Thanks of a Grateful Nation
This is Fiction
They gathered in a group of twelve, all in civilian attire. They stood in the carpark of a school just after drop-off. Their vehicles surrounding them. They had no knowledge of the chaos their presence caused the faculty, who had no way of finding sufficient parking on their commute. Other than the occasional parent dropping their child in late to class — the coast was clear. They could have been the P&C discussing a fundraising drive.
Cynthia was aware of Darren and Trevor. She had served two tours with them fifteen years ago. She wondered if it was on their recommendation that she was recruited. The Commanding Officer wore a suit with no other identifying marks. Whatever the operation was, it was to be covert.
“Look around and you will see twelve faces. Beyond that, I don’t want anyone referring to anyone else in any identifiable way. I don’t care if you served two, three, or four tours with each other. Here, in this setting, you do not know each other. When I say 'got it' — I want you all to nod as if you understand,” he barked. “Got it?”
They all nodded as instructed.
“As I say, there are twelve of you… For now. One day, and that day may be soon — we do not know — the twelve may become fifteen. It may become twenty. It may become eighty. It may become a thousand. It may go beyond that. The point is it all starts with you, and for now, you are the only ones who need to know…” he explained.
The twelve looked on with hardened, gum-chewing eyes. Cynthia didn’t let on how confused she genuinely was.
Trevor, her combat buddy from the eighth battalion, broke the silence.
“I got a question,” he said.
“Questions at the end,” the commander barked back.
“I ask now, or I’m leaving,” he threatened.
The commander pointed towards the abyss.
“You know the road outta here,” he said, calling his bluff.
Trevor leaned down, retrieved his bike helmet from the gravel, and placed it under his arm. He held out a fist to Darren and another man whom Cynthia didn’t know and bumped theirs in appreciation and admiration. They exchanged small talk and laughed briefly amongst themselves. The commander grew agitated.
“Move your ass, soldier!” he yelled. His voice boomed off the school walls that lined the entrance to the car park. Trevor changed his jovial tune and frowned. He fronted the commander and puffed up his chest. The commander sized him up in return and the two men faced one another as their noses were inches away from touching.
“Do you know me?” he asked in a muted tone with his teeth clenched.
“I won’t name your rank, but I know who you are, Trevor Suncliffe of Petriville, Alabama!” the commander yelled.
“So you read my file?”
“I’ve read all of your files! I know all of you and what you’ve done to receive discharges from the armed services!”
“So that means… You know what I’m capable of, and yet you choose to engage me anyway. You’re a braver man than I thought.”
Trevor moved his left hand and cradled it with his right. He clenched his fist and cracked all of his knuckles at once. The commander took a step back and removed his jacket. The remaining eleven all gathered around and began to chant in support of Trevor. Darren placed his hands on his shoulders and leaned into his ear and whispered. Cynthia couldn’t make out what he was saying but gathered it was in relation to strategies for bare-knuckle combat.
The door of a Bentley that was parked in the far corner of the car park opened, and another suited operative in sunglasses closed it with a slam. This garnered the attention of some of the recruited soldiers, but not enough to steer them away from the fistfight that was mounting. The commander raised his white knuckles in front of his face in a pose that appeared second nature. Trevor didn’t raise any but kept his thousand-yard stare transfixed on his opponent.
A pistol fired and a bullet whirled past the twelve men and the commander, smashing into the window of a ten-year-old Toyota hatchback. A vehicle that belonged to a faculty member, doubtless. No one complained. But everyone went silent and turned to see who had fired the bullet.
“Enough of the horseplay,” said the approaching suit number two. He removed his aviators and an earpiece and placed them inside the breast pocket of his jacket. He looked like Secret Police — this was later confirmed.
“What my colleague has failed at trying to inform you… I will do so now in no uncertain terms,” he said.
Trevor took a step back from the commander and focused his attention on this new figure. He had the eyes of all the former soldiers on him. The commander looked on, indignantly.
“You no doubt have lots of questions. I will shed light on some of them right now, and some of them you will discover as the mission progresses. Essentially, what you need to know begins with this…”
He took a breath as he paused to look every soldier in the eye, making sure all attention was focused on him.
“I’ll start off with who… You are all ex-military. You all have a file that recommends you are never to be re-engaged in service. You all know the reasons why — based on your individual circumstances,” he explained.
The twelve looked amongst one another. Trevor gave a nod to Cynthia, who looked away in shame.
“Next is the why… We have summoned you here because it is not, at this moment in history, safe to meet anyway in any other setting. At this high school, there is a police dispatch a mile away, and a court right next door, an FBI office two miles over, and a police precinct across the road. If anyone approaches and causes any disturbance, they risk a state and a federal immediate response.”
The twelve looked around the neighboring business district that lined the roads that crisscrossed the high school vicinity.
“Next is the what…” the suit continued.
“Hold up,” Trevor said. “The why didn’t answer anything. Why are we here?”
The suit nodded.
“It was my intention to answer that in the what…” he said.
“Okay…” Trevor said. “Enlighten us… What is the purpose of us being here?”
The suit buttoned up the first notch of his jacket.
“You all have the skills and expertise and political understanding that we are looking for in the recruitment of a special project that must remain off the books. You will form a plainclothes militia that will be tasked with carrying out the orders of Chancellor Wilco directly…”
The penny had dropped. The twelve began to laugh amongst one another. Trevor, the de facto leader, spoke up again.
“Chancellor Wilco needs us to do his dirty work? Doesn’t he have the Secret Police for that?” he suggested.
The suit retrieved his aviators and placed them back over his eyes.
“He does… and we are delegating that work out to you all. You will be compensated with full pardons, higher-than-average wages, health benefits, security access, and the thanks of a grateful nation,” he said. The commander walked over to stand alongside his colleague.
Trevor spat on the floor.
“What kind of work are we talking about here?”
“Let’s just say Chancellor Wilco is experiencing some pushback jurisdictionally from being able to enact his legislative agenda,” the suit said.
“Judges are throwing out his executive orders, and it’s pissing him off,” the suit commander spelled out.
“Right… And you want us to pay these judges and anyone else a little visit? Am I right?” Trevor asked, turning to the eleven.
The silence of the suits answered him.
“Right, I thought as much.”
“Any other questions?” the gruff said as he placed his oversized jacket over his enlarged frame.
“Only about eighty-six thousand,” Trevor said.
“I have a question,” Cynthia asked with a raised hand. The suits looked over to her.
“You didn’t tell us when… When does this all begin?”
“All of you go home… Go about your business… “ The suit explained. “Soon you will receive a package with a phone and a weapon and a set of instructions. How you carry out your business…”
He removed his glasses a final time.
“Is your business.”
The suits turned their backs and headed for the Bentley.
The newly formed secret militia watched on as the darkened, reinforced vehicle drove off. They wanted to discuss the proposal, but no one was willing to speak. The twelve split up in the direction of their vehicles without any elaboration. All seemed to be happy with the arrangement. It was an engagement with benefits; what could go wrong?
Cynthia tried to block out the sick feeling she was developing in her stomach.
She was the last one to leave the car park.
She spotted an injured cat with blood trickling down its right paw, limping towards a drainpipe adjacent to the road that lined the school. The cat looked in her direction, directly in the eye, before it continued to limp on. Cynthia thought she could see tears in its eyes.