Benjamin Spada is a multi-award winning thriller author who drew upon his real-world career in the United States Marine Corps as inspiration for his military-thriller series The Black Spear novels. He's also an avid comic reader, weightlifter, Batman fanatic, lumpia enthusiast, father of four beautiful children, and surprisingly decent in the kitchen. Find his various social links and website at http://www.linktr.ee/benjaminspada
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Chapter 1
Cole West. 11:30 a.m. Common Defense Industries Seattle, Washington
War. Such an ugly word. No matter how admirable or honorable the general public claims military service is, the reality of war is ugly. That ugliness takes many shapes. There’s the War on Terror, which goes on and on, other countries engaged in ethnic wars as justification for committing genocide, and of course there’s the ever-looming threat of traditional war with the usual suspects whose names rhyme with Shorth Shorea or Shmrussia. Maybe even Shmina. Whatever form it takes, war is something most sane people would avoid at all costs. But Black Spear is in the business of war. And business was booming in the most literal of ways.
About six months ago I was unceremoniously drafted into the Black Spear initiative, a top-tier outfit dedicated to combating terrorism of certain extreme natures. That vague mission statement was really a catch-all for anything too weird for either the traditional military or the public eye. My team, Cerberus Squad, and I dismantled a rogue veteran militia armed with an engineered chimera virus, stopped an attempted biological strike on Air Force One, and thwarted a madman’s plot to launch a missile into Las Vegas that would’ve turned everyone into rabid psychopaths. Oh, and that was just in the first three days.
Since then, I’ve operated on both foreign and domestic soil and taken down two different cyberterrorist cells, both aimed at destroying Wall Street with sophisticated worm tech, a doomsday cult looking to distribute next-gen nerve agents, and a partridge in a pear tree.
In short, the bad guys were becoming more advanced.
Thankfully, so were we. Part of the reason Black Spear was so effective was due to our equipment. There’s “state of the art military grade” and then there’s Black Spear’s state of the art. Being a part of Black Spear was like having a Disneyland FastPass to DARPA. We get all the fun toys without all the waiting.
Common Defense Industries was our primary military contractor. Nine times out of ten, a project greenlighted by the Pentagon for mass production gets turned into a cheaper version of itself to offset the costs. CDI gave us early access to their most advanced tech before that dilution and fat trimming happened.
At least, we’re supposed to. Unless, of course, you’re part of a military division so goddamn secret that the gate guard can’t seem to find your clearance. Then you just might find yourself stuck waiting outside a security checkpoint like I was.
“I’m sorry, sir,” the guard said. “You need proper identification.”
I looked to the passenger seat where my boss, Captain Vaun, sat, looking strangely amused.
“Does this happen every time?” I asked.
Half a smile snuck its way to the corner of Vaun’s mouth. I’d learned that he never really smiled. It was only ever at most that slight pull of muscle at the edge of his mouth, which I think was as close to laughter as he was capable of. He slowly reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and dialed a number. Putting it on speakerphone, he passed it to me to point at the guard.
“Charles, if you don’t let those men through the gate, I’m putting you back on the graveyard shift until you retire,” a woman said through the phone.
The guard straightened immediately, as if ratcheted back into place, and hit a switch to open the gate.
“Right away, ma’am,” he stammered.
I tossed the phone back to Vaun, whose eyes glittered with far more delight than his not-smile displayed.
“It’s all about who you know,” he said. “Now, let’s go shopping, shall we?”
I pulled our vehicle through the gate and into the CDI compound. The long driveway was lined with tall trees. Strange, I thought, that a company devoted to weapons development could have such nice greenery adorning their grounds.
We passed a large sign to our left emblazoned with the company’s logo. Large red letters, each about seven feet high, displayed the abbreviated CDI name in front of a white backdrop. On the right-hand side of the sign was a golden eagle with widespread wings and outstretched talons. Across the bottom in ornate gold lettering was a line pulled right from the U.S. Constitution. “To secure the blessings of liberty.”
“I guess subtlety goes out the window when you make billions arming America’s home team,” I said with a whistle.
Vaun looked unamused.
“Common Defense Industries’ vehicle-reinforcing program has saved countless lives from IEDs. Most of our own team have had a bullet stopped by a CDI-developed vest that would’ve killed them had they been wearing different armor. I think they’ve earned their right to be a little patriotic.”
Point taken. I guess it’s a good rule of thumb not to clown on the people who kept your people alive. Unfortunately, I tend to clown and become extra sarcastic when I’m uneasy. This particular case of unease went by the name of Mister Rourke. Rourke, my boss’s Boss and with a very capital B, was the director of Black Spear. By decree of an executive order, the man was entrusted with unchecked authority to deploy us where we’re needed.
He’s not my biggest fan.
Rourke is the quintessential head honcho. When he makes a suggestion, it becomes an order. If he tells someone to jump, they don’t presume to ask him how high because his word was meant to be obeyed not questioned. And, when he tells one of America’s top weapons developers to hand over the good stuff, they do so with smiles on their faces.
Normally, Rourke wouldn’t be in attendance on something as run of the mill as a gear acquisition, but Cerberus Squad recently earned the boss’s ire. Yours truly may have accidentally exceeded his squad’s monthly budget for gear allocations last month. It was an honest mistake. You add a zero or two in the wrong place and suddenly you’re purchasing ten thousand rounds of specialized ammunition instead of a hundred. Can happen to anyone.
After that faux pas we were assigned a liaison with the House Committee on Armed Services, Congressman Mike Halsey. He was supposed to be another check in the box to ensure Black Spear wasn’t recklessly purchasing equipment. Even a black-ops team as hidden from the record as we are couldn’t escape the bureaucracy of the bean counters. Luckily for us and unluckily for Rourke, however, Congressman Halsey was frequently impossible to track down and too busy to return our calls so the big guy got to fill in for him.
“Just don’t say anything when we see him,” Vaun instructed.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Seriously, West, this’ll go a lot easier if you pretend you aren’t hilarious.”
“I bet you twenty bucks he’s wearing that same charcoal suit and red tie. I swear his tailor stitched it to his skin.”
“West . . .”
“Do you think Rourke’s first name is ‘Mister’? What if it’s something hilarious like Earl?”
Vaun looked in my direction long and hard, making sure I took the full brunt of his displeasure. You know the expression “staring daggers”? Well, Vaun’s mastered the art of staring goddamn bricks at you.
“Sorry,” I mumbled as I pulled our vehicle into a parking space outside CDI’s Advanced Projects hangar. “I drank a lot of coffee on the plane.”
“Just look big and tough and try not to say anything.” “Damn skippy, sir. It’s what I’m good at.”
(C) Benjamin Spada - 2024