PSYCHOlogical: A Novel, page 2
Each of New Dawn’s operators were tested and subsequently ranked based on their abilities. Explosives, small weapons, evasion, negotiations, surveillance, and foreign language were in the skills categories. Neuroticism, extraversion, openness, agreeableness, and conscientiousness were in the personality categories.
The testing allowed New Dawn’s brass to determine field skillsets and decide which operators were prone to psychological distress, unrealistic ideas, maladaptive coping responses, a need for stimulation, and lackadaisical behavior.
Vincent’s scores in each respective category were as high as the chart measured. Not only was he the best operator in the program, he was considered by many to be the best operator in existence.
“You’re a very methodical man, Briggs. In no way are your actions during that assignment indicative of sloppy behavior.”
“According to you,” he responded dryly.
“Looking back on it, what should you have done differently?” I opened the file and scanned the field report, making note of Briggs’ perfect penmanship. “He was armed with an AR-15 fitted with a high-capacity magazine and he was hidden from view by the dense shrubbery.” I looked up. “It sounds like he had the element of surprise in his favor. Was there an ample amount of time to react?”
“Obviously not.”
I glanced at the report. “Your sidearm was holstered and concealed by the tail of your shirt. Would it be typical for you to leave a residence with your sidearm brandished?”
“No, Ma’am.”
“Why not?”
“The risk of being identified by any onlookers as being a threat. We’re to appear to be simple civilians. We’re expected to blend in with our surroundings.”
“Let me summarize.” I leaned forward. “In accordance with your training and the behaviors typical of your profession, your sidearm was concealed, and holstered. Upon completing your assignment, you exited the residence, at which time an individual armed with a civilian version of the military’s M-16 pointed his weapon at your chest from approximately seven meters away. He threatened to shoot you if you moved.” I lifted my brows. “Correct?”
“Correct.”
“In that summary, where is sloppy behavior indicated?”
He broke my gaze. “It isn’t.”
“Are you still frustrated?”
“I am,” he said. “It’s unwarranted. I’ll work on accepting it as being what it is.”
“Which is?”
“An event that I had very little, if any, control over.”
I sank into the comfort of my chair and mentally smiled. Now that we’d cleared that hurdle, I needed to convince him that the woman he killed was a threat.
His target, a woman with ties to ISIS, was in the process of recruiting like-minded radicals. Recent intelligence gathered through the testimony of an informant indicated that she purchased enough C-4 to blow the city of Dallas, Texas completely off the map. Upon receipt of the explosives, her intentions were to immediately distribute them to her extremist underlings.
Testimony of the informant wasn’t enough to obtain a grand jury indictment. In the absence of an indictment, an arrest couldn’t be made. Eliminating her prior to the delivery and distribution of the explosives was critical to the Nation’s safety.
I closed his folder. “Now that we’ve determined you acted in accordance with your training and had no control over the armed neighbor, explain how having a woman target made you feel.”
“Guilt. I’m used to that.” His gaze fell to the floor. “This time it’s different. I feel regret.” He looked up. “That’s what I’m struggling with. She seemed, I don’t know, like a typical housewife.”
“Does it trouble you that she looked like a housewife?”
“The housewife comment was an observation.” He lifted his brows and shook his head. “Until now, I’ve been convinced these assignments are securing the safety of this Nation. Feeling regret is a new thing for me. I don’t know that I like it.”
Vincent’s justification for completing his missions was derived by convincing himself the targets posed an imminent threat to the security or welfare of the Nation. The regret he felt made sense, as his justification was likely missing—typically, men didn’t feel threatened by women.
If we could agree that she was a threat, it would be the first step in minimizing his feelings of regret.
“None of your previous assignments were women,” I said. “None that I’m aware of.”
“That is correct.”
“If you were in combat, and encountered her in the streets of Fallujah, what would have been your reaction?”
“If she was armed?”
“Yes.”
“I would have eliminated her.”
“Without hesitation?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Why?”
“If she was armed, she would have been a threat. Elimination of the threat is paramount to my survival.”
“In this instance, she was armed with enough C-4 to blow Dallas off the map,” I reminded him. “She was a threat to this Nation’s security, and to the welfare of society.”
He nodded once. “Understood.”
“Did you have reservations about the assignment when it was given to you?”
“I did not.”
I knew what his response would be. Vincent had never questioned a mission, nor would he. He viewed his job as an extension of his military training. Completing the tasks assigned to him without reservation was one of the strengths noted in his file.
“Upon completing the assignment did you feel differently?” I asked.
He brushed the wrinkles from his tee shirt. “I need to think about it. This assignment isn’t as easy to accept as the others. Hopefully, in time, it’ll all make sense.”
“The brain’s lateral orbitofrontal cortex plays an important part in making moral decisions,” I explained. “Using MRI’s to measure the brain’s activity, studies have proven that killing an enemy soldier—a perceived threat—creates minimal activation of the cortex, while killing innocent civilians—not a threat—causes an influx of activity. That response in the lateral orbitofrontal cortex creates the feeling of guilt. To convince yourself that your actions were warranted, it’s critical that you see the woman as a threat.”
“I’ll give it some thought.”
“We can readdress it in your next visit,” I said. “If you like. In the interim, I’d like for you to think about the threat she posed. She was assembling a rather large terrorist cell on US soil.”
“I’ll chew on it. Let’s look at it the next time I visit.”
“Is there anything else that’s troubling you?” I asked. “That you need to discuss today?”
“No, Ma’am.”
“Have you experienced any short-term memory loss?”
“No, Ma’am.”
“Long-term?”
“Nothing we haven’t already discussed.”
“Suicidal thoughts?”
“No, Ma’am.”
“Good.” I closed his folder. “I’ll see you on the fourteenth.”
He stood, swept the wrinkles from his clothes, and then met my gaze. “Do you think killing is always a sin?”
I was surprised it had taken him so long to ask the question. The subject was something I struggled with since my placement in the program. There wasn’t a clear-cut response I could give.
“I think it depends on the circumstances,” I said matter-of-factly.
“Under the right circumstances, do you think it can be forgiven?” he asked.
I had no idea what the answer was. To believe killing was a sin, and then alter that belief to support the actions of my employer was either hypocritical or a damned good job of justification.
Nevertheless, wars had been waged since the advent of sand, and I had a difficult time believing that the millions upon millions who had fought in them all committed an unforgivable sin.
Despite my inability to give a definitive response that I believed in, I needed to say something. Vincent maintaining a clear mind and a positive attitude was crucial to the program’s success.
“Yes, I believe it can—and will—be forgiven,” I responded.
He gave a nod and then turned away. “See you in two weeks. Doc.”
As he walked away, I hoped I was right.
For the sake of both of us.
Chapter Three
Briggs
Lt. Colonel Martin was the director of the New Dawn Program and oversaw all operations. He was a realist and an easy man to communicate with. He treated his subordinates as if they were equals. In return, he was respected and admired.
The six Marines assigned to the program would eagerly offer their lives to save his on any occasion that presented itself.
Assistant Director Wallace was a civilian who I doubted could get a job as a security guard at a shopping mall. His placement amidst combat Marines made zero sense to me. He didn’t have the guts to get into a food fight, let alone a firefight.
His ability to obtain and compile accurate data regarding our assignments was his alleged strength. Nevertheless, the intelligence sheets for my missions often contained inaccurate information and missing details, many of which were crucial. If presented an opportunity to push him in front of a moving truck, I’d do the world a favor and take advantage of the situation.
I took long strides down the corridor, hoping to pass his office without speaking to him. Two steps past his open door, the sound of his voice caused me to cringe.
“Briggs!” Wallace shouted. “Get your ass in here!”
I gazed at the exit.
“God damn it, Briggs!” he bellowed.
With reluctance, I turned around and peered into his office. Dressed in wash-and-wear navy-colored slacks, an un-ironed white dress shirt, and a loosened black tie decorated with little red Tabasco bottles, he looked like a drunken day trader.
“Come in.” He gestured toward the opposite side of his desk. “Shut the door.”
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.
“What in the fuck happened, Briggs?” He mussed his hair and then shook his head in disbelief. “You ended up in jail?”
I stopped a few feet short of his desk and crossed my arms. “I exited the residence through the rear door, as per protocol. Upon doing so, I was challenged by an armed civilian from approximately seven meters away. He’d already called the police and advised me of such. Sirens could be heard in the distance. My only option was to allow myself to be apprehended.”
He looked me over, scoffed and shook his head. “You’re a Special Forces Marine. Force Recon, or whatever, right?”
I sharpened my gaze. “Yes, Sir.”
“So much for all that training,” he said. “Fat bit of good it did you on that fucking assignment.”
My blood began to boil. The assignment’s intelligence sheet said nothing about a neighbor with US Special Forces training. Martin’s inability to plan a mission led to my arrest.
“With all due respect, Sir,” I said in the most condescending manner I could muster. “It would have been valuable to know the neighbor was a former Army Ranger. Encountering US military trained resistance on a mission isn’t typical. My options were to be shot or be placed under arrest. I chose the latter of the two.”
He lifted his tie and looked at it as if checking for a food stain. “Wise choice, I suppose.”
His failure to acknowledge excluding the neighbor’s military history frustrated me. It came as no surprise. Wallace, like detective Boyle, was sloppy. From the way he dressed to the way he planned a mission, his efforts were lackluster, at best.
I glanced at the mountain of paperwork littered about his desk and then looked at him. I wondered if he was going to make a point, or if belittling me about my field tactics was enough to satisfy him for the day.
“Was that all, Sir?” I asked.
“No. I’ve got a serious question.” He gestured toward an empty chair, and then sat down. “Have a seat.”
“I’ll stand.”
He gave me a serious look. “Between you and me, what do you know about Shephard? His mental health? What he doesn’t tell the shrink. Is he stable?”
Regardless of what I may or may not know about the men, I wouldn’t divulge any information to Wallace, be it opinion or fact. He was nothing more than a cog in the program’s machine. Arming him with anything that could be used against one of my brothers was contrary to my belief system. Giving him information about Shep was a different story altogether.
“He’s a good operator, Sir,” I assured him.
“Are you sure?”
Irritated that he’d question my response, I narrowed my gaze. “Shep’s a damned good Marine.”
While in Fallujah, Shep, a Private First Class at the time, saved many men’s lives. He identified and eliminated a sniper who was firing upon my Marines. His advance to the sniper’s nest was a suicide mission that he somehow managed to pull off without injury. The act of heroism earned him a Bronze Star. Later, in Afghanistan, he dragged three wounded Marines to safety while under heavy machinegun fire. A second Bronze Star was awarded for his actions during that battle. His acts of selfless bravery saved the lives of many Marines. In New Dawn, his actions had saved the lives of many civilians.
Wallace shrugged. “I guess that’s good enough for me.”
Masking my annoyance wasn’t an easy thing to do. Nevertheless, I maintained my expressionless stare. “Anything else?”
He shrugged. “I guess not.”
I walked away uncertain of what was gained from our little meeting. In all honesty, I wondered why he was part of the program.
Originally funded solely to support the elimination of terrorist cells that were being developed—or inserted—on US soil, New Dawn’s program was quickly expanded to include any threats to the security of the Nation, foreign or domestic. That broad stroke of the brush allowed the Director of National Intelligence to choose anyone as a target that he deemed to be a threat.
It wasn’t my place to question the targets that were assigned to me. I simply had to live with the mental aftermath once the mission was complete.
From the first war the United States fought in until the last, the enemy was identifiable. By either a uniform, the color of clothing, or an appearance that was altogether different, the opposition could be recognized.
That recognition allowed those fighting in the wars to quickly react when confronted by anyone that fit within the description of the opponent. The identification of the enemy was a critical part in the mind’s ability to process the death of those killed as justifiable. The soldiers were able to compartmentalize the death based on appearance alone.
Good versus evil.
Participating in the program was different. Killing a US citizen with ties to ISIS wasn’t an easy task to digest. Second-guessing my actions had become commonplace. Although I repeatedly told myself the assignments I completed were for the betterment of the Nation, I struggled to accept my actions as being a necessary part of accomplishing that task.
Nevertheless, I’d taken an oath to oppose all enemies, foreign and domestic. When I made a promise, I kept it at all costs.
The cost, in this circumstance, was my own sanity.
Chapter Four
Doctor Rhoades
Although sociopaths and psychopaths both disregard the safety and rights of others, the similarities between them end there.
Psychopaths have difficulty developing an emotional attachment with others. They form shallow relationships with the intention of manipulating the other in a way that benefits the psychopath. Regardless of how much they may harm others, psychopaths observe no guilt regarding their behaviors whatsoever.
People are viewed as nothing more than a potential means to achieve the psychopath’s objective or to further his goals.
Psychopaths are generally perceived by outsiders as being charming and trustworthy. They often hold steady jobs. While they tend to be well-educated and may have a genius-level IQ, they often learn a great deal of what they know on their own.
When a psychopath engages in criminal behavior, they tend to do so in a way that minimizes risk to themselves. They will carefully plan each criminal act to ensure they don’t get caught, having contingency plans in place for every possible outcome imaginable.
The behavior of the sociopath, on the other hand, is more impulsive and erratic. They have difficulties allowing themselves to become attached to others, although some may form an attachment to a person they feel is like-minded. Unlike psychopaths, most sociopaths don’t hold down long-term jobs. A normal family life is an uncommon thing for a sociopath.
When a sociopath engages in criminal behavior, they typically do so impulsively. They do little to calculate the risks or consequences associated with their haphazardly planned crimes.
Sociopaths may become agitated and anger easily, sometimes resulting in violent outbursts. Those types of behaviors increase a sociopath’s chances of being apprehended.
Because psychopaths minimize their risk, plan to the point of excess, and act without impulse, they are the best choice to be an operator in the program.
The man sitting in my office possessed the worst possible characteristics of each disorder. Remorse, guilt, and empathy were things he never felt. Yet, he took the uncalculated risks of a sociopath. His violent outbursts were often the result of impulsive behavior.
One would never guess his diagnosis by talking to him, or by looking at him. He was kind, charming, and attractive. Always tan with a lean muscular build, he wore his sun-bleached hair long enough that he constantly needed to sweep it away from his face. He could easily be anyone’s neighbor or the guy sitting next to you at a coffee shop.
He whistled when he walked, and always took time to stop and tell anyone who’d listen one of the thousands of jokes he’d memorized. He was a master at manipulation if there ever was one.
“Would you like to explain what caused you to go outside the boundaries set forth in your assignment?” I asked.
