Page 1 of Signed, SEALed, Delivered

CHAPTER ONE

Zach

“Know what I miss most about back home?”

The whizzing sound of stray bullets buzzed in the air beside us. Nudging Reaper with my left elbow, I tipped my head in the direction of the two Boots sitting against the hill below us. These boys are so new; I can smell their fear from a mile away. Hell, if I looked hard enough, I’d bet they still had a price tag on them somewhere.

“Not getting shot at as the sun comes up?”

The pair hadn't noticed the six of us sitting not five feet behind them. They were too busy ducking down the second they heard the sound of stray bullets ricocheting off the rocks around them. Too green to realize by the time you hear the ping, it's too late.

“Nah,” the guy on the right says, leaning back as he pulls a cigarette out of his pocket, trying to act as if he isn't about to shit his pants. His hands are shaking as he flicks the lighter several times before the cherry red ember forms on the end of the white stick. So far he’s my favorite of the pair and I need a good name for him, one to tease him with once he realizes what is sitting behind him.

“The smell of warm pussy first thing in the morning.” He admits, taking in a big breath of air and crossing his boots at the ankle.Reaper grunts, furrowing his brow as we both listen to the Boot trying hard to sound like a man. Another bullet whizzes past, maneuvering between the thin trees and embedding in the rock beside his head. The falling pebbles catch the attention of the kids below us; wide eyes do a double take, as the reality of where we are sinks in. Another bullet sings by, this time giving me a taste of the dirt on the back of my neck.

“Motherfucker,” the darkness surrounding us does nothing to hide my anger. “Reaper, you wanna do something about the chicken shit who’s shooting at us?” My words are a day late and a dollar short as he methodically points his gun at the ridge across the way. Matthew Parish, known to the five of us as Reaper, holds more records associated with firearms than any man I know. Too bad he can't claim the majority of them, his SEAL status forbids it.

He licks his thumb, sliding the wet digit along the side of his riffle, something he has done since I met him during Hell Week. Hailing from West Virginia, he’s the third son of a pig farmer and only member of his family to ever leave the state. Two shots from his rifle and the spent casings eject to the side, followed by a wad of spit mixed with tobacco into the dirt. The Army kids below jump and cover their heads, as if it will do any good. We all watch and wait for return fire, when there is none, the morning rays of sunshine are allowed to come up in silence.

“Mornin’, boys.” Havoc, Alex Nakos, fresh out of medical after a gunshot wound from our last mission, tips his helmet at the wide-eyed men below. Havoc can turn anything into an explosive, and I do mean anything, messing up our enemy’s world in the process. Havoc comes from a huge Greek family, complete with endless stories of his mother's obsession with marrying him off to a good Greek girl. Every week she sends him a care package, it’s filled with some of the best sweets I've ever tasted. Fuck, I’d marry anyone she wanted me to if it meant I could eat the shit she sends.

“Sir,” they say in unison, their hands twitching in an automatic attempt to salute him. For weeks these kids are taught how to hold their hands in a straight line against their eyebrow, only to be threatened if they do it out here in the desert.

“No, Sirs around here,” he corrects. “I’m Havoc, this guy to my left is Viper.” He introduced, sending a back handed slap to my left arm. I’d been given the call sign when I was able to crawl through a narrow gap during Hell Week, sneaking up on the team we were competing against. I managed to silently infiltrate their six and take the flag they were protecting. The leader of the team called me a viper, since I was able to maneuver into tight spaces and strike without a sound.

“This ugly fuck here is Doc.” Logan Forbes is more than just your standard issue Corpsman; he is a man of incredible honor and integrity. When he was about to head off to med school, his family discovered an uncle was embezzling from their company, leaving it on the edge of bankruptcy. He refused to give up on becoming a doctor, so after making a few phone calls to some lawmakers in Washington, he signed up for the military in exchange for tuition. A year into his training, his family was able to regain the company's holdings. He could have gotten out of his contract with the Navy, but he didn't. On the final day of his internship, the Twin Towers fell in New York City and he was on an airplane by dinnertime the same day to the Middle East.

“On his left, is Chief.” Aiden Sawyer, had found the girl he was gonna propose to on a porn web page one evening. When he confronted her about it, she brushed him off saying it was better than stripping on a stage. He returned the ring to the jewelers and joined the military the next day. Chief is the oldest of our group and by far the wisest. Which is why he’s our operations guy; he has skills, which would make MacGyver scratch his head.

“On the very end, is Ghost,” Ryan Biggs, the sixth of seven brothers, his family owned a remote ranch in Montana. His grandfather had been an avid HAM radio user and passed his skills on to Ghost. His dreams for the future didn’t include herding cattle and mending fences, so as soon as he graduated from school he enlisted in the Marines. We all swear he can make the sand of the desert carry a message for him.

“Last but not least, the man who just lit up your asses with hot rounds, killing the piece of shit taking pot shots, is the infamous Reaper. Skilled marksman and expert bullshit detector.” The Boots turned to each of my team as Havoc introduces everyone. I watched their peach fuzzed faces as they begin to deduce who and what we are. Our hair is longer than the regs allow and we’ve all grown a beard. Every one of us carries a better gun, and has some kick ass toys the general public has no idea are made. Our uniforms are different as well; no marking, no name badges, not a single insignia to identify us as SEALs.

“His radar is accurate as usual. You, Correra...” Havoc reaches out tapping his gloved finger against the nametag of the cocky Boot. “...Are full of it. The last piece of pussy you had was when your momma brought you into the world, kicking and screaming and pissing down your leg.” Leaning in his direction, Havoc takes a deep and dramatic sniff through his nose. “Not much has changed, still pissing yourself.” His buddy snorts, smacking him in the chest, capturing his attention and blank stare as the rest of us laugh at Havoc’s teasing.

“Fuck you.” Correra retorts, clambering to his feet and stomping away. “Awe, don’t go away mad,” Havoc calls to his retreating and angry steps. “Just fucking go away.” Shaking his head back and forth, silently judging the thin skinned boy. If Correra was going to survive his time in this place, and the military, he would need to grow a set of balls and be prepared to dish out his own brand of insults. Life out here is tough; being isolated from your family and friends, waiting days, sometimes weeks, for the next supply truck to bring a letter from home. You learn to rely on your team for more than just watching your back, and you learn the value of life and how quickly it can all change.

“Wow, never thought I'd see flowers in the middle of the desert.” The sun fills the valley revealing beautiful poppy fields, as the remaining Boot stands with his hands wrapped around his rifle, staring off in awe of the valley of bright pink and white flowers below. Korengal Valley is known for two things: it's the most dangerous enemy stronghold in Afghanistan and it's the largest poppy producing area in the Middle East.

“You will see and do shit here you may or may not be able to forget. Drugs and dust storms will fill your dreams and star in your nightmares.” I tell him, shifting my ass into a new position, the numbness had begun to settle in hours ago. The Boot looks over his shoulder, a single line of sweat sliding down his pale face and into his still clean looking uniform.

“Those flowers,” Reaper breaks in, while whittling a stick with the edge of his knife, the shavings arching out and into the dirt. “Are fucking poison.” Boot looks back towards the valley, “Seriously?” he says, disbelieving.

Reaper stops his destruction of the piece of wood and raises his head as he rests an arm on his knee. “Yes, really. Every spring and summer, that field, and a number of others you can’t see from this ridgeline, produce a poppy flower. The plant itself is attractive, not just with the beauty it gives, but the wealth it brings to the fucker who owns this land. Or at least thinks he does.” Turning to the side, Reaper spits the wad of chew he had in his mouth to the ground.

“Why is that, sir?” Boot lowers himself onto bended knee, tipping his helmet back and removing his sunglasses.

“Where you from...” Reaper leans in to get a closer look at his nametag, “...Moore?”

I should've held in the snicker I let slide into the conversation. As the leader of this team and this Boots’ superior officer, I have a duty to keep control, yet I know what is about to come. Reaper may appear to be this hillbilly from the Ozarks, but he is one smart motherfucker with a photographic memory.

“Colorado, sir.” Moore responds proudly.

“Well, Colorado, I need you to listen to me and listen good.” Moore nods his head in agreement like a three year old wanting a second scoop of ice cream. “There are things you have to know about this place if you want to survive it. First, Aarash Konar the cold hearted prick who is the reason y’all are here, instead of back in the fucking air conditioning. Aarash has his hands in many deep pockets, including Al- Qaeda and ISIS. Being the largest supplier of heroin in the world, he is able to get anything he wants and right now, that's more land to grow his crops. Which is why you’re here, to push back the lines he holds along the ridge where the sniper was shooting from this morning.”

Moore listened with interest, his face contorting like most who hear this shit for the first time. The pink of his cheeks reflecting his youth and ignorance of what was happening in the world around him.

“Then why not just send in a few fighter jets and bomb the shit out of the ridge? Instead of wasting our time and money?” Moore isn't the first to question this, and he won't be the last. United forces are labeled as being the grand authority with the biggest dick and fiercest warfare.

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