Chapter Thirteen - The Things They Wore

Chapter 13 - Interlude

The sun was beginning to set.

Staff Sergeant Dygalo was hunched over on a stack of sand bags. Small woodchips were scattered around his feet as he carefully carved away at a small block of wood with his small stag-handled pocket knife.

He continued carving for several minutes as the wood began to take shape. He blew off the small shavings that were getting caught in the nooks and crannies and held up his work to examine it more closely in the dying light, having carved an immaculately detailed wooden soldier out of the block that was barely six inches tall. He brushed the stray chips off of his lap, folded his pocket knife and set it aside as he grabbed his Mk 17 and stood up.

He calmly walked through the main gate and out a hundred or so meters into the barren killzone and carefully balanced the wooden soldier on top of a rock. He walked back inside the perimeter and climbed the narrow stairs up to Post One, a small sandbag and HESCO bunker sitting on top of a perimeter wall. Inside, Lance Corporals Wheat and Rice from 3rd Platoon, the Grain Brothers, stood watch. Dygalo payed them no mind.

Dygalo unslung his Mk17 and rested it on sandbag wall. He shouldered it and found the wooden soldier in his optic and centered the crosshairs on its head. He flipped selector lever off of safe onto semi. He then exhaled and calmly squeezed the trigger.

The shot echoed throughout the area as the wooden soldier's head exploded into a cloud of splinters. Dygalo returned the Mk 17 to safe and slung it back on his shoulder, pausing to pick up the spent 7.62 casing and slip it into his pocket. He went downstairs to recover the now headless wooden soldier and proceeded to inspect it carefully. And walked back through the gate to his stool and tossed the headless figure into a pile of two dozen other similarly disabled wooden soldiers that had fallen victim to his bullets. He sat down and picked up another identical block of wood. The sun was almost down, but he had enough time for one more.

McGraw, Zhang, Rico and Mason were gathered around the hood of 2-1 Bravo's Humvee which had been returned to Bruno without its team.

Corporal McGraw gestured over to Dygalo with his Gatorade bottle, a quarter full with dip-spit.

“You think Dygalo's alright? He's been at that all day.”

“Just give him some space; it's just how he deals with this sort of thing. He'll be fine tomorrow.” Rico assured

Zhang gave Rico a look of bewilderment, “This is all kinds of fucked, Dave. What happened out there?”

McGraw sighed, “I don't know. Everything was going alright. Kaeo seemed a little off of his game but then again, he's seemed pretty shaken up for a while and was still doing his job more than alright himself. We go off by ourselves then Dygalo gets a weird feeling. Then me, Stevens and J-pop go to check it out and they're just gone, and there are tracks all over the place. We follow the trail for a while then it just up and stops. Zhang, weren't you the last one to talk to Kaeo on the net?”

“Yeah, he tipped us off to some skinnies on the other side of that perimeter wall. After that, he went silent. I still feel like we should be out there looking for them.” Zhang replied.

Mason lit a cigarette then stuffed the glowing end inside an empty Rip-It can to hide the glow from the prying eyes of anyone outside the wire.

“What good would it do at this point? They're long fucking gone; I talked to the Manimal myself. After our little strike, its best to stay focused on pushing their shit in. They're scattered and disorganized, just striking out at anything randomly in retaliation. If we keep up the pressure, once they start getting hungry and low on supplies they'll move on out for greener pastures, that is the ones we don't kill. We've just got to stay on mission for now.”

A series of small explosions cracked in the distance.

“Sounds like Hitman's having a nice evening.” McGraw commented.

“I heard they were getting prepped pretty hard with mortars earlier today, probably Tailors.” Zhang said, trying to stifle a yawn.

“The natives are getting restless.” McGraw replied.

“Dave, how is your team holding up?” Rico asked.

“Stevens feels kinda guilty he wasn't able to help more despite the fact that we wouldn'tve been able to follow the trail that far without him. Dirty, I don't think he's really internalized what happened. After all, he's just so new to this thing. Johnson's pretty shaken up, I talked to him about it to make him feel better but they're some of his best friends, John. I'm not even sure how I'm supposed to feel.”

Rico gave him a pat on the shoulder, “They're all of our friends.”

“Yeah.” Zhang agreed, mimicking Rico's gesture towards McGraw.

McGraw raised his Gatorade bottle.  “Here's to 2-1 Bravo!”

Rico Raised his metal coffee cup. “To 2-1 Bravo!”

Mason raised his Rip-it can.  “To 2-1 Bravo!”

Zhang raised his water bottle. “To 2-1 Bravo!”
They clacked them all together in the failing glow of the setting sun.

Rico finished the rest of his coffee and set the cup down on the hood. “I'm going to go call my wife.”

Night had fallen several hours ago and dawn was fast approaching.

Lance Corporal Rice surveyed the Perimeter with his NODs. He spied three locals with shovels and a bicycle with something bulky tied down to the back meandering around the road roughly 400 meters out.

“Dude.” he kicked Wheat who had fallen asleep.

Wheat roused begrudgingly “The fuck is happening?”

“Make sure I'm not seeing things again. We've been on post for like twenty-three hours.”

Wheat grumbled. He flipped down his own NODs and stood up and scanned around.

“ight, ight. Where the fuck am I looking?”

“Here let me laze it.” Rice flipped the PEQ-15 mounted on the post's M240 Bravo on and the infrared laser traced out a green beam to the three men who were now digging a hole next to the road.

“See 'em moving? Right there.”

“Yeah I see them, that's some sketchy ass shit.” Wheat commented while he grabbed the post's radio.

“COC, Post One, we've got three foot mobiles past the sign digging a hole, suspect they're laying an IED. Request permission to engage.”

“Standby Post One...” There was a long pause.

“Roger, we glassed it with the GBOSS. That's definitely an IED. You're clear to engage.”

“Solid.” Wheat set the radio down.

“I tell ya, fuckin' eye of Sauron sees everything, man.” Rice said.

Wheat bent over and grabbed Post One's M32 six shot 40mm grenade launcher and flicked the safety off. “What do you want to bet I can get all three with one shot?” he asked.

“That's like 400 meters, dude. There's no fucking way.” Rice answered while he settled behind the post's M240B.

Wheat raised the sight to the best range estimate he could make and tipped the muzzle up until he was on target. He proceeded to squeeze the trigger. “Oh ye of little faith”  he uttered as the grenade flew out with a distinctive subdued ploomp, then there was an eerie quiet for a few seconds while the grenade flew towards the target.

There was a small flash. In an instant, one of the three did a flip. The closest one next to him did a somersault straight into the hole they had been digging and the last one sprinted over and jumped on the bicycle and peddled furiously on the road into the distance. It took a few moments for the sound of the explosion to reach them.

“I got him, I got him.” Rice called out as he put a lead on the bicycle mounted guerrilla in disguise. He squeezed the trigger and unleashed a quick burst. Tracers zipped out towards the target and then splashed just short and behind, causing him to pedal faster. Rice adjusted his aim slightly and let off another burst. This time he was right on target. A few rounds zipped through the guerrilla's chest and he lost control of the bike. He wheeled off the road and crashed into an approaching warning sign.

He slumped over the bent sign. Blood from his wounds flowing over and obscuring the words “LETHAL FORCE AUTHORIZED” in English but leaving the Portuguese translation ominously intact.

“Uh, COC be advised. We may need a new sign.” Rice said into the radio.

“Roger, we saw it on the GBOSS. You're fixing it in the morning. COC, out.”

Wheat punched him in the arm. “Way to go, pencil dick, now look what we've gotta do!”

“How the fuck was I supposed to know he was gonna crash into it!? You're the one who was supposed to be able to take them all out with one 40 mike mike! Besides, it's a one person job. You should do it 'cause you missed him first!” Rice retorted.

“You're the one who shot him when he was right next to the sign. YOU should do it!” as he set the M32 into safe and set it aside. “How the fuck did you miss him with the first burst anyway?”

“How the fuck did your mother not get an abortion?” Rice quipped while putting the M240B on safe.

“Oh, I see how it's gonna be.” Wheat said, cracking his knuckles. There was a brief pause before they squared off. Punches flew left and right as Wheat tackled Rice, pushing him down onto the ground. They continued to tussle for a good minute and a half before Rice had Wheat in an arm bar.

“Say it...” Rice said.

“No!” Wheat barked back.

Rice reefed on Wheat's arm. “Ow! Ow! Uncle! Uncle! I'll do it... Jesus!” Wheat sputtered out.

Rice let Wheat go. “See, that wasn't so hard, was it?”

“Go fuck yourself, dude. I still hit more than you.” Wheat responded, rubbing his shoulder. The “fight” immediately resumed.

Dygalo had watched the spectacle from a distance. Those two were better fit for a Coen brothers movie than Mozambique.

He was set to depart to the big base just after sunrise but recent happenings had exasperated his already almost unliveable insomnia; he'd been up all night wandering camp with the massive concrete factory in the distance, churning out products. Never stopping, never ceasing, twenty-four hours a day.

He knew the doors were locked. But still, he was a Recon Marine and half of his job was working around things like this. His own sleep deprived curiosity was getting the better of him.

Dygalo paced around to the back of the massive building.  Two workers who were zombie-like in appearance stood outside of a small service entrance, smoking. Apparently, massive sweat shops still had breaks.

Dygalo didn't speak much Portuguese. He briefly considered knocking the two of them out; which would be no great challenge, but would also be rather overt. He felt inside his pocket; he had some local currency for such an occasion.

“Olᔝ Dygalo waved. The two zombies slowly returned the gesture. “Pode ajudar-me, por favor?”

One of the Zombies blinked in a dazed fashion. “Que?”

Dygalo held a few folded bills between his fingers up for them to see. He pointed his fingers at them and then jerked his thumb into the distance. “15 minuetos.”

It took a good thirty seconds for both of them to pick up his meaning. They gave each other a thoughtful look and then one of them shrugged and extended his hand. Dygalo handed him the bills. With his companion in tow, they wandered off toward the almost entirely unused benches resting next to the small neatly manicured lawn about the front entrance separating it from the concrete and dirt of the rest of the parking lot.

Dygalo opened the door. His senses were assaulted by the bright fluorescent glow of the lights within.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He took a look around while his vision adjusted. Another door stood at the end of the narrow, brightly lit, gray corridor.

A sign that said “Prohibido fumar” with a crossed out cigarette was emblazoned on it. That's why they must've been outside. He pushed open the door and stepped out into the hallway.

There were dozens of even more zombie-like workers shuffling past; all of them seemed too brain dead to even notice him. They kept their eyes fixed on the many colored lines in the floor, presumably leading to various areas of the factory. He sauntered right past them.

He had no idea where he was going, but he had an unshakeable feeling that there was something more going on. The tag on his shirt was chaffing slightly more than usual, he rubbed at it idly while he wandered down the hall. There were dozens of large doorways, but he wanted to get higher up if he was going to get a good view of the factory floor.

After a few minutes of wandering, he found a small service staircase. The steep steps necessitated using the handrails, for it was a lot closer to ship's ladder. It appeared to run up to just below the roof. As he made his way up, his skin began to tingle and the hairs on his arms stood up like the whole air was alive with some great static charge. After climbing several more floors, he stopped at a small hatch. He put his hands on the wheel and gave it a good press.

It didn't budge.

He hadn't come this far just to walk away empty handed. He grabbed the uppermost cross piece and braced himself against the wall. He tightened his grip and pushed with his left leg and pulled as hard as he could with his arms.

The wheel turned, at best half an inch. He paused to take a breather then redoubled his efforts. He rocked back and jerked on the lever as hard as he could and finally it broke loose and spun open. Dygalo, being a patient man by nature, waited for the door to open all the way. With a resounding click being the indicator, he stepped on the metal catwalk. As he moved through the doorway, the tingling in his skin intensified.

The main factory floor it was quite a bit dark than it had been than the outside corridors, with the air awash with floating red semi-florescent threads. Up here at the top, there were barely any, but as the elevation decreased, they became more saturated. Dygalo instinctively covered his mouth, breathing in one of those in seemed like a poor life choice.

Far below him there were hundreds, perhaps thousands of zombies working tirelessly sewing clothing together. But something else caught his eye. A massive, stories high, industrial loom took up the entire opposite side of the factory. A single continuous red thread was fed into it through a hole in the sub ceiling where it mixed into the many thousands of other mundane ones. There must be another floor where it was held. Dygalo paused, a single red thread floated down. He cupped his hand and caught it so he could more closely examine it. As soon as it touched his skin it began to gently twist and squirm in his hand.

His stomach turned as some current shot up his arm with the strength of an electric shock. His hand involuntarily jerked back and the thread fell off and continued its slow journey to the floor.

Dygalo pulled out the small pair of binoculars out and scanned the ground floor. A zombie working at a sewing machine below had swarms of small red threads coating his shoulders and the top of his head. The mass was moving, slowly writhing on him. It suddenly occurred to Dygalo that the zombie wasn't even looking at what he was doing. His hands were going through all the correct motions, but his eyes vacantly looked off into the distance and his face twitched intermittently.

Some of Nkunda's men, the black-clad REVOCS security personnel, patrolled the aisles. All of them wore gas masks and hoods, presumably to shield them.

What the hell was going on here? He had seen enough. He wanted to find where that red thread was coming from.

He quietly moved across the catwalk towards the loom. Very carefully making sure none of the floating whatever-they-were touched any of his exposed skin. As he reached the other end of the catwalk, he neared the source of the threads itself. It was making a noise of some kind as it flowed into the loom but it was some sort of complex indescribable sound that was beyond his human comprehension. It made his skin crawl.

A hole with a ladder in the concrete of the ceiling paralleled the thread's accent. He quickly climbed up and cracked open the hatch just enough for him to see through it.

Dozens of pairs of fine dress shoes surrounded him. There was soft talking in what he thought was Japanese.

And there it was, a massive bundle of red sparkling threads was suspended in the middle of the room surrounded by a myriad of complex monitoring equipment. It slowly unravelled and fed down through an eyelet in the floor. The way the ball unravelled seemingly by its own volition gave it a strange air of life.

No, he knew it for sure, it was alive.

It was alive.

He inhaled; suddenly Dygalo's skin and lungs were on fire.

He had to get out.

The pain was excruciating. It took all of his will to close the hatch and maintain a grip on the ladder. He slid down as fast as he could, burning the skin off of his hands in the process.

He scurried out across the catwalk and down ship's ladder to the ground floor, finally jumping down the last set of steps and sprinted through the last stretch of hallway and out the service entrance he had come from, coughing all the way.

He doubled over once he made it outside. The tingling in his body subsided but his lungs were still burning hotter than the fires of hell. There was something in there. Something inhuman. He covered his mouth as he coughed furiously. Suddenly, he felt something wet spray his hand.

His palm was coated in specks of blood. Something moved inside of his lungs and he collapsed onto his hands and knees and coughed even more, spraying little droplets of blood onto the ground. He could feel the burning object work its way up his windpipe as he coughed and coughed. He was getting lightheaded and spots were appearing in his vision. With one final desperate wheeze, he spat out the offending object and another tablespoon of blood onto the ground.

It writhed viciously in the pool of his blood


Oh God it was, wasn't it.


He then realized he didn't cover his mouth when he was on the ladder.


Another bout of coughing brought up more blood and it was too much for him. His vision narrowed and the world darkened.

Dygalo sat up.

He was in his rack. How did he get here? It was morning. Was it all a dream?

He could recall what had just happened almost perfectly, but there was a vague, overshadowing feeling that none of it was real. Something else. He remembered getting into his cot, but the same feeling of uncertainty overhung that memory as well.

One hell of a dream, he thought, as he reached over to pull the blanket off of him. A stinging sensation ran through his hand as he grabbed the blanket.

Looking at his palm, the outer layer of skin had been rubbed off. The injuries, however, looked more a few days old and he was breathing just fine. It was all puzzling.

He checked his watch. Reveille would be in about an hour. He might as well get up now and beat all the animals to the showers, not that he would need a shower considering how hard it was raining. Alpha would be skipping PT today. They had an Osprey to catch.
This fucking rain, you could set your watch by it.

McGregor hunched over his laptop, reading the multitude of intelligence reports that flowed in from the Battalion's S-2 shop daily. He scanned for any mention of 2-1 Bravo.

Headhunter 3-3 took 2 KIA from a roadside bomb while out on a routine patrol near Massamba.
Disciple 1-3 took 1 WIA on a raid in Chioco which resulted in more than twenty guerrilla casualties.

It was a frustrating endeavor plagued by military compartmentalization. He could get dozens of isolated instances but building an overall tactical picture of the country as a whole was hard to do from the reports. There were also dozens of two or three line reports on what were most obviously black operations, stating only that a raid happened near a one town or another along the Malawi or Zimbabwe border and stating how many guerrillas were neutralized and nothing else.

Lake Cahora Bassa seemed like a major epicenter of guerrilla activity in the country. Probably more dangerous than Nampula at this point because the 3-3's base in Tete was just so geographically far from the backwoods areas where they were operating. Every time a Company would push out to set up a Patrol base they'd get hit hard.

Everything he was hearing from Maputo sounded just as bad, but it still wasn't big picture. He closed his laptop and turned on the short wave radio he kept for just such an occasion and then scanned for bit until he found the BBC station he was looking for.
“...Multinational textile giant REVOCs entered into talks with the Government of the People’s China earlier today over the recently nationalized and severely weekend Chinese textile industry. Minister of the State Administration for Industry and Commerce Zhou Bohua stated that The PRC was prepared to delegate management of some factories as a trial run of the proposed outsourcing provided that REVOCs could demonstrate the economic viability of their operations.

In India, REVOCs entered into similar negotiations with the British India Company, Bhilwara Textiles, and the Cotton Corporation of India who now control the remaining share of the Indian textile market after relentless REVOCs expansion. As a result REVOCS stock prices have soared and are projected increase 6% in the next quarter.
In international news: Fighting intensified around the southern rebel strong hold city of Maputo in Mozambique. Units from the United States Marines First Expeditionary Force have launched a major offensive in order to relive pressure from several units from The United States Army's 3rd Infantry Division which have been held in place for several days by quote ‘more organized than expected’ fighters from the Mozambican National Resistance or RENAMO. All parties involved are said to have taken heavy casualties...”
The flap to his tent opened and water spilled down it. McGregor switched the radio off. First Sergeant Black peered in.
“Sir, 2-1 is about to leave.”

“I'll be out in a second.” McGregor waved. He snapped on his helmet and strapped on his flak and then stepped out into a gray morning.
He'd forgotten to go to sleep. He shook off the realization and jogged over to his Humvee and unlocked the small safe containing his portion of the Battalion's discretionary budget. He stuffed the bills into an envelope and continued over to the helipad where the waiting Osprey sprayed a fine mist off the newly moistened pavement with its blades. The marines only had their cammies, packs, and weapons with them leaving their PPE behind for this mission.
Dygalo turned in greeting. “Good morning, Sir.”

“Here,” he handed him the envelope, “I just want those batteries, Staff Sergeant. I don't care how you get them,”

“Roger that, Sir.” Dygalo responded.

“Take care now, alright?”

“Roger that, Sir.” Dygalo nodded and turned. He motioned swiftly, “Let's get going.” McGraw Johnson, Dirty and Stevens stood up and slung their packs and boarded the aircraft, Dygalo followed suit. After a short delay the speed of the rotors increased and the Osprey slowly lifted off and flew into the distance.

Kaeo had lied awake in his cot the entire night. Sleeping had become more of a punishment than a comfort.
Just as the sun peeked through that small slit window, they all got up and began what was quickly becoming routine. Wash their faces and hands, PT until they could do no more and then eat what constituted breakfast.

Kaeo scratched his chin. He was in desperate need of a shave. He'd never quite been able to grow anything beyond 5 o'clock shadow and the scratchy texture bothered him. That, and the uneasy feeling that at any moment First Sergeant Black or the Battalion Sergeant Major could pop out of nowhere to correct his violation of the grooming standard.

Logger on the other hand, blessed with genes akin to his name, was already nursing a full dark brown beard. He had already taken to stroking it while engrossed in thought. An act which inspired no small amount of jealousy in Max whose dirty blond hair had yet to thicken enough to be really considered a true beard. Garza had inexplicably not grown any facial hair, even his shaved head hadn't gained much length from when last it was touched up several weeks ago.

Kaeo was naturally quiet, the friendliness he had to exude in order to gain information and “make friends” was more than a little taxing. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy companionship and camaraderie, it was just that those things were almost sacred. He'd never been as close with anyone as he had been with than his squad, almost dying together would do that to you.

He looked different in the light of day not wearing any of his gear. He was much older than Kaeo had originally judged, with his hair black styled in a closely cut Ivy League parted to the side and touched with gray. His skin had a certain dark wornness about it, like it had suffered innumerable days exposed to the relentless sun. The left side of his clean shaven, squarely jawed visage was covered with numerous small scars, undoubtedly from a close call with a grenade. All of it culminated in his deeply set dark brown eyes almost dark enough to be black. He felt as if he had seen those eyes somewhere before.

Kaeo waved in greeting as Franco tipped his head down almost faintly in acknowledgment.

“Franco, right?” Kaeo said, leaning into the bars.

“Franco Sassari.” He responded.

There was something strange about his accent, it had a vaguely foreign air, but he could not place it. He recognized certain very subtle distinct patterns of speech which could be called accents on their own but they all mixed and intermingled so as to confuse their origins. A pattern of speech like that must've been cultivated or trained somehow. It reminded him of how the 'Embassy Personnel' who had showed up at Bruno talked, vaguely American, with perfect annunciation and grammar but, no key regional inflections that would identify them. Kaeo's eyes wandered to his weathered hands. No ring, there went one avenue of conversation.
There was a long quiet pause while he eyed the Glock on his hip and vainly attempted to assemble a string of words in his head that would continue the conversation. He gave up after a few minutes. Franco was too quiet to get anything out of.

Footsteps could be heard walking down the stairs. “Ey, Franco, the Boss wants to talk to you.” It was Bobby.

Franco stood up. “I'll be right back.”

As the giant of a man turned and moved, Bobby winked subtly at Kaeo. Franco moved up the stairs and Bobby retrieved Kaeo's journal out of a pocket on his pants. He stuck a pen through the binding and passed it through the bars.

“Don't tell anybody alright? They're already watching me as it is.”

Kaeo was somewhat dumbfounded. “Won't you be in more trouble for lying?”

“Nah, she did actually need him.”

“Hmmph, they say a lie is best hidden between two truths.” Kaeo mused while he flipped through the pages.
The page he had removed from the French girl's journal fell out. It flitted through the bars. His eyes widened and he shot his hand out to grab it as it fluttered gently just out of reach.

Bobby stooped down and picked up the page. A brief look of recognition flashed on his face. He knew exactly what it was. Bobby passed it back to through the bars. Kaeo grabbed it and stuffed it back into his journal then smacked it closed in one quick motion.
The room went completely silent. He looked around. They were all staring at him.

Kaeo glanced up to Bobby as their eyes met. It spoke volumes of lost friends and faraway places. Of an army that was no place for a lame bastard or basketcase.

Bobby flicked his eyes over to the other Marines and back to Kaeo. He scratched the back of his neck and a sheepish grin inched across his face. “It got kinda bounced around. I tried to put the pages back where they belonged.” The other Marines went back to eating.
Bobby thought fast. Kaeo was thankful that he respected his desire to keep this private, even from the people who he had become closest with.  His finger went numb and he twisted the ring to restore some circulation.

“Thank you.”

“Don't mention it. Like literally, don't mention it. Anyway, I best be getting on now, mate.” Bobby said and moved towards the stairs.
He calmly moved up the stairs into the main lobby of the lodge. Rikka and Franco studied the map on the table and quietly discussed something.

In the corner Vladimir Vorobiev, known more commonly as Sparrow due to the similarity of his last name to the word in Russian, adjusted his glasses with annoying frequency as he worked away on his laptop.

Bobby had never liked Sparrow, he looked almost unnervingly average in almost every way, but his gaze had a strange and piercing intelligence. He seemed to analyze and pick apart every facet of a human being just by looking at them.
Before signing on with Jormungandr Defense, he had worked as a counter-intelligence officer with Russian FSB liaising extensively with Spetsnaz Alfa group and GRU during operations in the Caucasus. He was lured away from the motherland by the promise of higher pay for doing essentially the same work. A mercenary in the truest sense.

“Bobby.” Rikka called as she waved him over. He glanced down the stairs before he approached the table.
“Secure two vehicles and have Michael do a full check of everything. I don't want any problems. Then get civvies for the four downstairs and the Carl Gustav with and as much HEDP and Flechette as you and LaSorte can carry.” she instructed.

He raised an eyebrow “What the bloody hell are we gonna need it for?”

“We just want to be ready.” Franco answered.

“Well, you can't go wrong with Carl G.” he responded.

“Sooner rather than later, we're leaving tomorrow at noon.” she said.

“I thought we were...?” he asked.

“We WERE going to go later but we got a new message in one of Sparrow's dead drops. It's now or never.” she explained, the curtness of her voice hinting at the frustration she experienced trying to communicate and coordinate with an ever illusive employer. She turned away back to the map and Franco “And make sure those Marines get cleaned up before we leave. They're getting ripe.”

“Got it, Boss.” Bobby acknowledged and set about his work.

The ramp on the Osprey descended slowly.

Dygalo stood up and faced the other marines as Navy Corpsmen scrambled off the bird carrying full stretchers.

“None of you go anywhere alone while we're here. Redmann, you're with McGraw, Johnson and Stevens. No fucking around either, we've got a job to do. Johnson, do you have the list?”

“Yes, Staff Sergeant.”

“Go to the PX and get everything on it. Leave your packs here. I'll either be at the armory or at the COC.”

“What we doing, Staff Sergeant?” Dirty asked.

“McGraw will explain.”

They moved off the ramp and onto the concrete of the airfield. The “big base” was aptly named it was constantly abuzz with activity in a way that Bruno could never be. Quonset huts, aircraft hangers, improvised buildings made of shipping containers were scattered across the camp. McGraw retrieved his can of chew and cracked it open. He gave is a light shake to gather the last remaining bits of tobacco together into a mass just big enough for a tiny pinch which he subsequently placed in his mouth.
The clack of marching boots faded in as a platoons worth of men jogged out from behind a building in formation, calling cadence.

“Fucking Rangers.” McGraw said and then spat onto the pavement.

“Early at night it's drizzlin' rain.” The motivator called out and was immediately repeated in a disgustingly perky fervor.

“I am hit and feel the pain.”

“But in my heart I have no fear.”

“Because Marines your god is here.” Just as that line was uttered all of the faces twitched in a unified expression of irritation
The tempo suddenly changed and they turned around another building. “You think they left their gear unattended?” McGraw asked.

“You can count on it.” Dygalo answered. “Come find me when you're done.” He then turned and walked off towards the concrete form of the armory.

“Come on, Dirty.” McGraw waved as he moved over to the army dominated section of the camp

“Uh, Corporal, why do we hate the Rangers?” he ask tentatively.

“Well, you see Lance Corporal, your job as a Ranger is to sit around a big airbase like this one. Lifting, running and snorting nitro-tech off of your Ranger buddies' rock hard abs until once every two weeks you get a forty-five minute op that solely consists of flying in at zero dark thirty and fast roping out of a blackhawk then finding the biggest most important looking thing in the immediate vicinity and fucking smashing it. It's a doctrine that removes all of the hard shit that we do. Fucking weeks of intelligence gathering and Reconnaissance. Hell, half the time if the enemy even fucking sees us it's game over. It's not that they're not good at their jobs. It's just that their job is easier than ours, and well, we're better at theirs with less fancy high-speed shit.”

McGraw paused as they reached a small fenced-off area. Dozens of plate carriers, helmets and weapons were all laid out in a neat orderly fashion, secured only by a small padlock on the door which hung unclasped. McGraw simply slid the padlock off and opened the door. He stooped over and rifled through their gear quickly as he continued to talk.
“Although there are some Rangers that do Recon, they've got a special unit inside the Regiment, Ranger Reconnaissance Company, and those guys will only get mad props from me.” He opened a pocket on one vest stuffed with batteries

“Pockets, Dirty.” He complied, opening up the pockets on his cammies. McGraw dumped a handful of CR123s into them and continued to search.

Johnson stared intently at the list as they wandered down the aisles of the PX. Stevens was following close behind yammering away.

“You know, this kinda reminds me of this time I was in Amsterdam on shore leave. Like, I was gonna go visit the Anne Frank house but the line was like super long and I wasn't even drunk. Fuck that. Props to her for waiting it out in an attic for two years, but I got places to be, like the Heineken factory. Anne Frankl-y I don't give a shit. So I was just like...”

Johnson tuned him out briefly while he dumped packet after packet of batteries into the basket. Big check by the AA batteries.

“...You know it's really easy to pick up chicks at the Airport? I learned it from that one Liam Neeson movie which is a documentary about how to pick up girls in Europe...”

Johnson dumped several packages of baby wipes into the cart.

“..And then I was just like: 'Girl, if you didn't want to get fucked like an animal, you shouldn't have dressed like one'...”

Johnson paused to examine the information on the back of two different brands of foot powder. After making a decision, he dumped several containers into the cart and then checked it off the list.

“...Although, maybe one time I got carried away and roundhouse kicked a child. Big deal, he was thirteen and I’m pretty sure he was Jewish soooooo he was technically a man. Not like they were ever gonna find me given the traffic cone and all.”

“Dude, do we have enough soap back at Bruno?” Johnson asked, looking at the list. The question caught Steven off guard and he paused to think about it for a second.

“Yeah, I think so. Anway, then I drunk drove! Well, not really. I watched the movie Drive, drunk...”

Johnson tuned him out even more as they continued to pack items off the list into the cart. It was practically overflowing with the miscellaneous goods need for the smooth operation of Patrol base by the time they wheeled up to the counter. Stevens continued the epic tale of his adventures in Amsterdam as the clerk shuffled up to the register.

“Three cartons of Marlboro Reds, and as many logs of Cope Wintergreen as you've got.” The clerk moved them onto the counter. Stevens then dropped the bag full of batteries he had been carrying onto the counter.

The clerk glanced at the items. “You're gonna have to put those back there's a three package limit on batteries for military personnel.”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now? I've got a whole company out in the field right now who needs all of this.”

“Store policy is store policy. Private. First. Class.” The way those three words leaked out of the clerk’s mouth pissed him off to no end.

Johnson lunged across the counter and grabbed him by the collar then yanked him close. “Shut your fucking mouth and ring me up.” That seemed to drive the fear of God into him. Johnson let him go as he rang up the items.

Johnson then dropped a stack of bills from the envelope into the counter. “Keep the change.” As they bagged up the items and moved out of the store.

“...Like I was saying what happens in Mexico, stays in Mexico. Like my organs.”

“Wait, I thought you were in Amsterdam?” Johnson asked realizing he'd completely lost track of any narrative.

“Nah, I told you, this is a different story.” Stevens clarified.

“Yeah, yeah, I remember now.”  Johnson lied, “Don't they medically discharge people for that shit?”

“I got it waved. Wanna see the scar?” Stevens asked lifting the back of his blouse and shirt. Johnson leaned in to examine the jagged mark.

“Damn, that looks like it hurt.” Johnson commented.

“I was like, black out drunk at the time they took it out so it didn't hurt til after I woke up.”

“What are you two queers up to?” McGraw asked as he approached, the leg pockets on his cammies bulging suspiciously.

“Stevens is missing a fucking kidney.” Johnson said, pointing at the scar.

“Really? How the fuck did you manage that?” Dirty inquired, examining the mark.

“Tequila.” Stevens answered.

“Dylan, did you get your humble Corporal fuel for his addiction?” McGraw asked digging through one of Stevens’ bags.

“Yeah. I got everything on the list except for CR123s since they were out.” Johnson said, retrieving a log of chew from one of his bags. “Here.” He tossed it to McGraw and then began packing all of the items into his ruck.

“You spoil me. We got CR123s covered.” McGraw said patting his pockets and then tearing open the packaging on the roll of cans. He took one out for himself and then handed the rest back to Johnson.

“Hey, who do you think that is?” As Dirty pointed to a small entourage of two up-armored green Toyota Hilux trucks moving through the wire.

“Dunno, looks like contractors.” McGraw answered. The three vehicles quickly moved through the gate and across the tarmac right in front of them towards the COC.

'Knight Security Group' was emblazoned on the door below a stylized chess knight. “Yep, contractors.” Johnson quipped. He squinted hard and made eye contact with the tall man in the back of one of the vehicles as they passed. “See that dude in the back seat of the second vehicle? Didn't he show up at Bruno the day after our first contact?”

“Sure looks like him.” McGraw responded as the vehicles rolled past.

“I got five dollars that dude's CIA.” Stevens called out.

“You'd have to get me kidney-stealing drunk to take that bet.” McGraw responded as the two vehicles parked in front of the COC and the man dismounted with his security detail and entered the building.

“So, Amerikanski, what've you been up to? You come in here and let me talk your ear off about what I've been doing. Are you still with Force Recon?” Master Sergeant Ikemann asked him.

Dygalo swirled his coffee for a second. “Nope, I'm back at battalion. They needed a team leader before they deployed and I volunteered.”

“No, shit just dropped what you were doing and moved over?” Ikemann continued.

“Yep.” Dygalo nodded and took another sip.

Ikemann tone took on a more serious note.  “I heard Sergeant Mann bought the farm.”

“Yeah. It’s hairy out there. We're taking contact just about any time we leave the wire to go out on patrol. Guerillas are stubborn, I'll give them that. Reminds me of Ramadi '06. Ever thought about going operational again?” Dygalo asked.

Ikemann shook his head “I just don't have the zest for that stuff anymore. I'm a staff monkey now. Shuffle papers from one end of my desk to the other. 'Yes, Sir.' 'Right away, Sir.' 'Yes, I'll get that right to the S-3 shop, Sir'.” Ikemann made several robotic motions while he recited the lines trying to lighten the mood again.

“God damn I can't believe you got whipped, Ike.” Dygalo said.

“Well two bullets and sixteen pieces of shrapnel will do that to you. Besides, If I play my cards right I'll be Master Guns in a year and have a nice easy skate to retirement. Spend time with the kids and figure out what I'm gonna do with the rest of my days. Hell, how long have you been pushing E-6 now?”

“Better part of four years. I don't know. I rather like it, keeps me close to the action.” Dygalo admitted.
Ikemann shook his head.  “You haven't changed a goddamn bit since the invasion and Fallujah.”

The doors to the COC opened and man in a brown blazer followed by several armed but casually dressed men entered. Dygalo noted one among theie number sticking close to the principle, a broad chested tanned man with a thin, neatly trimmed, black moustache. The Colt Single Action Army and leather gun belt clashed with the Mk18 outfitted with the latest in optics, lights and lasers he had slung across his chest. Dygalo knew the type.

“I tell you, this place is starting to seem more like the Wild West every day.” Ikemann mused.

Dygalo couldn’t help but smirk at that. “They come here often?”

“Nope, first time I've seen this bunch.”

The six men proceeded inside the General's office after being waved in by his aide without a word from the guards posted outside.
“General Berger, it's good to finally meet you!”

“What do you spooks want?” The General asked point blank as he turned around.

“Just an introduction, we'll be seeing more of each other.” he explained. “My name is Michael, but most people just call me Scarecrow”. Scarecrow was a tall but somewhat lanky man. His square jaw and confident grin exuded Americana in a way that was only accented by his short fair hair and starkly contrasting eyebrows. The brown sport coat worn over a polo and casual slacks set him as the quintessential 'spook'.

“This is Roy.” Gesturing towards the man with the colt. “He and I are from Special Activities Division. This is Master Sergeant Bill, Sergeant First Class Eric, Staff Sergeant Josh and Sergeant First Class Forum.” Continuing to point to each one of the other armed men with him. “They're on loan from the Army's Combat Applications Group.”

“Now, why did you actually come here?” The General asked while folding his arms.
Roy explained. “We're running the targeted killing and intelligence program that's been feeding your S-2 shop. Now, as I'm sure you've heard from the Joint Chiefs, your cooperation with us and our boss is paramount to the success of operations in this shithole.”

“We just want to know if you're on board, General.” Scarecrow finished.

The General paused for a moment with a look on his face as if he was contemplating about signing away his soul to Satan. “I do what I'm told.”

“Great.” Scarecrow said, extending his hand. The General grabbed it and shook it roughly.
Dygalo watched the group exit the General’s office as he carefully sized up each member. They moved in perfect sync with each other. His concentration was broken when someone repeatedly knocked on the window he was leaning against. Dygalo glanced over his shoulder to Lance Corporal Redmann was outside holding up a bag from the PX and he waved him inside. There was still plenty of time before they were scheduled to leave.

The four marines entered the building after a quick check by security.

“Boys, this is Master Sergeant Ikemann. He was my Team Leader for my first two tours then my platoon sergeant for the second two.”

“Good morning, Master Sergeant.” they greeted respectfully. All of their eyes were fixed on Ikemann's crooked and smashed nose.

“Uh… how did you-” Dirty asked.

“You wanna hear the story, right?” Ikemann cut him off like he was expecting it from the start.

They all nodded profusely.

“It's a long one. You better settle in.” Gesturing to another set of chairs near his desk.

“Max, I swear to God. If you throw that ball one more fucking time.” Kaeo growled over his shoulder before going back to scribbling away on his journal.

“Sorry, dude.” Max caught the rubber ball he had been throwing as it bounced off the wall. He then glanced over to Garza and mouthed “What's up his ass?”

Garza and the other Marines had become quite good at reading lips and communicating through hands signals. Not only was it incredibly useful when trying to move silently, but also rather handy when defended by gunfire or an explosion.

“Hasn't been sleeping.” Garza mouthed back.

“Why?”

Garza shrugged “Dunno.”

“Should we talk to him?” Garza and Logger both shook their heads in response to Max's question.

“He'll come out if he needs us.” Logger responded silently.

“And if he doesn't?”

Garza assured him. “Just trust him.”

“If we try and he doesn't want us, it will blow up in our faces like a M67.” Logger responded miming the explosion with his hands “Better just to let him come in his own time.”

Max wasn't convinced, but he decided to let the conversation end there.

Kaeo continued scribbling away in silence. Max hoped it helped him cope. It was getting late.

“Now that I've caught this journal up on the goings of my life I must say this: I understand that I told myself this journal would be an impartial and unbiased record of events, but it is becoming increasingly hard to keep my thoughts and fears bottled within the confines of my head. There is so much at stake, so much riding upon my success as a leader. The weight of that alone is soul-crushing.
Even without that I cannot be granted a moment’s rest. Ostensibly, I should have all the time in the world to do that given our present situation, but the girls haunt me from every shadow. Every time I close my eyes I see the same horrible images that I had caused.  I still feel Eri and Claire's eyes on me every second. A punishment that I cannot escape. I am always on the alert, unable to switch off. I constantly have this feeling of uneasiness in the pit of my stomach. 'Butterflies' is not an accurate term to describe it. If you've ever been in a car wreck, that feeling that you get a second before you actually collide with whatever you're gonna hit. It's that feeling. Constantly.

The appearance of the new blue eyed woman, Rikka Mannerheim, seems only as though to taunt me. I feel guilty. Every time I look at her eyes it reminds me of everything I am trying to forget.

More importantly, the way she moves and, talks and, perhaps most importantly, fights all give me the same impression. She is dangerous. Although something hints at me that she is important in some grand metaphysical sense.

I must also admit, there is a certain element of attraction. Her looks play to my... weaknesses. Her blonde hair and light skin, her tattoos and piercing blue eyes. Her loud, abrasive, and dominant personality on the other hand I would not classify as 'my type'.

I do not know whether our paths coincide or we are destined for a violent collision resulting one of or perhaps both our demises, but it remains to my senses that in some way she is important. Whoever is pulling the world's strings is all at the same time an idiot, a comedian, a sadist and benevolent. A god of violence.

More and more I am thinking I am a victim of “The Stockholm” as the boys are now calling it. We have more in common with our captors than with the enemy by any measure and they seem more attached to some third agenda than they are directly opposed to us. But, when Bobby saw fit to return this journal I saw nothing but the deepest understanding in his eyes. Friendship across battle lines? Perhaps, but I get the feeling he trusts me now. To a certain extent I trust him as well. It honestly hurts to think that I may have to use that trust as a tool in our bid for escape...”

Kaeo's eyelids fluttered as he struggled to finish the sentence. He slumped against the wall and his writing hand slipped, drawing a thick diagonal line across the page.

Max approached him and closed his journal, sticking the pen through the binding where it had been before.
“Garza, Logger, come help me.” He called.

The three marines lifted him off the floor and onto a cot. Max draped a blanket over him and tucked him in. He set the journal next to him. “Sleep tight, slanty.”

The sun was just starting to touch the horizon as Dygalo and the rest of 2-1 finally managed to escape Ikemann's office. He was always entertaining but boy could he talk an ear off if he got going. The Osprey had been waiting for five minutes by the time they finally got aboard.

The crew chief looked absolutely furious. “What the fucking hell took you so long?!”

“My apologies, Sergeant, we got a little caught up.” McGraw tried to reason out.

He was beyond consolation from the look on his face. “Oh yeah? You better hope it was fucking important. Because of you faggots, we're behind schedule!” Lifting the aircraft's rear ramp.

Only as they took their seats did they notice the four new occupants decked out in all of their kit: PPE, Night vision and, most strangely, parachutes.

“Where are you guys from?” Johnson wondered.

“3rd ANGLICO.” the team leader replied “And you?”

“Charlie Company, First Recon.”

“Funny, we're linking up with Alpha Company.” The team leader continued as the Osprey began to lift off.

“Out to bust some heads?”

“Nah, they're calling it a legitimate long range Recon.”

“Well, Captain Balietto sure lucked out. You know what platoon?” McGraw cut in again.

“Yeah, 3rd Platoon. They're taking us and a few of Lieutenant Blackburn's best out into the boonies.”

“Sounds like fun.” Dygalo leaned back and tipped his cover over his eyes.

Kaeo was cold. His mother said it snowed many times when he was a child in Japan. He had never liked the snow from the first time he could remember seeing the stuff while in Afghanistan. The wind was blowing hard kicking up white fluff all around him, obscuring his vision and making it entirely clear to him that his current attire of just his cammies was entirely inappropriate for the current conditions.

He kept staggering forward. He had no idea where he was going but figured it was best to keep moving and keep as warm as he could until he could get his bearings and figure out where exactly he was going. He trudged on for what seemed like several hours before he stumbled onto a set of footprints.

As he had no idea where he was going before this, it seemed like a decent idea to follow them. They were small and softly imprinted into the snow with barely and disturbance to the ground next to it. A fine contrast to wide trail he was leaving, something which was not being helped by the growing numbness in his limbs. He kept walking. The ground began to slope upwards but he continued up the hill. Just as he reached the crest, the ferocious wind seemed to die down. Several moments passed while the snow settled. He had hiked to the stop of a steep cliff in the vast expanse of frozen wilderness that was arrayed before him. There was another boiling cloud of snow moving through it and towards him.

It had always intrigued him, that truly primordial urge that every human must experience when they get to some high place and look down. That innate desire, perhaps only recognized for a second to simply jump. He followed the rest of the tracks with his eyes.
She was scarcely more than a dozen yards away further down crest of the hills but he had hardly noticed her when the wind was blowing. She was staring into the vastness just as he had been not more than a second ago, quietly smoking a cigarette. When she exhaled a small cloud of mixed frost and smoke wafted gently away from her. She glanced towards him as a small gust of wind lifted a dusting of snow and the ends of her white and black patterned shemagh. The blue of the sky she was framed against perfectly matched her beautiful eyes.

http://i.imgur.com/MG4b72l.jpg

“Pretty, isn't she?” A voice called, shattering the moment.

That voice.

He turned, and as the two figures came into focus so did his stomach.

“Hello, Kaeo!” Claire called out excitedly while waggling her finger. This would usually be a cute gesture but there was something about the blood constantly leaking out of her face and neck down her body and onto the snow that completely destroyed the image.
Eri's small, pure smile was easier to take in, but her midsection was still completely ruined and a large trail of blood trailed behind her. She was holding her intestines in with one of her hands, already soaked in blood. A loop suddenly slipped out of her grasp and into the snow. “Whoops!” She called out and bent over, grabbing it and quickly stuffing it back in as Kaeo watched in absolute horror. She brushed her black hair back behind her ear as she straightened up all the while blushing intensely in embarrassment.

He wanted to throw up.

“Don't looks so down in the dumps, Kaeo!” Claire said cheerfully as she approached him. “After all, you were enjoying yourself so much last time you saw us!”

He looked over his shoulder to Rikka who simply glanced at the three of them occasionally while she focused on the massive cloud of snow approaching from the horizon.

Claire grabbed his hand, seizing his attention again. It was still warm and full of life. “How are you Kaeo? Holding up alright?” She asked with a hint of concern coloring her voice. “Yes, how are you doing Kaeo?” Eri asked seconding Claire's question.
A blunt “I don't know.” was all he could say.

“You don't know? What do you mean you don't know?” Clair pried, leaning close to his ear. He wrenched his hand out of her grip and turned away.

“I just don't know.” he said curtly trying to sound less rude.

“It's okay Kaeo you can trust us!” Eri urged.

Kaeo sat down hard in the snow and ran his fingers through his short hair.

“I'm tired... just so very tired and afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” Eri asked hunkering down in the snow next to him. He looked up, her smile reassured him some.

“Of failing my friends and of what I am.” She rested her hand on his shoulder to comfort him leaving a bloody hand print. Her intestines slipped out again with a sickening wet sound.

“Sorry.” She excused as she packed them back in the cavity in her stomach.

“Why are you here?” Kaeo asked standing back up.

“We're here for you, Kaeo.” Eri said.

“And by extension, her.” Claire elaborated while pointing at Rikka.

Kaeo was getting agitated. “What does she have to do with this?”

“Well, I'm sure you can see the resemblance.” Claire said. The wind was beginning to pick up again.

“We all get chances at redemption.” Eri followed, the wind whipping her hair.

The massive cloud front reached the cliff face. And stopped. The wind still gusted and blew fast kicking up snow. Rikka stared intently into the mass of mist from just a few feet away. A shadow appeared behind the veil of the cloud and she looked up and moved backwards away from the edge.

A massive, red claw pierced the cloud’s surface and rested itself on the cliff’s edge. His heart was racing. The claws dug into the rock of the cliff face and pulled forward.

The colossal red dragon pulled itself over the edge of the cliff and stalked towards Rikka. She moved away from it maintaining the distance.

The dragon threw out his great neck and snapped down with its jaws, but the she easily leapt out of the way, agilely landing onto her feet. The dragon angrily hissed when it realized its teeth had chomped down on nothing. Thick smoke billowed from the dragon’s nostrils as it stalked forward a few more steps. She continued to maintain the distance between them.
He couldn't move.

Suddenly, in one great leap, the dragon lunged forward, cracking off a massive piece of cliff in its wake and proceeded to lash out with its head. She dove out of the way again but her timing was off by mere milliseconds. The Dragon sunk its teeth into her right thigh.

You can stop this, Kaeo.

“Hey, Birthday Boy.” Bobby called out. Kaeo's eyes flashed open.

“Wake up, we've got a road trip to get ready for.”