearing will be there to meet you. Don’t leave just yet; the gunner I’m looking at is on base.”

         “Okay partner, I’ll keep the seat warm.” And with that, Ackerman went to retrieve his belongings. York started walking to Fort Bragg’s training facility, as his second Excalibur candidate would be free in about twenty minutes.



         

MOUT Training Facility, Ft. Bragg North Carolina



The MOUT (Military Operations Urban Terrain) training facility at Ft. Bragg was one on the best in the army, with full mockup town and live fire ranges. Some of the Green Berets of the 3rd Special Forces Group were just finishing up another exercise. Out of the stream of men; there weren’t any women in the Green Berets for reasons of the job being dependent on cultural interactions, which women had trouble with in many parts of the world; York spotted Staff Sergeant Alexander Ellis. His red-brown hair was longer than in his ID picture, some of the freckles had faded, and he had a slightly heavier build, and his grey eyes had picked up a slightly cloudy quality to them from his experiences in Afghanistan, but Ellis still looked like a slightly oversized high school student. York approached him, making sure his captain’s bars were easily seen.

“Sarn’t Ellis!” Ellis quickly pulled his shooters earplugs out, cleared his Mk.48 machine gun, spotted the captain’s bars, and did the usual military drill. York just pulled Ellis aside after introducing himself.

“So, Ellis, I hear you're one hell of a support gunner.”

“Well sir, since everybody seems to think so, sir, I guess I am.” Ellis’s voice had a slightly scratchy quality to it, as if he had been yelling day or two ago.

“That’s the kind of attitude I like. Tell me, how many kills do you have?”

“Sir, I really don’t keep track of stuff like that, and even if I did, all of that is classified.”

“That’s exactly the kind of guy I’m looking for, and you could tell me, I’m a Delta” York reached into his jacket pocket and produced a page of presidential transfer papers. Ellis eyed them with suspicion.

“Sergeant Ellis, the commander in chief is starting a brand new black ops team, we’re currently recruiting. Now this is top secret, but what we do is perform operations sent down directly from the president and secretary of defense. We circumvent the chain of command; we deal with no bureaucracy and no red tape. We need something, we get it. You’ll see a helluva lot of action, and you’ll leave the army with a nice big pension, with a lot of stories for your kids once you have a few.”

“No shit sir?”

“No shit sergeant, these here,” York waved the transfer papers, “are your transfer papers onto my team, all you need to do is sign.”

“This is a volunteer outfit, sir?”

“Every single one of us.” Ellis considered this for a moment, then responded

“In that case, you got a pen, sir?” York took out his pen from his pocket and handed it along with the transfer papers over to Ellis. York spoke to Excalibur-four.

“Now, call me York when we’re not on duty and sir when we are. The team is called Excalibur, you're Excalibur-four. We’re based out of Colorado. Treat it like a permanent duty station. Now grab your belongings and report to the airfield, your transport is a C-37, tail number Yankee-Bravo-Three-Six-Niner. Excalibur-three is on board, he’s a skinny Alabama black guy with a tomahawk, name’s Frank Ackerman, he’s Delta too. I’m Excalibur-one, and I’m your immediate CO and team leader. Excalibur-actual is my boss, he’s waiting at HQ, and his name is Major Everett Gearing, ex-CIA SAD. He knows his stuff. Now, -three won’t be staying long at HQ as he and I will both be out recruiting. So, I’m leaving you in charge of setting up some CQB exercises, I figure they’ll be great for building trust.”

“Sure thing York, I’ll be right off, oh and call me Alex.”

“One last thing Alex,” York reached into his pocket again and pulled out a rank chevron, “I figure you deserve a promotion just for joining my team, congratulations Sergeant First Class.” York handed the stripe over and saluted; after it was returned, Ellis left for his belongings and York started making his way over to the base’s gates. He had a flight to catch.





Aer Lingus Flight 216



York didn’t like flying commercial. Even in first class, there were still delays and security, plus the crap with customs. York had managed to get past security quite easily with his black diplomatic passport, law enforcement officer ID, and official permits for firearm carry in Ireland and the UK. Of course, he had still startled several people in the security line when he had presented his weapons to the TSA officer along with the permits and cards necessary to carry them. Annoyingly, it had started a round of pointing and whispering, which would point out York to any potential hijackers. Not that it really mattered, York was confident in his shooting skills and his Kevlar vest. Plus security was tight as usual.

In fact, the most annoying part of all this was the fact that York couldn’t have a drink off whiskey whilst he had two guns and a knife on him. But it was really of no concern; York placed the ability to effectively defend himself over alcohol any day. Besides, with York’s Irish name and heritage, plus the fact that the flight was going to Dublin, drinking would only add to the stereotype.

With nothing to do for the next several hours, York went over the profile on his explosives expert again. Sergeant Emma Finnin of the Irish Defense Force’s Army Ranger Wing was one of only twenty women to ever have passed the Special Operations Unit’s rigorous selection and training. The picture on the screen of York’s smart phone was old, taken at the end of Finnin’s basic training; it showed an attractive, smiling seventeen year old; her blazing scarlet hair shorn to army regulations, eyes green as the Irish countryside, and she was dressed in a crisp, green Irish Army uniform, with brand new three-star private’s stripes and stars. The picture was now ten years old, Finnin had undoubtedly changed since then, she had joined the ARW just two years after she finished basic. Finnin had passed ARW selection with flying colors, breezed through continuation training, and was active duty for the next seven years, having seen combat several times in peacekeeping operations in Africa. All reports noted that Finnin had near magical abilities with explosives, good combat senses, and was cool under fire. Especially interesting was the story of how Finnin had saved her team when she suddenly stopped dead to find that she and her team were entering a minefield. Those were the instincts York wanted in an Excalibur member.





York was now walking through Curragh Camp freely, courtesy of the president calling ahead. Or, mostly freely, York did have an ARW minder watching over him, a corporal named Dempsey. Well, it meant that the ARW were professionally paranoid then, that was good. As they walked, Dempsey pointed out some of the buildings and training facilities, York finally decided to ask a few questions.

“So corporal, do you know Sergeant Finnin?”

“Aye captain, she was me explosives instructor for continuation trainin’, damn near magical with the stuff, plus the lass is a real smasher, but don’ tell ‘er I said that, she’ll probably throttle me. Ah, here we are.” York and Dempsey neared the live fire range, or “kill house” as it was called in the business.

A team of ARW commandos were just finishing up an exercise. York spotted Emma Finnin out of the group, and immediately saw a problem with recruiting her. Finnin had only gotten more attractive in the ten years since the boot camp picture was taken, in fact, she was too attractive. Finnin’s hair was still the same blazing fiery red, though it nearly reached down to her shoulders and had taken on a slightly wavy quality to it; and her face still retained the same flawless bone structure. The only thing that had changed was Finnin’s eyes; they still were green as the Irish countryside and still had a youthful defiant spark to them, but there was something else there: the wisdom of combat, and a very slight, almost unnoticeable sunken quality to them. So Finnin had killed; that was good, York only wanted veterans on his team. But the tight black combat BDUs that Finnin had worn under her armor, that was now all she wore, showed off the…other parts of her body a little too well.

Eyes front soldier York told himself, ¬you’re probably going to be her CO, and right now you are not any normal man, you are an officer of the US Army in a foreign nation, you are an ambassador to your country, so act like it. There, thinking like that cleared up York’s mind a bit. He walked forward with Corporal Dempsey until they reached Finnin, who was stacking up her gear on a table. Dempsey handled the introductions.

“Sergeant Finnin, ma’am, may I present to you Captain Cathair York Kelsey from Delta Force.” That was one good thing about people here, they pronounced York’s first name the proper Irish way; Ka-Heer, no one butchered it. Finnin turned around, gave a bright genuine smile full of white teeth and held out a hand.

“Captain, great to meet you, I'm Emma Finnin, but call me Em. I didn’t know we had cross-trainin’ with Delta.” Finnin’s voice had a full, musical quality to it, and she spoke with the easy casual confidence of a Special Forces veteran. York shook the offered hand.

“A pleasure to meet you Em, call me York. And you are indeed right, there isn’t a cross-training exercise on, I was actually hoping that I could have a private word with you.” It was funny how good training worked, even buried in the subconscious, unused for years, it still popped up as needed. As he spoke to Finnin, York kept remembering his dad’s lessons on charm. Annoyingly, that training had just surfaced when he needed to be professional; somewhere along the line, York had linked the sight of an attractive member of the opposite sex directly to that training. That would have to change. Finnin gave York an inquisitive look, and then agreed “Why not? Dempsey, watch me gear,” with that, Finnin and York took a walk through the base. York decided to start.

“So, Em, I’ve heard that you're good with explosives.”

“That’s right, not ta brag, but I don’ think anyone in this unit is better than me. So what would a man like you want with the likes of me, York? Surely the lads ‘n lasses down in Fort Bragg don’t need little ol’ me for nothing?” As Finnin casually leaned against a wall, a light breeze blew across, making for a fiery show across her face, which she nonchalantly brushed away.

“Well…Delta doesn’t exactly need help but I do. Now, this is all highly classified, but the President of The United States has just started up a new multi-national black ops team with me as the team leader. He gave me free reign to recruit whoever I want, so long as they were on an approved list of SF operators from various participating countries. You were on that list, Em, and, well, there was no one on that list that came anywhere your technical expertise.” Finnin looked at York for a seemingly endless ten seconds with a thoughtful expression on her face before responding.

“An’ if should accept this position York, what kind ‘o jobs could I be expectin’ to do?”

“All sorts, but expect to do mostly stuff that never happened. We’re all NATO so far, so expect that we may covertly enforce NATO orders and resolutions. UN resolutions might also be lumped in there. Also, we need to be ready for covert VIP extraction and other urban ops and the like. Basically, everything you’re trained to do with the words “extra-covert” in front. But, since we report directly to POTUS and the Secretary of Defense, we don’t deal with any bureaucracy or red tape; we get anything we need, anytime. Em, the Army Ranger Wing doesn’t see much action; you're one of only fifty active duty Fianòglach that’ve seen combat. Join my team, and not only do you get to use the skills you’ve learned, you get to come back to the Rangers with some real experience.” York waited, and hoped that the speech had worked; if not, he was out of luck; Em Finnin was the absolute most qualified person for the job. Finnin finally spoke again, her expression serious.

“You give a convincin’ speech York, but if I join, I hope you know that my ultimate allegiance is, an’ always will be, to the Republic of Ireland.”

“I would be disappointed otherwise.” Finnin then dropped her serious face and smiled.

“In which case, Captain Kelsey, I join. Now can I know exactly what this hell-raising horde you're raisin’ is called and where it’s based? I’m assumin’ America.” York spoke as he reached into his pocket for Finnin’s transfer papers.

“Were called Excalibur, and we’re based out of Colorado,” seeing how Finnin approved of the unit’s name, York continued on “and I assume you have no problems working with an Englishman, because the team’s XO will probably be a guy named Edward Crowne from the SAS.” At that, Em just let out a laugh and took the papers and pen.

“York, don’ worry about that, I don’ live in history, in fact, me name is English. I got nothin’ but respect for the SAS, hell, neither of us would have our jobs if it weren’t for ‘em.”

“That’s good to hear Excalibur-five. I’m sending you off stateside with me, but only after I recruit –two, so you're on me for now. Pack your gear and say your goodbyes, cause the flight is tonight at 2300 hours.” Em immediately noticed the slightly more officer-like tone in York’s voice. He was her CO now.

“Yes sir, me mates’ll get it, an’ I can sent all me stuff over via mail, right?”

“Right; our CO, an ex-CIA SAD Major named Everett Gearing, assured me that we’ll all have large apartment sized living spaces. And don’t call me sir unless we’re on a mission, and in contact. I’m just York when we’re just hanging around, okay?”

“Sounds good York,” Em signed the papers and looked up “Well then, I’ll go get me gear, feel free to come with me. So, as far as me mum an’ dad know, I’m a liaison to the US, right?”

“Right,” with that, Em led off York to retrieve her gear, with York trying hard, and mostly failing to, keep his eyes straight and keep his mind clear. Oh great, York thought, this is going to be complicated if I can’t lock it down, maybe I’ll have Excalibur wear extra baggy clothes. Yeah, that might work. What York didn’t want to admit was the fact that he really didn’t want to lock it down. Just the opposite in fact, but that was a thought that York immediately denied.





Coronado, California



Thousands of miles away, on the California coast, Franklin Ackerman was having similar thoughts. After dropping off Ellis in HQ, Ackerman met Major Gearing properly for all of an hour while the C-37 fuelled up. Ackerman immediately liked both of them; he and Ellis had traded war stories over the flight, and Gearing had met him in full combat gear, having taken it upon himself to test the HQ’s kill house personally. HQ was a large complex of houses made to look like farmhouses or estates in the plains Colorado had between the hills and mountains. Ackerman had learned that the buildings had everything Excalibur would need, and that they were mostly interconnected through an underground system, with a few sections being completely subterranean. It also sported a helipad, which was how Ackerman had gotten to HQ from the local airport. Not that Ackerman had seen much, he had only the time to meet Major Gearing, down a quick meal, drop off his things, and then get back on the aircraft.

Now having flown across the US in about half a day, Ackerman was glad to have his feet on solid ground, even if the beach wasn’t exactly solid. Ackerman had thought he had hit the jackpot in Chief Petty Officer Brianna Keys of the Navy’s SEAL Team One. She was a hacker, combat swimmer, CQB and stealth expert, and qualified sniper. Now that he was looking at her, Ackerman had one more thing to backup his assertion. As Keys rose from the waves of the Pacific, dazzling droplets of water fell from her lightly tanned, muscular, but lithe body as the warm May sun shone. Keys’ neck-length bleached hair, which was lined in several places with light blue and pink highlights, rustled with the light breeze and went nicely with her cream white bikini. In short, right then Brianna Keys was a modern version of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus.

Yep, definitely hit the lotto. Unlike his friend, Ackerman didn’t have a command position, so he was free to allow his mind to wander a bit. Plus, Frankie had always been the relaxed one of his and York’s old team. Soon, Keys reached Ackerman, and he threw her a towel. He got a real nice view of Keys’ ice blue eyes when he threw it. She thanked him as she caught the towel, and sat down on the lounge chair next to him.

“So, Bri, what do you say?” Keys had told Ackerman earlier that she would consider his offer only after she had her daily swim, which had been put off by a surprise Counter Terrorism exercise. Apparently, five miles in the water helped SEALs think.

“You know, I think I like the idea of your new unit, I’m just the resident nerd here anyways.”

“Bullshit, I've seen you're file.” Ackerman said this genuinely, from her skill sets, Keys was a consummate black ops operator. Sure, she couldn’t really do work like Ellis’s, at least, not in most parts of the world; but that was a different job. Keys’ job was to either perform a quick surgical strike, full of shooting and explosions; or a total stealth operation, moving in to recon a target in the dead of night, leaving no trace, or maybe getting a single shot off to assassinate an enemy commander. She was tough, and she had been tested in both the SEAL’s legendary BUD/S selection and training course, as well as multiple combat tours in Afghanistan.

“Yeah, well, not a whole lot of female SEALs out there, so we don’t exactly get a huge amount of respect.”

“That’s one thing I just don’t get. Over at Delta, we had only about ten gals down there, all in the Counter Terror wing. An’ we respected the hell out of ‘em, ‘cause they went through more to get there than we did.”

“I wish everybody had your mindset Frankie, which is one reason I’m joining you, now what’s this unit called?”

“We’re called Excalibur, and by my roster, you're Excalibur-seven.”

“Great, I’ll get back to base and we can get my stuff, anyone else you need to give your spiel to?”

“Just one, but he’s close by.” Ackerman was interrupted by his chirping phone; the screen indicated that it was Major Gearing who was calling, Ackerman answered after a digitized voice confirmed the call was secure and encrypted.

“Major, sir.”

“How are things going with Keys, Sergeant?”

“She just joined sir.”

“That’s good, Excalibur-one tells me that he has been successful in recruiting Excalibur–five; a lady named Sergeant Emma Finnin from the Irish Army Rangers. Are you on your way to talk to Sergeant Kozak yet?” asked Gearing, referring to the man that Ackerman had planned to recruit as the team’s sniper. A Force Recon marine, Gunnery Sergeant Soren Kozak had a score on completion of the USMC Sniper School to rival the legendary Vietnam snipers Carlos Hathcock and Chuck Mawhinney, plus he had decapitated the Taliban in a whole area of operations, taking out their command one at a time with his rifle from long distance. It had also noted that he had a seemingly supernatural tracking ability; along with enough talent at covert urban work that the CIA was already looking at him, along with the Secret Service for their counter snipers. His psych profile had said that while he was somewhat withdrawn and more quiet than other marines, he was still a rock solid, cool-under-pressure operator.

“I was just about to sir.”

“Don’t bother, I've already gotten in contact with him, we were wrong about where he was supposed to be anyways, he was already in Quantico, he’s signed on and heading for my position. Just get here with Keys. All we have to do wait for Captain Kelsey to get his -two.”

“Copy that sir.”

“Just RTB sergeant, Excalibur-actual out” Gearing and Ackerman hung up their phones and Ackerman faced Keys.

“Plan’s changed, tell you what pretty lady, hows ‘bout you and I go get yo’ stuff and fly the hell outta here.” Keys laughed with a sound that made Ackerman’s heart skip, and she gave a full, dazzling smile.

“Sounds good cute ‘Bama boy, lets go.” Keys quickly went to the changing tent, then she and Ackerman drove off to the airport, trading war stories all the way, with Ackerman adding a little light flirting in just for fun.





“The Killing House” Credenhill, United Kingdom



         York felt adrenaline burn through his system as he moved through the house. Despite all his training and experience for CQB, or Close Quarters Battle, York was scared, and rightfully so; he was going up against Company Sergeant Major Edward Crowne of the 22nd SAS regiment, the king of the killing house.

         Crowne had listened intently to York’s recruitment speech earlier, and had agreed to join, but only if he could face his new CO and explosives expert in a game of what was colloquially called “extreme paintball.” It was a simple game really; two forces went up against each other, with real guns loaded up with paintball rounds. Win by not getting shot. Usually, force on force training was fast paced and brutal; put two or more SpecOps teams in a small area. Think fast, or die.

But the game that York was playing now wasn’t a fast paced shooting fest; it was a slow and cautious one, all slow, methodical movement, using all his senses to look for his opponent. As he made his way over to the entrance to a hallway, York had a decision to make, stay here, and wait for Crowne, or keep moving and hunt him. Got to move, York thought, he’s too good for ambushes. Of course, moving in on an SAS sergeant who was something like ten years York’s senior wasn’t going to be easy either, but at least it was theoretically possible for York to win. As he moved to clear the hallway, the most hated of things to clear, York flicked his MP5A2’s selector switch to full-auto, and moved in. When he neared the end of the hall, York pressed his ear to the door and listened, his shooters earplugs enhancing his low range hearing. At first, there was nothing, and then York picked it up, the tiny, nearly undetectable sound of British Army boots against the killing house’s floor. Boots must have been new, else they would be silent. York didn’t question the blessing, he just took it. Waiting until he was sure Crowne wasn’t setting him up, which was still a distinct possibility, York moved back a step, raised his gun, drew a large breath, and kicked in the door. Adrenaline made time slow, and as the door crashed in, York’s mind reverted his advanced CQB training. Go in, watch peripherals. There! Target in combat stance, five meters, fire, Fire, FIRE! But in the slow motion of combat, the MP5 wasn’t coming up fast enough, and Crowne was reacting pretty damn quick, with his own MP5 coming up. In York’s mind, his father’s voice called at him as the weapon’s sights came up. Front sight focus, and pull the trigger smoooothly back. York’s eye instinctively focused on the front sight, leaving his rapidly reacting target a blur. It was one of the key tenants of accurate shooting, and no one quite knew exactly why it worked. But York didn’t really care about that then; he just pulled the trigger, which seemed overly long and gritty in the extreme tension. York set off his burst of fire just as Crowne did; feeling multiple impacts on his chest just after the trigger broke.

         Just as fast as it began, the action stopped. Crowne and York both looked down at their chests, now covered in paint, and then at each other.

         “I’d call that a tie,” said Crowne, in his lower English accent.

         “Bullshit Eddie, I pulled the trigger half a second before you did.”

         “I’d call it a quarter York but fine, you won. What gave me away?”

         “New boots Eddie, the rubber clicks some.”

         “It’s just as well then that it’s training, I guess Em will want to take a shot at you.” York considered this, then decided he would rather see two of the troops he was supposed to lead duke it out.

         “No Eddie, I think you two should go, maybe she’ll surprise you. And I want to see how my team works.”

         “Yes sir,” said Crowne with a smile, pulling off his goggles just as York did. They had to get outside to wash the paint off their black BDUs.





         The match between Finnin and Crowne went as expected, the kill house king had, of course, won. But all things considered, Finnin hadn’t done so badly against a hostage rescue and CQB veteran over ten years her senior with about that much more experience. York made it a point to make it so that the entire team would be up to each other’s standards. That was, just as soon as all the team members actually met each other.

         Good god is this how David Stirling felt when he started the SAS? reflected York, letting the weight of his assignment finally set in, two days ago I was a second lieutenant on leave, and now I’m heading up a brand new international black ops unit. What the hell’s next? York then reflected on the irony that that in a way, the old army “be all you can be” propaganda was coming true for him. But York would deal with the challenges of his new command. After all, he was a Delta Force officer.



Lock n’ Load.