The Last Roman (Praetorian Series - Book One) (2 page)

Until today.

After turning down the appointment to Annapolis, I’d
wondered if my father would disown me. He hadn’t, but after the
events of a few hours ago, I wasn’t so sure he wouldn’t now. To
him, boarding this C-130J Super Hercules(II) was paramount to high
treason.

Treason to family, to country and to code.

But not to God. I had my mom to thank for that.

I rubbed my eyes to cleanse the contentious thoughts
from my mind. There was no sense in continuing to go over it in my
head now. My decision was made, and the plane wouldn’t turn around
anyway.

I leaned my head back and closed my eyes.

We would be in Rome soon.

***

“Commander Hunter? Do you copy?”

My eyes snapped open, but it took me a moment to
realize who was actually being addressed through my earphones. I
must have dozed off.

“Yes, Captain,” I replied, addressing the aircraft’s
skipper. “I read you Lima Charlie.”

“Good. We’ll be reaching your drop off point soon.
Keep yourself strapped in until we reach it. Turbulence is expected
to continue.”

“Copy. Wake me when we get there.”

“Yes, sir,” finished the Captain, clicking off the
intercom.

Newly promoted to the rank of lieutenant commander,
I couldn’t help but smile, still not comfortable being addressed as
“sir” by a captain. Navy captains were two ranks higher than
lieutenant commanders, but Army captains were about the equivalent
rank of a Navy lieutenant, which I had just been promoted
from
earlier today. I was barely used to hearing the
formality from the men under my own command, let alone half the
military.

It didn’t matter. I wagered that when I joined my
new unit, it would be back to “yes, sir” this, and “no, sir” that.
I suppose I couldn’t complain too much. Leading men into combat was
always more stressful than being responsible for only yourself, and
the enemy in your gun sights.

***

Forty minutes later, the captain came over the radio
again. “Sir, we’re minutes from drop off. I suggest you get
ready.”

“Thank you, Captain. And thanks for the ride.”

“No problem, sir. Good luck.”

“Yeah right,” I mumbled.

Stick jockeys always acted like they had brass
balls, but I knew the only time they’d actually grow a pair and
jump out of their own aircraft was when it was shot up, on fire,
and dropping out of the sky like a flightless bird. And even then I
questioned if they would. Jumping out of airplanes in the middle of
the night during a bad storm was generally reserved for the
certifiable. And people like me, of course.

The entire trip would have been far easier had I
been allowed to land with the plane and walk off the ramp onto
solid ground, but not today. America may have possessed military
bases on the Italian peninsula that I could have used, but my trip
required slightly more discretion than even your regular black op.
My plane would remain on its scheduled route, but not before taking
a slight detour towards my drop point.

I heard a sudden whirring noise, and looked to the
rear of the plane, noticing the rear door begin to open, revealing
a gaping maw into the dark void beyond.

I tried to repress the chill I felt trickling down
my spine but failed.

Getting to my feet, part of my parachute
reassuringly bumping against my ass, I made my way to another
member of the crew, standing near a light mounted on the hull,
currently illuminated in red. When it turned green, I would
jump.

HALO jumps were nothing new. The first were
performed by the Air Force way back in the sixties, but that didn’t
mean they were easy. Currently, we were traveling near our maximum
altitude of around forty thousand feet. As a result, I had to carry
my own oxygen supply with me on the way down. In fact, I had been
sucking on a tank of one hundred percent pure oxygen for the past
half hour to help ready my circulatory system for the quick
transition to the surface.

Moving to the end of the craft, I bumped my head on
the ceiling. Glaring at the low hull, I swore about my height for
the millionth time since joining the military. I was just shy of
six and a half feet which left me feeling cramped in aircrafts and
pretty much ensured I’d never be a fighter pilot.

I was still rubbing my head when I made it to the
crewman at the end of the plane who attached a carabineer to my
belt, securing my small go-bag on a rope so that it wouldn’t get in
the way. He patted me on the shoulder and threw me an okay sign
with his hand, indicating all was ready on his end. I returned the
gesture with a thumbs-up, and pulled on my helmet, brushing brown
hair out of my eyes. Always the rebel, even as an officer, I kept
my hair slightly longer than military regulations permitted.

I shifted my oxygen mask for a more comfortable fit
and slid my helmet’s visor into place, blinking a few times when a
digital readout projected itself on its interior. The heads up
display was just one of the fancy new Future Force Warriors items
slowly being redeployed by the U.S. military. My HUD displayed
numerous mission critical details in bright, blue lettering
scattered around every inch of the display. It boasted items such
as a clock, compass, altimeter, barometer, targeting information,
GPS, and night vision capabilities. Satisfied each of its functions
were working properly, I bent my legs and waited for the light.

It wasn’t long before it turned green and the
crewman shouted, “Go! Go!”

Motioning a quick sign of the cross, I leapt into
the abyss.

Free falling, I quickly picked up speed. I let
myself fall in a dive for a while before I let my arms and legs go
spread eagle, a position that would allow my body to generate
enough resistance against the wind to slow me down. I glanced at
the upper right hand corner of my visor which displayed my
altimeter. I watched as the meters quickly ticked away towards
zero, waiting for when it indicated I was low enough to open my
chute, but still high enough to not end up as a red stain on the
ground. Content I had plenty of time to burn, I tried to relax and
allow myself the pleasure of enjoying the view. High enough to
almost see the curve of the Earth, I used my time to watch as dawn
slowly crept from the East towards the inhabitants below and as the
storm we had just passed through tried to meet it from the
West.

It was moments like these when I really loved my
job.

I couldn’t let myself get too distracted
sightseeing, however. I was already losing sight of the
Mediterranean as my descent took me directly over land, alerting me
that it was time to start paying attention to my altimeter, but I
would have to wait until I was low enough to spot an infrared
beacon before I could accurately locate my exact destination,
somewhere north of Rome.

After a few more minutes of free fall, I pulled my
chute open, bracing myself as I was jerked in my harness. As the
parachute opened, I reached for a pair of cords dangling near my
head, and it wasn’t long before I was in complete control and
safely making my way to the ground.

Activating my HUD’s night vision, I glanced around
in search of the beacon. Under normal eyesight, infrared was
effectively invisible, but night vision had no trouble picking up
the pulsating strobe that flashed brightly in the infrared
spectrum. I spotted it with little trouble, about a mile to my
left, and slowly began my turn and descent towards it.

Nearly dirt side, I relaxed my knees and exhaled
before I hit the surface. Rolling twice, I came to a stop and
punched down my billowing parachute before it could lift me back in
the air. Securing the cord and fabric back in its pack, I took a
moment to compose myself.

I shook my head to loosen my helmet’s grip and
leaned over to grab my go-bag which rested next to my feet. The
small single shoulder-hoisted rucksack held only a few soldierly
essentials: my American military ID, a small multi-tool, survival
kit, SureFire flashlight, SIG Sauer P220 semi-automatic pistol with
two extra magazines, digital camera, a roll of duct tape,
toiletries, and an extra pair of socks. The rest of my gear and
possessions had been shipped to my destination earlier to ensure I
would be ready for duty as soon as possible.

Turning around, I spotted a small black car parked
next to a dirt road that snaked off into the mountains. Standing
next to it was a small, robed man and a full bird American Army
colonel.

My attaché to Rome, I presumed.

Reaching the car, I stopped and saluted crisply,
“Lieutenant Commander Jacob Hunter reporting as ordered,
Colonel.”

“At ease,” the man said, lazily returning my salute.
“My name is Colonel Reynolds. I will be your liaison with the
Vatican until you have formally transferred to your new unit. When
that time comes, you’ll be on your own.”

I nodded. “Understood, Colonel. I was briefed by the
President before I left Washington.”

Reynolds returned the gesture. He knew as well as I
did how unique our situation was, one that required the highest
clearance level available, and had been overseen directly by the
Commander in Chief. A request from the Pope was not to be taken
lightly these days. Today, he carried tremendous influence and
political clout, and considering the current geopolitical
situation, his title was just as influential as it had once been
centuries ago.

***

As I stood before the two unfamiliar men, I couldn’t
help but think of my father again. He was about as much of a
stranger as they were these days, but even so, I found my mind
wandering back to Thanksgiving Day six years ago. With massive
amounts of turkey, potatoes, stuffing, and gravy consumed, my dad,
grandfather and I were sitting around the TV while my mother and
sister finished cleaning up the mess. Grandpa had already passed
out in a turkey induced coma while my dad and I watched yet another
Thanksgiving football game.

Halfway through the third quarter, a breaking news
report interrupted the game to reveal that Russia had sent troops
into Georgia once again. The grainy footage revealed civilians
massacred as they tried to resists, and we sat there completely
stunned for a long while. The scene mimicked the events that
transpired during the 2008 Beijing Olympics, but I had been too
young at that time to truly understand what was happening, and we
would soon learn how much worse it would be this time.

“I told you,” my dad whispered finally.

“I know you did, dad,” I replied just as quietly, my
attention focused on the report.

Everyone had known it was only a matter of time,
even if my then young and idealistic self didn’t want to admit it.
Russia had been getting stronger for years under its overzealous
leaders, and everyone knew, but few said anything, that by 2015 or
so it would start reclaiming territory lost with the fall of the
old Soviet regime. That Thanksgiving set into motion a chain of
events that created another world war. And my dad had been
right.

“That’s where you need to be, son,” my father
continued in a low voice. “You need to be there to stop them.”

I remember rolling my eyes, like I always did when
he brought up the fact I had chosen to forgo military service. It
was all he ever talked about.

“It’s too late now,” I replied.

“It’s never too late!” He shouted back, slamming his
fists on his cushy chair’s armrests. His sudden outburst caused my
sister to come in from the kitchen to inspect what the problem was,
but once she realized we were talking, she quickly fled the
scene.

“It doesn’t even matter,” I muttered. “We’re too
weak to go to war. All we can do is sit on our asses and defend
ourselves.”

It was true. The government had been cutting back
funding for the military at a precipitous rate for a few years by
that point. By the time I finally joined the military in 2016, most
of the equipment employed were models and makes based off
technology from as far back as the early 2000s. The gear was new,
but of old design and funds for America’s air supremacy program
were halved, Navy equipment was decommissioned, and America’s
Future Force Warrior program, for grunts and Special Forces units,
was practically abandoned. It was why the only piece of fancy new
gear I currently had was the flight helmet I wore during my HALO
jump.

I was forced to leave the rest of my toys that
trickled into my unit over the years with the Navy, and Reynolds
would probably take back my helmet as well. Innovation in the realm
of warfare had basically come to a standstill. Many were worried
that it put America’s military superiority at risk, and if you
asked me, it had. But the critics had argued that things had
settled down, and that we hadn’t needed such expenses anymore. It
wasn’t until 2020, with the war raging around the world, that funds
were finally reallocated to the military, and we started receiving
new gear.

With the military underfunded, under populated, and
sitting on their asses stateside, the country hadn’t been prepared
for what was about to come. Neither was the rest of the world for
that matter, and it wasn’t long before Russia began gobbling up its
lost territory, some nations coming willingly, others through
military force, and it was years before America intervened.

Just as the news report came to an end, with an
uneasy silence lingering in the room after my last statement, my
father slowly got to his feet and made for the kitchen. Just before
he left, he paused by the door and placed his hand on my
shoulder.

“It’s never too late, Jacob,” my father repeated.
“It’s your responsibility to protect those unable to protect
themselves. It’s in your blood.”