Losers - King of the Losers

King of the Losers


Major Franklin Clay had a reputation for taking insubordinate misfits and turning them into productive members of the military.  He also had a reputation for recognizing flashes of brilliance that other officers overlooked.  The two were certainly related; the simple fact was that a lot of bright, talented kids didn’t deal well with military discipline.  They got angry, they got rebellious, they got stir-crazy.  But if they could be whipped into shape, they made good Special Forces, and good Special Forces made great Company assets.  Hell, a quarter of the recruits he’d plucked from the dirt had turned Delta.

In short, Clay had a reputation for turning would-be wash-outs into some of the finest intelligence operatives in the world.

The other officers at Bragg called him all kinds of half-awed, half-mocking things (behind his back, of course).  Grunt-Whisperer.  Spook-Sitter.  King of the Losers.

So he was used to being stealthily approached by haggard drill sergeants.  Nobody liked admitting he couldn’t handle some punk kid, but these men were Swick and Special Forces, and had long since learned to show their problem-children to Clay before resorting to more aggressive tactics.  It was better that way, both for the kids and for the Army.  Why waste a potential resource, after all?

But the recruit standing just outside the window didn’t look like a typical troublemaker.  Hispanic, just under six feet tall, whip-thin even though he had to have been through the BCT portion of OSUT by now.  He was tidy and ordered, and standing at firm, unwavering attention—almost more like a Marine Corps recruit than an Army one.

The kid’s name was Alvarez, but everyone called him Cougar.  The sergeant failed to elaborate, and Clay didn’t ask him to.

“For once, Sergeant, I’m not sure I see the problem,” Clay said.

“Permission to speak candidly, sir?”

“Please do.”

The drill sergeant fidgeted slightly with his cover and glanced toward the recruit.  “I’ve never seen anything like him, Major.  Never says a word, follows orders to the letter, exceeds all physical requirements…works with anybody and everybody, pulling twice his weight in unit exercises—literally, on at least one occasion.  At first, I thought they were nuts making a young kid like that an X-Ray, but by the end of last week, I saw that I got nothing left to teach him.  Now, normally I’d grin and bear it, use him for a good example…”

Clay shook his head.  “He’s too young.”

“Yes, sir.  Seeing a kid his age doing so well in the program is hell on unit morale, especially when none of ‘em have prior service.  You see my problem, sir.  Can’t do a damn thing with him, but, by God, he can shot the wings off a gnat from a moving vehicle.”

Clay eyed the skinny kid standing out in the hot sun.  “How old is he?”

“Couple months shy of nineteen, but the special orders were all in proper order, sir.”

“If he shoots like you say, it’s no wonder they want him X-Rayed in,” Clay noted.  “The Company can get a lot of working years out of Special Forces if they shove ‘em in the program as soon as humanly possible.”  He sighed.  After a while, he nodded.  “Give him to me, I’ll take care of it.”

The sergeant let out the breath he’d been holding and pulled a folded piece of paper out of a jacket pocket.  “Hoped you’d say that, Major.  All it needs is your signature.”

Clay grinned wryly at the transfer orders and signed them.  “Go ahead and send him in.”

The drill sergeant gratefully saluted and left.  A moment later, Clay spied him outside the window, informing the recruit of his reassignment.  A moment more, and the kid was waiting outside Clay’s open door.

“You may enter,” Clay said.  He watched attentively while his latest foundling walked with swift, exact strides to stand at attention directly in front of Clay’s desk and salute.  “Good afternoon,” he acknowledged, and waited for the salute to drop.  “What’s your name, recruit?”

The kid said nothing.

“Don’t you like me, recruit?” Clay asked, keeping his tone light.  “I asked for your name.”

Dark, clever eyes flicked down toward the nametag on the kid’s duffel.

Clay smiled.  “Good.  That’s right, it sounds like a bullshit order, since I can read just fine for myself.  Assuming that’s your gear, of course.  And your drill sergeant wouldn’t have handed you over without telling me your name.  But I wanna know what to call you besides ‘kid,’ ‘recruit,’ and ‘pain in the ass.’”

And he wanted to know how the kid would answer the question.  There was a lot of information to be gained from the way a person introduced himself.

“Cougar,” the kid answered.  Belatedly, he tacked on, “Sir.”

“Well, Cougar, you’re my responsibility now.  Can you really shoot the wings off a gnat from a moving vehicle?”

Cougar shook his head.

Leaning back in his chair, Clay just kept smiling.  “Wanna learn how?”

Sudden hunger lit up the kid’s face, and he nodded eagerly.

Clay knew he’d catch hell for it; knew that Roque and the rest of the unit would bitch unceasingly; knew that no matter how many favors the man owed him, Axe was not going to be happy to be saddled with an Army kid who thought he had what it took to survive SEAL sniper school.

He also knew that it was all going to be worth it, if this kid who was too talented and determined for OSUT could squeeze in some special training before he rejoined his peers for the Q-Course.


.End.