Chapter 1

Here I am, lying in a hospital bed thinking for about the hundredth time: 'just what the hell am I going to do now?'

Maybe I should introduce myself, and give you a little background. My name is staff Sergeant Jacob Thompson USMC. I will soon be medically retired after twenty-three years of service as an expert in special weapons, in the Second Recon Platoon, First Marines. We were on one of those 'super hush-hush' missions that no one is allowed to speak of, when we came under heavy fire. Of the eight of us in my squad, only two of us made it out. I've been here in 'Bathsheba' Naval Hospital⁽¹⁾ for the last four months.

I was hit three times. Two of them were minor, but the third took a chunk out of my right leg and nicked an artery. They said that even though I had nearly bled to death, they had been able to save the leg. However, due to the extensive muscle damage, I would have to be discharged.

What had me worried, was that I had been in the service since I was seventeen years old, right out of high school. The service was all I knew.

In my last year of high school, I had gotten in some trouble with the law. There had been a fight. I knocked the other man down, resulting in him hitting his head on the curb, and splitting open his skull. That put him into a coma. Although the man lived, they said he suffered brain damage.

The judge ruled that since the man was older, and the evidence said that he started the fight, that I was not responsible for his coma. However, since I had been drinking, and since I had been trained as a fighter, I had the choice of either joining the military for four years, or serving that much time in jail.

My father was a Marine Close Combat Instructor. He had been training me, since I had lost my first fight, in the first grade. He didn't teach combat skills as a sport. He taught how to win.

He had often said that was what he admired most about Bruce Lee. On screen Bruce did the impossible. Off screen, in Martial Arts tournaments all over the "Pacific Rim", he fought to WIN!

The judge gave me the choice of either joining the military for four years, or serving that much time in jail. To me, it was a NO BRAINER. I was sick of school, and only two weeks until graduation, anyway. My father signed the papers, and I was allowed me to join the Marines just three days after graduation.

I wanted to go right away. Dad told that without my diploma, all I could ever get were shit jobs, even in the Marines. So I stuck it out for the last two weeks, and graduated in the top twenty percent of my class.

My next stop was Cherry Point, N.C., for basic training. I found that I liked it. As for the other recruits, it seemed as though all they did was bitch about how unfair the Drill Instructors were.

I felt right at home. My mother was killed in a traffic accident when I was seven. I was raised by my dad, whenever he was stationed stateside. Dad's brother (also a Marine) and my Aunt Helen took care of me when Dad was overseas. I guess it was inevitable that I would also become a marine.

On the day we had our first Close Combat Class, the Drill Instructor asked if anyone had any prior training in self-defense. No one answered. I knew, at a very young age, the old adage about never volunteering for anything. I figured he was just looking for a practice dummy. I never thought he would know about the trouble I'd had. Those records were supposed to be sealed, as I had been a minor.

After a couple of moments he said, "Private Thompson, I know that you have had training, and that your training is one of the reasons you are here."

I just stared at him for a second and then said, "Sir! This private has never had any formal instruction in any fighting skills. Sir!"

"My source tells me that you were in a fight, and that the other man was badly injured, and that you had special training that made you a deadly weapon. Now are you trying to tell me my source is lying?"

"Sir! No, Sir! This Private has not had any 'Formal Training.' I was in the fight you mentioned, and the judge sentenced me to either join the service or go to jail ... that much is true. But the only training I've had was informal training, at home. Sir!"

"And who gave you this 'informal training' as you call it, Private?

"Sir! This private was trained by his father, Marine Master Sergeant Jack Thompson; and by his Uncle, Marine Master Gunnery Sergeant Joseph Thompson. Sir!"

"Your Uncle was one of my Drill Instructors. I meet your father on a few occasions. When you write home. Please express my best wishes to them, and to their families. However, even though I know them, don't expect me to cut any slack with you. In fact, since I now know your background, I'll expect more from you. Plus, if they trained you, I think we can consider it 'formal training.' It's just not one of those pansy-ass fighting styles," he said. The look on his face was like he'd just tasted something really bad. "Since you've had training in what we are here to do today, I'm sure you won't mind helping me demonstrate to the rest."

"Sir! Yes, Sir! How fast do you want to do this demonstration, and how much do you want me to hold back?"

The Instructor said with a smile, "I have been training for many years so go for your full speed. NO kill or permanently disabling blows. This is a demonstration after all, and not actual combat. I'll do the same. In addition, since this is a demonstration, there will be no repercussions. I know how most of you would like to take a swing at a DI."

Thinking that I was probably faster, but he was more experienced, I knew I would more than likely have my ass handed to me. I decided to try to surprise him by doing what was unexpected. When he went for a chokehold, I dropped to the deck and swept his legs. Then I threw an elbow toward his throat, stopping just before contact was made, and holding my position.