Floating in the cold emptiness of outer space. Nothing to hold onto. Nothing holding me down. The only way I can gain trajectory in any direction is by discarding something. What do I have left that I can throw away? I had better choose the right direction this time because I don't have any extra stuff that I can get rid of if I need to course correct.
In 2006, I was a young lower enlisted soldier in a theater, attending a special forces recruitment brief. There were two long haired, muscle men up front talking to my 50 person unit about all the benefits you get if you can make it through the selection course and air borne training. Faster promotions, shorter deployments, close-knit camaraderie.
I wasn't too interested in the long haired special forces brief.
After the long haired guys were done, the second act started and two heavily tattooed business men started a brief that didn't have a power point presentation visual aide. They said they were from a different type of organization that was looking for the best of the best from all areas of the government. Military, agencies, even forestry folks were being looked at. They were trying to build a roster of analysts and operators who could be called on whenever there was unique problem that couldn't be solved unless outside the box, gray area operations were employed.
I was surprised when I was the only one in my unit who asked the business men for an application packet.
They told me there were only two things that could disqualify me for consideration. First, IQ. Nothing below 120 would get consideration. Second, a domestic violence conviction. Due to the Lawton Amendment, any of this type of legal history would make it illegal for me to carry a gun.
They handed me a one sheet basic information intake form after I said I was clear on all legal stuff. At that time, I didn't know my IQ was 120 on nose, but I still told them I thought it might be high enough to get in.
I didn't hear back from them for two years. I had completely forgotten about that brief. It was 2008 when I signed a receipt confirmation for a certified mail package that contained a 72 page application and a book on fitness and nutrition that I was supposed to immediately start following so I would be prepared for training if they decided to bring me in for the selection course. The application stipulated that it had to be returned via certified mail and I was to include a receipt with the returned application that showed I had it in the mail less than 48 hours after I received it.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Here's the crazy part. This certified mail came to me while I was living in a hotel in Texas. I had arrived here the night before on a flight from Korea. How did they know that I just PCSed? How did they know that I was at this hotel? I guess I'll never know for sure. It's not like they think you need to know this type of detail.
I stayed up all night filling out the paperwork and mailed it out the next morning.
With them, you are always being tested. You are always replaceable, but after you know so much, after so many years of service with them, they never get rid of you completely. They always keep an eye on you. They always reach out with some new low level contract opportunity, trying to bring you back in where they can monitor you without spending too many resources.
Their response letter came back two weeks later. They thanked me for my interest in their organization, but said it was not the right time to let me attend a selection course to tryout for full membership. They said, if I stayed on the same career vector, I'd hear back from them again.
At the top of the letter head, the name of the organization... The Kangaroo Jumpers...
The best way to make rogue former employees look like crackpot conspiracy theorists? Make elements of the organization, like it's name, sound abso-fucking-lutely ridiculous.
In the summer of 2009, when I was a senior interrogator in an undisclosed facility, I heard back from them. One of the guys on my interrogation team was an active agent in their organization, he was embedded in my mission.
He and I were at the empty mess hall, eating mid night burritos, sitting in the back corner. I was choking on an overambitious bite and laughing at his joke about burned bread, a cowboy who died in a duel, and a pregnant high school cheerleader when he changed gears. (The commonality? Pulled out too late.)
This agent embed leaned in and asked in a quiet voice, "Are you still interested in joining the Kangaroo Jumpers?"
----------
Last night, I drank myself to sleep. Woke up at 0400 on my living room floor with my cat purring in my arms. I've tried everything to make this memory not real. I've tried everything to relate to normal people since I left the organization.
That agent embed. He became one of my best friends. He told me all about the organization and what to expect. He is not on social media. He doesn't have an email or mailing address. His phone number changes every time his name changes. The only way I can reconnect with him, one of the few people who can give me some goddamn comforting gravity, I would have to take another contract. Last week, they asked me to come back, be on the night watch at one of their outstations. They'd ease me back into the work. Let me back into the world where Kangaroo Jumpers are not fiction.
They wouldn't let me bring my cat. I'd have to get rid of my Miss Whiskers if I wanted to take the job.
Sorry, but that's a deal breaker. I'd rather be a writer who doesn't sell any books.