'Rockies'

07-Sep-2030, 1605T

LCDR Percy Jackson, US Navy, Son of Neptune

Legion XII

Yuma, Arizona, USA

I couldn't believe they actually agreed to this. This, of all things, was as laughable as Artemis and I knocking boots. But my four old comrades were willing to give my idea a go, placing a considerable amount of trust in me in the process. So I wasn't about to let them down.

After a day of rest and making some calls, I got Hazel to shadow-travel herself, myself, Frank, Leo, and Reyna to Yuma, Arizona—all of us in aged-up form for the sake of inconspicuousness. After asking for directions, we began our walk towards the outskirts of the city, where we not only found desert-like land, but a highly recommended establishment: Rockies' Range, a combination of a gun shop, shooting range, and tactical school—perfect for my little scheme.

"Perce, remind me again why we couldn't just do this with you at Camp Jupiter," Frank murmured as I opened the door to the main building.

"Not only are there more trainers, they're probably better n' me," I summed up. "Besides, 'cept for maybe Zippo here, y'all ain't exactly naturals like Tyson. You're gonna need professional help."

"If they're better than you, we're about to get some god-level training," Leo murmured as he gazed at the racks of guns and tactical gear. My eyes, however, locked on a wall of flags, photos, patches, and badges—a memorial of sorts. There were pictures of firefighters, police officers, Marines, search-and-rescue workers, Coast Guardsmen. There were thin blue and red line patches, a Punisher skull, a POW/MIA decal. I recognized the insignia of the 1st Marines, 82nd Airborne, even what appeared to be that of the 24th STS.

But what caught me off-guard was that there weren't just Americans on that wall. Memorabilia came from Japan, Taiwan, India, Mexico, England, Scotland, Australia... but most of all, South Korea.

"Petty Officer Jackson?" a man exclaimed beside me in heavily accented English. Looking to my left revealed a small, bespectacled Asian man in cargo shorts, tennis shoes, and a simple polo shirt. For a moment, my mind blanked at the sight of him. But then, my eyes flicked to one photo of sixty-ish men standing on a beach by some inflatable boats. The men were soaked, covered in sand like they were sugar cookies in a BUD/S class, but they smiled brightly as they held up two flags: one of the United States, one of the Republic of Korea.

That photo was taken during a joint combined exchange training from late 2021 to early 2022 (before Operation Switchback). My troop trained with a detachment from the Maritime Operations Squadron of the ROK Navy's Special Warfare Flotilla's 1st Special Missions Battalion. The JCET primarily consisted of us conducting mock-amphibious reconnaissance, VBSS, and direct action. While all the men were on generally friendly terms, there was one UDT/SEAL I'd bonded with more than any other.

"... Jungsa Kyung Jae-geun?" I asked, recalling his name as the memories came rushing back, the man smiling in reply.

"Indeed, Jackson," he replied, shaking my hand before giving me a hug that I happily returned. "Good to see you!"

"You son-of-a-gun! I didn't know you came here!"

"Immigrated in 2023, settled in Yuma. Now, we owners and proprietors."

"Wait, 'we?'"

"Yes, me and my wife. Hyun-hee!" he shouted excitedly, turning around towards the counter. "Come here! Look who it is!"

"What is it, what is it?" a petite Asian woman around Jae-geun's age asked as she emerged from behind the counter, walking towards us before halting, quickly glancing between the photo and myself, doing a double-take. "... you're him."

"Percy Jackson, ma'am," I replied with a grin as I shook her hand. "And you are?"

"Nai Hyun-hee. As you say... nice to put face to name."

"We met in Korea. She was 707," Kyung interjected, making me raise an eyebrow. I had heard of the ROK Army's 707th Special Mission Group. They were some bad, hard-charging mothers, with some rumors indicating that they were on par with America's D-Boys.

"True. Jungsa, All-Female Company, jumpmaster-qualified," Nai elaborated with a small smile. "We met in JCET with American Marines, low-visibility operation training. I teach him some jumping, he teach me better shooting."

"Way better love story than Twilight," I joked, eliciting a snort from Leo behind me. "Oh, guys, this is Chief Petty Officer Kyung, former South Korean Navy UDT/SEAL and gunslinger extraordinaire. We met back in 2021 during a JCET in Korea. Sergeant First Class—I think—Nai's his wife and ex-707, so she knows what she's doin'. They'll be your instructors. Kyung n' Nai, meet my friends. They'd like to know how to shoot, move, and communicate like y'all."

"Oh, you our private class!" Kyung realized as he and his wife shook everyone's hands. "Yes, Hyun-hee will take you through safety, fundamentals. She is good shooter and teacher."

"Come, we shall begin," Nai said, beckoning for them to follow. Frank shot me a questioning look, to which I shrugged and pointed towards the small Korean woman in reply. My friends followed her to a door that appeared to lead to the outside range.

"After lecture on theory, she teach them on .22," Kyung explained. "Good caliber for beginners, even children. Then AR chambered in 9-millimeter, then 5.56. Overall easy, but still good to... how you say, 'crawl, walk, run?'"

"Yep," I agreed with a nod. "Sounds like a good plan. They'll be busy with you two for the next three weeks."

"Indeed. I hope they good listeners and students."

"Valdez is a bit of a weirdo, but he's got a good heart."

"Well, good heart is essential for any warrior."

"So where do you come in, apart from any sort of philosophical lessons?"

"Tactical movement, solo and with team. Long-range shooting and CQB. Hyun-hee also teach conceal-carry from experience in low-visibility operation," Kyung explained.

"You got yourself a good woman, Kyung."

"Of course I did. Father and Mother did not raise stupid man."

"Well, they sure as shit would be proud o' you now," I replied with a grin. "I gotta bring my dad out here, let 'im get a look at this. He's a former soldier, y'know. Forty-one years in the Army, mostly in special operations forces."

"... my God, he runnin' an' gunnin' long as I been alive!" Kyung muttered, making me stare at him in shock.

"Did... did you just say 'runnin' an' gunnin?'"

"That is American saying, no?"

"... well, yeah. Goddamn, you picked up our culture easy. Say, that reminds me, what inspired you to come to the States, anyway?"

"In America, there is better life. But more important, here you can own guns."

"I... I got nothin' to add to that," I chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. "Amen to that, brother. Oh, and 'Rockies' Range?'"

"Commander Lawson's idea. He and other Americans call us 'Rockies,' because we former ROK military."

"Wait a sec, wait a sec... Commander Greg Lawson?"

"Yes," Kyung sighed, his face drooping at the mention of my dead commander and his old friend. He turned towards the wall, looking at the JCET photo, in which one of the dirty, bearded, camouflaged men was our fallen friend: Lieutenant Commander Gregory "Greg" Lawson. "He helped us get established in Yuma, work through early part of citizenship process. Hyun-hee and I owe him... everything."

"You and me both," I muttered, feeling melancholy as the memories washed over me. Greg, like me, was a prior enlisted man, serving in SEAL Team 10, then Blue Squadron's Charlie Team. After commissioning and doing a stint in Team 8, he came back to DEVGRU as an officer, eventually ending up as 1 Troop's commander. He wasn't just a fantastic SEAL, he was a great leader, one of the finest men the Navy could have.

But then Operation Switchback happened, with Greg being the final American serviceman to die in Afghanistan. He abandoned his overwatch position, charging into heavy enemy fire to drag out an unconscious Buck and get him to our attached SARC. But right as he delivered the senior chief to the corpsman, he was cut down by AK fire. We carried him out in one of the body bags we'd brought along, in the event that the CIA officers we'd come to rescue were dead.

How he never earned the Medal of Honor, I didn't know. But Greg never cared for awards, just his men and the mission. He was one of those people that genuinely had no enemies on the home front; it seemed like everyone, from neighbors to fellow operators, respected him. Throngs of servicemembers and civilians alike showed up at his funeral, even a former Secretary of Defense and President of the United States.

Why you may ask? You see, it happened in 2018, when I was a mere Special Warfare Operator Second Class...

I knew something was up when I saw the suits. To see the squadron CO and CMC delivering a briefing was odd, but not unthinkable. To see DEVGRU's CO and CMC, even more strange but still not terrible. But when I saw three men in suits, I knew we had a problem.

"What the hell's goin' on?" I muttered to Kayak as we sat at the main table in the squadron team room. Much of 1 Troop sat with us, save for Greg and Preacher, who were quietly discussing something with the three suits. To my left, Scout looked almost bored, unbothered by the unknown men in black.

That, or he was just tired. Something about a fight with his wife.

"Somethin's up," Crockpot muttered across from me. "I know it. Somethin' high-level, possibly illegal."

"Illegal?" Scout murmured tiredly. "How the hell'd you come to that conclusion?"

"C'mon, when you see suits, you think businessmen, feds, and lawyers. Considerin' what we do for a livin'... I wouldn't be surprised if we needed a team of lawyers for something that Titles 10 and 50 won't cover."

"... I can't believe you actually have a point. Guess you ain't just a cook with a Trident after all."

"Listen here, you little shi—"

"Alright, here's the deal!" Greg said loudly, bringing our attention towards him and the flatscreen where one of the suits had loaded up a slideshow. "We have been selected to prosecute a highly sensitive target package in conjunction with the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team—these gentlemen here, led by Special Agent Chen—codenamed 'Operation Coral Spike.' Final approval came from... well, you got the comms up?"

"One moment, Commander," the agent manning the computer said as Kayak's breathing halted beside me out of shock... but what was he shocked about. And then, two faces showed up on the screen.

Both were old and smooth-faced, with countenances betraying strong opinions—whatever they were. But they were two of the most memorable public figures of my generation, and would undoubtedly go down in history as two of the most... quotable, shall we say, men of all time: President Donald J. Trump and Secretary of Defense General Jim "CHAOS" Mattis.

"Holy shit," Kayak muttered behind me as we all stood—out of some combination of regulation, reflex, and respect—as we faced the two men on the flatscreen, who viewed us through a camera atop one of the screens.

"Mr. President, Mr. Secretary," Greg greeted with a nod.

"At ease, gentlemen," Trump said, prompting us to sit. "As you may have heard, there was a major terror attack in Mogadishu, Somalia on October 14th, 2017. A huge number of people were killed, with this horrific act being traced back to the jihadist group al-Shabaab."

"Yes. As Commander Lawson and Special Agent Chen are showing you," Mattis explained as the two put up a grainy photo on another screen, depicting several men, with one circled in red. "This man is Ahmed Umar, leader of a cell in the terrorist group. The Somali government has already made arrests, but recent intelligence indicates that Umar masterminded the attack, with his cell unleashing the violence."

"Almost six hundred people were killed—innocent men, women, children—with over three hundred injured. This monster must be brought to justice for his vicious crimes. As such, this is a capture mission first, but believe me, nobody's complaining if this sonuvabitch dies."

I glanced at Crockpot, then Kayak, then finally Scout. This wasn't just any op, this was one coming from the White House. I know, JSOC only answers to the White House, but we were receiving our orders from POTUS and SecDef themselves... this was going to be a big one.

"I'm told you're the very best that we have... anywhere," Trump continued before his expression darkened as he appeared to focus on Greg. "You will need to be. Commander Lawson... take care of it."

"Aye-aye, sir," Greg replied, standing ramrod with determination.

"Good hunting, gentlemen," Mattis added firmly. As the VTC was cut, it was so quiet you could hear a pin drop as we processed the information we'd just received.

"Well, now that your curiosity has been piqued," Chen joked as he redirected us towards the flatscreen with Umar's photograph. "Let me give a brief summary of how it's going to go down..."

Forty-eight hours later, we were leaving the USS Kearsarge assigned to the 5th Fleet, beginning the flight to Merca, Somalia. We were split between four Chinooks crewed by Nightstalkers, each carrying a RHIB that would be operated by SWCCs tapped from Special Boat Team 20. The birds would drop off the boats, the boats would get us a little closer, then we would commence a dive to the bungalow where Umar was.

And for those wondering about the purpose of the boats... helicopters are pretty damn loud, so it'd be a little tricky to be sneaky if we just flew to the bungalow. And the dive was to ensure we could insert without our quarry catching on. All in all, just another day of varsity level hide-and-seek, except we had four heavily armed RHIBs, four Chinooks, and four AH-6s still on the Kearsarge to back us up, along with MV-22s loaded with Recon Marines.

Alpha Team's objective was the actual capture/kill of Umar and any other HVTs on site. The other assault teams, Bravo and Charlie, would handle the rest of the bad guys while Delta—accompanied by Preacher and Greg—would set up a base element and provide sniper support. Each assault team had an HRT operator attached (with Alpha also getting the K-9, Randy), while our ops and comms chiefs remained aboard the Kearsarge to help coordinate between us, the SWCCs, the Nightstalkers, and our Marine QRF.

Like I said, just another day on the job.

And everything was going surprisingly well. Everyone got into their positions, we snuck past the guards, and breached Umar's bedroom, with Randy bringing the bastard to the ground like the glorious fur missile he was. Chen, who was attached to my team, confirmed his identity, much to my delight.

"All stations, this is Alpha 1. I pass Jackpot, say again, Jackpot," my team leader reported.

"Alpha 1, this is Blackbeard 6. Confirm PID on Jackpot," Greg ordered.

"Roger, Blackbeard 6. PID on Jackpot."

"Solid copy. All stations, move for egress."

After restraining him and putting a bag over his head, And, of course, shit hit the fan.

The al-Shabaab, as it seemed, had a QRF of their own. And it was a big one, maybe a company's worth. And they managed to show up right when we were about to exit the house and Bravo, Charlie, and Delta were already at their extraction points, with a horde of terrorists between us and them.

"Well, what a good time to be alive!" Kayak joked as he took cover beside me, tossing a frag out the door as rounds impacted the wall around us. "I was wondering when things were gonna go wrong!"

"Just shut the hell up, would ya?!" I shot back as I peeked through a window and fired my HK416, killing two terrorists. But that was only a drop in the bucket, considering the two dozen others and three technicals on the beach blocking our path. "All stations, Alpha is pinned! We need some goddamn help!"

"Alpha, Bravo 1. We are unable to reach your position. Be advised, you have another technical rolling towards you!" Bravo Team's leader warned.

"Alpha, Charlie Team's in the same boat," Charlie's leader added. "You're on your own at this time. Boats are ten mikes out, helos are fifteen. Just hang in there!"

"Godda—holy shit!" Kayak exclaimed when Chen was suddenly hit. "Oh, crap! This is Alpha 6, Alpha 8 is down! Alpha 8 is down!" he called as he dragged the HRT operator to safety.

"All stations, Blackbeard 6. Hold your fire towards the beach. We've commandeered a technical, over," Greg suddenly called.

"Cease fire, cease fire!" my team leader shouted to my right, having to yell the command twice more at our machine gunner. Rounds impacted everything around us as the terrorists continued to open fire, with some appearing to charge at our sudden silence. But suddenly, the sound of a DShK was added to the cacophony, simultaneously loudening and quieting the situation—it was Greg, manning an enemy technical and catching the terrorists off-guard.

"All stations, this is Blackbeard 7! Our truck is marked by a strobe. Shoot at everything else!" Preacher called, apparently driving the technical.

"You heard the man! FIRE!!"

And thus, the tables were turned as Preacher and Greg's tactics saved the operation. By the time the RHIBs arrived, there were only a few terrorists left on or around the beach, easy targets for the SWCCs' M240s. With nothing standing in our way, we all loaded up and began speeding towards the extraction point where the Chinooks would pick us up. The Marine/Nightstalker QRF flew over our heads, with Greg having given them the information necessary to hunt down the remnants of the cell on site. And if that weren't enough, Greg made sure the terrorists wouldn't get far by sabotaging all of their vehicles... alone.

As it turned out, we'd killed just about everyone in that one cell. Sure, it's not like we eliminated the entirety of al-Shabaab, but it was one less cell to worry about. Plus, the AH-6 pilots and Recon Marines standing by to support us got some action, destroying two escaping convoys and aro.

Back in the States, Trump and Mattis would personally commend us and award Greg and Preacher Silver Stars for their heroics, which undoubtedly saved Operation Coral Spike and kept us from risking too many men. Moreover, the two would also award Greg the Navy Cross for him single-handedly disabling the entire cell's vehicles, thus allowing ISR assets to easily track enemy personnel and for the Nightstalker/Marine QRF to hunt them down (yeah, Greg got a Silver Star and Navy Cross in one day... for the same mission... because logic).

In other words, the destruction of the al-Shabaab cell was because Greg basically had a "Leeroy Jenkins" moment.

After being detained in Guantanamo, Umar would be extradited to Somalia, where he would be tried and sentenced to death. Rumor has it that this operation would be what improved US-Somalia relations, with an American diplomatic mission reopening in 2018.

All thanks to the leadership and cleverness of Greg.

"Yeah," I sighed as my recollection of Operation Coral Spike ended. "Greg was one helluva man."

"Honorable warrior," Kyung agreed. "Good friend. Role model to us all."

"Amen, brother. Amen."

To be clear, I'm not Korean, I'm just going based on some Internet searches about how their names work. Also, if the Koreans' English appears to be broken, that's because I'm basing it off a professor I met who also immigrated to the US from Korea. Moreover, I can say from personal experience that speaking a language that isn't your mother tongue will contain your natural accent and be broken. So if everyone could refrain from canceling me, I'd appreciate that.

Also, for those curious about the JCET... that'll be next. I'm thinking of having Percy explain it to the gang, maybe over lunch. However, I've got nothing beyond that yet, so I hope you enjoyed Operation Coral Spike instead.

Life has gotten hectic where I am, so I unfortunately cannot promise consistency anymore—at least, if I hope to maintain my doctrine of quality over quantity. And this chapter's a short one because I'm having trouble filling in some blanks.

But anyways, thank you so much for continuing to read, and make sure to leave a comment! Take care of yourselves and each other.

Until next time,

- ADF-2