Blacksheep Ghost: The early years: The Life and Making of a Special Agent

By Jack Grodey

Born into a military family, Jack finds himself living his early years in the Panama Canal Zone with his father, a US Army Aviator supporting Special Forces missions throughout Central America, and his mother, who chooses to leave the family, placing the sole responsibility on Jack's father to raise Jack and his handicapped older sister. The first seven years of Jack's life are full of adrenaline-filled excitement and adventure as he and his older sister chase monkeys in the banana trees and sail the Pacific Ocean with their father. Jack's life is full and enriched with unique and fulfilling experiences until, one day, at the age of ten, life takes a drastic detour. Bouncing from family to family, Jack walks a path that could have easily led him to a life of crime and deviance. However, deep in the recesses of Jack's soul, he knew he wanted more out of life. Weathering the storm of rejection and instability, Jack blazes a path forward and achieves the one goal that sparks a lifetime of distinguished service to his community and this country.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781648014499

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Blacksheep Ghost: The early years

The Life and Making of a Special Agent

Jack Grodey

Copyright © 2020 Jack Grodey

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2020

ISBN 978-1-64801-448-2 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64801-449-9 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

To my beautiful wife, our four children, and my father, who provided a great deal of assistance, and support in completing this book.

Preface

Here we go… When my wife, Nellie, told me she wanted me to start writing my book, I thought, How in the world am I going to achieve this feat? I had accomplished so much in her eyes that for her, I was just taking on another one of my missions. Although she considered it my most important mission, in her eyes, I couldn’t fail. I mean, how could I?

I had survived a tumultuous childhood to say the least, became a member of a Special Forces group at the early age of eighteen, attended Navy Seals school at twenty-one, became a paramedic at the age of twenty-three, survived the Oklahoma City bombing and became a US Army Ranger at twenty-eight, solved a serial homicide at thirty, earned a bachelor’s degree at thirty-one, became a special agent with the ATF at thirty-two, became a special operator at thirty-five, beat cancer at forty-three, completed sniper school and the Special Operations Combative Instructor Course at forty-four, married her at forty-five, conducted one of the largest major case undercover operations Portland, Oregon, had seen, and was further appointed war chief of the western Cherokee nation at forty-six. I survived a traumatic brain injury in the line of duty and a credible death threat at forty-eight and had been retired with twenty-two-plus years of government service by the age of fifty. With all that and much more under my belt, what was stopping me?

Myself. That’s what would stop me, if I let him.

The same things that I had accomplished also caused my medical and emotional problems and eventually led to my early retirement. I guess that’s the price we pay to be warriors: headaches, ringing in the ears, nausea and constant dizziness, loss of memory, hypervigilance, multiple concussions caused by countless missions and operations I had participated in, and the lifestyle I had lived. It was that same intestinal fortitude that was instilled in me from all my accomplishments with my failures in tow. Forget not the secrets and experiences I would never be able to speak of that try to haunt me daily, because you really can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs—and I liked large omelets.

Prologue

It was late; the sun had begun to set in the west. As I approached the chain-link fence, conducting my reconnaissance, I could see a great deal of foot traffic circling around me. I tried to be inconspicuous so I wouldn’t draw attention to my task at hand. The guy I had got stuck with was not the inconspicuous type though. He was medium height and physically built with large Popeye-like forearms, a stature that commanded respect and a smile that would make Burt Reynolds nervous. I thought to myself, If he doesn’t quit drawing so much attention, I’ll never achieve my objective. I tried separating from him, but prior to my arrival, I had been instructed to stay within visual distance of him. I had a real affection for the big guy, but sometimes he made things more difficult for me, and that would just piss me off. There was nothing I could do about it. I was stuck with him. There were no changing things.

As the foot traffic died down, my window of opportunity opened up, but with this guy with me, I knew it would close soon. I looked past the fence and spotted my target lurking near the dark water. A nervous feeling came over me as I reached in and got a good grip on the object in my pocket. You know, one of those moments when your heart is beating just a little faster and you’re focused on nothing but what is about to occur, that moment when things begin to slow and everything comes into focus, crisp-in-detail focus.

From the angle I was standing, it was going to be impossible to get the item over the tall chain-link fence and hit my target. Looking around for lookie-loos, I drew the object out and launched it over the fence. My eyes were wide open as I launched the object, striking my target. Bingo! I had pulled off the inevitable. It landed right by Charlie’s head. Charlie didn’t even flinch at the object though. I knew that if I was on the other side of the fence, my chances of survival would be very slim. Charlie was large and seasoned. He could lie in one place and just stare at a person forever without blinking. He was the meanest son of a bitch I’d seen in my life at that time, and I was entrusted with this task. At least that was my thoughts before the big lug approach me and asked me if I wanted to throw another piece of chicken.

You see, the big lug was my dad, and I was only four years old. Charlie was a pet alligator which at one time had run free on the base, kind of like their mascot. My dad would tell me stories of GIs coming home drunk and stumbling over Charlie. Some of them would shit their pants right there, but Charlie wouldn’t care. He grew up around these guys, and he knew who provided the chicken and waffles on this establishment. Charlie was my buddy, and I was his, but as things went, he was soon taken from us and put behind that large chain link fence. This would become a constantly reoccurring theme throughout my life that would one day come back to haunt me or save me—I’m not sure which one even to this day.

Given everything in life there remains a balance.

1

As the story goes, I was born in Bakersfield, California. My mother wasn’t sure what she wanted out of her life, to include her relationship with my father, sister, and I. My father knew exactly what he wanted and knew how to make sacrifices to obtain it. Vietnam continued to heat up, and my father knew that if he was to achieve his goals, he was assuredly going to return to Vietnam, and this time, he would be knee-deep in the shit. Whether it was Beirut, Vietnam, Central America, or at home with family, he was always in the shit. He was my hero, but I would never feel as if I would be his, and he damn sure had ways of letting me know it. I think I reminded him too much of what happened with my mother, and God, did he learn to hate my mother. Did he love her, or did he hate loving her? To this day, I don’t know. However, what I do know is that the following events that came to pass were absolutely instrumental in shaping the person that I have become, events that fueled the fire that burned for a lifetime, slowly forging my every essence. A life that gave me no choice but to reach deep down into the silky red mud and pull with all my might to defeat the unbearable hold it had on my bootstraps. Continually, over a lifetime, I’ve been navigating my way in and out of the dark, murky, disgusting shit-filled waters of what I, on multiple occasions, called life. But then again, one person’s sewer is another person’s swimming pool, and my father, on the other hand, was forced to swim in sewers from an early age.

Here we go. I’ve got the tequila flowing, and I’m putting pen to the paper as I ponder another event in my life that explains who my father was in order to paint an adequate picture of what it was like to be a self-made man. I remember when I was strapped in a parachute harness at the