Anon- Africa

    >The oppressive climate of the African jungle wore down even the most durable man and machine alike. A seemingly endless scale of heat that coalesced with a level of humidity that seemed more a cruel joke than a reality perpetually saturated the air.
    >On the cool days it was uncomfortable to move, and on the hottest it was uncomfortable to breath. The unannounced waves of heat were liable to shut down any serious level of productivity, and the sudden deluges of rain that rendered the landscape an impassable slurry of mud and water were an unfortunate frequency.
    >This land held little of value; farms produced little more than needed to feed their land holders, mineral wealth seemed non existent. Plant life and animal were generally not much to remark of, and the strategic location of this land came only of its own vastness.


    >Land


    >Why then it seemed so important to hold these grounds was a mystery to most. It would be simple to eliminate any strategic land value held by simply garrisoning a smaller area. These primal lands beyond the reaches of the modern world were of no consequence in wealth or power, especially if one considered that these inland territories were not even the primary target.
    >This, however, seems to be exactly why you are here.
>There was no glory to be won here. There was no redemption, no revenge, and no recompense to be had for you or the men you called lodge mates. There was no flag, no nation, no ideal, no religion, and no creed that had whisked you away into the modern outgrowth of a Conradian tale of Imperial horror in a land that time forgot.
>No, you fought for a monetary persuasion. The politics of the almighty dollar were a language that all men understood, an idea that drew in the unsavory of the world from every walk of life. Men from upwards of forty nations, from the ages eighteen to sixty eight flooded your little slice of pie in what some wondered would be the world's last war for profit. The seemingly infinitely deep pockets of nation states working to stop the tide of self-determination provided a verniable bounty of wealth for anyone with a flair for the dangerous.
>Everyone, from mechanics to photographers, electricians to geologists, priests to hired guns seemed to have a way to turn a profit for themselves or a company in these lands.
>You don't know why you came. Back home you had a nice life. A four year service term brought you to combat, and you had your fill. A short time in school netted you a stable job. You were healthy, you were happy, and you were free. What the hell made you come to the precipice of civilization, thousands of miles away from your comfortable home with all the amenities and safety afforded therein?
>This morning was one of the few you could enjoy. The roosters had not been bawking before you had awoken from the claps of thunder that had begun to roll nearer to the town you and your lodge mates had called home.
>The lot of you had formed a rag-tag group of guns for hire. Small groups of natives from various countries that had made the mistake of coming without a real employment prospects in mind. Whatever tasks blew your way were split and divvied up among the groups.
>Odd jobs and strange missions came often, and kept all flush with cash. There was never a shortage of work here, and as some of the only guns for hire in the area, you had quickly become a favorite of various entities, NGO and otherwise.
>What money was not spent on booze, breasts, and bombs was sequestered away or sent home in carefully packed and disguised freight, which was handled by private courier before being turned over to the Royal Mail services, who seemed to be thriving in what was for all intents and purposes a war zone.
>Even if the war had not extended this far, combat was of no unfamiliarity to any of your lodge mates. Your escort duty of supply convoys to national troops deeper inland, your bands repulsion of Communist guerillas and nationalist freedom fighters from depots, missions, and refugee camps had left the body count comfortably in a position where bragging might not be seen as unreasonable.
>As you stepped to the window, you shouldered your rifle, took aim and fired. A single 7.62x51mm round screamed forth and struck a gong some 100 meters away by a small block house, shortly thereafter sending it's occupants scrambling to shutter the windows from the impending storm.
>The sound of a single shot sent some of the greener members of your merry band scrambling from their bunks, quickly being shouted down by the more senior of your comrades. It was traditional that someone ring the gong when a storm approached, and the preferred method was with rifle fire.
>You sat at the window for a short time, smoking a hand rolled cigarette you had bartered away a sack of rice for a gross of from a local. Worth it.
>The smoke wafted thoughtful from the end of the smoldering wrap and into the heavy air, as your lungs tingled with the familiar taste of tobacco. You admired the dirty, calloused fingers belonging to yourself. They were somehow comforting to look at.
>”Ugh…Bollocks…”
>You turned to see your roommate had sat upright. Clutching his head with both hands, he snorted loudly and shot a ball of spit the size of a ball bearing across the room. It impacted with about as much force.
>”Morning, Peirce.”
>”Fuck you and yer rifle fire anon. I was in the middle of a lovely fookin’ dream and you and Hollywood had to fuckin’ ruin it.”
>Hollywood
>You gazed at your rifle. How you loved it. An Armalight AR-10. The aluminum and polymer construction of Eugene Stoner's brainchild was a tantalizing bit of machinery. Crafted by expert hands and designed by a true modern genius, the Armalight AR-10 was, if nothing else, a modern space gun. The vacuum tube voodoo that went into its creation never seemed to get old. Not as common as the FN FALs, Kalashnikovs, G3s or old surplus arms that roamed the countryside, the AR-10 was as special as any snowflake. And you loved it to death. The top mounted cocking handle, the magnificent sights, the predictable and controllable recoil, the precision of fire, and the ease of use all made you love it where others envied it.
>”Spread your hate somewhere else, man. Besides, you'll want breakfast for that hangover.”
>”Ah would not have this fookin’ hangover if ye hadn't let one off the bloody chain four yards from me fookin' bed man. I was right in the middle of shagging Ann Margaret man, she were moaning me fookin' name. I tell ya, I was sixty seconds from blowin me load. Aye what a bird she is.”
>”What a fucking coincidence, I was just fucking your sister in my dreams, not but sixty seconds from blowing my load when your mother walked in…”
>The sharp pain and loud thud of a Inch-Pattern FAL magazine hitting the back of your head cut you off. Before you could retaliate with a beer bottle, a loud whistle from downstairs sent the lot of the second floor scrambling for their gear
>Within a few moments you had all of your equipment on and were in the hallway. You placed one hand on the aisle bannister and lept, rifle in hand, and took the three meter fall. It hurt a little, but it paid to be first.
>The second floor bunks emptied in a hurry, and you had hardly recovered and taken in the surroundings before everyone began to line up.
>The whistle was blown by one of the designated team leaders. A Frenchman everyone called 'Grognard’ stood with four uniformed gentlemen, representing some UN mission or some such you were sure. Grognard waited for everyone to come to discipline before speaking. His ludicrously thick French accent was positively preposterous, but one could not ignore that he certainly had all the élan one would expect of a former French Foreign Legion Capitan.
>”These gentlemen represent the leaders of a logistique transport unit working for Les forces du United Nations. Their convoy is woefully underprotected and they have offered a sizable sum for protection. Those interested should get chow and meet us in the conference room in no more than 20 minutes”
>Grognard looked squarely at you as he finished his sentence. As the others pulled away, some back to their rooms, others to the chow hall, he approached you.
>”Monsieur anon, I need a good man on this as a mad dog, someone to keep the local order in the men. If you come there's a 1400 franc bonus in it for you.”
>”How long is the mission?”
>”At least two days Monsieur”
>”What's the pay?”
>”1200 francs up front, 1800 on return”
*Authors note: 4400 (French) francs in this era is approximately equal to $3,750 USD equivalent in 2016 shekles; in USD this would be ~$880 in the era, about 10% of a person's yearly income in the US.


>The money was hard to pass up. After a hearty breakfast of sub-par oats, mystery meat and fruit that tasted just a tad bit off, you had managed to supress the inevitable revenge of the meal long enough to sit through the meeting
>The contract had a set of 12 truckloads of goods. Some belonging the UN, some belonging to the Red Cross, some unmarked. They were headed to Batô Skiv, a small camp set up by NGOs about 120 kilometers inland
>The area was not known for being secure. Though controlled by government forces, this was an assessment that was at best dubious. Convoys were hit along the road occasionally, and villages raided, but over all the biggest threat was actual civilians
>The natives and residents of this land had grown restless. War had brought with it a need for more supplies, and this all too often left locals in a state of want for food, clean water and medicine. Convoys had become the subjects of theft and harassment with increased frequency in the last week's, and it seemed particularly important that this cargo reach its destination.
>The road to Batô Skiv was tenebrous. It winded and twisted through the countryside in a wretched way, serpentining its way around the hills and along gullies, cutting through ancient wetlands and crossing rivers. Locals called it “Builyi Omdala-the Old Road”
>Men often refused outright to travel on it. There was supposed to be some old magic in that road, they claimed. Wealthy and powerful locals often traveled with Shamen when they had to take it. Indeed, when the map was shown, several men left the room outright. By the time the explanation was over, most had left. Only fourteen remained.
>It took some convincing to get two more to join so a successful defensive posture could be taken.
>All that was known of the cargo was mostly of great importance.
>You didn't ask what it was. You didn't care. The promise of enough money for a month of good living with room to spare was more than enough to calm your mind of any ethical or moral preoccupations. Much less spiritual.
>Grognard had assigned you to be the teams secondary leader. You had to mad dog your way to the top, and had to be a powerful force to keep order. In an environment where men are motivated by a thirst for either money or blood, neither were ever in short supply. Discipline needed to rule the day.
>The men that had staid were of mostly good stock. Most had been down the road before, and had been alongside you at one time or another. There was a mutual respect there.
>Those that were not were too green to have developed a healthy respect for the road, and had respect for seniority. That would have to do.


>It didn't take long to divide into teams. As you boarded, the old GM and Renault trucks roared to life, their powerful engines gasping the thick air in and spewing black smoke into the torrential downpour that had started no sooner than you had boarded. Their canvas tops and covered frames offered no protection but concealment.
>Team one of two riflemen, one radioman and a sapper were in the third truck. Team two, a cone of team one, in the fifth. Team three, with a Machine Gun, was in the eighth, and team four, a clone of team three, the tenth.
>You and Grognard lead three and four, directing Machine Gun fire as a relief force if an ambush would come.
>The bumpy ride along the rain soaked road would send some of the greener men scrambling to the back of the trucks to vomit.
>You spent most of the time looking at your rifle.
>You aren't sure how long it took, but the rocking of the truck put you into a trance. Somewhere between consciousness and sleep. Time flew by, waking only to make your radio checks every few minutes.
>A sudden crash raised you from your trance. You clutched Hollywood tightly and scanned your surroundings
>Everyone seemed preoccupied with something. One was loading and unloading mags. Your radioman was fidgeting with wires. The Machine Gunner, scanning the trees
>You moved to sit across from him and scan the treeline as well
>The rain had only gotten harder. A glance at your watch showed you had been drifting in and out for about six hours
>The wheels of the trucks threw mud behind them in an obscurant storm. The road was unpleasant to say the least, throwing stones and water up in an angry dervish.
>The thick forest veiled everything. Beyond the first layers of trees, visibility was near nil. Distinguishing shapes from the mosaic of browns and greens would be near impossible for anyone
>As you opened your mouth to speak, a loud crack broke the silence
>The truck broke suddenly, sending you tumbling to the bed. In a fever, you scrambled to your feet and pointed your head out of the rear
>Black smoke was rising from the front of the convoy. The radio jumped to life.
“Truck ones been hit, watch truck twelve!”
>You lept from the rear of the bed, hitting the ground with a soft thud. A white ploom of smoke was rising from the trees. Small arms fire had erupted from the team in the third truck, desperately raking the dense jungle.
>Your team dismounted as well. Just as you turned to them, your eyes focused
>”CONTACT FRONT!”
>You pulled Hollywood to your shoulder and depressed the trigger. The rifles predictable, straight line recoil pushed the amalgamation of aluminum and polymer stoutly to your shoulder, sending a pair of 7.62 projectiles ripping through the air, embedding themselves into a man some 70 meters away, who fell to the ground, sending his Machine Gun rolling
>A burst from your Machine Gunners weapon perforated the ground behind him, the roar of the ancient German weapon proudly announcing it's presence
>Reaching for the radio in the truck, you see it's taken a hit
>Fuck
>A white puff of smoke rose suddenly from the jungle, before a blast sent a pillar of dirt high into the air
>”Rockets! Engage, Engage!”
>You pulled yourself from the combat firing stance and sprinted to the next team, ordering a covering fire
>Small arms fire had begin to crackle by now. The supersonic twang of projectiles and the soft thuds of their impact against the mud alerted you to their presence, but no visible source could be identified. The shots, while audible, had not yet overtaken the storm
>You scanned the horizon, looking for something, anything to fire at. The mud dug heavy beneath your boots as you swung Hollywood side from side, desperately trying to reach Grognard.
>”Hit the dirt!”
>You threw yourself to the ground, sliding some ways and rolling behind the truck. A sudden burst of heat and loud clap drenched you in mud. Chest heaving, you looked around for the source of the voice
>Seeing no one in immediate earshot, you quickly maneuvered yourself forward, sprinting to Grognards position
>”Grognard!”
>A burst from the Machine Gun cut him off. He spoke a second time.
>”Take your team, get the trucks moving! We stay here we're going to be trapped!”
>Another explosion rang through the air. The door of a truck was flung to the roadside.
>You sprinted back to your team, wiping the torrential volume of rain from your brow
>A sudden crack of lightning rendered the battlefield silent for a moment. It's deep boom reverberated through the hollows of your chest cavity
>Your sprint successful, you ordered your men forward to the second team, who had begun returning fire
>The belch of your Machine Gunner's weapon sent a volly of rounds into the woods, hewing limbs from trees and eviscerating plant life, but never showing any signs of a kill.
>You fired Hollywood again in the direction you managed to pick a muzzle flash out from the trees. Another white plume, and another rocket struck the dirt. Rather than detonate, this one simply buried itself into the mud, tail motor shooting flame for a short second before burning out
>We're not you under fire, that might have been the coolest thing you'd seen this week.
>A pair of men sprinted quite suddenly from the wood, one clutching a large Soviet machine gun with what looked like a massive service g tray on top. He stopped shortly and depressed the trigger, sending rounds into the dirt. The recoil gradually pushed itself into position, and rounds began to rake the trucks and climb slowly
>You fired on him first, sending him to his knees before he and the second man, who was attempting to shoulder a launcher, were ventilated by a six second burst from that infernal German Machine Gun. The rounds cratered one man's chest, blowing it's contents outward, and another sliced the brainpan, sending his skull popping like an egg
>The second and first team had taken cover in a small roadside ditch. Covered in mud and ash, they had pulled the drivers of the trucks with them, one of whom had lost a foot in the blast from a rocket
>Your Machine Gunner, an “Argentinian” named Walt, sent a burst along the treeline again, before pulling himself behind the truck. Festooned in ammunition belts, looking like an Aryan version the Frito Bandito, he let the barrel drop free of its shielding and replaced it with a cooled one, slamming the cowl closed. He lept from cover and sent another furious burst downrange. A line of green tracers shredded foliage and trees to bits like a great saw. It became apparent he was in fact aiming at things, when the lifeless body of a man wearing nothing but a chest rig and a single sock fell from the slight hill and rolled downward.
>Shortly after, another emerged from the jungle, but was swiftly cut in two by sudden, well placed rifle fire.
>You took aim and fired into the treeline at the oddball muzzle flashes, before you felt a disappointing click.
>”Hollywood you bitch!”
>You allowed the magazine to fall free, and pulled the cocking lever. A spent cartridge flung free from the ejection port. You slammed the waffle pattern aluminum magazine home and yanked the charging handle again, ensuring it has seated properly. You pulled the trigger again and she leapt to life, sending a large, visible cone of fire across the line.
>”Im moving to truck one to evacuate the drivers body, is it still running?!”
>”The rocket blew the cabin to bits, truck two didn't stop in time and crashed into it. Then truck one took another hit, truck two might be able to push it into the gully?”
>”Drivers, thoughts?”
>”They don't speak english!”
>Fucking what?
>”They're Spanish!”
>Walt, you're from Argentina!”
>The machine gunner released his trigger
>”I don't speak Spanish!”
>Fucking Nazi.
>With assistance from the newly formed firing line, you sprinted to the second truck. A Renault affair, the markings were all in French. You determined how to shift the truck into drive, and stomped the gas with all your might. Hand on the shifter, the wheels spun wildly into the primordial sludge that had become the road surface, tyres hopelessly attempting to grip to something
>A single shot hit the windshield, sending a shower of glass in. As you covered your face, the truck suddenly got lept forward. You cut the wheel left, sending the two trucks tumbling into the roadside ditch with a powerful crash
>Your chest hit the steering wheel with great force. You heard a loud crack. It quite suddenly became difficult to breath, and difficult to see
>You blacked out. Not more than a few seconds, but definitely blacked out
>you awoke to more screaming, that same voice from before
>”Move you fucking idiot, go, go go go!”
>You grabbed Hollywood's carry handle and lept from the truck, just in time to be smacked in the back by an enormous pressure wave and a ball of heat. You felt fire on your head as you were lifted off your legs and propelled into the air, landing on your back
>Darkness gripped you. You tightened your grip around the carry handle as your mind went blank, the last thing reaching your ears being a massive clap of thunder, and, in the following silence, the distant sounds of truck engines fading away.