Kilo-61 (Damned of the 2/19th Book 19)- Ongoing

Old Lessons Come to Roost

Fellston Agricultural Airfield
South Dakota, United States of America
5 April, 2002
2250 Hours

I stood there and watched as the Chinook landed, bouncing slightly before the rotors disengaged. Donaldson stood next to me, him in the modern ACU's, me in old ass chocolate chip BDU's, with the rest of our crew standing by the vehicles we'd pulled out of the storage cache and refit. The side door opened and one after another the men inside dismounted.

All wearing current gen gear, all moseying over, ducking down out of instinct from the slowing rotors, which were just starting to sag. Four men jumped out dressed in suits, one of them slipping down on knee and two of them helping him up while the fourth walked straight toward us.

I counted twenty men total, counting the four guys in suits. Twelve from the SEALs, 2 from the Nightstalkers, four agency goons, which meant someone had slid two more people in and hid them in uniforms.

So who were they and who had added them?

The guy in the lead, his suit slightly rumpled and his hair salt and pepper, was smiling as he approached, reaching into his suit jacket. I  tensed, my hand shifting behind me. The guy looked like everyone's creepy uncle. Not the child touching kind, the kind you just knew had a manifesto hidden in his desk and at Thanksgiving Dinner would start talking about how he strangled hobos to make sure they didn't turn out to be pod people.

"Deputy Director Timmons," He said, pulling his hand out to reveal he'd grabbed a pack of cigarettes with a book of matches shoved between the cellophane and the pack itself. He looked at me for a long moment, opening up the pack and pulling out a single cigarette. He struck a match, cupping his hand to hide the match and the cigarette, still looking at me with watery eyes behind rimless glasses. He had jug-ears and his hair was cut like he was a member of the Beatles. He was obviously expecting me to say something and looked slightly disappointed.

"You don't remember me, do you?" He asked, shaking out the match and dropping it into his suit pockets.

"No," I growled at him.

"Well, you were pretty badly injured. Your medics kept you under heavy sedation the entire week I was there," He said. He grimaced and took a drag off his cigarette. "Started smoking that week, stress was intense, but it was worth it."

"Atlas?" I asked.

"FSTS-317, to be exact," He said. He glanced over his shoulder, "None of those men are with me, I'm here for a completely different reason," He shook my hand and I managed to keep a good poker face when I realized he was palming a USB drive off to me. The other three agents were close enough to hear him as the rotors started spinning up so that the helicopter could leave.

"I know you have a bad history with the CIA, Staff Sergeant," Timmons told me, "Frankly, I don't blame you. Traitors should be paid in their own blood. However, I was out at FSTS-317 for over a week, living there with your crew instead of leaving each day, merely organizing rather than telling trained professionals how to do their job."

His watery blue eyes held my one eye as the intensity in his gaze increased, and I made a mental note not to under-estimate this man.

"I've never been military, although I have worked closely with the military on more than one occasion, so as far as I'm concerned, I'm merely here to act as an analyst and provide assistance," He told me.

"Who's in charge here?" One of the trio of suits asked.

"That would be me," Donaldson said coldly.

"Not anymore," The guy said, waving his hand. "I'm Senior Special Agent Taylor,"

I burst out laughing. "Taylor? Seriously? Is that the 21st Century version of Smith?"