About thirty kilometers south of Albany, New York, comfortably nestled against the Hudson River, is a small run-of-the-mill gas station that also sells local antiques left over from estate auctions. Its owners, a retired Hispanic couple originally from California, make a respectable profit selling gas and the odd antique to passing tourists. Although no signs exist, the gas station is the only obvious landmark indicating the turnoff that leads to the Polaris Complex. A dirt road full of potholes that get worse by the season gently meanders behind the store and then disappears off into the thick pine-filled woods which surround the three hundred acres that are part of the Polaris Complex, with its administrative buildings and extensive training grounds.
The brainchild of Major-General Jack O’Reilly, US Army (retired), Polaris Operations (Global) is a discreet private organization that specializes in unique problem solving, military, police and civilian training, along with consulting services that will go anywhere in the world at a moment’s notice. Although in competition with the larger companies in the US and Great Britain, General O’Reilly made sure early on that he and his people only ever dealt with legitimately elected governments and internationally recognized organizations such as the UN and other international Non-Governmental Organizations. To date, most of his clients only required low-level training, conducted either in their home nation, or on Polaris’ wide-ranging grounds themselves. Weapons handling, advanced driving, small unit tactics and police training could all be handled by his expert crew of retired military and police personnel working seven and twenty-four. No one could apply for a position there; all of O’Reilly’s people were handpicked. Many of them were enticed away from their parent organization to come and work for him for considerably more money. He had four field teams, of which only one, Mitchell’s, worked on the more challenging and dangerous missions approved and overseen exclusively by O’Reilly himself.
It had snowed through the night, but as the gray light of dawn crept into the world, the snow slowed and then stopped, leaving the picturesque countryside looking like a Christmas card. The bright yellow sun shone down on a refreshingly beautiful winter’s day.
Mitchell turned his beat-up blue Jeep Wrangler onto the dirt road by the gas station, heading into the snow-covered woods. Music blared inside the cab, and Mitchell drummed his hands on the steering wheel to the latest tunes from U2. A heavy blanket of snow covered the fir trees lining the road, weighing down their boughs, giving the entire area a decidedly Christmas look to it.
Having turned thirty-one the month prior, Ryan Mitchell felt that life was going his way. A graduate of West Point, Mitchell had chosen to serve in the army. He sought out a series of ever-challenging positions within the army and soon joined the US Army Rangers, a key part of the US Special Operations Command. After several tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, his superiors identified Mitchell as an officer who would do well in his career. However, he would never hold a key position in the higher echelons of the military because he would never adapt to being stuck behind a desk more than being in the field. Mitchell did not regret his choice to leave the army; he was never comfortable with the idea of playing the political games that came with the more senior appointments he would have assumed in the service. Although he would not admit it, Mitchell had grown increasingly frustrated with the seeming civilian indifference to the years he and his comrades spent overseas. When he was unexpectedly called by General O’Reilly to join his organization, Mitchell jumped at the chance to take his life in a new direction. It was a decision he would never regret.
Lost in his thoughts, Mitchell almost forgot to slow down when a closed gate barring his way suddenly appeared in front of him, as he approached a sharp curve in the trail. Slamming on the brakes, Mitchell cursed as the jeep slid to a less than graceful halt, mere inches from a locked metal fence.
“You’ll need to pay more attention next time, Mister Mitchell,” yelled a man in his sixties wearing a rumpled blue uniform, as he stepped out from a well-camouflaged guard shack and ambled over beside Mitchell’s idling jeep. Although he knew almost everybody who worked at Polaris by sight, Pat McGregor still diligently checked everyone’s IDs — he did not want anyone getting in on his watch.
“Sorry about that, Pat. That’s what, the second or third time I’ve done that?” said Mitchell as he flashed his ID and reached down for his travel mug filled with home-brewed coffee.
“Try again, mister,” said McGregor. “You forget every single time, and we go through this damned routine time and again,” scolded McGregor, as he looked over Mitchell’s less than pristine-looking jeep.
“Well, at least I’m consistent,” joked Mitchell, as he took a long swig of coffee and put his ID away. “Many people in today?”
“A few folks came in last night to do who knows what, but overall it’s a fairly quiet day. The usual staff is in though; you know, the general, his secretary, and some of the other under-appreciated security folks like me,” said McGregor, as he stepped back into his shack and flipped a switch to open the creaking metal gate. Although the gate looked antiquated, there were cameras and motion sensors covering every centimeter of the perimeter. The security staff boasted that a squirrel could not get onto the grounds without their knowledge. However, they could not explain a family of deer that seemed to come and go as they pleased.
“Thanks, Pat,” said Mitchell with a wave, as he changed gears and drove off down the snow-covered path. A couple of minutes later, Mitchell pulled up his jeep in front of a large gray building that looked more like a storage warehouse than an office complex. It may not have been architecturally pleasing to the eye, but the main Polaris Complex building was very utilitarian. Located inside were the head offices for the various branches that ran the organization and where General O’Reilly personally held all of Mitchell’s pre-mission briefs.
Mitchell jumped out of his jeep and headed to the closed front doors. His tall athletic frame was dressed for the weather in a warm blue ski jacket, dark blue jeans, and a pair of worn brown leather hiking boots.
Inside the building were several rows of metal detectors manned by ex-service personnel who had retired from the military or police forces due to injuries suffered while serving. Mitchell knew the drill. Before passing through the metal detectors, he handed over his sidearm, a Swiss-made 9mm SIG Sauer P220, to Harry Chappell, a lanky ex-marine who cleared the weapon before placing it in a safe box under his desk.
Mitchell waved to Chappell and, whistling to himself, he sauntered through the detectors, signed in and walked down the long highly polished corridor until he came to a set of stairs that led directly up to General O’Reilly’s office. Taking two steps at a time, Mitchell charged up the stairs. With a loud bang, he flung the door open to O’Reilly’s personal assistant’s office.
Tammy Spencer, a beautiful African-American woman in her early thirties, who had lost a leg in Iraq, did not even bother to look up. “I don’t know why you insist on doing that, Ryan Mitchell. I have you on the surveillance cameras the instant you enter the building,” said Spencer, as she tapped a small screen on her desk with her pencil. Today, she was wearing a New York Jets football jersey instead of one of her usual eye-catching dresses.
“Casual day at work today, Tammy?” asked Mitchell.
“Captain Mitchell, if you must know, I am in here on my own time during the holidays, so the general lets me dress as I please,” shot back Spencer, as she finally looked up at Mitchell with her appealing deep-brown eyes.
“Don’t get upset Tammy,” said Mitchell defensively. “I didn’t mean any offence. I just look forward to seeing you dressed to the nines, since I work with the people I do. Your outfits tend to brighten my days. Besides, I’m still betting the Vikings will do better this year,” said Mitchell.