[b]SSGT. Justin Clark
Fort Benning
Chattahoochee County, Georgia, USA
0400 hrs[/b]

[i]Twelve minutes, twenty-two seconds. Still got it.[/i] Justin thought as he glanced down at his digital watch, recording the time. It was a good two-mile time, all things considered, although Justin wasn't completely satisfied as he did his cool-down exercises, using his PT t-shirt to wipe the sweat from his face. God, it was miserable here. Benning had been his station since 2010, and it never changed. All year it hovered near 100 percent humidity and never went below eighty degrees during the day. Even during the night, you felt like you were being waterboarded. All in all, he preferred Campbell.

It was just barely getting light out, and he was the only one doing his PT at that hour, on dimly light-lit roads which connected all the barracks dorms for station personnel. The regulars started their routine at 0600, but he had places to be. When his indefinite paid leave slip was signed and mailed by his command, he thought he was dreaming. Whoever these people were, they had to have their hands on a lot of people's strings. But after a shower, a light breakfast at the DFAC, and a change into his civvies, he was gone before the rest had even left formation.

And waiting for him was what he could only assume was a charter car, but with its almost-illegally tinted windows and black exterior, it looked more like secret service. But he knew it was the right one, it matched the model from his burner, his pre-paid LG that served as his only link to whoever it was he was working for. He got into the back seat, the door locking firmly behind him. As he tossed his travel bag in the seat beside, he tried to get a fix on who his driver was. It was a balding male, about early forties and wearing a dark grey suit, black tie, and a set of reflective oakleys. A bluetooth earpiece was fixed in his ear.

"You my driver?" Justin asked in his gravelly, sing-song drawl.

"Yes." The driver replied bluntly, in an indiscernible accent. Not one for conversation. Justin took note.

How he'd gotten in the gate was beyond Justin, but the driver did ask for his leave slip as they passed back out. The MPs quizzically ran their eyes over the slip, but handed it back without question, waving them through.

He wanted nothing more than to ask the driver how he knew their employers, but perhaps it was best to hold his tongue. Instead, he dug in the front pocket of his jeans, producing his phone. What better way to pass the time as they pulled out on the highway. Evidently they were heading towards the seventy-five by the route they were taking.

"No phones." The driver commanded, his glasses reflecting Justin in the rear view mirror. Justin opened his mouth to reply, but quietly put away his Pixel.

"You got any idea how long the drive's gonna take? All they gave me was this address, some backwood in West Virginia's all I get from it." Justin inquired, leaning back in his seat and relaxing.

"Ten hours."

"You're shittin' me-"

[hr]
[url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZWpYbvqUYwM]He resorted to sleeping most of that ten hours[/url] in the leather seats of that totally-not-suspicious car as it rolled northwards. The few times he did wake up, it was met by the view of the Blue Ridge, or more properly the Smokies as he knew them. Chattanooga, Knoxville, Bristol all passed in a blur. It was all too familiar, the run-down towns pockmarked across the valley, sandwiched between the Smokies and the Cumberlands. It was perfect daylight as they passed through Abingdon.

"I have to piss. Don't run off." The driver spoke, jostling Justin out of his 'sleep'. They were parked outside some nondescript gas station in buttfuck nowhere, along the Virginia-West Virginia border as best he could discern by the signs. The car's clock marked the time at 11:30 AM. They were making remarkably good time, maybe the driver had been speeding. Who knew. At least it wasn't completely ten hours. He was thankful enough for that, and all things considered was thankful for the stop. He needed a good piss and smoke break after six hours in that car.

Justin pried open the door cautiously, planting his boots on the ground for the first time in what felt like forever, heading into the gas station. A quick piss and a stretching of the legs later, he bought some Pall Mall Reds and a bottle of water with cash, before linking back up with his driver and getting back on the road. It wasn't far now. No sleeping required. And, evidently, he didn't have to even tell the driver where he was going, as they cut into some torn up backroads somewhere off I-79. He'd expected they were going to some facility somewhere, and it added up with the fact they were going somewhere that wasn't even on most of the road maps. White Tree? He found one old article about it years ago, but nothing of substance. This place really was off the grid.

They pulled off to some hill that overlooked the main hollers of White Tree. Some dilapidated cabin sat on the balded peak of the hill, some rocky cliffs giving a nice overlook. Could theoretically see miles in any direction, if the mountain air wasn't so damn hazy. That's part of it, though. The car's engine struggled against the gravel driveway and its sheer incline, but nonetheless he was dropped off out front, the car hauling ass to leave. And with his nicest Wranglers, his ATACs, a button-up plaid with sleeves rolled, and an unmarked tan ball cap, he approached the door, perhaps one of the last to properly arrive.

"Staff Sarn't Justin Clark, US Army." That, plus an outstretched hand was the greeting whoever was at the door got.