Heh, if you made my life into a story, it could become an international goddamned bestseller. It would start as a hilarious comedy about what I did before the war, and end with this most recent ****-storm the world's had. Some book.
I was born in the heart of Boston, and grew up there too. I'll skip most of these details, as I believe I may be wanted for one or two of these mishaps still.Wouldnt be good to reveal those to the public...
Anyway, my family. My father, Samuel Blackstone, was a veteran of a whole load of combat, and ended up just as insane as me. Not sure if the insanity runs in the family, or it's some form of PTSD. Don't give much of a **** either. My mum, Althea, was a writer and chef. She worked at some fancy local restaurant as a day job, and wrote mystery and spy novels at night. I had no brothers or sisters, so instead of hanging out around the house, I learned the streets of Boston like the back of my hand. By the time I was 12, I could of made a tour company and been rich, but no. I decided to follow in my father's footsteps, and go into the Navy. Sometimes I regret that decision. Sometimes.
The moment I turned 18, I left the house, and head to the nearest recruitment office. Ended up on a carrier in the Mediterranean about a year later. I didn't exactly love my job, but it was alright. I worked the flight deck, helping get everything to go where it needed to without some dumb*** driving his cart across the path of an F/A-18. That almost happened once. Other than that, it was pretty damn uneventful. Until one morning, when I was on the deck, and I heard some commotion coming from the sea. I looked down, and almost got my head taken off by some extremist with an AK. Drew my sidearm, put a bullet clean into all of their heads, then took out the motor. With an M9. How I managed that, I probably will never know. WHat I do know, however, is that the next day, some guy with a SEAL trident on his uniform came up to me and practically said, "You've been selected for SEAL training." Of course, he didn't say precisely that. I just don't have the time to write up his whole speech. Next thing I knew, I was in San Diego, training for the SEALs. Rather painful stuff. They are allowed to deprive you of sleep, to make you better. It sucks hard, but it's worth it, if you make it through. I did. With top marks.
And got into ****ing SEAL Team Six.
Yep, I was the best of the best of the best. The top division of the SEALs. Thankfully, I got a chance to have a few weeks stateside, before going out to my first campaign. I enjoyed the time with some old friends, and that was the first time I met my wife-to-be. Ashley came into the bar, and my friends and I were in the middle of a drinking game, where we practically tried to get every girl in the bar to bang us. Well, Ashley walked in, and it was my turn to try.
That was a great night.
The next day, of course, I had to leave for active duty. For the next few years, it all blended together. I'll give the most important details. There were...4 missions of worthy note, and a couple events in between. The first one was in my first year as a Navy SEAL. Apparently the top brass wanted to test me. 50 terrorists, inside a fortified stronghold. Do you want to know what I did?
Single-handedly snuck in, got all the intel I could, set enough explosives (well, more than enough), and blew the place sky-****ing-high. Not a scratch on me. Top brass was impressed. Got a promotion for it.
Next trip stateside I had, I married Ashley. I won't go in depth, but we married inside Fenway Park, and spent our honeymoon in Rome. And of course, I had another campaign to go to right afterwards.
Nine months later was that damned mission on Sri Lanka. We were to go in, rescue the prisoners, and get out. SImple, right?
Yeah. Not when they were being executed and tortured.
SO, I get over to my hideout spot that I had already chosen, and took the first shot. Scared the **** out of the executor, and the Marine he was gonna kill got out of there fast. Then, all hell broke loose. First, my sniper rifle jammed as the firefight began. I slowly advanced, AR in hand. Then, out of nowhere, some terrorist jumps me, wielding a shovel. A shovel. Seriously, those guys need better equipment. All lost was my comlink, he ended up getting raped with his won shovel. Wasn't pretty. As I put the comlink back in place with my gear and got back up, I saw how much of a ****storm we got into. five of the ten prisoners were dead, the other five having escaped. Ace was dragging James away, with James having a damned chunk of his leg missing. Bullets whizzed overhead, and our commander gave us the signal to evac. I ran to the helicopter. As Ace reached the thing, and got James onboard, a sniper shot blew his brains out. We left him there. Truly a sad way to go. I got stateside the next day, and the following day, my son, James, was born. Named after the fallen SEAL. May he rest in peace.
Next mission of note was where I fell in love with thermite. That stuff almost can burn through a full foot of concrete with rebar. Not much else of note, just mentioning that, and hopefully making top brass let me reacquire my thermite, if they read this.
One of my last missions before the SSD contacted me was the one I hate to remember, yet almost every night I remember it. It was a mission into Afghanistan. We went into the mountains, and had to take out a Pakistani resistance force, something the local cops couldn't do themselves. It was four SEALs: me, Scott (my CO), Tim (heavy weaponry expert), and Johnny (comms-man and fellow sniper). All hell broke loose.
The twenty or so enemies that were guessed to be there? Ha. Damn locals lied to us. more like 120. We got ambushed by them on the way up a hill, too. We took up positions along the base of the hill, behind some trees. We killed a decent chunk before Tim was hit, thankfully just in the arm. We retreated back into an abandoned village we passed, and made our stand there. Johnny...he sacrificed himself to get the evac copter to us. he went up onto the roof, under overwhelming gunfire, and made the call. A bullet ripped into his left shoulder just as he finished the distress call. I got up to him, and stabilized the wound, but it was too late. He...died in my arms on the way back to HQ. His last words were "You did your damned best, buddy. You tried."
A couple months later, a man in black came up to my door. He told me I was being temporarily transferred out of the SEALs to the SSD, whatever that was. I joined, having no other choice.
The rest, as they say, is history.
And classified, I'm guessing.
I don't want to be shot for telling, and I don't want to have to kill you.
