Duty and Service: Seamus O'Riley

Supreme Commander Alor

An Irishman is Born

August 14, 1990: Boston, MA

-- “Squeeze, my dear, you must push harder… The pain will only get worse if you stop now.”

“Aaarrrggghhhhh!” came the response.

The kind old woman, experienced in childbirth, could only stand back and advise the young woman in her path to motherhood. It was past the stage where she could help or comfort. The babe must be born now, and only that woman, the one lying on the cot red-faced from her exertions and the pain, could do accomplish that.

“Come on, dear, almost there, one more good go at it. Come on, you can do it, bring the child into the world.”

The young woman, delirious with pain and the hormones employed by her body that were meant to suppress the very pain she felt, could only follow the directions from the woman who had seen her in, during this time of need.

-- Erin Caitlin O’Riley had been walking along the crowded streets of Boston, out shopping for nothing in particular when the pangs started up again. This time they were more powerful, lasting longer and nearly paralyzing her upon the very street on which she stood. Dazed and confused, she had barely managed to stand up when her water broke. The amniotic fluids stained her dress, which would never be worn again, and began dripping to the ground, to which she quickly followed.

She lay on the ground for 5 minutes, trying desperately, even in her nearly-unconscious state, to overcome the pain, and eventually her nervous system dulled the pain to allow her to get to safety.

Half crawling, half walking, Erin made her way through the crowded streets of Boston, largely ignored by the couples and groups out shopping, that merely mistook her for a mentally-retarded person for her erratic movement. Her long brilliant red hair, disheveled and matted upon her head, her normally white skin, pasty and pale, her bright blue eyes shallow and dull, irises dilated from her pain, she appeared as a ghost of her normal self.

It had been the luck of the Irish when she fell, with a crumpling thud against the door of one of the few single storied, single family homes in Boston. It was from here that the old lady took charge, half dragging half carrying Erin into her meager living space, which smelled mainly of cats and a musky, dusty, ancient smell. Brushing her gray hair back over her ear, Elizabeth Millerson knew at once what was afoot, herself having had 6 children and having also been present at her sisters’ combined 10 childbirths, assisting in 5 of them, and merely presenting support for the rest. She hobble around her house, grabbing pillows, sheets, 2 plastic trash bags, and clean towels, as well as turning on the kettle for hot water. As well as calling the already overtaxed Boston Medical Services and the Boston Police. The summer heat and lack of school had filled the hospitals with the overheated elderly and the fighting youth, as well as requiring Boston cops to spend more and more time patrolling and arresting gang members, young and old alike.

And as soon as Erin was safe, her body once again felt pain as the labor began anew, this time with a mission to give birth...

-- “Come on.” The kindly British voice soothed Erin. “Just one last good go at it. Think of the joy to come, not the pain, forget the pain.”

Erin clenched her fists even tighter around the legs of the chair behind her, until her knuckles turned whiter than thought possible. Screaming, she gave a mighty squeeze. The vaginal opening dilated further, as the cranium of her child appeared, followed by the eyes, nose, mouth, and chin.

“There you go, my dear all done.” Elizabeth said calmly as she cut the umbilical cord and began cleaning the baby. She had only begun when Erin screamed out again. “What is it my dear?” Erin’s returning grimace and the whitening of her knuckles told Elizabeth all she needed to know: twins.

Here the process started all over again, the pushing, the screaming, the crying, and the praying, only now the crying was joined in by a younger voice, Seamus “John” “Mac” Patrick O’Riley. Once more, crown pierced the dilated opening, but this one was different, less developed, and paler than Seamus’. As Elizabeth watched the second baby emerge, she began to cry herself, as the stillborn was purged from the body. Michael Brian O’Riley, as the baby would have been named, was dead before birth, having died in the womb several days earlier, unbeknownst to Erin. Elizabeth quickly wrapped the dead body in a towel, covering the face, and placed it down, turning instead to care for the mother and newborn until the EMT’s arrived.

It took them another 15 minutes to respond to the 911 call, having to pass through rush hour traffic within the city, a nightmare of itself. Cynthia Meadows, RN, took care of Erin and Seamus until they reached the hospital where the task fell upon an entire staff of doctors, nurses, and specialists to keep the pre-mature twin alive. Survival rates for premature multi-fetus births were low, especially with complications such as the stillborn counterpart. Seamus had a case of jaundice, which gave him a yellowed look in his eyes and skin, as well as his erratic breathing. Without constant supervision and help, Seamus would randomly stop breathing until prodded or placed on a breathing machine. But his chances of survival looked quite well by the time he was asleep, one hour after his birth.

-- Four hours later, at Ten O’Clock PM Eastern Standard Time, Erin and Seamus were both snugly tucked into beds at the Children’s Floating Hospital in Boston. Erin in the Maternity Ward, Seamus in the Neo-Natal Intensive Care Unit, called the NICU by its staff. The nursing staff had to forcibly remove the father, Sean Michael O’Riley from his rotating appearance at both rooms, trying to regain what fatherly dignity he had lost when he missed his child’s birth. It would forever haunt him, and would be the cause of his constant attention to Seamus later in life.
_________________

Once known as Darth Marix

Supreme Commander Alor

First Time Is the Charm

October 14, 2005: Quincy, MA

-- Seamus “John” Patrick O’Riley stood at the bus stop on Washington Street, impatiently waiting for a bus heading in his direction to appear. He towered over the other two individuals also waiting with his abnormal height, four inches over the average fifteen year old at six feet. Seamus stood out in a crowd, not just for his height, but his image of maturity. Since his father had died, Seamus had matured quickly as the eldest male, growing taller faster, sprouting facial hair sooner, reaching puberty well before his friends, and mentally maturing at a younger age than expected. He did not notice much wrong as his doctor had told him that some people age faster than others, but his mother Erin could not help feeling sorry for his quickly fading childhood.

Standing at the bus stop he pulled his leather jacket tighter around him. The change in weather had begun, and only now did Autumn seem to be less like Summer and more like Winter. Reaching into his right pocket, he turned up the volume on his brand new Fifth Generation iPod, of the 60GB variety, and it was really brand new. The Fifth Generation was now in its second day of public release. Seamus’ mother had wanted to get him an iPod for his birthday, but Seamus had asked that she wait until the new one came out. So on October 12th, they had made their way down to the mall to get him the iPod. He had actually spent most of the thirteenth putting music, pictures, and videos on the device, and had already filled it with 2,500 songs.

Standing, with the bright white ear-buds in his ears playing a collection of Guns N’ Roses songs, he waited more patiently as the stress of school wore off and the wonderful musical talents of Axl Rose and company seeped into his mind. The Route 222 MBTA Bus arrived five minutes later by which time he had already finished Sweet Child O’ Mine and had moved into Welcome to the Jungle, two of the better known songs. He stood at the back of the line, waiting to climb the stairs up onto the long yellow-white bus. His turn eventually came and he dug into his jeans pocket to find change to drop into the slot. Nodding at the driver, he dropped the coins in and headed to the back of the bus. It was midway between school letting out and when the many riders got out of work, so the bus was relatively empty, and Seamus had the rear all to himself.

As he sat on the back, he happened to turn over his shoulder and look out the window behind the bus. He made a double-take, and realized that there was someone chasing the bus. She had long dark hair with minimal curls, and was wearing a navy blue sweatshirt with a design on the front, but he couldn’t see the logo from here.

“Someone wants to get on.” He said towards the driver, who stopped the bus and opened the doors.

She entered her fare and gasped out, “Thank you for stopping.”

The driver, who was honest replied, “It wasn’t just me. Thank the guy in the back, he’s the one who saw you.” She nodded, smiled, and then headed to the back of the bus. She took the seat directly across from Seamus, shyly looking in his direction before sitting down and staring out the window.

Seamus hadn’t heard the conversation at the front of the bus, and he was surprised when she leaned over and thanked him.

“Thanks for stopping the bus.” She said quickly and softly, before darting back to her seat. Seamus looked over at her when she was gazing out the window. He was amazed. Not only had he never seen her before, but she was stunning. He was glued to the spot, just staring while the opening notes of Don’t Stop Believing played in his ears. She blinked her eyes, and glanced out of their corners. The pair of eyes met, and the owners quickly shied away, each looking out their window.

Stuck in a time of their own, the two continued to glance at each other over the next 30 minutes. Seamus' heart beat fast in his chest when he glanced at her, never had he felt this way about a girl before. Sure, he had flirted with the rest of them, but this was something different, something new.

“Ummm... Sorry to break the moment, but you're gonna have to get off. This is the end of the line.” The bus driver said. “Sorry.”

Seamus stepped off of the bus, with his head cocked to the right to see if she followed him. Walking in the same direction they once again began the silent glances and bubbly feelings.

“Name's Seamus.”

“Alyssa. You live nearby?”

“Not really. I missed my stop, by a lot actually. I'm on Cherry. You?”

“I live over on Beachwood. We just moved there. But that means we're right near each other. Nice to know I've got a friend.”

“Me too. Well lets get home.”
_________________

Once known as Darth Marix

Supreme Commander Alor

When Things Seem To End

September, 2001: Quincy, MA

-- Seamus “John” Patrick O’Riley had awoken earlier than normal on this Tuesday morning, to see his father, Sean Michael O’Riley before he left for Logan Airport. Sean was heading to Los Angeles on a United Airlines Flight, for a business trip. Sean was a Vice-President of a middle-sized new-aged technology firm that was based in Boston, Massachusetts. He had been chosen to represent the firm at a conference in LA, and from there head to Silicon Valley to discuss a merger deal with two smaller firms.

Seamus had seen him off at Four O’clock AM, and had waved until his arm felt like lead. He was the closest of his siblings with his father, due to the abnormal circumstances of his birth and his father’s inability to be there at the birth. Seamus was a twin, but his twin had been a stillborn. He had been born two months prematurely in the single-family house of an elderly British lady, Elizabeth Millerson who was now a close friend of the family. After his father’s company rented limousine turned the corner, Seamus instead of heading back to bed, headed to the living room and grabbed a book, Tom Clancy’s The Hunt for the Red October. Seamus was an avid reader, and was reading well beyond his eleven years, with novels such as Asimov’s I, Robot; Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings; Clive Cussler’s Raise the Titanic or Pacific Vortex; or the novels from George Lucas’ Star Wars Universe. Above all Seamus loved history just like Tom Clancy’s John Patrick Ryan. He had even been nicknamed “John” for his likeness to the character.

He had read The Hunt for the Red October until 0600 Hours—as he was now calling time in a Military fashion—actually coming quite close to finishing the novel he had started last night. He had then proceeded to shower and get dressed into a pair of fading blue jeans, a short sleeve “America” decaled shirt which was layered over a long sleeve black shirt. The “America” shirt sported a bald eagle with its claws outstretched, bursting forth from the Stars n’ Stripes. It was navy blue, smelled of Tide and had that clean smell. He reached into the sock draw and pulled out two matching Nike no-showing socks, then placing his size 8 feet into his Adidas sneakers. Finish up with the other essentials—deodorant, combing his hair, brushing his teeth, etc—he headed downstairs to eat breakfast. It was now 0700 Hours, as he was still in his Military mode from reading Red October, and his mother Erin O’Riley had just finished making pancakes. All three of his siblings, Michael Brian II, Erica Claire, and Sean Michael Jr, had either been at the table or elsewhere downstairs, readying themselves for school.

“Where’s Daddy?” Little Sean Michael had asked, already forgetting the business trip his father was one.

“He’s working. Going to fly all the way to California, Seany.” Erin had cooed, thinking ahead to the next 50 times Sean would ask that question until his father was back home.

“Oh.” Sean mumbled through a mouthful of pancakes.

Things proceeded normally as Seamus ate and got his things together for school. He had packed his things the night before, well the few things he had taken out. Monday rarely yielded much homework from his Sixth Grade teachers. Both the teachers and students were still clinging to the freedom of the weekend, and the teachers had only just begun the week’s lesson so there was very little cause for homework.

He arrived at the red bricked building on 60 Lancaster Street around 0800 Hours, and walked around to the right side of the building. Each grade had a meeting spot before homeroom. Fifth Graders gathered at the front where the buses let them off, Sixth Graders on the front-right, Seventh Graders behind them, and the Eighth Graders had the entire left side to themselves. Seamus quickly met up with his friends and talked about the hilarious episode of The Simpsons which had been on at 7:30 last night. Soon the doors opened and Seamus was seated in his homeroom, listening to the boring drawl of the 6th Grade Social Studies teacher call out Attendance. The Principal then came on the PA system for the morning announcements. Seamus was the first to his feet for the Pledge of Allegiance, proudly swearing loyalty to his country. He had Media next, just 45 minutes in the Computer Lab or Library, either learning to type or reading an educational book, or in his case probably not-so educational from the school’s point of view.

The bell rang at 0830, and Seamus headed off to the basement where the library and lab could be found. He sat quietly in a chair while the teacher checked off names, his right hand in his pants pocket, grasping a small piece of paper. The paper had been given to him by his father before he left. On it was the tracking number of his plane, nothing else. He was going to use a computer to check where his father’s plane was at this time. As Seamus sat there, the phone rang. Mr. Shaunessy picked up the receiver, and listened for a few moments. He hung up and reached for the TV remote.
“Can I use a computer?” Seamus asked. “I’d like to check my father’s flight.”
“Go ahead.” Came a soft, shaky reply.

The TV turned on and was flipped over to Channel 4. On the screen was chaos, smoke, fire. The reporter said something about an attack, a plane and a building. Seamus was oblivious as he entered the tracking number into United Airlines website. As the slow school internet worked its way, he turned around to watch the TV. The reporter’s voice was still talking, but the screen showed video of a smoking building.

“Earlier today, two planes crashed into the World Trade Center Towers here in New York City…”
Seamus’ hands began to shake as he turned around to look at the screen. The voice could still be heard behind him. Almost at exactly the same time the Flight Number of Sean Michael O’Riley I appeared on the screen and was said on the TV.
United 93. Seamus was stunned, he wasn’t crying but he could barely breath, he felt his head spinning as the world went black around him. Even the thud of his body on the ground did not bring him back to the conscious world.

Gasps could be heard around his body as other students cried out from his fall. Only Mr. Shaunessy looked at the screen, connecting what had been on the TV to the information on the screen. Sean Michael O’Riley I, Seamus “John” Patrick O’Riley’s father was dead, killed as the plane of United 93 crashed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center: New York.
_________________

Once known as Darth Marix

Supreme Commander Alor

Going the Distance

August 15, 2008: Quincy, Massachusetts

-- “You will not, Seamus. I won’t allow it.” Erin O’Riley yelled, her pale face unnaturally filled with red.

“I can and I will.” Seamus calmly said back. “I’m eighteen mom, its time to let go. You know that I have to do this. You know that I have no choice. After what they did to Dad? How can you expect me not to?”

Seamus’ father had been onboard one of the flights that terrorists had crashed into the World Trace Center towers on September 11th. Ever since then his attachment to the United States Military and its history had only become more deeply faceted into his being.

“I can’t let you go. After losing Sean, I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you. If you leave, I am not sure I can let you back in. You are right, the decision is yours, but so are the consequences. Is this really what your father would have wanted? Did you ever think about that?” Erin sobbed.

“I have, and I will. He would have done the same for his father.”

“Then go. Pack and go.”

Seamus turned, went up the stairs and into his room. He had been prepared for this moment, the day after his eighteenth birthday, when he finally told his mother about his intentions to enlist in the United States Marine Corps. He had secretly talked with a recruiting officer for about three months now, but he had made his choice that day seven years ago, when his father died. Taking out another bag, he put into it his other belongings, those he would not be taking with him, but since he was now banished from his home, he would not leave much behind. He pulled out his brand new cell phone, a vaunted iPhone 3G, and dialed a familiar number.

“Seamus!” Cried the voice on the other end. “Did you tell her?”

“Yes. I did. And it didn’t go to well. Is it alright if I leave some of my stuff with you? I’ve been kicked out if I join.” Seamus asked of his girlfriend, Alyssa.

“Sure. I have some extra room somewhere. When are you leaving?”

“Now. I’ll be over your place shortly.”

“Ok. Bye.”

Alyssa only lived around the corner from Seamus, which had made their relationship easier than others. But now it would be going through its hardest test. Because they had been so close, literally and figuratively, the distance of his training might prove to be too much. Seamus walked downstairs with his two bags. Most of his clothes and seasonal belongings he had already placed in a storage facility, little by little to not attract attention. He would be leaving his more valuable or sentimental possessions with Alyssa, who he trusted more than the concrete walls, metal doors, and “brand new” security system of the self-storage.

Their goodbye was tearful, but not overly mushy. Both had known that this day was coming, and they had prepared for it and gradually said goodbye during the past weeks. Alyssa had been the first to know about his plans, other than the recruiter, and she had supported him 100%. She knew how much this meant to him, and she could not ask him to stay.

Within a few hours, Seamus was boarded on a bus headed for the Recruit Training Depot at Parris Island, South Carolina, where men were turned into something stronger, faster, smarter, and better: Marines.

Parris Island, South Carolina

-- Things got off to a shaky right away. The Drill Sergeant had immediately took a dislike to Seamus. It might have been Seamus’ 6’3” height, with which he towered over his Sergeant, or maybe Seamus rugged good looks, to which the Sergeant compared to like a square wheel to a round one. Sergeant Jacob Denneth spent nearly half-an-hour reviewing Seamus application, “double-checking” to make sure it was in order. A little less than 24 hours later and his training had begun.

“I am Sergeant Jacob Denneth, your senior Drill Instructor. You will address me with ‘sir’ at all times. Is that understood?”

“Sir. Yes Sir!” Cried the recruits, just as they had been told to do yesterday. After receiving their haircuts to Marine standards, they had spent the time reviewing the Marine Corp Ranks, Code of Conduct, 11 General Orders for a Sentry, Marine Hymn and so on. There was little discussion between recruits in Seamus’ unit. This was the best training unit in the country for Marines, each member desired to become Squad Leader. Friendships were not likely to be made, only alliances.

This monotone voice yelled for about an hour before things became interesting. The Sergeant screamed for attention, and then walked down the line.

“Is there anyone here that has the guts to fight me? Anyone that has the courage? The strength? Let him come forward.”

One of the cadets stepped forward and saluted the Sergeant. “Sir. I am ready and willing, Sir!” He was quickly on the ground, nursing bruised ribs.

Seamus thought for a second and had begun to step forward when a thought reached him. Instead of stepping forward and saluting, Seamus charged full tilt at the Sergeant, knocking the surprised Drill Instructor to the ground. Seamus held an arm over Jacob’s throat and used his legs to pin the Sergeant’s to the ground. “Sir.” He grunted from the exertion, “I am ready and willing, Sir.” Drill Instructor Denneth was surprised at the ingenuity, but he did not let it overcome him. Using his combat experience and trained muscles, he quickly threw Seamus onto his back.

“Get up, Cadet.” Jacobs yelled. Privately to Seamus, in a quieter voice he almost whispered, “Good work, Marine.”

Ten hours and twelve more bruised sparring recruits later, Seamus laid on his mattress in the barracks.

“Dude, that was awesome back there.” Came a voice above him. “He never saw you coming. Man that was great. You’ll get squad leader for sure. Oh, by the way, the names James Reardon, New Yorker born and raised.”

“Seamus O’Riley, Boston. I’m afraid I can’t talk to a Yankees man though.” Seamus replied, bringing laughs from the other barrack mates.

“Actually, I’m a Red Sox fan. My father was a Boston man. He despised having to move to New York for work, so he raised me to be a Red Sox fan.”

“Well in that case, we can talk.” And so one of the few real friendships was created.

November, 2008: Mojave Desert, Arizona

-- Twelve weeks passed, and each member of the unit pulled his own. Few rarely left this training group, as only the best applicants made it in. This was the main training unit for the Marine Force Recon, the elite of the elite fighting forces of the American Military. Soon it was time for the large mock combat mission. Seamus had become squad leader, and he would command his unit against the rival unit from the Recruit Training Depot at San Diego, California.

It was like a large game of Manhunt, only deadlier. It was taking placed in the Mojave Desert in Arizona. This was to simulate combat environments like those which the US Military Forces were experiencing in Iraq. Each unit had been air dropped at randomly chosen locations, each unknown to the other. The units would have to survive the elements and the rival unit, if they ever found each other. There would be no outside help, no miraculous tips, no air dropped supplies. The units would have to survive on their own.

“What do we do, Chief?” Simulated-Sergeant 1st Class Reardon asked.

“We find shade, and then we wait.” Simulated-Sergeant Major O’Riley answered. “Look to your 5 and tell me what you see, about 20 degrees above the horizon.” As he brought his binoculars down from his eyes.

“A helicopter.”
“Exactly. The enemy is not too far away. We will know our terrain and then fight on our turf, not theirs. Lets move out.” Seamus set the pace at a medium walk. He did not want his troops tired out too much, but shade was needed, and preferably more natural and less obvious to searching eyes. They marched for twenty minutes, heading South East towards an oasis marked on the map. Seamus had decided to make camp near the oasis. The other team would definitely be looking for water and food as well, and this oasis was one of the few close to their drop position. The 32 man team, plus Seamus, settled in quickly, taking shelter from the sun beneath the plants and camouflaged tents and cloth.

“I want ten men on watch at all times. Five of your go out 100 meters, the other five are to take up positions 50 meters out and spaced between the first group’s men. Report in every 30 minutes, but staggered, so that the inner ring reports fifteen minutes after the outer ring. Understood? You are to use any cover you find as well as the cover provided. Report at once if you site anything. You will be relieved in four hours.” The ten men that comprised the first squad to hold watch moved out, each man to his respective post. Seamus then turned to James and began formulating plans and contingencies.

Approximately two hours later, an unscheduled report came in from an outer ring sentry. “Sir, I have what appears to be a dog limping towards me. It appears to have been shot.” The units had been given live weapons for self defense, and this coyote was obviously a victim of the other team.

“Alright, you heard the sentry. We have possible contact. I want the tactical snipers ready to go. The rest of you, make sure your weapons are ready to go.” Seamus commanded.
Sure enough, Red Team came into sight, just as Seamus had predicted. The main “weapons” used infra-red lasers. When one pulled the trigger, a complex algorithm determined if the intended target was hit or not, depending on distance, wind, and target movements. Within a few minutes, Red Team had reached the range of the snipers, one by one they began picking off the men in the rear. Red Team Leader quickly caught on and made his men take cover. Little did they know that they were hiding in the wrong direction. Each man believed the attack was from the rear, just as Seamus had wanted.

Red Team slowly crawled backwards, keeping an eye on the perceived avenue of attack. Slowly they came closer and closer to the outer ring of sentries. While they were busy crawling towards the oasis, Seamus had his men move up closer to support then sentries. Within five minutes, Red Team had been killed in one of the shortest Marine final training missions in the outfit’s history, which extended back to the American Revolution.

-- Four hours later, each team had been transported back to the San Diego Base, debriefed, and given an hour to relax and shower. At 2000 all members of both units were called to the parade ground. This was it, the graduation ceremony, Marine training was over.

The ceremony was as normal as expected; each cadet in each group was given a certificate of acceptance and a commission. The only deviation from the normal procedure was at the end.

“Cadet O’Riley.” The Drill Sergeant called out.

“Sir!” Seamus replied.

“You have shown command ability above and beyond the expectations of this training unit. You are hereby promoted to the rank of Second Lieutenant. You will be given command over your training unit. Congratulations, Lieutenant…”

December 19, 2008: Iraq

-- The armored, helmeted, and armed patrol made its way down the streets of a slowly rebuilding city in Iraq. They moved cautiously down the streets. The lessons learned in Vietnam had only been strengthened by the combat here in Iraq. Every car was a potential threat, every corner a potential ambush, every manhole a potential mine.

The dark eyes of a hardened man gazed down upon the patrol, watching their movements, their actions. His turbaned head was shaded from the sun as he looked down from one of the few balconies still in existence in this city. Grinning he turned to his partner and laughed. “Soon, Ahmed Aj’Denad, soon.” His raspy voice croaked out in Arabic.

-- “James, take Asir and Dick with you and check out that building ahead.” Seamus ordered. James Reardon led the two men into the building. Minutes later they returned, followed by an old lady who was excitably waving her hands in the air.

“What does she say, Asir?”

“Sir, she claims to know of a weapons depot near here. Her son was with the old regimes military, but he did not support Hussein’s actions. He joined up with a rebellion and began shifting weapons shipments. She claims that it is still there. Do we check it out?”

“Yes. Al, report back to base. Inform them of our intent to look for a weapons depot.”

Fifteen minutes and 2 miles later, they arrived at the place where the lady had told them the depot existed. Hopping out of their hummers, they began moving to the abandoned building. If such a depot existed, this would be a major accomplishment, decreasing the ability for the insurgents to attack them with a seemingly infinite weapon supply.

They moved to the building in a tight formation. It was an old building, rusty falling apart, and basically looked like it shouldn’t be standing. It would have been condemned were it in the US. As they walked towards the building, a cry went up from inside and fifteen turbaned and masked men ran out with weapons pointed at the team. The Marines sprung into action, firing at the wild men. The insurgents fired back, but the majority missed by a wide margin. Most of them were mainly good at shooting for public effect, but not combat.

Seamus aimed and took out the nearest target with a shot to the head. Try shooting without a brain. He thought to himself. He ducked and dodged trying to find shelter. As he ran, a lucky shot hit his upper leg, but he barely felt it pierce his flesh. He was in a battle mode, like the berserkers of the Vikings. Falling to the ground, Seamus reached up to wipe the sweat from his eyes, only to feel something stickier, warmer than sweat running down his face. Bringing his hand back down he saw red, a bullet had narrowly grazed his scalp, but the blood was pouring down his face, running into his eyes. He fumbled for his radio, but as he started to talk, a red hot streak of metal sliced open his cheek, cauterizing the wound right then and there, leaving a scar across his cheek. Seamus slowly gave into his loss of blood from his leg wound, and blackness crept into his vision.
As he swerved in and out of consciousness, he could not help but wondering why he was still alive. The two things he did know was that he was alive, surely death would not hurt like this and that he had failed. Nor could he forget the image of the old lady, cackling over the bodies of his fallen men…

December 25, 2008: Underground Base - Somewhere, Middle East

-- Seamus woke, groggy and dazed, from his hallucinating slumber. Blinking, he tried to remember what he had dreamed about, it had been a nightmare that he remembered. He had lost his entire team to enemy capture, including himself. Reaching up to run his eyes, he felt a sharp pain in his left arm. Bending his neck, he looked down and saw an IV sticking into his vein. He jumped up, only to be forced back down by a combination of his vertigo and a pair of hands.

“Welcome back, Lieutenant. I was afraid I lost ya. Ya’ll lost a lot of blood, and the cleanitary conditions here don’t help at all.” Drawled a voice heavily influenced by a Texan accent. Seamus smiled slightly at his team’s medic use of the non-word ‘cleanitary’. “Ya can’t sit up, yet, Lieutenant. I need t’get some more plasma into ya. They let me keep mah supplies and instruments. They even offered thah own supplies, ta make their ‘American Soldiers’ healthy. Ah personally thinks they want us healthy for torture, Lieutenant.”

“Can that talk, soldier.” Seamus told him. “Now I need to think. Did you see where they put our stuff?” Seamus asked as he sat up, defying the Medic Corporal’s orders. As he rose and got his head cleared of the noise created from the vertigo as well as the aches of his battle-worn body, he gazed around the room. It seemed to be a room right in the earth itself, a cave of sorts. But Seamus knew that there hadn’t been any caves near the depot. “How long have I been out?”

“Nearin six days, sir. Oh, Merry Christmas, sir, today is Christmas. I was out for a bit mahself. I’s thinking they moved us somewhere. I don’t reckon seein any caves or mountains where we were, boss. Thah could be ah problem. Aahhh bullcrap, here they come again. Just lay down there and pretend to be asleep. If they walk over to ya, don’t ya do nuthin. Let me do the talking, boss.”

Seamus laid back down onto the mattress, wondering how Corporal Jenkins knew they were coming. As he lay there, he began to get an idea how. Slowly the smell of dirty clothing, skin, and hair began to fill the room, just as ten or twenty armed men entered the cavern-like chamber. Seamus watched through squinted eyes, recognizing a few of men as members of the Marine “hit-list”, though most of these men were supposed to be in Afghanistan, many of them were members of Osama Bin Laden’s inner circle or guards. Maybe there was a connection between Iraq and the Taliban, no one had ever believed it when it was proposed during the Iraqi invasion, but now there might be proof. Little did Seamus know of the real reason behind their presence. The Taliban was not in Iraq, but rather it was Seamus who was in Afghanistan. Bin Laden had sent out a few of his men to capture US Military men to use for executions. To make the trail even harder to follow, they had snuck into Iraq to make the kidnapping there to hopefully confuse authorities.

Seamus was okay at first, just lying there squinting at the large group of robed men armed with a variety of machine guns, pistols, grenades, and ceremonial-looking scimitars. Then he came into the room. Seamus filled with rage and hatred, his fists balled into clubs, his legs tensed as if he was to jump from the bed right onto the man to pummel his face into a pulp. Osama Bin Laden, planner and organizer of the infamous September Eleventh attack, the very same event that had killed Seamus’ father.

“You!” He screamed out. “You killed my father! You cowardly little **CENSORED BY EDITOR**!!”

The guards, well those who could understand English, moved forward to defend their leader, their spiritual father from this verbal abuse.

<<Let him be.>> Bin Laden told them in Arabic. <<He will pay for it along with his crimes against Allah.>> And in English he told the captured Marines, “In three days time, you will be executed. Your souls shall be sacrificed to Allah, and he will be the one to judge you.” And with that he left the room, followed out by his entourage.

“Well there yah have it, boss. He was gonna kill us.” Said Jenkins.

“Jenkins.” Seamus warned. “How many of us are here?” he asked out to the group. He got a variety of answers, from groans, grunts, moans, Here’s and Present’s, which amounted to a majority of the unit he had started with. It turned out that only three of his ten men were dead. There was very little Seamus could do but wait. He and Jenkins were the two in the best shape, and Jenkins was needed to keep the other men alive, so if they were to escape to get help, it would be Seamus alone. Not that he minded though, in fact he already had a plan. One of the guards would make a fatal mistake, Seamus could feel it.

One day passed without much action, just the normal exchange of food and water between the guards and Jenkins. Seamus was staying put in his bed so as not to give away his physical ability. It would be better for the guards to think only one man capable of moving on his own than two.

“How do we go to the bathroom?” He asked of Jenkins, realizing his lack of use for the past few days.

“You’ve been going right here, but you were unconscious at the time. I’d say still go right hereah, bossman. They have some toiletry room, but from the way they smell, I’d bet that room ain’t smellin so good either. But if ya gotta go, a guard will take ya.”

“Perfect. Call one in, Jenkins. Pissing isn’t the only thing on my mind.”

An Arabic guard was called in and he took Seamus to the “toiletry” room as Jenkins had called it. While on the way, Seamus noticed the guard’s tendency to glance over his shoulder and blurt random words, Tourette Syndrome, he picked as the cause. That would come in handy. On his way out of the room, he pretended to stumble, when the guard had a twitch, Seamus pounced on him, using the bar of soap he had found to pound on the insurgent’s head. When the guard was no longer conscious, Seamus took him into the room and switched clothing and equipment. Walking out, he carried the man back to the room, using the very little Arabic he knew to explain to the other armed men that the “American” had fainted in the bathroom and he was taking him back to the prison. They, like most men, not attached to extra work, let Seamus carry the body by himself, not even noticing the change in height of the man in the robes and the man in the US Marines uniform. When he got to the cell, he grabbed Jenkins attention right away, just by the fact that the body over his shoulder was limp.

“What have you done to the bossman?” Jenkins asked, enraged.

“I wouldn’t know. The bossman is ok though.” Seamus replied, trying to keep from laughing.

“Nice one, boss. Let me take him from here.”

“I want him to stay unconscious, if you know what I mean. Whether you use drugs or your fists, I don’t care. If anyone asks, I’ve fainted back into my coma, and I can’t be woken. Keep his face and hands covered, so they don’t notice the skin color. I’ll be back as soon as I can with help.” Seamus said. The last sentence directed to the whole group, which cheered lightly before drifting back off into their world of denial and remorse.
Sneaking out wasn’t as hard as it would be to get back in time to save his men, Seamus thought. He looked and smelled like one of the guards, and his limited Arabic would get him by. He merely had to remember the Tourette Syndrome quirks, and he would be all set. He managed to sneak out by nightfall, and followed the North Star, his only marker. Luckily for him, the US Military had a random air patrol that night. When he heard the rotors of the helicopter, he fired off a few rounds, which drew attention.

The helicopter focused its guns upon him, to which he quickly dropped the gun and placed his hands on his head. Still wary of a potential bomb, the copter did not land. So Seamus, knowing what the Marine pilot was thinking, removed his outer robes and turban, revealing his American features, as if his height had not given it away to begin with. It was not an easy trip back to the base as the Marines on the copter looked at a man back from the dead.

He wasted no time in reporting back what he knew and what he needed. He let no one sway him from his plan to rescue his men himself. He had made a promise, he told them repeatedly, and he was not one to break his oath. The commanding officer could not help but feel respect for this wounded Lieutenant that wanted to go back out and save his men. Very few militaries had that feeling anymore, of any nation. It was either mandatory service or just a way to rebel against Mom and Dad, no longer was it defending your country and democracy. When Seamus told him that Osama was there himself, Sergeant Major Koone merely laughed. “No one else needs to know that. That man doesn’t deserve a trial and the possibility of life in jail. He deserves a slow and painful death. You get your men out, I’ll deal with the other guys in that cave.”

Seamus led the birds in close to the cave, but outside of their sentry’s range of site, behind the mountains that had once aided the Taliban’s fugitive leader, but now aided those who would bring his end upon him. The company, all 190 Marines ready to retrieve their brothers and get even with their enemy, landed and split into Platoons of 32 men each. Two platoons were tasked with getting the captured Marines out, the other platoons were to create a perimeter to contain the insurgents and their leader, as well as to keep unwanted observers out. One Squad was tasked with entering the cave system and specifically finding Bin Laden’s position, they were all volunteers and did not expect to come back out. They each had a homing beacon that had two modes, one for tracking the soldiers and then one for when they found Osama.

Things went off smoothly on their approach to the cave entrance that Seamus had used as an exit. They had to get in fast, as this was the third day of Osama’s warned execution countdown. The Marines quickly disposed of the outnumbered guards and sentries, managing to keep a single guard from raising the alarm. They move quickly and quietly down the pathways and tunnels, following Seamus the entire way.

“Its right around this corner. Hurry and have the stretchers ready.” He ordered. He motioned with his left hand for them to move forward, and they crept towards the prison “doors”. They were almost too late, Seamus noticed as he looked into the door. Bin Laden and his guards were already inside, rousing the men to take them to another chamber. “Leave the stretchers, we’ll need everyman with a gun to be firing it. Radio back to base that we have both yolks in one egg. Then try to raise the tasked squad and have them come from the other side. We go in on my mark. 3…2…1…Mark.”

Just as Seamus said mark, the guards had reached his old bunk and had noticed its new occupant. Cries of outrage filled the air and chaos took over. The Marines leaped into the fray, silently disposing of the guards nearest them, only then opening fire on the rest of the crown.

“Jenkins! Get the men down!” Seamus yelled. “Get them cover!” As he jumped around the room, killing the guards who had so smugly planned the landing of planes in the World Trade Center buildings, but his movements had a method. Every dodge and roll, every jump, every step took him closer to his goal, Bin Laden. The infamous leader of the Taliban was his, and his alone. The leader cowered behind a bed, hoping to be overlooked in the fray or just taken for dead, but Seamus was not fooled. He grabbed the figure by his beard and yanked him to his feet.

<<Tell them stop>> Seamus said in his halted Arabic. <<Now.>>
<<Allah. Allah. Allah. Save your faithful servant.>> Osama replied.

Seamus took his gun and pointed it at the mans kneecap, with no remorse, he pulled the trigger for one round. Osama would have fallen to the ground if it had not been for Seamus’ hand on his beard.
<<Stop. Now.>> He commanded.
<<Forgive me, Allah. Cleanse me of my wrongdoings.>> Osama said.

BAM! And another kneecap was blasted apart. Osama was now supported only by Seamus’ grasp on his beard.
“I have three more bullets before I must reload. Tell them.” Seamus said, this time in English.
<<Stop. Drop your weapons.>> The older man said finally, his faith in Allah’s redemption and Mohammed’s promise as shattered as his kneecaps.
The fighting stopped, and the Marines gathered their own to safety. Seamus dropped the beard, letting the body fall to the ground. Without looking back, he left the room with his fellow Marines and locked the door. He tossed the homing devices into the chamber, causing its new occupants to shudder at the thought of grenades, only to be surprised and puzzled by the technology and LED’s, but no ripping to shreds of their flesh.

<<Let this be a lesson to you. Never, mess with America. You will always regret it.>> Seamus had Asir translate for him. And with that, they walked away. Boarding the helicopters, they took off and headed straight for the base they had come from. Five minutes later, a large explosion was heard from behind them, but no one turned to look. Everyone knew what it had been, and everyone had seen explosions before. And if they hadn’t seen it, then it was easier to deny.

December 26, 2008: Undisclosed Military Base, Afghanistan

-- “An explosion occurred in the mountain ranges of Afghanistan earlier today. The American Military has denied any involvement, as they have been focusing their efforts to find the lost squadron of Marines that disappeared three days ago. Military geographic experts say that pressure from an oil field deep beneath the mountains had slowly risen through the earth’s crust and had finally reached its maximum point today, creating the new landscape of the desert…” The news reporter droned on the TV.

Seamus had barely been paying attention to it, he had just turned it on for some background noise. He had been to busy focused on the letter in his hands, which read:

Lieutenant 2nd Class Seamus O’Riley:

As of December 19, 2008, you no longer exist. Since your disappearance, measures have been taken to insure the well being of your family, friends, and loved-ones. They have been notified of your disappearance and assumed death.

This is by no means a normal letter, but you are not a normal man, you have proven that. I would like to offer you a proposition. When you are done reading this, it will be your choice, you may either accept my offer or be returned to your family, with a Full Honorable Discharge and pension as well as a few medals that you have earned. Or you may accept my offer, and be presumed dead, no longer existing, and you will receive those same medals posthumously.

I would like you and your squadron to take part in a top secret covert operations force, not unlike the Marine Force Recon you were being scouted for, yes they were after you to join them. You would be tasked with operations the Military is unable to undertake for diplomatic and political reasons. You would have the full backing of the Intelligence Agencies, the Military, Presidential Pardons, as well as all the equipment, resources, data, and armories that comes with the first two.

So it is your choice. You have served your country already and none deny that if you choose the former. But are you willing to go further? To go beyond the normal call of duty and further your service to your nation, your people, and democracy?

Respectably yours,
Lt. General Keith B. Alexander, Director of the National Security Agency.
_________________

Once known as Darth Marix

Supreme Commander Alor

Regaining Love

June 25, 2018: Quincy, MA

-- “How dare you!” Exclaimed the feminine voice from the kitchen. “You are kidding me! This isn't fair...” The voice continued into sobs.

“I'm sorry, but its true,” Came the male voice. Seamus O'Riley, ten years after his apparent death, had just revealed a small truth of his life for the past ten years to Alyssa, who at the time of his death was his girlfriend. “But when I was allowed to come back to the States, I just had to let you know. Do you know what it did to me, to hide this? To let you think I was dead?”

“Its just, oh forget it. I don't know.”

Seamus moved in, placing her head upon his shoulder. The past ten years had been agony and a great disappointment in the love department for Colonel Seamus “John” “Mac” Patrick O'Riley of the United States Marine Corps. He had never truly been able to get over his death and what he felt to be the betrayal of what had once been the love of his life. “I'm really alive, and I'm really back.”

“Go. Leave me alone,” Alyssa managed to sob out through her heavy breathing. “I'm sorry, but I just can't now. I spent the past ten years mourning your death, honoring your sacrifice, and now to have you back. Its just too much. Please.”

“If that is what you want,” Seamus replied, stiffening to his normal military posture and attitude. “Nice seeing you, Miss. I won't be around for a bit. Going on vacation, so don't expect another visit too soon. If you'd like, I will come back when I return.”

“Yes, do that. Goodbye Seamus.”

“Goodbye, Alyssa.”

With that, the two former love birds parted yet again, Seamus to his car, Alyssa back into her parents house. Things hadn't gone well for Alyssa after his death, her life had almost immediately crumbled. She had been the one to support him to join the Marines, against his mother's wishes. She had thought the same thing thousands of loved ones think when their partner, son, daughter, goes off to battle 'It won't happen to me.' Her college education had fallen into shambles, her grades falling well below the acceptable range, which resulted in her removal from the campus and roster. Turning back to her parents, she had gotten a job at a nearby 7-11, and had buried her former life behind her. Anything that reminded her of Seamus was hidden from view. And now this happened.

July 2, 2018: Quincy, MA

-- Seamus sat on his bed in his new living area, Apartment 1234 of The Falls in Quincy. There were very few decorations and personality to the condo, only his bags, barely unpacked, and the spartan furnishings that came with the 2 bedroom, 2 bath, small kitchenette, and living area apartment. In his hands was a crinkled piece of paper, as old as his death, whose words he read over and over again in his mind, his eyes saw nothing as he had commited the words to memory long ago. Two tears traveled down his hard, tanned face, while Guns N' Roses' November Rain played from the opened laptop beside him on the bed.

Lieutenant 2nd Class Seamus O’Riley:

As of December 19, 2008, you no longer exist. Since your disappearance, measures have been taken to insure the well being of your family, friends, and loved-ones. They have been notified of your disappearance and assumed death.

This is by no means a normal letter, but you are not a normal man, you have proven that. I would like to offer you a proposition. When you are done reading this, it will be your choice, you may either accept my offer or be returned to your family, with a Full Honorable Discharge and pension as well as a few medals that you have earned. Or you may accept my offer, and be presumed dead, no longer existing, and you will receive those same medals posthumously.

I would like you and your squadron to take part in a top secret covert operations force, not unlike the Marine Force Recon you were being scouted for, yes they were after you to join them. You would be tasked with operations the Military is unable to undertake for diplomatic and political reasons. You would have the full backing of the Intelligence Agencies, the Military, Presidential Pardons, as well as all the equipment, resources, data, and armories that comes with the first two.

So it is your choice. You have served your country already and none deny that if you choose the former. But are you willing to go further? To go beyond the normal call of duty and further your service to your nation, your people, and democracy?

Respectably yours,
Lt. General Keith B. Alexander, Director of the National Security Agency.

'Had it been worth it?' He asked himself. 'Yes,' his tormented heart and mind answered. Folding the paper once again, he placed it carefully into the plastic protector that also stored his Presidential Pardon, newly created Military ID, and other important mementos of his service that could be placed onto stationary.

Recovering, he got back to the futile task of unpacking. While he wouldn't need all of the items he removed, most of them would find themselves in a bag once again for his week-long vacation to New Hampshire. Jeans, shorts, a few shirts, bathing suit, toiletries, towel, laptop, cell phone's charger, iPod and charger, and other items and he was ready to go.

Taking the bag he threw it into the back of his car, a new model Hydra Spyder, and hopped into the driver's seat. Turning the key, he revved the engine a bit, letting the vibrations bring him back to normal, shifting into gear, he headed out to I93 to being the two hour trek to Lake Blaisdell in Sutton, New Hampshire.

An hour and fifty minutes later, Seamus was turning off of Route 103 and onto Route 114, a mixture of Guns N Roses, Aerosmith, DragonForce, Dropkick Murphys, and Blink 182 blaring from the car stereo. The crisp clean air, scrubbed to pure greatness by the many pine trees in the area. Turning into the private drive that wound its way to the cottages own by the Bailey Family for as long as he could remember, he was immediately brought back to his childhood. His maternal grandfather had starting renting from the Bailey's fifty years earlier, a tradition followed by Erin O'Riley throughout Seamus' growth, even after the death of his father. Seamus had known the Bailey's for many years and when he learned of his leave, he called asking if they had any openings. Luckily, a renter had canceled for this week, and Seamus was given the spot instead.

His tires crunched over the gravel road on its way up to the cottage on the hill. All in all, the Bailey's land consisted of three cottages which they rented, and two houses, where the they lived. Parking his car near the front door, he grabbed his bags and entered the old building. Images of his childhood bombarded him as he walked around the cottage. Of his mother and father laughing while they sat in front of the word-burning stove late into the night. Of his sister and eventually brother standing in their cradle looking out at the wooden walls, floor, and ceiling, Or the hours he had spent staring into the space, his eyes following the spider across its web, or just listening to the birds in the trees, singing their melodies. Not bothering to unpack, he laid down on the full-sized bed and soon fell asleep, lulled by the waved of the lake, the wind in the trees, and the snapping of twigs in the surrounding woods.

-- The next morning, he woke up rather early and finished getting set in the cottage. And having eaten breakfast, he made his way down to the small private beach. It was only 1100 and already the other tenant was at the beach, basking in the early rays of the sun. As Seamus neared, he couldn't help but stare at the beauty that lounged in a chair right in the middle of the sandy area. His eyes widened behind his sunglasses as he got closer and closer. Grabbing a chair from nearby he placed it in the sun, next to the tanning beauty, and sat down. Turning to his right, he leaned over and offered his hand.

“Seamus O'Riley. Nice to meet you.”

“Emma Warren. Nice to meet you as well.” She replied, her sharp eyes darting across his features, dissecting him like a biologist. “Haven't seen you here before, first time?”

“First time in a long time. My family has been coming for nearly fifty years, but this is the first time I've been in New England in almost ten years. How about yourself, yearly visitor?”

“You could say that. What's your line of work?” She returned, almost immediately interested in him.

“Military, Marine Corps to be exact. You?”

“Marine Biologist. My first time here was for a project for college, and I've been coming back ever since.”

“Lucky for me.” Seamus bantered. His eyes, still hidden behind the tinted lenses, started at her toes and moved their way up her body. He estimated her to be around 5'7”, no more than 135 pounds, and probably a size 6 jeans. His training and missions with the Special Ops team had honed his ability to pick out and remember information about a person's physical attributes, just as he did now. Her brown hair was drawn back into a pony tail, to keep her tan even across her upper body, and her blue eyes sparkled at his attempt at flirtation.

“Yes, lucky for you.” She threw back, smiling with her pearl white teeth, in a smile that few others saw. For some reason this man, this stranger got to her, and he was the first in almost three years. Three years ago, her last involvement had gone drastically wrong, with her other half dead at the hands of a jealous cousin, who after realizing what he had done, committed suicide. While Emma knew that no longer could he hurt her or her partners, the experience had shattered her ability to be in a relationship, and had caused her to bury herself in her work.

“You work around here?” Seamus asked her.

“No. I work for the New England Aquarium at the moment, and I am on call for NUMA, the Nation Underwater and Marine Agency.”

“Really? I used to read Clive's books when I was younger, and he always included NUMA in some way as well as himself.” To which he quickly added, “Want to go for a boat ride?”

“You're on the hill right? Because unless you have a boat in that cottage, I don't know how we're gonna take one.”

“Hold on.” Seamus replied, as he got up from his chair. Walking rather quickly he made his way back up to his cottage. Grabbing his car keys from his jean pockets from the other day, he hopped into his car. The Hydra Spyder roared to life and rolled down the hill, guided with ease. Pointing the front towards the water, he beeped the horn and motioned for Emma to get in the passenger side.

“You're kidding, right?” She said, looking over the convertible. Its Corvette 500 engine rumbling loudly in the calm morning. Seeing no 'fooled you' look on Seamus' face, she got in, gripping onto the seat for her life. Shifting into gear, Seamus drove straight into the water, and ended up floating, seemingly stranded where the tires no longer touched the bottom. “Great.” She taunted.

“Don't worry.” Seamus replied, flicking a few switches on the display. The tires rolled back on their retractable four-point independent suspension, while the engine power was diverted to from the axles to the Berkeley Marine Jet engine with its stainless steel impeller. “You might wannt hold on.” He said directly to Emma.

“Why......!?” Was al she managed to get out before the Corvette engine roared to life and water was sucked through the front of the car and directed out of the jet engine, propelling the car along at a nice clip. As they zoomed around the lake, Seamus couldn't help but think, 'Maybe it was the right choice after all,' thinking back to the letter from the NSA, this vacation was turning out to be worth the ten years of service to his country.
_________________

Once known as Darth Marix

Supreme Commander Alor

Deception Point

May 03, 2015: Open Water

-- Seamus “John” “Mac” Patrick O’Riley, a Colonel in the US Marine Corp sat in the co-pilot seat of a Sikorsky CH-53K Super Stallion. The CH-53K was the latest version of the Super Stallion, which had long served the Marine Corp as transport, mobile command posts, and amphibious assaults. Glancing to his left he could almost see the eyes of the pilot of the escorting AH-64 Apache. They were returning to the Gerald R. Ford (CVN-78), the next generation of Super Carriers for the US Military, and the replacement of the USS Enterprise (CVN-65) after its 50 years of service.

The Colonel had not been involved with the execution of tonight’s mission, but had been the commanding officer in charge, and as was his custom he rode back, to whatever base they were ordered to go to, with the boys. He had been spending his increased spare time since his promotion to Colonel learning how to fly everything that had wings, rotors, jets, and propellers, and had only just switched back control to the main pilot for their landing on the carrier. The pilot expertly nudged the craft closer and closer to the deck of the carrier, which was moving close to 30 knots per hour beneath the landing gear of the choppers. With a jolt, the wheels rubber gripped the tarmac, and the large aircraft was down.

Colonel O’Riley jumped down from his seat and headed to the cargo area to grab his bags and head off to his quarters. He had reports to fill out and files to deem as classified or safe for Congressional Oversight. Since the formation of his unit, they had been made known to certain Senators, due to a botched CIA operation, which his unit had helped get the agents out of trouble. To cover their own asses, the CIA blamed the incident on the top secret operations unit, known to the NSA as MAREC (Military Advance Recon and Elite Commando) Unit, and threatened to reveal the entire unit if they did not come to par with Congressional Oversight. The Colonel, now in charge of the unit and not just a part of it, manage to comply as well as keeping his cover, by reporting to the two most trustworthy and Military-oriented Senators in the US Congress.

May 11, 2015: Atlantic Ocean: Virginia Coast

-- Eight days after returning to the Ford, Seamus was told he could take two weeks of shore leave, while the carrier underwent a checkup as well as replenish its supplies and missiles. The carrier was only two years old, which was very young compared to its predecessor’s life span, and so it was still test firing its weapons and being subjected to routine inspections to check the new equipment. During such inspections, the NSA preferred if MAREC Unit was not onboard the craft, and so gave them shore leave whenever possible.

Open landing, Seamus was headed for the airport, if he had two weeks he knew he needed to visit home, even if he couldn’t be alive. The nearest commercial service airport was in Newport News, an independent city in the Hampton Roads region of Virginia, and that was where he was headed. He arrived with only two bags, and a security clearance that ranked higher than most people could even dream about. Because of his training, he knew well enough not to fly 1st or even Business class, it was easier to blend in with the masses, and he wasn’t exactly dressed for the higher classes.

He passed through the security checkpoints, discreetly flashing his NSA ID and badge when his carry-on passed though the belt, which kept the attendants mouth shut and hands away from the alarm when the Beretta 92FS showed on the screen. The powerful handgun had saved the Colonel’s life many times in his career, and if it was known to the public, would be a strong component of stricter gun control laws. He grabbed a bite to eat at the generic burger outlet in the airport and headed to the Gate to wait for his flight.

As he was waiting his sensitive ear picked up a familiar voice. It had been over seven years since he had last heard it, but he remembered. He kept his head down, engrossed in his laptop screen, but as luck, maybe karma, would have it, the owner of the voice sat down right across from him.

Seamus couldn’t believe his luck, the father of his, well one time girlfriend Alyssa, was sitting straight across from him. There were probably only four people in the world that could recognize him now, and one of them just happened to be going onto the same plane. Well at least he won’t know my name Seamus thought glad that he was traveling alone.

Almost immediately a voice rang over the loudspeaker, “Would Seamus O’Riley please report to Security Checkpoint A?” Seamus sat there, trying to figure his way out. He could risk waiting for the call to pass out of immediate memory but have them call again or he could stand and hope that Alyssa’s father didn’t glance up. Weighing the options, he decided to wait it out. It was working fine until Robert, the father, looked up and said apparently to Seamus, “I knew a Seamus O’Riley once. In fact you remind me of him a lot.”

This could not get any worse for the Colonel. Now he was being compared to a man that wasn’t supposed to exist anymore, himself. Robert took a double take as Seamus reluctantly looked up to reply.

“You are him!” He exclaimed. “You’re alive.”

“Sir, I believe you must have mistaken me for someone else.” Seamus lied. “I’ve never met you before in my life.”
“Don’t lie to me, Seamus. I won’t blow your cover. What are you, CIA? MI6? NSA? Homeland? FBI?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about. I’m a pilot. I’m just heading up to New England for a vacation to visit the extended family. I’m not an agent of any agency.”

“Are you sure? Because I cannot picture you as anyone other than the Seamus I knew. Were you in the Military?”

“Yes. Air Force. I served my time and got out before it got worse.” Seamus continued his lies, shifting to hide his Military ID from Robert, which had been tucked into his pants pocket hastily when leaving the security. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He said, getting up and walking away with his bag.

“Leave your stuff. I’ll watch over it. Then we can talk about old times.”

“Your offer is kind, but I must decline. I am not very trusting.”

“So was Seamus!”

Colonel O’Riley headed off in the direction of the food courts, knowing he would end up at security. This turned out only to be that an item had fallen out of his checked bag and they wished for him to oversee its repacking, and then reroute it through security. He then headed back, hoping that Robert had gotten bored with his investigation.

He had not. And they also had ticket seats near each other. This would be a long plane ride.

_________________

Once known as Darth Marix