Chapter 1 (Adam Novus Chronicles - Book 1)

Everything changed on that last mission; it went FUBAR so fast in the end, I don't know what I could have done differently to change the outcome. OK, that's a lie. Pig-headed stubbornness and a desire to settle a score—were my ultimate downfall. I could have called in sick, or gone AWOL in the jungle at any time. I had the skills to disappear so no one could have ever found me. But I didn't, and as they say—hindsight is 20/20.

I'm getting ahead of myself, which is undoubtedly one of my many flaws. So let's start at the beginning, with a short summary of where I came from. Just to give you a sense of perspective.

My childhood was an ordinary one, nothing exceptional about it, certainly nothing to indicate what I would one day turn into. Growing up on a small rural farm, raised by my grandfather who was my pillar of stability.

I had to give it to the old man, he did his best under very difficult circumstances. Widowed in his 20's and left with a small daughter to raise; a few decades later, having to suffer through her death while she was giving birth to me. The male donor of my genetic material was some jerk that split as soon as he heard that he was to be a father.

In spite of everything, Gramps was there. Having to raise another child by himself and doing it stoically as he did everything else in his life. He taught me how to be a man, and what I needed to survive in this harsh and unforgiving world. I think I was around six years old when he first showed me how to fire a gun and to butcher my kill. Good times.

He was one of those salt of the earth type of people, I could trust his word as written law, and depend on him for anything. He made a solid foundation for the person I would ultimately become, but even he would be surprised at most of it, although he always encouraged me to push forward. That was the reason I managed to get my high school diploma by the age of fifteen.

“Always do your best Adam, you may not succeed every single time, but you will have no regrets, always do your best.” That was one of his most repeated bits of advice; I guess it stuck with me.

The farm life was not bad, even if we were struggling to keep it afloat. There was something comforting in the thought that you have responsibilities that needed to be done every day, and when you are young, that gives you a sense of stability... until it doesn't.

I found Gramps in his bed one summer morning, cold and dead. I knelt by his bed, crying for the loss of my only family and knowing that I was left all alone in this world. The only stability I had was gone with his last breath, and I knew the real world outside this safe haven he made for us, was like a jungle, inhabited by wild beasts in human form.

Things got worse after that. His body was barely in the ground, when the representative of our bank came knocking. I suspected we were in debt, but I guess the old man didn't want to worry me by saying how much. I knew what was coming, several of our neighbors suffered the same fate; the Bank waited no time to repossess the farm. Before long, I was informed by one of the sheriff’s deputies that child protective services will soon be taking me away. I did the only thing my mind could think of; faking my age as I was still sixteen at the time—I enlisted.

That recruiter likely knew that I was lying; the fake ID I bought with my savings wasn’t all that good. Nevertheless, he let it slide; with six feet of height and a mountain of muscles from all that farm work, I looked much older than I really was. Besides, he did have a quota he needed to fill.

The Army and I were like two peas in the pod, we just clicked. The boot camp that everyone was complaining about was easy for me; all those years of hard work prepared me for what was supposedly strenuous physical activity. And the weapons, oh, the weapons were so cool. We got to try so many of them, and I was loving every minute of it. The feel of that cold steel in my hands came as the most natural thing, a match made in heaven.

The one thing that I truly excelled in was unarmed combat; I soaked everything instructors had to teach like a sponge. Every move they taught, I could soon perfectly repeat; it wasn't long before I could even beat my instructors most of the time. In a few competitions they sent me, I always took first place; maybe that’s how they noticed me. A year after my enlisting I was summoned to the commander's office.

A full bird colonel was waiting for me there, with a smile on his face and an offer that looked too good to be true. He said that I could transfer to a new special unit, one that only takes the best of the best, and that they had their eye on me for some time. He had a whole speech about patriotic duty, serving my country, and how I could save many lives. He was as good as any recruiting officer out there, knowing exactly which emotional triggers to push. Naturally, being young and dumb I swallowed it bait, hook, line, and sinker … what an idiot.

If only I told him to go and pound sand, my life would be different now, probably on the side of normal, but that is just wishful thinking.

The new unit I transferred into was as weird as they can get; there was no official name, only a bunch of acronyms with random numbers. Basically—blackest of the black, and part of an experimental program that was off the books. And what they had me doing for the first year and a half? Train… eighteen months of extensive training. Boot camp was a walk in the park compared to this.

Unarmed combat included almost all martial arts known to men, and instructors were old masters, brought from all over the world for the specific reason to make us into better killers. The attrition rate was insane, one in ten managed to continue past the first six months. Those that washed out mainly got disability pensions, our fights were as real as they could get. We needed to familiarize ourselves with every weapon, from old swords to sniper rifles, and learn different languages, enough to get by essentially. History lessons, tactics, assassination techniques, the list went on and on. I don't think I had a full night’s sleep for that entire time, there was no time off, or a leave. One of the facts we realized early on was that not one of us had any families outside, no connection to the rest of the world. We jokingly called ourselves the orphans.

The eighteen months training ended and only fifteen of us remained, still young and cocky; we were the masters of the universe, so sure in our own superiority that nothing was impossible. Finally, the missions and assignments started, and they were brutal.

Darfur, Iraq, Pakistan, Somalia, wherever our country was involved with, we were there. Executing the toughest assignments, where it was deemed too dangerous to send the regular army, due to the projected casualty percentages. But we weren't fighting a conventional war, we were there for asymmetrical warfare, assassinating leaders and commanders, making surgical strikes at the most vulnerable positions. Then something changed, we were being sent out on missions in countries that officially had no beef with us. Not that we minded, drug lords and terrorist leaders were as good targets as any other were.

We pushed on and on, year after year; nothing else mattered except the next mission. We could only loosely be called a unit anymore as most missions were done solo. Sometimes it would be months before we would see each other. My exceptional skill at ending lives was refined even more. In the pauses between missions, I was sent to additional courses that were not in any curriculum where sane people were involved.

For example, one of the mandatory courses I had to take was with this older English gentleman, which I swear was a spy, as in the James Bond type of guy. He never admitted it of course, but that was my take on him. Well, what would you call a sophisticated man in a three-piece suit that teaches tradecraft? That was his name for a particular set of skills he was trying to impart on me.

For a few months, he instructed me one-on-one, lessons about situational awareness in civilian crowds, inconspicuous observation techniques, and how to spot if someone was following you. He had a dozen ways to sharpen one’s detection skills, and there were constant tests. He gives you a photograph for five seconds and then asks you to describe how many people looked directly at the camera and how many didn't. What they were wearing, an emotional state that could be discerned… things like that. We went on field trips to urban environments, constantly observing people and talking about little details one usually does not even notice, especially things that were out of place. It is surprising how much you can learn about people if you just pay attention.

It was one of the most mentally challenging training I had ever gone through; every minute was a brain puzzle, being on your toes every waking moment. It worked; ever since then, I always looked at things with a discerning eye, and that skill saved my bacon more than a few times. (Except in the end… when it mattered the most.)

I instinctively knew where to hit, the weak points to bring death in the most expedient manner. We have not kept an officially confirmed kill count; that would have been too alarming for some of our pacifistic inclined higher-ups, but I knew it was a large number, a disturbing number.

I guess there was a bit of insanity mixed into it all, the rush of a dangerous situation, adrenaline spikes, but in the end, we were only human, and exposing oneself to such risks took its toll. We never got any new recruits, the program ended with our group. I think it wasn't all that cost-efficient; after six years of active duty, only five of us remained in the unit. A few got out on disability, but the others bought it in the field. The countless scars on our bodies were a testament to how unhealthy our way of life was.

That was one of the reasons I wanted out, I couldn't bear any more funerals; the dead ones are like a missing tooth, you can't stop poking at the memory of them.

Simply put, I was burned out with this kind of life; it’s a small wonder that it didn't happen a lot sooner.

There was one more thing that I never shared with the shrinks during mission debriefings. (Since I knew they would grab onto it like a dog on a juicy bone.) You see, sometimes I liked it... yes, I mean the killings, the ending of life, and all euphemisms invented to describe that singularly brutal act. It was during those times when the mark was a particularly vile human being. I am talking about mass murderers, tin-pot dictators that considered all-out slaughter and rape as their God-given right. Those times I didn't make it fast and painless, I made them suffer. Which is not a simple thing to do—killing quickly is much easier.

Maybe it was wrong of me, but I couldn't help myself. It was my way to pay respect to all their victims, a few moments when their spirits could lay claim on the revenge they so rightfully deserved.

Let me let you in on a little secret… everyone dies the same. I don't care how brutal and merciless you have been during your life, how many men listened to your every word as gospel. In those last moments, everyone begs and asks for mercy. Those that don't deserve a speck of it—they beg the most.

One would think that religious fanatics would stay firm on their path of supposed righteousness, but they don't. It’s the pain that does it, always the pain. It’s easy to profess a willingness to give your life for the cause, and to do it if you are a suicide bomber. It is fast, done in an instant. But when you incorporate a great amount of pain… everyone begs for mercy… even if it is only to end the pain.

Does that make me a monster? A person in need of a padded cell and plenty of happy pills? I don't think so, at least in my humble opinion. However, it definitely does not make me normal, I know that much.

Therefore, I sent my request up the chain of command and it was approved; in retrospect, that may have been a mistake.

I was a bit naive to think I could simply quit this line of work like an ordinary soldier.