Edward Crichton - The Last Roman

“So, Wang,” I started, mumbling with my mouth full, “what’s your story? How long has your family been in England?”

Wang waited until he finished chewing his food before answering. It may have seemed like a culturally insensitive question to, but those in the military didn’t take such things personally. In the American armed forces, any given unit may be comprised of an African American from East Harlem, an upper class white guy from New England, and the product of illegal parents from south of the border. In these units, each of those men became brothers, trained to care for and do anything they could to protect each other. Sure, racial slurs and ethnic jokes ran rampant, but everyone shrugged them off, fully aware that they were only meant in good fun.

If only the rest of the world was so culturally accepting we wouldn’t be here.

Mouth clear, Wang leaned back in his chair, and spoke in a heavy Welsh accent.

“My grandparents fled the Great Cultural Revolution in 1966 and made their way to England with my father. My grandfather ran a dojo in a quiet countryside, but when local Red Guard members came to the area, he knew it was time to leave. My grandparent’s life was a quiet one, and they despised the Communists and their hope to wipe any memory of old China from the history books. So they took up residence in Cardiff, Wales, and opened a new dojo. My father took over when my grandfather died a few years back.” He paused, and took a quick drink from his mug. “And, aye, before you ask, my father married a local lass and I was but a wee product of both worlds.”

He smiled, “and a jolly good product at that.”

I chuckled at his intentionally overdone accent, and quickly determined I liked Wang. He seemed level headed and dedicated, but a little cocky, typical for elite operators. A good man to have at your back.

I glanced over at the large Frenchman. “What about you, big guy? Any interesting stories?”

Bordeaux put a hand over his chest in a sarcastic gesture. “ Moi? But, of course. I have many stories. Besides McDougal and Vincent here,” he said pointing at the aging priest who was sipping a cup of tea, “I almost have more years on me than any two of you combined, with plenty of stories to go with them.”

I inspected the man’s face, but couldn’t find any evidence to prove he was any older than thirty five. Remembering what he looked like with his shirt off, if he was as old as he claimed to be, he must be immune to aging. Hopefully, he wouldn’t mind sharing his secret.

“And what about you, mon ami?” He continued. “We’ve all had some time to get to know one another, but we know nothing of you.”

“Me?” I asked, as I realized pathetically that there wasn’t much to tell. “I’m just a country boy, I guess. Born in the Midwest and raised by hardworking, but well-to-do parents, I enjoy very bad movies, long walks on the beach, and love good 80s music.”

The guys smiled at the lame and cliche attempt at humor.

Wang coughed politely into a fist. “I hate to break it to you, Hunter, but there’s no such thing as ‘good 80s music’ as you call it.”

Santino leaned back in his chair and pointed at me like a child. “See, Jacob, even the Brits don’t like it. I’ve been telling you that since I’ve known you” He turned back to Wang. “He even likes Duran Duran. Who likes them?”

Wang turned to look at me and shook his head very slowly and completely deadpanned.

“Who’s Duran Duran?” Vincent asked.

“A rock band from the 80s,” I answered quickly before Santino could bash them. “They’re good.”

Santino rolled his eyes and laughed to himself.

“I’m partial to the Beach Boys myself,” Vincent commented.

“Really?” Santino asked suspiciously.

Vincent looked hurt. “What’s wrong with that? Can’t an old man enjoy quality music as well?”

Santino smirked. The Beach Boys were about as classic as music came in his opinion. I always enjoyed them though.

“Of course, sir,” Santino replied as he held up his hands near his shoulders, and raised and lowered them like a scale. “It’s just that when I add together European and Priest, the Beach Boys isn’t exactly the answer I get.”

It was my turn to smirk. Santino generally came off as dimwitted as a retarded donkey, usually in one of his ridiculous attempts at humor, but I knew better. The guy was Delta, the most hardcore of them all, next to my SEALs, of course.

They were trained not just to infiltrate, but to completely immerse themselves in a society, blend in, and systematically take it apart from the inside. You wouldn’t know it by looking at him, or especially speaking to him, but Santino was one of the smartest guys I knew.

He spoke Russian, Arabic, and Spanish fluently, and I knew he had been in the process of learning Mandarin Chinese in preparation for possible future operations in the area. The guy was a ghost, able to slip past borders on a whim, mingle amongst the natives, get the job done, and get home safely, making it all look easy.

“I just thought,” Santino continued, “a guy like you would stick to Mozart or Beethoven.”

Vincent leaned back in his chair, and grinned. “Ah yes, I enjoy them as well, although Vivaldi is my personal favorite.”

“The Four Seasons is one of my favorite classical pieces,” I offered, nodding appreciatively.

Vincent smiled at my recognition of his favorite composer’s most well-known piece, while Santino dropped his head and shook it. Wang and Bordeaux chuckled at the interchange, and the conversation quickly broke down into banter and debate about an assortment of topics. I followed passively as I finished my meal.

I was working on my so called dessert, when Vincent checked his watch.

“Okay, briefing room in five. Hunter, eat it or leave it.”

“Yes, sir,” I mumbled, my mouth trying to process the goo.

***

The briefing room was small enough that creature comfort was at a minimum, forcing everyone gathered to sit shoulder to shoulder. In front was a podium and a pull down screen for a projector attached to the ceiling. Other than that, the room was completely empty, except that by the time I arrived, the rest of the team were already in their seats.

McDougal was at the podium checking his notes, while the rest of the team was seated amongst the chairs. The chairs were arrayed three across, and two deep, just enough for the team. Santino, Wang, and Vincent were in the first row, Bordeaux and Strauss were in the back, with an empty seat between them. Bordeaux turned and smiled, patting the seat next to him. The rest of the guys turned and tried not to laugh, while Strauss just sat, arms folded, completely focused on the chair in front of her.

Making my way to my seat, McDougal did a double take when he noticed my blackening eye, and looked at me pathetically. I tried to ignore his disapproving stare as I took my seat, and made doubly sure I didn’t so much as glance at Strauss, deciding two could play her little game.

McDougal cleared his throat and began his briefing.

“Welcome to His Holiness’ Service. Hence forth, you are now a part of the Swiss Guard, specifically the Pope’s Praetorians as he likes to call us, and all allegiance to your former commands have been transferred here. As you know, you have come here in an effort to not only protect the Pope, but also to help end any threat facing Christendom and its allies. Each of you has brought unique combat experiences and skill sets, so get used to teaching one another and learning from each other as well.

“All right, since most of you have already gotten a chance to get to know each other, we’ll run through introductions quickly. My name is Dillon McDougal, major, Special Air Service. I’ve been in His Majesty’s service for thirteen years, and have commanded troops in Afghanistan, Iraq, North Korea, Russia, and Iran.