Justin Harrison's Blog

Recognized Military Experience: United States Navy
Rating and Rank: E-6, Petty Officer First Class
SKUL Serial Number: MT-81826-SO
Platoon: Whiskey
Team: Saber
Call Sign: Toad

"I'll take her," the little snot, Will Perkins, said as he leered past the little, scrawny black boy and chose the girl standing behind him. Perkins hated Marcus, for whatever reason, and Marcus knew it. But, Will was big for his age, and Marcus, well Marcus wasn't.

"Teams are locked," he sneered, then started back-peddling onto the court. "Hey, can't play with more than five on a team."

"I'll si..si...sit ooooover there," Marcus stuttered. He always stuttered when he was nervous or embarrassed. "I'll su, su, suuuub in." A tear rolled down his cheek as the others laughed in his face and began playing.

Marcus Tolar, born to Martha Tolar of Meridian, Mississippi, was the youngest of nine brothers and sisters. Martha worked hard to keep her children in clothes and give them what they needed to succeed in an unfair world. So hard, in fact, that at any given time the woman held three jobs and rarely got more than a couple of paltry hours of sleep a night. Her primary day job was as a cashier at one of the local pharmacies in Meridian. Mr. Plymoth, the owner of the pharmacy, was a nice man who allowed her children to come in and get a snack - On the house, he'd say fondly - before heading off to their chores, ball practice or after school activities. The first of every month, when the new comics were delivered, Mr. Plymoth would walk the isle of his book shelf with Marcus while keeping a stern eye on the child. Marcus might reach for a new Avengers comic and make Mr. Plymoth's eyes turn to slits.

He'd withdraw his hand as if he were stung, bringing a smile and a nod to Mr. Plymoth's face. The druggist would then bring out the newest X-men comic, or whatever the hot comic of the time might be, instead.

It was their thing, and Marcus loved the man for it.

FOR THE FULL STORY, click link: Marcus Tolar - Sniper

Recognized Military Experience: United States Navy
Rating and Rank: E-7, Chief Petty Officer
SKUL Serial Number: AL-03490-SO
Platoon: Whiskey
Team: Saber
Call Sign: Tweeker

"Is that what you want?" screamed Lukas Lattimore before taking a swig of his beer.

"No, Daddy," answered young Ansil, his son, meekly. Ansil was ten at the time, tall for his age, but on the chubby side. He had white-blond hair, baby blue eyes, and a self-deprecating sense of humor that drew others to him.

Everyone...except his dad.

Born to Lukas and Jill Lattimore, Ansil was the youngest of four boys. His dad jokingly called him an accident when drinking beer around his friends. What may have been a joke to Lukas hurt his son deeply though Ansil carried that hurt in silence. Lukas already had Ansil's life planned, and, by God, he'd make sure his son would live out his dreams. They were dreams he wanted for himself at one point; only, he never found the time to put the beer can down.

"That's right!" Lukas screamed again. This time, he wobbled on drunken legs as well. "You damn sure don't want that, Anse, and you know why?"

"No, Daddy," he said in a small voice as his friends dispersed.

FOR THE FULL STORY, click link: Ansil Lattimore - Combat Medic, bio

Recognized Military Experience: United States Marine Corps
Rank and Rating: E-6, Staff Sergeant
SKUL Serial Number: KM-22118-SO
Platoon: Whiskey
Team: Saber
Call Sign: Twitch

An only child, Kris Metcalf lost his mom, Kourtney, when he was only five. Kyle, his dad, was home on leave from the Marines and had taken his family on a drive up the California coast from their home in San Diego to the wine country in the northern part of the state. This was their first trip as a family, and Kris would always remember how excited his mom was when his dad told her to get packed.

It was late and the moon high, as Kris' dad took over the driving from his mom. As the car took turn after turn, Kris drifted off to sleep only to be awoken some time later by his dad's screaming. His eyes opened just in time to see the roof of the car crushed inward then being pealed open like a can just before the vehicle ran off the road. During the subsequent crash, something hit him on the head, hard. He was upside down in his car seat when he came to. On all sides, flames licked at the paneling of the car and smoke billowed in and stung his eyes. He remembered seeing his mom's hand and arm, and he remembered his calls to her going unanswered.

FOR THE FULL STORY, click link:
Kris Metcalf, Breacher, bio

Recognized Military Experience: United States Army
Rank and Rating: E-8, Master Sergeant
SKUL Serial Number: JB-01685-SO
Platoon: Whiskey
Team: Saber


Born to Frank and Maureen Blackmoor, Jed grew up in the typical Texan home on his family's cattle ranch outside of Wichita Falls. He spent the days of his youth in school, on the ball field, and around the house finishing his chores. On weekends, he busied himself hunting and fishing. During one of those early hunting seasons, Jed's dad shared with him the words and mindset that would define him for the rest of his life.

In his early teens, Jed was hunting deer on a morning in late December when a large buck stepped into the field he'd been watching and offered a broad side shot. Jed pulled the trigger, but instead of seeing a dead deer in his scope, all he saw was an empty patch of ground the deer had been standing in. Immediately, he walked to the last spot he saw the deer and found only hair and a tiny drop of blood. By that time, the leading edge of a storm front had passed. Rain turned to sleet, and, eventually, snow. Wet and freezing, Jed left the field and went home, convinced it was only a grazing shot. That night, when he'd come in from working with the cattle, Jed's dad asked him what he shot at? He had been working in one of the adjacent fields and heard the shot.

FOR THE FULL STORY, click link:
Jed Blackmoor, Assistant Team Leader, bio

Recognized Military Experience: United States Navy
Rating and Rank: O-4, Lieutenant Commander
SKUL Serial Number: DS-03378-SO
Platoon: Whiskey
Team: Saber
Call Sign: Boss


Standing around six feet tall with a linebacker’s physique and wavy blond hair highlighting a set of piercing, glacial blue eyes, Lieutenant Commander Dane Stackwell cut an intimidating shadow. He had two visible tattoos that only added to his menacing appearance. The older tattoo was on his right forearm. It depicted a fire-breathing dragon with wings spread threateningly and a forked tail curved in a figure eight. The dragon was perched atop a Templar’s cross and was the unrecognized symbol of an unrecognized counterterrorist unit. On the face of that cross was inscribed Revelation 22:12-13. That particular verse begins with And, behold, I come quickly which is also the accepted, yet equally unrecognized, motto of that aforementioned CT unit. The second, inked into his left forearm, carried much more ominous connotations for the whole of humanity...

FOR THE FULL STORY, click link:
Dane Stackwell, Team Leader, biography

Somewhere between Hell’s doorstep and Satan’s foyer

Dane was running for his life…again.

He knew he was sleeping and knew he was dreaming the same dream he had dreamt every night since their last operation down in South Louisiana. That particular visit to Hell’s half acre had nearly cost SKUL everything. Worse still were the implications of it all. Dane, the survivors, and SKUL’s leadership knew it was only going to get worse. The dream – no, this was a nightmare – progressed as it always did with men, his friends, teammates, and fellow operators who were caught up in his abysmal nightmare falling away from him on all sides in increasingly brutal fashion. They were, quite literally, being torn apart by dozens of savages. The first to fall was always Tweeker, just as he had during the operation – protecting his teammates. Ansil paid the ultimate sacrifice by jumping in front of a lunging savage intent on taking out his teammates, his friends. Twitch, who stopped to fend off a savage that had taken Toad down, was next. Three hit him all at once and tore through his body like a bullet through gelatin. They then turned to Toad, but he was already gone as evidenced by the thick pool of ever-widening blood. Lastly was Jed, who forcefully pushed Dane onward while screaming, “Go Dane! Someone has to survive! You run, dammit! Stay alive for your boy!” Saber team’s ATL disappeared in rolling mass of hate and anger and a tumultuous sea of fur, claws, and fangs.

FOR THE FULL STORY, click link: A SKUL Christmas

ACTIVATED: April 26, 1975
MISSION: Prevent loss of life by eliminating the werewolf insurgency.
MOTTO: Per tenebras venimus tamquam lux – Through the darkness we come as light.

In early 1975, four scientists who were leaders in the fields of biology, chemistry, physics, and archeology were shown top-secret video footage that could only be described as the harbinger to the end of the human race.

No...They had not just viewed footage of nuclear fallout centered in a major U.S. metropolis; however, the grainy footage revealed a force that each man realized could be just as cataclysmic. The footage revealed the bloody and grizzled aftermath of a demolished Native American village located on an island in the Aleutian Chain off the mainland of Alaska.

FOR THE FULL STORY, click link:
SKUL: HISTORY, MISSION, COMMAND AND OPERATIONAL STRUCTURE

Area 51
Section 8 TOC
0200

“So, I’m here,” General Pete Pattridge, Section 8’s Commanding Officer, said irritably. “What’s wrong now, Lee?” The General’s head had just hit the pillow, or so it felt like, only to be recalled to Section’s Tactical Operations Center – or TOC – by his lead computer analyst, Lee Wright.

Wright, sensing the General’s ire, made it as brief as possible.

“Sir, at approximately 2300 tonight, the Grim was hacked.”

Pattridge visibly stiffened. The Grim was an on-going project that, as beautiful as it was, could put everyone with a fingerprint smudge on its mainframe so far under the prison they would be eating out of rice bowls with wooden sticks.

“What do you mean, hacked, Lee?” Pattridge sat back feigning relaxation. He did not manage to pull it off. “With the encryption and firewalls in place, that’s impossible.”

“In the truest since, you’re exactly right, sir.” The computer tech looked around the TOC nervously.

He needed to say more. That much was clear, but he was what? Afraid to? The General grabbed Wright by the elbow and led him to a darkened corner of the vast room. “I’m sensing there’s a but laying around here somewhere, Lee,” he said hoarsely.

FOR THE FULL STORY, click link: Operation Slingshot

Cloudcroft, New Mexico
St. Timothy Catholic Church
Saturday evening, 6 p.m. Mass

Father Mendoza adjusted his collar and made one last check in the full length mirror in his office.
"As always, perfecto," he said approvingly. They say all men, regardless of their place in line before the Pearly Gates, have their weaknesses and vices. Father Mendoza would spend a rather lengthy stent in Purgatory because of his vanity. With his dark skin and thick shock of curly black hair, Mendoza was a good looking man. The problem was that he knew it; and, so did many on Cloudcroft's single women circuit. Still, though, the father was a relatively good man who had spent a lifetime building and nurturing his congregation. Tonight's Mass, with Thanksgiving looming in the near distance, would likely see a few hundred people taking Communion. It was nights like this that made living a life of poverty and servitude worth it. It was times like the coming Mass that reminded Father Mendoza that no matter how often he woke in some woman's bed, scratching and clawing to find his clothes, the Lord will forgive him. Just look at the people number of people he had brought to Christ's cross. This church was nothing before he got here.

Hell, he thought with an internal chuckle, it could be worse. I could be banging one of my altar boys like so many of the priesthood.

FOR THE FULL STORY, click link:
Operation Reaper's Grip

Crescent City Assisted Living and Retirement Home
Magazine Street, New Orleans, Louisiana
2000

The black and white slowed to a stop at the foot of the drive. The Crescent City Assisted Living and Retirement Home sat well off Magazine in one of the more affluent parts of New Orleans. It was situated behind and among century old live oak trees and magnolias. Their wide trunks and low-hanging limbs not only provided a certain aesthetic quality but also, more than enough privacy for the facility's residents. In the spring, the boughs of azaleas and stands of crepe myrtles scattered across the large, expansive front yard bloomed a rainbow of colors and added a certain certitude of serene ambiance...

FOR THE FULL SHORT STORY, click link:
OPERATION GRINDSTONE