Central Officer John Bradford dropped his head into his hands as the door closed behind him. These interviews were exhausting, emotionally, and the hours weren't helping. He didn't think he'd managed to sleep more than a few hours since they'd managed to wipe out the attackers, and reclaim the HQ.
The worst part, the part the Commander had confided was also keeping him up nights, was the implications of the whole thing. The X-Rays knew where XCOM HQ was; maybe they'd always known. With the seemingly inexhaustible forces they were able to put on the ground, they'd launched a token offensive that had still managed to take them off guard and result in multiple casualties. The X-Rays could probably wipe out XCOM any time, but hadn't. That was the thought that woke him multiple times a night drenched in cold sweat. Why? What was their purpose in holding back?
There came a knock at the door, and Bradford took several moments to compose himself before he spoke.
"Enter," he said, raising his voice to be heard through the door. The analyst who came through the door was one of the ones he'd been dreading; He knew that today, the last day of interviews, had been stacked with painful interviewees. The man had a bruise on his face, and refused to meet Bradford's eyes. The last time Bradford had seen him, he'd noted the manic, violet glow, and had put the man down hard.
"Intelligence Officer Pidgeon, reporting as directed, Sir," the man said, standing stiffly before the table, until Bradford gestured at the seat.
"Sit down, David," he said. "This won't take too long."
"Sir," replied the analyst, sitting down, still as stiff as ever, and looking everywhere but Bradford's face.
"I want you to tell me everything you remember about the attack," he said, lifting a recording device to indicate that the interview was being recorded. "Start at the beginning, go slow."
"Sir," the analyst said again, stalling a moment while his gaze turned inward, remembering. His face scrunched in pain, but then he took a deep, slow breath, and began speaking. "I remember my screen flickering, several times. I leaned over to... Anderson, I think? To look at their terminal, see if they were having problems too. Then the hologlobe got all flickery, and..." The man trailed off, his eyes flickering up to the bruising on Bradford's temple for a second.
"Go on," Bradford replied, knowing full well what Pidgeon was remembering.
"Then... things got weird." The Australian swallowed heavily. "I heard a voice telling me to grab the fire extinguisher. It seemed important, so I did. I knew what I had to do. You-" another swallow, followed by a nearly inaudible gasp, "you needed to be stopped. So, I hit you, and you went down, but you weren't out. I came in again, but you were quick enough to stop me." The man let out a sudden, barely human sound, and squeezed his eyes shut, until tears leaked from the corners.
"It's alright, David. It happened, and it's over, but I need you to continue." Bradford didn't feel the calm he heard in his own voice. He felt the adrenaline spiking, and his jaw ached from the effort of not clenching it.
"Sir, I'm sorry," Pidgeon replied, wiping at his face, and visibly taking control of himself again. "You pushed me away, and got the gun. I was trying to get up, to stop you, but you put the gun to my head. You... said something? I don't know what you said. It was like gibberish. It- it scared me."
"You couldn't understand what I said?" Bradford nodded as he asked, as it confirmed the stories of others who'd been controlled.
"No sir," it was just garbled noise," he grinned suddenly, mirthlessly. "I recall thinking that the accent was American, though." The smile faded, replaced by the same thousand-yard stare he'd been wearing the whole time. "Then you hit me with the gun, and that's all I remember until I woke up later, in the brig."
"That's all?" Bradford waited, and when the analyst nodded, he nodded in return. "Thank you, Intelligence Officer. That's all I need from you, for now." When the man got up and moved toward the door, Bradford spoke up suddenly, surprising himself. "It wasn't your fault," he said. "I don't blame you. It was them, not you, who attacked me."
"Yes, Sir," replied the other man listlessly. His tone gave no doubts that he didn't believe the reassurances. "Thank you, Sir." Then the door closed, leaving Bradford with his thoughts again.
He suddenly remembered that IO Pidgeon had been a friend of SSG Parsons; They'd been countrymen, and had become friends shortly after the project started. He thought it likely that IO Pidgeon was carrying the guilt of that, as well. He made a note on the tablet before him to pass that on to medical.
Another knock on the door signaled another interviewee. He indicated that they should enter, and SFC Leigh Fahey walked in. He looked at her for a moment, studying her features. She looked tired, but did not allow any sign of what she was feeling show on her face. When he indicated she should sit, she slumped into the chair.
"Sergeant First Class Fahey," he said, "I'd first like to offer my thanks, and those of the Commander, for the excellent service you rendered during the attack." She nodded, her body language showing discomfort at the praise, the first emotional response she'd shown. When she didn't speak, he continued. "I'd like you to tell me what you remember from the attack."
She delivered a crisp, accurate narrative, from her arrival in Delta section with some of the base defense personnel until they'd finally declared the All-Clear. Only briefly when she described de Matos' death did her voice break for even a moment.
"Staff Sergeant de Matos was a friend of yours, wasn't she?" Bradford asked quietly.
"Yes, Sir." The brief flash of emotion from earlier was well hidden this time. This time, he was the one to sit quietly, and she was the one to finally break silence. "She was a friend, and a damned good medic, Sir. Didn't know the others that well, though, the Lieutenant, and Parsons. The security personnel who came in with me, Liles and Walters seemed like good troops. Obeyed orders." Her litany finally stopped, and she looked around the room, her posture speaking frustration. "Do you need anything else, Sir?"
"Unless you've remembered anything else to add to your report, that will be all, Sergeant." Immediately, Fahey got up and moved to the door. When she opened the door she suddenly stopped and he heard a sharply indrawn breath. Bradford jerked his head over his shoulder, his instincts keyed, but he only saw the next interviewee waiting, and it was she that had made Fahey stop in her tracks. Sergeant First Class Lieselotte Faber barely looked like the confident young woman Bradford had frequently seen around HQ. She stepped aside wordlessly and let SFC Fahey exit, then glanced in at him. Bradford stifled a sigh and nodded to her unspoken question, gesturing her to sit immediately.
"Sergeant Faber," he began as soon as she sat down listlessly. He was ready to launch into the now rote interview, but instead, he clicked the recording device off, and asked a different question. "How are you doing?"
"Sir?" she blinked and her eyes focused on his. He could see that they were red, and he had no doubt she'd been crying recently. "I am fit for combat, Sir." There was an edge to her answer, challenging him to disagree with her.
"That's not what I'm asking," he replied gently. "How are you doing? I know that Sergeant de Matos was important to you."
"Monica."
"Sorry, that Monica was important to you," he corrected.
"I will survive," she replied, her tone studiously devoid of emotion. "I will keep fighting, keep killing those bastards." The German woman looked up, meeting his eyes for the first time. "For her." her voice broke on those last words, and she dropped her eyes again, but not before he could see the sheen of fresh tears.
Bradford made a decision then, one he hoped he would not regret. He scribbled a note on the tablet "SFC Faber - Recommend immediate return to duty status." He looked up at her, and nodded, once. "I'll see to it you get your chance to do that."
"Thank you, Sir," she replied, real gratitude warring with the grief and anger in her voice. Bradford nodded again, and clicked the recording device back on. "Sergeant First Class Faber, I'd like you to tell me everything you remember about the attack. Start at the beginning, go slowly, try to remember it all."
It was a rough interview, but they got through it, even though she was shaking by the end. When the door opened, he saw SFC Fahey and SFC Colman standing outside, and they immediately took the German sniper into their arms as the door closed.
Was it all worth it? Bradford wondered. With the X-Rays launching such an attack, there was no way of knowing if they could even be beaten. Was the loss of loved ones, friends, teammates worth it? He sighed and rubbed his temples as the ever-present headache of the last several days began to throb in earnest; not even half-way through the interviews for the day. The only way to know the value of what they did would be to finish it, one way or the other. It would be the worst sort of insult to the many men and women who'd given their lives before now to do anything less.
The knock on the door signaled another interview, and Bradford squared his shoulders. There was work to be done, and there was no one else to do it.
Showing posts with label Fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fiction. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 10, 2016
Friday, November 13, 2015
A Familiar Path (24 AUG 2016)
SFC Leigh Fahey paced quietly down the corridor. She was looking for SGT Glynn, whom she'd been asked to find by CPT Lindemann. When she'd checked his bunk area and found him gone, SGT Parsons had said he'd seen Glynn and Zhu headed toward Mission Command. Her steps took her into the armory, and she felt her pace quicken as the familiar path played on her memory, reminding her of the many times she'd pounded in here, scrambling to get her gear on for a mission. She paused a moment, glancing around at the orderly rows of rifles, the crates filled with neatly packaged grenades and other devices.
She drifted to the ready rack, where the precious few laser weapons and sets of phalanx armor were laid out; she traced a finger lovingly along the bulky shape of the scatter laser that she'd carried several times already, then spent a few moments looking at the various sets of phalanx, seeing the slight irregularities where the engineers had repaired plasma burns; Each set of armor told a different story, but in amalgam, it was a story of pain, injury and triumph. With a sigh laden with meaning that is only comprehensible to those who have felt the exhilaration and terror of being in combat, she turned away from the racks of equipment, and left the armory behind.
Mission Control was a very different place. Where the armory was all orderly gleaming gunmetal and stillness, the nerve center of XCOM was chaos barely held in check, with a low hum of constant talk as the many technicians communicated with outlying stations, reconnaissance elements, and the various Council Nations. Dominating the room physically was the hologlobe, showing near-real-time intel from all over the globe, integrating the multiple flows of information from the workstations all around into a single cohesive picture which the Commander and Bradford used to coordinate XCOM's efforts.
As if thinking of him summoned him, she saw Bradford move out of the shadows on the catwalk overlooking Mission Control. He appeared to be coming from the Situation Room; The Commander probably had a tele-meeting with the shadowy Council head. Bradford leaned on the railing, looking down at the hologlobe and the busy technicians below. Leigh, in turn, looked up at him. She'd only spoken to him a few times, during debriefs, but his demeanor never wavered. Stiff, formal, professional. It sometimes seemed that XCOM ran on his willpower alone. Bradford's eyes shifted, and she realized he was looking directly back at her, and she jumped slightly. She raised her right hand toward her brow in a casual half salute, and Bradford acknowledged it with a nod before turning his eyes back to the hologlobe.
Leigh stepped off again, letting her feet carry her along the well-known route to the Hangar, as she still hadn't seen Glynn. She had a hunch that he might be in there; Many of the troopers liked to hang out in the Hangar when they were doing maintenance on the bay doors, as it was the only time other than missions that any of them saw sky. Sure enough, she could smell the distinct aroma of fresh air, so different from the machine smells of oil and smoke, and the ever-present scent of moist granite. As she entered the Hangar, Leigh turned her gaze upward involuntarily, to where she could see a few stars winking through the lowering twilight, barely silhouetting the tiny shapes of mechanics working on the door mechanism.
"Sergeant Fahey," she heard, and dropped her eyes to find SSG Zhu raising a hand in greeting, with Glynn sitting next to him, with the single S.C.O.P.E. held to his eye as he gazed upward. She walked the short distance to the stack of crates they were seated on, and waited a moment until Glynn turned his attention to her.
"SGT Glynn," she began, "CPT Lindemann would like you to drop by his room this evening, when you've some time. He wanted to get your take on something from the bridge."
"No problem," Glynn said. "I'll swing by there in a few." He passed the S.C.O.P.E. over to Zhu who also put it to his eye and turned it upward. "What do you think?" he asked after a few moments.
"What are you doing?" Leigh asked, looking upward to try to discern what they were looking at.
"We're checking out some new tweaks to the S.C.O.P.E." Glynn explained. "Engineering's working on some new features, and they asked us to give our input."
Zhu dropped the device to his lap, and nodded. "I agree," he said shortly. "the calibration is a little off. Also, did you notice that the overlay tried to give him a third arm? It was actually a wrench on his belt."
Glynn burst out laughing. "I guess the computer is trying to extrapolate for new breeds of X-Ray?" he speculated. He glanced at SFC Fahey, then reached out and grabbed the S.C.O.P.E. and offered it to her. "Take a look."
Leigh took the device, and held it to her eye, raising it up. The auto-focus hesitated for a moment, then suddenly the lip of the bay doors came into sharp focus, and she could see the workers moving around. As she watched, the light level raised gradually. "Place the center reticle over one of the workers," she heard Zhu prompt, so she did so. Within a couple seconds, the man was overlaid with an outline, and data appeared on the edge of her view, designating him as human and giving his distance; There was also appeared two dots, one over his head, another over his heart. She let out a slow, appreciative whistle.
"That's pretty impressive," she said. Wouldn't be much help for a shotgunner like me, but I can see how that'd help you make some deadly shots."
Yeah, they're working on integrating features to help line up on more critical zones on our targets. They've been making some big improvements in the Foundry." Glynn grinned wolfishly, and Leigh returned it with one of her own.
"I'll write up our observations, then send it to you for review," Zhu said as he accepted the S.C.O.P.E. back from Fahey. "I think our time here is done anyway." As he spoke, muted klaxons sounded, and the bay doors began to swing closed.
"I guess so," Glynn agreed, sliding off of the crate. "I think I'll go see what the Captain wants," he said. "You coming back to the barracks, Sergeant, or are you going to stay here?"
"I'll come," she replied with a last glance at the sky, just as the bay doors cut it off. "I'll walk with you. I wanted to talk to CPT Lindemann again anyway."
She drifted to the ready rack, where the precious few laser weapons and sets of phalanx armor were laid out; she traced a finger lovingly along the bulky shape of the scatter laser that she'd carried several times already, then spent a few moments looking at the various sets of phalanx, seeing the slight irregularities where the engineers had repaired plasma burns; Each set of armor told a different story, but in amalgam, it was a story of pain, injury and triumph. With a sigh laden with meaning that is only comprehensible to those who have felt the exhilaration and terror of being in combat, she turned away from the racks of equipment, and left the armory behind.
Mission Control was a very different place. Where the armory was all orderly gleaming gunmetal and stillness, the nerve center of XCOM was chaos barely held in check, with a low hum of constant talk as the many technicians communicated with outlying stations, reconnaissance elements, and the various Council Nations. Dominating the room physically was the hologlobe, showing near-real-time intel from all over the globe, integrating the multiple flows of information from the workstations all around into a single cohesive picture which the Commander and Bradford used to coordinate XCOM's efforts.
As if thinking of him summoned him, she saw Bradford move out of the shadows on the catwalk overlooking Mission Control. He appeared to be coming from the Situation Room; The Commander probably had a tele-meeting with the shadowy Council head. Bradford leaned on the railing, looking down at the hologlobe and the busy technicians below. Leigh, in turn, looked up at him. She'd only spoken to him a few times, during debriefs, but his demeanor never wavered. Stiff, formal, professional. It sometimes seemed that XCOM ran on his willpower alone. Bradford's eyes shifted, and she realized he was looking directly back at her, and she jumped slightly. She raised her right hand toward her brow in a casual half salute, and Bradford acknowledged it with a nod before turning his eyes back to the hologlobe.
Leigh stepped off again, letting her feet carry her along the well-known route to the Hangar, as she still hadn't seen Glynn. She had a hunch that he might be in there; Many of the troopers liked to hang out in the Hangar when they were doing maintenance on the bay doors, as it was the only time other than missions that any of them saw sky. Sure enough, she could smell the distinct aroma of fresh air, so different from the machine smells of oil and smoke, and the ever-present scent of moist granite. As she entered the Hangar, Leigh turned her gaze upward involuntarily, to where she could see a few stars winking through the lowering twilight, barely silhouetting the tiny shapes of mechanics working on the door mechanism.
"Sergeant Fahey," she heard, and dropped her eyes to find SSG Zhu raising a hand in greeting, with Glynn sitting next to him, with the single S.C.O.P.E. held to his eye as he gazed upward. She walked the short distance to the stack of crates they were seated on, and waited a moment until Glynn turned his attention to her.
"SGT Glynn," she began, "CPT Lindemann would like you to drop by his room this evening, when you've some time. He wanted to get your take on something from the bridge."
"No problem," Glynn said. "I'll swing by there in a few." He passed the S.C.O.P.E. over to Zhu who also put it to his eye and turned it upward. "What do you think?" he asked after a few moments.
"What are you doing?" Leigh asked, looking upward to try to discern what they were looking at.
"We're checking out some new tweaks to the S.C.O.P.E." Glynn explained. "Engineering's working on some new features, and they asked us to give our input."
Zhu dropped the device to his lap, and nodded. "I agree," he said shortly. "the calibration is a little off. Also, did you notice that the overlay tried to give him a third arm? It was actually a wrench on his belt."
Glynn burst out laughing. "I guess the computer is trying to extrapolate for new breeds of X-Ray?" he speculated. He glanced at SFC Fahey, then reached out and grabbed the S.C.O.P.E. and offered it to her. "Take a look."
Leigh took the device, and held it to her eye, raising it up. The auto-focus hesitated for a moment, then suddenly the lip of the bay doors came into sharp focus, and she could see the workers moving around. As she watched, the light level raised gradually. "Place the center reticle over one of the workers," she heard Zhu prompt, so she did so. Within a couple seconds, the man was overlaid with an outline, and data appeared on the edge of her view, designating him as human and giving his distance; There was also appeared two dots, one over his head, another over his heart. She let out a slow, appreciative whistle.
"That's pretty impressive," she said. Wouldn't be much help for a shotgunner like me, but I can see how that'd help you make some deadly shots."
Yeah, they're working on integrating features to help line up on more critical zones on our targets. They've been making some big improvements in the Foundry." Glynn grinned wolfishly, and Leigh returned it with one of her own.
"I'll write up our observations, then send it to you for review," Zhu said as he accepted the S.C.O.P.E. back from Fahey. "I think our time here is done anyway." As he spoke, muted klaxons sounded, and the bay doors began to swing closed.
"I guess so," Glynn agreed, sliding off of the crate. "I think I'll go see what the Captain wants," he said. "You coming back to the barracks, Sergeant, or are you going to stay here?"
"I'll come," she replied with a last glance at the sky, just as the bay doors cut it off. "I'll walk with you. I wanted to talk to CPT Lindemann again anyway."
Friday, November 6, 2015
Passing Time (22 AUG 2016)
The barracks were nearly empty. Most of the troopers were down in the common room, or the gym, but here and there someone laid on their bunk reading a book, or with a laptop propped up, casting pale light onto their faces. While there weren't many people, that didn't mean the barracks were quiet. Laughter and conversation rang out from the back corner, where the overhead lights were still on, illuminating four women. On one bunk, SSG Monica de Matos sat, leaning back against the wall with another woman's head in her lap. The reclining woman, Lieselotte Faber, was writing a letter and not taking part in the conversation, though she smiled occasionally at the banter that was going on.
Another woman sat backward in a chair that had been pulled up to the bunk, her legs straddling the seat, and her forearms crossed on the back. Recently promoted SFC Leigh Fahey was a boisterous, loud woman who had a joke and a smile for nearly everyone. On a nearby table, SFC Jade Colman had a cloth spread out, with several rocks and tools laid out on top. At the moment she was examining a promising specimen, looking for the best place to strike to break it open with her rock hammer.
"Heard your last mission was an interesting one," Jade said, never taking her eyes off the stone in her hand, turning it left and right slowly.
"Oh man," Leigh said with an exaggerated eye-roll. "this Van Doorn character." de Matos chuckled as well, absently stroking Liesel's hair.
"Get down here!" she said, affecting a deeper voice, which sounded oddly charming with her Brazilian accent. "Can't let me have all the fun!" Colman glanced at her and laughed.
"Rumor says he's going to be joining us, along with his attache," she said.
"Yeah," Fahey replied. "I checked the roster this morning, after hearing about that. Must be weird for 'The General' to not be in a command position, but they are giving him a field 'promotion' to Staff Sergeant." Her wry expression and air-quotes made it clear how she felt about that decision.
"It was a strange mission overall," Monica added. "The Council intel made it sound like we'd be stepping into an absolute warzone, and the devastation on the bridge was pretty bad, but the resistance wasn't anything, really." She patted her hip, where she normally carried her medpak. "I never even had to open my kit."
"Seriously," Leigh agreed. "We had to chase that last Thin Mint clear to the end of the bridge. It was like they weren't even trying to put up a fight. Why bother blowing the bridge if they weren't going to commit?"
"Who knows why the X-Rays do anything?" Jade asked rhetorically. "Still, I wish we could have been there with you girls." Liesel looked up from her letter briefly, nodding in agreement. "But I get with the Captain just getting his RTD Orders from medical, Command was eager to get him back in the field." Monica nodded; She'd served with him for half of her missions, and she held a great deal of respect for CPT Lindemann. Leigh shrugged; She'd rather have had Jade along, but it was Command's call, not hers.
The conversation lapsed for a few minutes, the quiet broken only by the nearly silent scratching of Faber's pen on the notepad, until Colman took up her hammer, and struck the stone firmly, resulting in a sharp crack as the stone broke cleanly in half. Leigh half-rose to get a look.
"Whatcha get?" she asked, leaning to catch a glimpse around the other woman's shoulder. Jade turned around, presenting her prize with a satisfied grin.
"Amethyst geode," she declared. "A good find." When Fahey held out her hand, Colman passed the stone over, smiling as the American woman held it up to the light, the crystals casting back tiny sparkles that played across the other woman's dark skin.
"Nice," Leigh agreed, reaching out to pass it back. "Amethyst is my birth stone."
"Keep it, then," Jade offered. "I've still got the other half."
"Really?" Fahey's brows lifted in surprise.
"Absolutely," the British woman smiled, suppressing a pang as she remembered the last time she'd given away one of her stones. She wasn't going to let sad memories stop her from sharing her love of stones, though. Leigh's eyes widened further as she saw the play of emotion across Jade's face. Her friend seemed oblivious to her scrutiny, so she said nothing, merely folding her hands around the stone.
"Thank you," she added after a moment, which earned a smile from Colman.
Monica, who had been there when CPL Huismann died, knew a little of what Jade was feeling. She looked down at Liesel who was so focused on her letter that she was actually biting the tip of her tongue absently. She didn't know what she'd do if anything were to happen to Liesel. She looked up then, at Leigh, Colman, and to where she saw someone across the barracks, faintly illuminated by a laptop screen, she thought it might have been SGT Parsons.
"Where would you be," she began, then paused to formulate her thoughts. "Where would we all be if not for this war?" Colman and Fahey looked at her, but didn't say anything, realizing that she wasn't quite done speaking, despite the question. "I would probably be in Manaus, doing some training Op for some cadets or something." She looked at each of them again in turn, meeting their eyes. "I wouldn't know any of you."
"You saying this war was a good thing?" Leigh asked, a certain mischief sparkling in her dark eyes.
"Not at all," Monica answered seriously, not catching the joking nature of the question. "But good ha come of it, I think. Look at the technological advancements we're making, that one day we'll be able to share with the world. Look at us, close friends from different countries, different parts of the world." Liesel looked up at her with a soft smile that was mostly in the eyes, and Monica stopped talking, meeting her gaze.
"I agree," Jade added. "I think that the human race will come out of this stronger and more unified than we ever were."
"I certainly hope so," Leigh said with a sigh. "We've got a lot to make up for. I certainly hope that this is a start." After several moments of silence, she shook herself. "Aren't we a bunch of Serious Susans? Hey, Liesel, you almost done with that letter? Let's go hit the common room and play some pool, first round of near-beer is on me."
The others quickly agreed. The gravity of the moment was seemingly forgotten as the four women made their way out of the barracks, chatting and laughing once more.
Another woman sat backward in a chair that had been pulled up to the bunk, her legs straddling the seat, and her forearms crossed on the back. Recently promoted SFC Leigh Fahey was a boisterous, loud woman who had a joke and a smile for nearly everyone. On a nearby table, SFC Jade Colman had a cloth spread out, with several rocks and tools laid out on top. At the moment she was examining a promising specimen, looking for the best place to strike to break it open with her rock hammer.
"Heard your last mission was an interesting one," Jade said, never taking her eyes off the stone in her hand, turning it left and right slowly.
"Oh man," Leigh said with an exaggerated eye-roll. "this Van Doorn character." de Matos chuckled as well, absently stroking Liesel's hair.
"Get down here!" she said, affecting a deeper voice, which sounded oddly charming with her Brazilian accent. "Can't let me have all the fun!" Colman glanced at her and laughed.
"Rumor says he's going to be joining us, along with his attache," she said.
"Yeah," Fahey replied. "I checked the roster this morning, after hearing about that. Must be weird for 'The General' to not be in a command position, but they are giving him a field 'promotion' to Staff Sergeant." Her wry expression and air-quotes made it clear how she felt about that decision.
"It was a strange mission overall," Monica added. "The Council intel made it sound like we'd be stepping into an absolute warzone, and the devastation on the bridge was pretty bad, but the resistance wasn't anything, really." She patted her hip, where she normally carried her medpak. "I never even had to open my kit."
"Seriously," Leigh agreed. "We had to chase that last Thin Mint clear to the end of the bridge. It was like they weren't even trying to put up a fight. Why bother blowing the bridge if they weren't going to commit?"
"Who knows why the X-Rays do anything?" Jade asked rhetorically. "Still, I wish we could have been there with you girls." Liesel looked up from her letter briefly, nodding in agreement. "But I get with the Captain just getting his RTD Orders from medical, Command was eager to get him back in the field." Monica nodded; She'd served with him for half of her missions, and she held a great deal of respect for CPT Lindemann. Leigh shrugged; She'd rather have had Jade along, but it was Command's call, not hers.
The conversation lapsed for a few minutes, the quiet broken only by the nearly silent scratching of Faber's pen on the notepad, until Colman took up her hammer, and struck the stone firmly, resulting in a sharp crack as the stone broke cleanly in half. Leigh half-rose to get a look.
"Whatcha get?" she asked, leaning to catch a glimpse around the other woman's shoulder. Jade turned around, presenting her prize with a satisfied grin.
"Amethyst geode," she declared. "A good find." When Fahey held out her hand, Colman passed the stone over, smiling as the American woman held it up to the light, the crystals casting back tiny sparkles that played across the other woman's dark skin.
"Nice," Leigh agreed, reaching out to pass it back. "Amethyst is my birth stone."
"Keep it, then," Jade offered. "I've still got the other half."
"Really?" Fahey's brows lifted in surprise.
"Absolutely," the British woman smiled, suppressing a pang as she remembered the last time she'd given away one of her stones. She wasn't going to let sad memories stop her from sharing her love of stones, though. Leigh's eyes widened further as she saw the play of emotion across Jade's face. Her friend seemed oblivious to her scrutiny, so she said nothing, merely folding her hands around the stone.
"Thank you," she added after a moment, which earned a smile from Colman.
Monica, who had been there when CPL Huismann died, knew a little of what Jade was feeling. She looked down at Liesel who was so focused on her letter that she was actually biting the tip of her tongue absently. She didn't know what she'd do if anything were to happen to Liesel. She looked up then, at Leigh, Colman, and to where she saw someone across the barracks, faintly illuminated by a laptop screen, she thought it might have been SGT Parsons.
"Where would you be," she began, then paused to formulate her thoughts. "Where would we all be if not for this war?" Colman and Fahey looked at her, but didn't say anything, realizing that she wasn't quite done speaking, despite the question. "I would probably be in Manaus, doing some training Op for some cadets or something." She looked at each of them again in turn, meeting their eyes. "I wouldn't know any of you."
"You saying this war was a good thing?" Leigh asked, a certain mischief sparkling in her dark eyes.
"Not at all," Monica answered seriously, not catching the joking nature of the question. "But good ha come of it, I think. Look at the technological advancements we're making, that one day we'll be able to share with the world. Look at us, close friends from different countries, different parts of the world." Liesel looked up at her with a soft smile that was mostly in the eyes, and Monica stopped talking, meeting her gaze.
"I agree," Jade added. "I think that the human race will come out of this stronger and more unified than we ever were."
"I certainly hope so," Leigh said with a sigh. "We've got a lot to make up for. I certainly hope that this is a start." After several moments of silence, she shook herself. "Aren't we a bunch of Serious Susans? Hey, Liesel, you almost done with that letter? Let's go hit the common room and play some pool, first round of near-beer is on me."
The others quickly agreed. The gravity of the moment was seemingly forgotten as the four women made their way out of the barracks, chatting and laughing once more.
Monday, October 26, 2015
Great Big Sky (06 AUG 2016)
It was usually fairly quiet in the pilots' barracks, and today wasn't any different. Unlike the barracks for the troopers, there were rarely more than 6 or 7 personnel at any given time, unless there was a pilot awaiting transfer to another air base. Most of the pilots were a mix of U.S. Air Force and Navy pilots, with a smattering of pilots from other countries. There was only one former U.S. Army pilot; Flight Officer Thaddeus "Big Sky" Gentry.
Lt "Casper" Fallis and Flight Officer "Raven-4" Johnson were sitting in the common room, playing a casual hand of blackjack; The pot was the next week's trash duties. XCOM didn't employ any cleaning staff, so excepting the occasional punitive work details, all personnel were expected to maintain their own living and work areas. Johnson was a rookie pilot for XCOM, only recently in from the Interceptor course. His pre-XCOM record was impressive; all of the pilots had impressive records from before, all of them with actual combat missions under their belts. Still, Fallis knew that Johnson really didn't know what it was to fly against the aliens, and it couldn't really be explained, no matter how many simulator missions you ran or cockpit recordings you viewed.
"So, what's up with the bus driver?" Johnson asked, nodding toward FO Gentry's room. "He never seems to come out of there except to hit the chow hall, gym or showers."
"Dude," Fallis said, disgust coloring his tone, "shut the fuck up."
"What'd I say?" Johnson asked, his features warring between surprise and anger. "I'm just asking what his deal is."
"His deal," the Lieutenant replied, allowing himself to take on a lecturing tone, "is that he's not a fucking bus driver."
"Whoa, chill out," the rookie shot back. "I know his mission is important, I'm not trying to disrespect the guy. But he hauls the kids back and forth. He's not out there exchanging fire with the X-Rays."
Fallis just stared at him for a long moment, letting the silence stretch out. Johnson flushed, and the anger started to come to the fore. He opened his mouth to say something else, but Fallis cut him off.
"You really don't get it, do you?" His tone was now more surprised than critical. "Lemme ask you something. How many of us are there, Interceptor pilots?"
"Um," the junior pilot considered for a moment. "Between us here and the pilots in the African base? A dozen or so."
"Nine," Fallis supplied, "to be exact, including those on recovery rotation to South America. Next question: How many "bus drivers" does XCOM have?"
"Just him, so far as I know."
"Exactly. He's flown dozens of missions. I'm the most experienced Interceptor pilot XCOM has got, and I've flown barely five, most of which didn't result in a downed enemy."
"So?" Johnson shook his head. "His missions are cakewalks. Fly in, drop off the squad and wait around until they're done."
"Tell me something. You ever see any ground combat?"
Johnson shook his head. "No. Plenty of fights in the sky, though." Lieutenant Fallis rubbed at the bridge of his nose, then lifted his card to peek underneath, buying time to think.
"I was shot down in the early phases of the Iraq war. Got cocky, barely made it out alive. I broke my leg when the eject mechanism misfired, but I made it to the ground in one piece. I had to sit in hostile territory and wait for Para-Rescue to come get me, and I will tell you something; Having to shoot a man in the face before he can do it to you is a very different thing than what we do in the sky."
"I got no disrespect for the troops-" Johnson cut in.
"I'm not finished. What we do in the sky is a video game. Line up the dots, push the button, and we're rewarded with an explosion if we do it right. He," Fallis paused, nodding toward FO Gentry's door. "has to get down in the weeds every day. Yeah, he's waiting outside the combat zone for the squad to get back, but the X-Rays don't always follow the rules. You know he went through 3 co-pilots in the early days, before he asked the Commander to stop giving him one? Having to sit in the LZ and hope the X-Rays don't come sniffing around isn't a cakewalk."
"I didn't realize," Johnson said, glancing toward the closed door. "So what then? He doesn't socialize because of his dead co-pilots?"
"It's a lot more than that," Fallis said. "Do you realize that we've lost four troopers just in the last month? Two of them veterans who've been here since the very beginning."
"Yeah, I heard about those."
"Gentry's got to bring all of those people back, plus many more wounded. They've got another LT in critical care right now, after the last UFO. They're not sure if she'll pull through."
"Yeah..." Johnson said quietly, his face troubled.
"We've got the luxury of not seeing all of that," the Lieutenant gestured around. "We've got our own barracks, separate from the troopers. All we really see is the bulletin board announcements. Even though we fail to take down the enemy more often than not, we usually manage to make it back alive, and get the crazy stories to tell."
"Okay, fuck man, I get it," Johnson said, raising his hands in surrender. "I'm an asshole, alright?"
"Nah," Fallis said, finally knocking the table to indicate he'd stay on the nearly forgotten hand of cards. "You're just new here. This is a different kind of war than we've ever seen before, and we cannot afford to bring old prejudices with us." Johnson also decided to stay, so they flipped up their cards to reveal their hand. "Shit, twenty one. Looks like I've got trash next week." The senior pilot glanced toward Gentry's door as they shuffled their hands back into the deck. "Honestly, I worry about him," he said quietly.
Then, almost as if the comment had summoned him, Gentry's door opened, and he stepped out dressed in shorts, a T-shirt and running shoes, with a towel around his shoulders. Johnson looked at Fallis quickly, then seemed to make a decision.
"Hey, Gentry!" he called, rising from his seat. "You're headed to the gym, yeah?" FO Gentry stopped, and gave a cautious nod, his deep southern accent rumbling a quiet affirmative. "You mind if I join you? I won't be but a few minutes behind you, just gotta change." At the non-committal shrug, Johnson glanced back at the Lieutenant with a brief, apologetic smile, and moved toward his room.
Fallis leaned back in his chair, and shuffled the cards a few times, meditatively. He doubted that FO Gentry would be drawn out of his shell so easily, but maybe it was a start. This war didn't look like it was going to end any time soon, and if they wanted to survive this, they'd all have to learn to lean on one another.
Lt "Casper" Fallis and Flight Officer "Raven-4" Johnson were sitting in the common room, playing a casual hand of blackjack; The pot was the next week's trash duties. XCOM didn't employ any cleaning staff, so excepting the occasional punitive work details, all personnel were expected to maintain their own living and work areas. Johnson was a rookie pilot for XCOM, only recently in from the Interceptor course. His pre-XCOM record was impressive; all of the pilots had impressive records from before, all of them with actual combat missions under their belts. Still, Fallis knew that Johnson really didn't know what it was to fly against the aliens, and it couldn't really be explained, no matter how many simulator missions you ran or cockpit recordings you viewed.
"So, what's up with the bus driver?" Johnson asked, nodding toward FO Gentry's room. "He never seems to come out of there except to hit the chow hall, gym or showers."
"Dude," Fallis said, disgust coloring his tone, "shut the fuck up."
"What'd I say?" Johnson asked, his features warring between surprise and anger. "I'm just asking what his deal is."
"His deal," the Lieutenant replied, allowing himself to take on a lecturing tone, "is that he's not a fucking bus driver."
"Whoa, chill out," the rookie shot back. "I know his mission is important, I'm not trying to disrespect the guy. But he hauls the kids back and forth. He's not out there exchanging fire with the X-Rays."
Fallis just stared at him for a long moment, letting the silence stretch out. Johnson flushed, and the anger started to come to the fore. He opened his mouth to say something else, but Fallis cut him off.
"You really don't get it, do you?" His tone was now more surprised than critical. "Lemme ask you something. How many of us are there, Interceptor pilots?"
"Um," the junior pilot considered for a moment. "Between us here and the pilots in the African base? A dozen or so."
"Nine," Fallis supplied, "to be exact, including those on recovery rotation to South America. Next question: How many "bus drivers" does XCOM have?"
"Just him, so far as I know."
"Exactly. He's flown dozens of missions. I'm the most experienced Interceptor pilot XCOM has got, and I've flown barely five, most of which didn't result in a downed enemy."
"So?" Johnson shook his head. "His missions are cakewalks. Fly in, drop off the squad and wait around until they're done."
"Tell me something. You ever see any ground combat?"
Johnson shook his head. "No. Plenty of fights in the sky, though." Lieutenant Fallis rubbed at the bridge of his nose, then lifted his card to peek underneath, buying time to think.
"I was shot down in the early phases of the Iraq war. Got cocky, barely made it out alive. I broke my leg when the eject mechanism misfired, but I made it to the ground in one piece. I had to sit in hostile territory and wait for Para-Rescue to come get me, and I will tell you something; Having to shoot a man in the face before he can do it to you is a very different thing than what we do in the sky."
"I got no disrespect for the troops-" Johnson cut in.
"I'm not finished. What we do in the sky is a video game. Line up the dots, push the button, and we're rewarded with an explosion if we do it right. He," Fallis paused, nodding toward FO Gentry's door. "has to get down in the weeds every day. Yeah, he's waiting outside the combat zone for the squad to get back, but the X-Rays don't always follow the rules. You know he went through 3 co-pilots in the early days, before he asked the Commander to stop giving him one? Having to sit in the LZ and hope the X-Rays don't come sniffing around isn't a cakewalk."
"I didn't realize," Johnson said, glancing toward the closed door. "So what then? He doesn't socialize because of his dead co-pilots?"
"It's a lot more than that," Fallis said. "Do you realize that we've lost four troopers just in the last month? Two of them veterans who've been here since the very beginning."
"Yeah, I heard about those."
"Gentry's got to bring all of those people back, plus many more wounded. They've got another LT in critical care right now, after the last UFO. They're not sure if she'll pull through."
"Yeah..." Johnson said quietly, his face troubled.
"We've got the luxury of not seeing all of that," the Lieutenant gestured around. "We've got our own barracks, separate from the troopers. All we really see is the bulletin board announcements. Even though we fail to take down the enemy more often than not, we usually manage to make it back alive, and get the crazy stories to tell."
"Okay, fuck man, I get it," Johnson said, raising his hands in surrender. "I'm an asshole, alright?"
"Nah," Fallis said, finally knocking the table to indicate he'd stay on the nearly forgotten hand of cards. "You're just new here. This is a different kind of war than we've ever seen before, and we cannot afford to bring old prejudices with us." Johnson also decided to stay, so they flipped up their cards to reveal their hand. "Shit, twenty one. Looks like I've got trash next week." The senior pilot glanced toward Gentry's door as they shuffled their hands back into the deck. "Honestly, I worry about him," he said quietly.
Then, almost as if the comment had summoned him, Gentry's door opened, and he stepped out dressed in shorts, a T-shirt and running shoes, with a towel around his shoulders. Johnson looked at Fallis quickly, then seemed to make a decision.
"Hey, Gentry!" he called, rising from his seat. "You're headed to the gym, yeah?" FO Gentry stopped, and gave a cautious nod, his deep southern accent rumbling a quiet affirmative. "You mind if I join you? I won't be but a few minutes behind you, just gotta change." At the non-committal shrug, Johnson glanced back at the Lieutenant with a brief, apologetic smile, and moved toward his room.
Fallis leaned back in his chair, and shuffled the cards a few times, meditatively. He doubted that FO Gentry would be drawn out of his shell so easily, but maybe it was a start. This war didn't look like it was going to end any time soon, and if they wanted to survive this, they'd all have to learn to lean on one another.
Friday, September 11, 2015
Gratitude (24 JUL 2016)
Constance woke slowly, as though rising from the lightless deeps of the ocean. The first thing she consciously noticed was how bright it was through her closed eyelids, and even through the fogginess of the drugs they were pumping into her system, she ached. The second thing she was conscious of was of the fingers wrapped loosely around her left hand. Groggily she pondered this, considered opening her eyes to see whose hand it was, but in the end it was too much trouble, and she slipped down once more into the darkness.
When she woke again later, the light seemed less intense, and her eyelids flickered open. It took several long seconds for her eyes to focus on the sterile ceiling above her, though the steady beeping from somewhere nearby still seemed to echo weirdly through the haze of anesthetics. After several more moments, Constance remembered how to move, and she gently squeezed the fingers that still grasped hers, before turning her head to look at the owner.
She was unsurprised to see Oskar's bed pushed close, his hand stretched out to grasp hers. He was asleep, his face relaxed artlessly, and his whole torso still swathed in a mass of bandages from his injuries of a month ago. She smiled gently, though even that bit of movement set off twinges; How long had she been out? For everything to feel this stiff, it was probably several days at least. She heard a quiet shuffle, and turned her head the other way to see a medic approaching her.
"Sergeant 1st Class Makhandule," said the medical officer as he approached. "You're finally awake." His address caused her to lift an eyebrow; She must have been promoted while she was under sedation. "How do you feel?" Constance considered the question before answering, idly noting the name tag that read "Medical Officer 3rd Class Lentz" on his chest.
"Sore, stiff," she replied after a minute. "Alive." It was the medic's turn to raise an eyebrow at her reply, and she smiled. She was alive. That was what counted. In the end, that was almost the only thing that mattered. "What happened? My memories are hazy right now."
"Well, the laser went straight through your chest, burned through a lung; Luckily it cauterized the wound, or you probably wouldn't have made it," his smile faded as he described her injuries. "It was touch and go, but we've managed to patch the lung as best as we're able; The rest will be on your body's ability to recuperate." He paused and looked at the chart that he'd picked up from the foot of her bed. "The flak from the rocket explosion was more problematic. It opened an artery on your cheek, and completely tore up your chest and abdomen. The blood loss, aggravated by your continued activity, was extreme, and there will be extensive scarring." Medical Officer Lentz's face was grave as he delivered the news, and Constance winced at the matter-of-fact description of the damage.
"Thank you," she said, and once again his eyes widened in surprise.
"Thank you?" he repeated uncertainly. "Why are you thanking me?"
"Thank you for being honest with me," she answered. "Thank you, and the rest of the medical staff, for my life."
"I expected you to be considerably more upset by the news," he admitted frankly. "Most troopers aren't happy to hear that they will carry extensive scarring for the rest of their lives, especially on their faces."
"I'm not happy either," she replied with that same serenity. "But what will getting angry do about it? Will it heal the scars? Will it bring back my lung capacity?" She shook her head, and smiled again, realizing now why it hurt to do so.
"Well, it might help with the lung capacity," he said with a fleeting smile, "though I'd refrain from yelling at medical staff until the mesh is fully healed." He shook his head, and returned the clipboard to its hook on the foot of her bed. "That's a surprisingly healthy outlook."
"When you have seen what I have seen," Constance explained, "you have a few choices before you. You can let it break you, you can let anger define you, or you can accept that there is evil in the world, strive to change what you can change, and be grateful for the good things that come your way." She paused to formulate her thoughts before continuing. "Today, I am alive. There are others who cannot say so. So I am grateful for what I have."
Before the medic could respond, the fingers wrapped loosely around hers twitched, and she heard Oskar stirring. She gave the medic a brief smile before turning to watch Oskar as he woke. His eyes opened, and she saw the startlingly blue-green eyes focus on her face, and he smiled sleepily. He was pale after a month in medbay, but all in all, he was looking good. Medics said he had another month at least, but she had a feeling he'd be up and about before they knew it.
"Connie," he said, his voice scratchy from his slumber. She wrinkled her nose, bringing another twinge of pain, then smiled. She hated the nickname really, but from Oskar, it wasn't so bad. He laced his fingers within hers, and scanned her face intently. She could see the small winces as he took in the bandaging on her cheek, and as his eyes trailed down her neck to the full cast that encased her chest, but he said nothing else for a moment.
"Did you sleep well?" she asked quietly.
"Nein," he replied. "Not really. Couldn't, until I knew you were okay." they laid quietly, their hands intertwined, for several minutes, with just the quiet hum of the machinery and the beeping of the monitors. Oskar finally broke the silence. "I thought I might lose you, when they brought you in. You... flatlined three times."
"It seems the medical staff earned their pay," she murmured back, gripping his hand tightly. "I'm still here." Bits and pieces of the mission were coming back; It had gone well, all things considered, but she knew she'd be out of action for a while. The very real concern she saw in Oskar's eyes told her just how close permanent retirement had been. "Besides," she continued, smiling though it ached, "I had to make it back. I couldn't let you have all the fun."
When she woke again later, the light seemed less intense, and her eyelids flickered open. It took several long seconds for her eyes to focus on the sterile ceiling above her, though the steady beeping from somewhere nearby still seemed to echo weirdly through the haze of anesthetics. After several more moments, Constance remembered how to move, and she gently squeezed the fingers that still grasped hers, before turning her head to look at the owner.
She was unsurprised to see Oskar's bed pushed close, his hand stretched out to grasp hers. He was asleep, his face relaxed artlessly, and his whole torso still swathed in a mass of bandages from his injuries of a month ago. She smiled gently, though even that bit of movement set off twinges; How long had she been out? For everything to feel this stiff, it was probably several days at least. She heard a quiet shuffle, and turned her head the other way to see a medic approaching her.
"Sergeant 1st Class Makhandule," said the medical officer as he approached. "You're finally awake." His address caused her to lift an eyebrow; She must have been promoted while she was under sedation. "How do you feel?" Constance considered the question before answering, idly noting the name tag that read "Medical Officer 3rd Class Lentz" on his chest.
"Sore, stiff," she replied after a minute. "Alive." It was the medic's turn to raise an eyebrow at her reply, and she smiled. She was alive. That was what counted. In the end, that was almost the only thing that mattered. "What happened? My memories are hazy right now."
"Well, the laser went straight through your chest, burned through a lung; Luckily it cauterized the wound, or you probably wouldn't have made it," his smile faded as he described her injuries. "It was touch and go, but we've managed to patch the lung as best as we're able; The rest will be on your body's ability to recuperate." He paused and looked at the chart that he'd picked up from the foot of her bed. "The flak from the rocket explosion was more problematic. It opened an artery on your cheek, and completely tore up your chest and abdomen. The blood loss, aggravated by your continued activity, was extreme, and there will be extensive scarring." Medical Officer Lentz's face was grave as he delivered the news, and Constance winced at the matter-of-fact description of the damage.
"Thank you," she said, and once again his eyes widened in surprise.
"Thank you?" he repeated uncertainly. "Why are you thanking me?"
"Thank you for being honest with me," she answered. "Thank you, and the rest of the medical staff, for my life."
"I expected you to be considerably more upset by the news," he admitted frankly. "Most troopers aren't happy to hear that they will carry extensive scarring for the rest of their lives, especially on their faces."
"I'm not happy either," she replied with that same serenity. "But what will getting angry do about it? Will it heal the scars? Will it bring back my lung capacity?" She shook her head, and smiled again, realizing now why it hurt to do so.
"Well, it might help with the lung capacity," he said with a fleeting smile, "though I'd refrain from yelling at medical staff until the mesh is fully healed." He shook his head, and returned the clipboard to its hook on the foot of her bed. "That's a surprisingly healthy outlook."
"When you have seen what I have seen," Constance explained, "you have a few choices before you. You can let it break you, you can let anger define you, or you can accept that there is evil in the world, strive to change what you can change, and be grateful for the good things that come your way." She paused to formulate her thoughts before continuing. "Today, I am alive. There are others who cannot say so. So I am grateful for what I have."
Before the medic could respond, the fingers wrapped loosely around hers twitched, and she heard Oskar stirring. She gave the medic a brief smile before turning to watch Oskar as he woke. His eyes opened, and she saw the startlingly blue-green eyes focus on her face, and he smiled sleepily. He was pale after a month in medbay, but all in all, he was looking good. Medics said he had another month at least, but she had a feeling he'd be up and about before they knew it.
"Connie," he said, his voice scratchy from his slumber. She wrinkled her nose, bringing another twinge of pain, then smiled. She hated the nickname really, but from Oskar, it wasn't so bad. He laced his fingers within hers, and scanned her face intently. She could see the small winces as he took in the bandaging on her cheek, and as his eyes trailed down her neck to the full cast that encased her chest, but he said nothing else for a moment.
"Did you sleep well?" she asked quietly.
"Nein," he replied. "Not really. Couldn't, until I knew you were okay." they laid quietly, their hands intertwined, for several minutes, with just the quiet hum of the machinery and the beeping of the monitors. Oskar finally broke the silence. "I thought I might lose you, when they brought you in. You... flatlined three times."
"It seems the medical staff earned their pay," she murmured back, gripping his hand tightly. "I'm still here." Bits and pieces of the mission were coming back; It had gone well, all things considered, but she knew she'd be out of action for a while. The very real concern she saw in Oskar's eyes told her just how close permanent retirement had been. "Besides," she continued, smiling though it ached, "I had to make it back. I couldn't let you have all the fun."
Monday, August 31, 2015
Butter Bar Blues (06 JUL 2016)
Naomi and Jared sat together on the love seat in the farthest corner of the day room. They'd been talking all night, occasionally laughing, as they shared stories of their fallen comrades. Jade had been with them until about an hour ago, and for the last ten minutes, neither of them had spoken. They'd broken out the whiskey again, as they always did after a death, but the buzz was long faded, and they just sat in silence.
"It hurts," Naomi said finally, breaking into the stillness. "Doesn't it?" Jared just nodded numbly, his eyes far away. She knew exactly what he was thinking, feeling, as it had only been a week since CPL Cable had died on her watch. It had been her first mission after her promotion, too. She'd heard it whispered about as the Curse of the Butter Bar; Only LT Lindemann had managed to lead his first mission as a Lieutenant without any casualties.
"Was it your fault?" She asked the question, knowing it would hurt, and wasn't surprised when she saw him flinch and tense up. She knew the answer, of course, but she also knew that he'd be blaming himself. She waited for him to answer.
"Allah help me," he whispered at last. "I don't know." He leaned back on the couch, bringing his hands up to wipe at his face in frustration. "I've been replaying it all, ever since then. I didn't know that Bombshell's cover had been blown inside the building. I feel like I should have known, but I didn't. Carter though..." He trailed off, and stared at the ceiling. "He was a volunteer, did you know? He told me how he'd raised hell when the news reports starting coming in about the attacks, about how they should be doing something. Eventually, he got mysterious transfer orders, and was only told where he was going when he was already en route." Jared grinned hollowly as he spoke.
"I know," Naomi replied. "I spoke to him when he arrived, gave him a bit of a tour." Jared nodded, remembering that he was her countryman. "He was just so excited when he realized what we were up against. Kid wasn't even twenty, and nothing scared him."
"That's the honest truth," Jared agreed. "He told me that he had a clear line on the Cyberdisc, and he knew he could take it down. Hintikka reported that he didn't see anything else in the vicinity, so I gave him the go-ahead." He sighed, dropping his eyes from the ceiling, meeting her gaze for half a second before looking down into the hands he'd folded in his lap. "It was only after he'd reported the Disc going down that anyone saw the Drones move in."
"So you made the best decision you could, based on the information you had?" she asked gently. Jared looked up at her sharply, but after a moment of tense eye contact, he let out his breath in a gust, and looked away. "Merc', you know that leaving the Cyberdisc operational any longer than necessary would have put the whole squad in danger. He probably saved other lives by taking it down."
"I know," he admitted. "But seriously, two? No one else has lost two troopers, and this wasn't even that intense of a mission. It wasn't an assault cruiser flying through the sky, or anything." His voice was bitter, and she heard the thickness of tears in his throat.
"Lorena wasn't your fault," Naomi said. "She was my friend, and I loved her, but she was also a veteran who knew what she was doing. She took a risk, and it didn't pay off for her. She was strong enough to take responsibility for her own choices. Don't take that away from her by blaming yourself."
"It's just... It's getting harder, isn't it?" Jared met her eyes firmly, and she could see the worry in them. "Mistakes are costing more, the stakes are getting higher. We're seeing new threats we've not seen, and I don't think we've even begun to see what they've got." Naomi nodded quietly, as she'd had some of the same worries. "Can we even win this fight?"
"Of course we can. Yeah, we've lost a bunch of our friends, our brothers and sisters, but look at how far we've come. I agree that it's just going to get harder as the fight goes along, but we're going to win. This isn't a couple of nations disputing a border, or foreign policy. This is an enemy from behind the stars, and they've come to try to take the lives and freedom of every human on the planet." Naomi reached across and covered Jared's clasped hands, and squeezed. After a moment, he squeezed back and smiled a little. "We will win this fight, Jared. We'll win because we have to."
"It hurts," Naomi said finally, breaking into the stillness. "Doesn't it?" Jared just nodded numbly, his eyes far away. She knew exactly what he was thinking, feeling, as it had only been a week since CPL Cable had died on her watch. It had been her first mission after her promotion, too. She'd heard it whispered about as the Curse of the Butter Bar; Only LT Lindemann had managed to lead his first mission as a Lieutenant without any casualties.
"Was it your fault?" She asked the question, knowing it would hurt, and wasn't surprised when she saw him flinch and tense up. She knew the answer, of course, but she also knew that he'd be blaming himself. She waited for him to answer.
"Allah help me," he whispered at last. "I don't know." He leaned back on the couch, bringing his hands up to wipe at his face in frustration. "I've been replaying it all, ever since then. I didn't know that Bombshell's cover had been blown inside the building. I feel like I should have known, but I didn't. Carter though..." He trailed off, and stared at the ceiling. "He was a volunteer, did you know? He told me how he'd raised hell when the news reports starting coming in about the attacks, about how they should be doing something. Eventually, he got mysterious transfer orders, and was only told where he was going when he was already en route." Jared grinned hollowly as he spoke.
"I know," Naomi replied. "I spoke to him when he arrived, gave him a bit of a tour." Jared nodded, remembering that he was her countryman. "He was just so excited when he realized what we were up against. Kid wasn't even twenty, and nothing scared him."
"That's the honest truth," Jared agreed. "He told me that he had a clear line on the Cyberdisc, and he knew he could take it down. Hintikka reported that he didn't see anything else in the vicinity, so I gave him the go-ahead." He sighed, dropping his eyes from the ceiling, meeting her gaze for half a second before looking down into the hands he'd folded in his lap. "It was only after he'd reported the Disc going down that anyone saw the Drones move in."
"So you made the best decision you could, based on the information you had?" she asked gently. Jared looked up at her sharply, but after a moment of tense eye contact, he let out his breath in a gust, and looked away. "Merc', you know that leaving the Cyberdisc operational any longer than necessary would have put the whole squad in danger. He probably saved other lives by taking it down."
"I know," he admitted. "But seriously, two? No one else has lost two troopers, and this wasn't even that intense of a mission. It wasn't an assault cruiser flying through the sky, or anything." His voice was bitter, and she heard the thickness of tears in his throat.
"Lorena wasn't your fault," Naomi said. "She was my friend, and I loved her, but she was also a veteran who knew what she was doing. She took a risk, and it didn't pay off for her. She was strong enough to take responsibility for her own choices. Don't take that away from her by blaming yourself."
"It's just... It's getting harder, isn't it?" Jared met her eyes firmly, and she could see the worry in them. "Mistakes are costing more, the stakes are getting higher. We're seeing new threats we've not seen, and I don't think we've even begun to see what they've got." Naomi nodded quietly, as she'd had some of the same worries. "Can we even win this fight?"
"Of course we can. Yeah, we've lost a bunch of our friends, our brothers and sisters, but look at how far we've come. I agree that it's just going to get harder as the fight goes along, but we're going to win. This isn't a couple of nations disputing a border, or foreign policy. This is an enemy from behind the stars, and they've come to try to take the lives and freedom of every human on the planet." Naomi reached across and covered Jared's clasped hands, and squeezed. After a moment, he squeezed back and smiled a little. "We will win this fight, Jared. We'll win because we have to."
Wednesday, July 8, 2015
What's in a Name? (29 JUN 2016)
The chow hall was crowded, as it usually was on "sectoid fingers" night. Private First Class Jermaine Glynn hated the nickname, since it reminded him of Ox, but he never missed it. He loved spaghetti. He grinned at the cook and gave him the "keep it coming" gesture until his plate was nearly overflowing, then slid down a bit, snagged a couple slices of garlic bread, and picked up his tray.
Turning, he looked out over the packed room, looking for a spot to sit down. He saw a seat come open and hurried over, sliding into it and dropping his tray hard enough to make the silverware clatter. Across the table, the Chinese Corporal looked up, met his eyes and nodded. Glynn recognized him, and nodded back.
"I know you, I think," he said as he picked up his fork, twirling some spaghetti around it. "Corporal Zhu, right?" The Corporal glanced down at his name tape, raised an eyebrow, and swallowed the food in his mouth.
"What gave me away?" he said, the accent thick, but understandable. Glynn flushed a little bit and shoved the bite of spaghetti into his mouth instead of retorting. No matter what rank he'd held before joining XCOM, here he was just a Private, and Privates didn't mouth off to Corporals.
"I've seen you around the Bs," he replied once he was done chewing. "De Abreu said you were on his last mission." The Corporal nodded.
"I remember him," he said. "Good engineer, opened a wall so we could get eyes on the fight inside a building."
"You're a sniper too, yeah?" Glynn wasted no time on his spaghetti, taking large bites between speaking. Corporal Zhu was nearly done, but did not seem to feel the same urgency.
"Shi De," Zhu said with a nod. "Yes, I should say."
"You mind if I ask you a personal question?" Glynn inquired, setting his fork down for a moment. When the Chinese trooper nodded again, he continued. "Why do they call you Tu-Tu?"
"Oh. That." Zhu lowered his face for a second, then looked back up, a slight color coming to his cheeks. "It is a bit of a story."
"I don't mind, if you don't," replied Glynn. Honestly, the question had been on his mind ever since de Abreu had told him.
"Well, it was after Operation Lone Line, a week or two ago. We were talking about where we'd been, what we'd done before joining the military." Zhu took a moment to drain the glass of juice before continuing. Glynn polished off the second piece of garlic bread, and listened. "Prior to joining the People's Republic Army, I'd been trained as a dancer. My mother and father were very proud, as I'd been accepted into the best academy in China."
"You went to dance school?" Glynn sputtered. When the Corporal gave him a look, he subsided.
"Yes, and no," the Chinese man answered. "I trained at a studio through school, but when I received the acceptance letter from the Academy, I announced to my parents that I was enlisting in the People's Republic Army."
"You didn't like dancing, then?" Glynn interjected, finishing his meal with the tall glass of milk, then leaning on one elbow as the Corporal answered.
"I loved it," he said. "I was talented at it, and I would have been great, I think."
"So why did you join the Army?"
"Because I'd lived my whole life for my parents' dream for me," Zhu explained. "I wanted to make a choice for myself. Joining the Army wasn't my dream, but it was the only choice I could make that would not dishonor my family."
"I can understand that," Glynn said, nodding. "I grew up in a rough neighborhood, had a lot of run-ins with the cops. I joined the Navy to get away from that life, but all of my friends thought I was a chump. I just didn't want to keep going down the path I saw ahead of me." Zhu nodded in return, and started to gather his tray. "So, they call you Tu-Tu 'cause you're a dancer?"
"Yes," the Corporal replied. It was Fahey's idea, apparently she thought it funny." The Corporal chuckled lightly as he started to rise. At Glynn's raised eyebrow, he explained. "She did not think it quite so funny when Lieutenant Bowden, then just a Corporal, pointed out that Fahey's laugh would draw Thin Men like a beacon."
Glynn laughed and shook his head as he gathered up his own tray and stood. He was sure he'd garner a nickname as well, since it appeared to be the way the troopers of XCOM operated. He just hoped his story would be nearly as interesting.
Turning, he looked out over the packed room, looking for a spot to sit down. He saw a seat come open and hurried over, sliding into it and dropping his tray hard enough to make the silverware clatter. Across the table, the Chinese Corporal looked up, met his eyes and nodded. Glynn recognized him, and nodded back.
"I know you, I think," he said as he picked up his fork, twirling some spaghetti around it. "Corporal Zhu, right?" The Corporal glanced down at his name tape, raised an eyebrow, and swallowed the food in his mouth.
"What gave me away?" he said, the accent thick, but understandable. Glynn flushed a little bit and shoved the bite of spaghetti into his mouth instead of retorting. No matter what rank he'd held before joining XCOM, here he was just a Private, and Privates didn't mouth off to Corporals.
"I've seen you around the Bs," he replied once he was done chewing. "De Abreu said you were on his last mission." The Corporal nodded.
"I remember him," he said. "Good engineer, opened a wall so we could get eyes on the fight inside a building."
"You're a sniper too, yeah?" Glynn wasted no time on his spaghetti, taking large bites between speaking. Corporal Zhu was nearly done, but did not seem to feel the same urgency.
"Shi De," Zhu said with a nod. "Yes, I should say."
"You mind if I ask you a personal question?" Glynn inquired, setting his fork down for a moment. When the Chinese trooper nodded again, he continued. "Why do they call you Tu-Tu?"
"Oh. That." Zhu lowered his face for a second, then looked back up, a slight color coming to his cheeks. "It is a bit of a story."
"I don't mind, if you don't," replied Glynn. Honestly, the question had been on his mind ever since de Abreu had told him.
"Well, it was after Operation Lone Line, a week or two ago. We were talking about where we'd been, what we'd done before joining the military." Zhu took a moment to drain the glass of juice before continuing. Glynn polished off the second piece of garlic bread, and listened. "Prior to joining the People's Republic Army, I'd been trained as a dancer. My mother and father were very proud, as I'd been accepted into the best academy in China."
"You went to dance school?" Glynn sputtered. When the Corporal gave him a look, he subsided.
"Yes, and no," the Chinese man answered. "I trained at a studio through school, but when I received the acceptance letter from the Academy, I announced to my parents that I was enlisting in the People's Republic Army."
"You didn't like dancing, then?" Glynn interjected, finishing his meal with the tall glass of milk, then leaning on one elbow as the Corporal answered.
"I loved it," he said. "I was talented at it, and I would have been great, I think."
"So why did you join the Army?"
"Because I'd lived my whole life for my parents' dream for me," Zhu explained. "I wanted to make a choice for myself. Joining the Army wasn't my dream, but it was the only choice I could make that would not dishonor my family."
"I can understand that," Glynn said, nodding. "I grew up in a rough neighborhood, had a lot of run-ins with the cops. I joined the Navy to get away from that life, but all of my friends thought I was a chump. I just didn't want to keep going down the path I saw ahead of me." Zhu nodded in return, and started to gather his tray. "So, they call you Tu-Tu 'cause you're a dancer?"
"Yes," the Corporal replied. It was Fahey's idea, apparently she thought it funny." The Corporal chuckled lightly as he started to rise. At Glynn's raised eyebrow, he explained. "She did not think it quite so funny when Lieutenant Bowden, then just a Corporal, pointed out that Fahey's laugh would draw Thin Men like a beacon."
Glynn laughed and shook his head as he gathered up his own tray and stood. He was sure he'd garner a nickname as well, since it appeared to be the way the troopers of XCOM operated. He just hoped his story would be nearly as interesting.
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
Salat al-Janazah (21 JUN 2016)
[Author's Note: This story directly follows OPERATION DEMON HYMN despite being published after OPERATION COLD HYMN; Due to real life issues, and the sensitive subject matter in this story, it took much longer to write than it should have.
Also note that this is a work of fiction, written by a Christian and an American. I have solicited advice from muslim acquaintances, but this is pretty much entirely the result of internet research. No disrespect is intended if I have not gotten any details right. I hope to show honor to any and all muslim troopers who adhere to the rightful teachings of the Prophet, and to those who fight the good fight to defend their fellow man, no matter what their creed or beliefs.]
It was another somber night in the XCOM HQ.
The Skyranger, bearing the remains of SGT Khadem had just departed for Egypt, where he would be interred with all proper ceremony by his family. The barracks and the common areas were full, but quiet, as they always were following the death of a comrade. Unlike the previous times, there remained a small group in the hangar.
CPL Jared Houston looked around at the others. CPL Ramli, SPC Safar and PFC Benhassi were known to him, but not exceptionally well, but they all shared the same faith. When Khadem's death had been reported, SGT Hassan had requested Houston to visit in the medbay, where he'd asked him to prepare for funeral rites for Khadem. Jared had agreed immediately, though he was only a somewhat recent convert to Islam. He was the ranking person of the islamic faith, and XCOM had no chaplains. The Skyranger was inbound with the squad and SGT Khadem's remains, so he got to work.
Between his copy of the Qur’an and the internet to fill in the blanks, Jared got a passable understanding of funeral rites. Once he was done, he hesitantly approached CPL Ramli, who was also from Egypt, with his plans. She was surprised to be consulted, but she agreed that, under the circumstances, with such a mixed lot of islamic faithful, that following some of the general muslim funeral rites would be best. The he went to Bradford, to request the remains be given to his brothers and sister for preparation, before being sent home.
The Skyranger was vectoring in for a landing when the word came back from the Commander. With no chaplain on staff, it seemed appropriate that Khadem be honored as best as he could be by his fellow troopers, though their time would be limited, in order to get him home to his family as expeditiously as possible. CPL Houston asked Central Officer Bradford to relay their gratitude, and that it would be enough.
When the Skyranger landed, they discovered that SPC Dhalon had been wounded, and would not be able to join them. He, like SGT Hassan, would be stuck in medbay. This left the task of preparing SGT Khadem's body to the four of them.
Houston, Safar and Benhassi had prayed and performed their ablutions to become wudhu prior to the Skyranger's arrival, so CPL Ramli escorted the medics who brought the corpse to them. They did not have the necessary herbs to make sidr or camphor water, a problem that Bradford said they'd try to fix for the future, so they'd opted just to do the three cleansings with pure water drawn up from the natural reservoirs beneath the XCOM HQ.
Khadem's body was mostly untouched, except for his head. He'd taken the plasma blast above his left eye, and most of his head on that side was gone, and the burns marred much of the rest of his face. The only grace was that the heat had completely cauterized the wound. Houston had helped guide the medics in placing the body with the feet facing northeast, toward Mecca. Once they had left, and CPL Ramli had stepped outside, they carefully stripped the body, placing a folden linen bedsheet over the lower belly to upper legs, and then began the ghusl mayyit.
Later, after the body had been enshrouded in a kafan improvised from bedsheets, they'd finally taken SGT Khadem's body back to the hangar. Jared prayed that their efforts would be acceptable to the family, and would be sure to push the issue of proper funeral preparations in the future. Still, though it had not been the same as might have happened in a primarily islamic nation, Houston felt that SGT Khadem would be satisfied with the honor paid to him by his brothers and sister.
The hangar doors close above, cutting off the dim twinkle of starlight, and leaving the four in darkness and silence. With no words exchanged, they turn and file out of the hangar, making their way through the corridors to the medbay, where Hassan and Dhalon await. It had been decided that, even though his body would not be present, that they would recite the Salat al-Janazah for themselves and their fallen brother. His face only betraying the slightest nervousness, Houston stepped forward, and his fellow troopers gathered around the two medical beds in front of him.
"Allahu Akbar," he began, then took a breath and continued. "B-ismi-llāhi r-raḥmāni r-raḥīmi..."
The prayer continued, with the other troopers murmuring and speaking at the appropriate moments. A few times, Jared caught hesitation and realized he must have done or said something incorrectly, but he pushed through it the best he could. It didn't take long before he felt the sting of tears, and the warmth of them upon his cheeks, but he didn't allow his voice to waver.
"Assalaamu ‘alaykum wa rahmatu-Allah", he intoned, bringing the prayer to an end and bowing his head for the final time. Peace and blessings of God be upon you, my brother. Finally wiped his eyes, and saw tears standing on the cheeks of the troopers gathered in front of him. The small smile from the bed-bound Hassan told him that he'd done well enough.
Also note that this is a work of fiction, written by a Christian and an American. I have solicited advice from muslim acquaintances, but this is pretty much entirely the result of internet research. No disrespect is intended if I have not gotten any details right. I hope to show honor to any and all muslim troopers who adhere to the rightful teachings of the Prophet, and to those who fight the good fight to defend their fellow man, no matter what their creed or beliefs.]
It was another somber night in the XCOM HQ.
The Skyranger, bearing the remains of SGT Khadem had just departed for Egypt, where he would be interred with all proper ceremony by his family. The barracks and the common areas were full, but quiet, as they always were following the death of a comrade. Unlike the previous times, there remained a small group in the hangar.
-
CPL Jared Houston looked around at the others. CPL Ramli, SPC Safar and PFC Benhassi were known to him, but not exceptionally well, but they all shared the same faith. When Khadem's death had been reported, SGT Hassan had requested Houston to visit in the medbay, where he'd asked him to prepare for funeral rites for Khadem. Jared had agreed immediately, though he was only a somewhat recent convert to Islam. He was the ranking person of the islamic faith, and XCOM had no chaplains. The Skyranger was inbound with the squad and SGT Khadem's remains, so he got to work.
Between his copy of the Qur’an and the internet to fill in the blanks, Jared got a passable understanding of funeral rites. Once he was done, he hesitantly approached CPL Ramli, who was also from Egypt, with his plans. She was surprised to be consulted, but she agreed that, under the circumstances, with such a mixed lot of islamic faithful, that following some of the general muslim funeral rites would be best. The he went to Bradford, to request the remains be given to his brothers and sister for preparation, before being sent home.
The Skyranger was vectoring in for a landing when the word came back from the Commander. With no chaplain on staff, it seemed appropriate that Khadem be honored as best as he could be by his fellow troopers, though their time would be limited, in order to get him home to his family as expeditiously as possible. CPL Houston asked Central Officer Bradford to relay their gratitude, and that it would be enough.
When the Skyranger landed, they discovered that SPC Dhalon had been wounded, and would not be able to join them. He, like SGT Hassan, would be stuck in medbay. This left the task of preparing SGT Khadem's body to the four of them.
Houston, Safar and Benhassi had prayed and performed their ablutions to become wudhu prior to the Skyranger's arrival, so CPL Ramli escorted the medics who brought the corpse to them. They did not have the necessary herbs to make sidr or camphor water, a problem that Bradford said they'd try to fix for the future, so they'd opted just to do the three cleansings with pure water drawn up from the natural reservoirs beneath the XCOM HQ.
Khadem's body was mostly untouched, except for his head. He'd taken the plasma blast above his left eye, and most of his head on that side was gone, and the burns marred much of the rest of his face. The only grace was that the heat had completely cauterized the wound. Houston had helped guide the medics in placing the body with the feet facing northeast, toward Mecca. Once they had left, and CPL Ramli had stepped outside, they carefully stripped the body, placing a folden linen bedsheet over the lower belly to upper legs, and then began the ghusl mayyit.
Later, after the body had been enshrouded in a kafan improvised from bedsheets, they'd finally taken SGT Khadem's body back to the hangar. Jared prayed that their efforts would be acceptable to the family, and would be sure to push the issue of proper funeral preparations in the future. Still, though it had not been the same as might have happened in a primarily islamic nation, Houston felt that SGT Khadem would be satisfied with the honor paid to him by his brothers and sister.
-
The hangar doors close above, cutting off the dim twinkle of starlight, and leaving the four in darkness and silence. With no words exchanged, they turn and file out of the hangar, making their way through the corridors to the medbay, where Hassan and Dhalon await. It had been decided that, even though his body would not be present, that they would recite the Salat al-Janazah for themselves and their fallen brother. His face only betraying the slightest nervousness, Houston stepped forward, and his fellow troopers gathered around the two medical beds in front of him.
"Allahu Akbar," he began, then took a breath and continued. "B-ismi-llāhi r-raḥmāni r-raḥīmi..."
The prayer continued, with the other troopers murmuring and speaking at the appropriate moments. A few times, Jared caught hesitation and realized he must have done or said something incorrectly, but he pushed through it the best he could. It didn't take long before he felt the sting of tears, and the warmth of them upon his cheeks, but he didn't allow his voice to waver.
"Assalaamu ‘alaykum wa rahmatu-Allah", he intoned, bringing the prayer to an end and bowing his head for the final time. Peace and blessings of God be upon you, my brother. Finally wiped his eyes, and saw tears standing on the cheeks of the troopers gathered in front of him. The small smile from the bed-bound Hassan told him that he'd done well enough.
Monday, May 18, 2015
Allahu Akbar (27 MAY 2016)
Anant Dhalon was in trouble.
It had been three- or was it four? -days since he'd inserted into Nigeria to find the EXALT cell that was operating there. They'd managed to hack into XCOM's financial transactions before the higher ups had even known they existed, and it was definitely time for payback. While their attack hadn't directly harmed anyone, the funds that had disappeared would have been used for improved weapons and armor in the fight against the X-Rays, and Anant was determined they'd come to regret it.
But that was a task easier determined than accomplished. It had taken him two days to find them, even with the data the council had managed to provide. It had actually been during a visit to one of the local mosques that he'd managed to spot one of the profiled individuals, and trail him back to where the remainder of the cell was dug in. Anant had not missed the opportunity to thank Allah for his good fortune. He was praying silently, constantly now.
He had not slept since leaving the mosque. He'd followed the EXALT operative back, finding an abandoned train maintenance yard. He'd spotted the guards and stopped well outside of the perimeter before making a cautious circuit to determine the size of their cordon. Taking half a day, he'd crawled, his body pressed as flat as possible to the ground, down the center of the railway, using the abandoned cargo cars for cover. Once he'd managed to get inside their perimeter, He'd made the mistake of relaxing, ever so slightly. That mistake nearly got him killed.
"Hey!" Anant ducked back into the train car, but it was too late. He'd been spotted. He did his best to run lightly across the car and drop to the gravel, wincing as it crunched beneath his feet. He'd only just made it back to where they had the functional communications relays, which he'd had to abandon after the first time he'd been spotted. He was sure that tampering with those first two is what brought them out; There must have been some alert generated, but he wasn't any sort of computer expert. All he knew was how to plug the datapad into the relay, and let it do it's work.
These guys weren't giving up the chase. Anant swore a string in Urdu before running out of words. He switched to Houston's favorite epithet, instead, muttering "Shit, shit, shit," under his breath as he ran and dodged between the cars. Repetitive, but adequate to describe his situation. The EXALT operatives hadn't opened fire yet, which means they didn't see him, but it was only a matter of time before the rest of the cell came to their aid.
As though the thought had created the reality, he suddenly came upon man in a vest. They stared at each other for a split second, then both reached for their weapons. Anant was slightly faster on the draw, and popped off several rounds, causing the other to drop his carbine and dive for cover. Anant didn't stay to finish him off, but took off at a dead sprint, completely disregarding stealth. He hunched his shoulders as he ran, knowing it wouldn't take long for the man to regain his weapon. He wasn't surprised when he felt a hard blow between his shoulder blades, nearly throwing him from his feet. Somehow, he managed to keep running, his breath ragged as he waited for the pain. It didn't come, and he realized that the alloy vest had done its job. Other than the impact, he didn't feel a thing.
His dash took up up a flight of stairs. To his left, he saw one of the active relays. He caught the movement of another relay out of corner of his right eye, and did his best to mark it for later, if there was to be a later. Directly in front of him, as he came up the stairs was a flat car, which he dove and rolled onto, turning his roll into a scramble toward and off the other side. Evading his pursuers to fight another day was his first priority. Once he'd done that, he could worry about how to get those last couple of relays.
Directly on the other side of the car was a small building with some machinery on the side nearest. To his right, he saw a roll-up door, and a ladder. Pausing only briefly to make sure no one was currently in sight, he ran to the ladder, flinging himself halfway up as he reached it, and quickly rolled onto the flat roof. There, he lay flat, and did his best to control the breaths that tore out of his chest. "subḥāna rabbī al-'aclā wa-bi-ḥamdih" he murmured, nearly silently, between suppressed gasps. Glory to my Lord, the Most High Most Praiseworthy. Anant repeated the Arabic words, over and over, finding comfort in the ritual praise, until finally his breath slowed, and only the pounding of his heart remained.
He heard footsteps crunching in gravel. He counted, as best he could. At least four men were below, and he could hear them talking quietly, not quite able to make out their words. He could guess, of course; They were discussing where he might have gone. Anant heard the footsteps go all around. At one point he heard someone rattling the roll-up door, and then another trying a door on the far side of the small building.
"Locked," he heard that one raise his voice. "He couldn't have gotten in here before we arrived."
"Check the roof," another said, his tone ringing with authority. Anant listened hard for a moment more, trying to gauge the positions of the men below, before he heard the sound of hands and boots on the rung of the ladder. He rolled to a crouch, duck-walked a couple steps, and peeked over the side farthest from the ladder, his gun at the ready. It was clear. He spun and holstered his pistol, seeing the gloved hand reach for the edge of the roof, and then dropped off the roof, clutching the edge with his fingertips, just as he saw the top of the man's head coming up.
Anant's heart pounded as he dangled on the side of the building. At any moment, the man on the roof would see his fingertips, or someone would come around the side of the building. He was ready to drop and shoot, because there was no longer any place to run. But miraculously, a moment passed, then another, before he heard the man on the other side shout down. "It's clear," before the sound of him climbing back down the ladder. Anant heard the crunch of gravel on the train-side of the building, and heaved himself back up, rolling once more back onto the roof. He lay there for several endless minutes, hearing the EXALT forces discuss, and then begin to move away.
It was too hot. He knew where the remaining relays were, but getting to them would be too risky. He decided it was time to call for an extraction, and hopefully when XCOM's team got here, he'd be able to get to the last two relays. Anant lay there, exhausted but feeling resolute, and stared up at the stars. He couldn't see them the same way he used to, before the enemy had come from the sky, but beyond all of that, he knew he was watched over, protected.
"Allahu akbar."
It had been three- or was it four? -days since he'd inserted into Nigeria to find the EXALT cell that was operating there. They'd managed to hack into XCOM's financial transactions before the higher ups had even known they existed, and it was definitely time for payback. While their attack hadn't directly harmed anyone, the funds that had disappeared would have been used for improved weapons and armor in the fight against the X-Rays, and Anant was determined they'd come to regret it.
But that was a task easier determined than accomplished. It had taken him two days to find them, even with the data the council had managed to provide. It had actually been during a visit to one of the local mosques that he'd managed to spot one of the profiled individuals, and trail him back to where the remainder of the cell was dug in. Anant had not missed the opportunity to thank Allah for his good fortune. He was praying silently, constantly now.
He had not slept since leaving the mosque. He'd followed the EXALT operative back, finding an abandoned train maintenance yard. He'd spotted the guards and stopped well outside of the perimeter before making a cautious circuit to determine the size of their cordon. Taking half a day, he'd crawled, his body pressed as flat as possible to the ground, down the center of the railway, using the abandoned cargo cars for cover. Once he'd managed to get inside their perimeter, He'd made the mistake of relaxing, ever so slightly. That mistake nearly got him killed.
"Hey!" Anant ducked back into the train car, but it was too late. He'd been spotted. He did his best to run lightly across the car and drop to the gravel, wincing as it crunched beneath his feet. He'd only just made it back to where they had the functional communications relays, which he'd had to abandon after the first time he'd been spotted. He was sure that tampering with those first two is what brought them out; There must have been some alert generated, but he wasn't any sort of computer expert. All he knew was how to plug the datapad into the relay, and let it do it's work.
These guys weren't giving up the chase. Anant swore a string in Urdu before running out of words. He switched to Houston's favorite epithet, instead, muttering "Shit, shit, shit," under his breath as he ran and dodged between the cars. Repetitive, but adequate to describe his situation. The EXALT operatives hadn't opened fire yet, which means they didn't see him, but it was only a matter of time before the rest of the cell came to their aid.
As though the thought had created the reality, he suddenly came upon man in a vest. They stared at each other for a split second, then both reached for their weapons. Anant was slightly faster on the draw, and popped off several rounds, causing the other to drop his carbine and dive for cover. Anant didn't stay to finish him off, but took off at a dead sprint, completely disregarding stealth. He hunched his shoulders as he ran, knowing it wouldn't take long for the man to regain his weapon. He wasn't surprised when he felt a hard blow between his shoulder blades, nearly throwing him from his feet. Somehow, he managed to keep running, his breath ragged as he waited for the pain. It didn't come, and he realized that the alloy vest had done its job. Other than the impact, he didn't feel a thing.
His dash took up up a flight of stairs. To his left, he saw one of the active relays. He caught the movement of another relay out of corner of his right eye, and did his best to mark it for later, if there was to be a later. Directly in front of him, as he came up the stairs was a flat car, which he dove and rolled onto, turning his roll into a scramble toward and off the other side. Evading his pursuers to fight another day was his first priority. Once he'd done that, he could worry about how to get those last couple of relays.
Directly on the other side of the car was a small building with some machinery on the side nearest. To his right, he saw a roll-up door, and a ladder. Pausing only briefly to make sure no one was currently in sight, he ran to the ladder, flinging himself halfway up as he reached it, and quickly rolled onto the flat roof. There, he lay flat, and did his best to control the breaths that tore out of his chest. "subḥāna rabbī al-'aclā wa-bi-ḥamdih" he murmured, nearly silently, between suppressed gasps. Glory to my Lord, the Most High Most Praiseworthy. Anant repeated the Arabic words, over and over, finding comfort in the ritual praise, until finally his breath slowed, and only the pounding of his heart remained.
He heard footsteps crunching in gravel. He counted, as best he could. At least four men were below, and he could hear them talking quietly, not quite able to make out their words. He could guess, of course; They were discussing where he might have gone. Anant heard the footsteps go all around. At one point he heard someone rattling the roll-up door, and then another trying a door on the far side of the small building.
"Locked," he heard that one raise his voice. "He couldn't have gotten in here before we arrived."
"Check the roof," another said, his tone ringing with authority. Anant listened hard for a moment more, trying to gauge the positions of the men below, before he heard the sound of hands and boots on the rung of the ladder. He rolled to a crouch, duck-walked a couple steps, and peeked over the side farthest from the ladder, his gun at the ready. It was clear. He spun and holstered his pistol, seeing the gloved hand reach for the edge of the roof, and then dropped off the roof, clutching the edge with his fingertips, just as he saw the top of the man's head coming up.
Anant's heart pounded as he dangled on the side of the building. At any moment, the man on the roof would see his fingertips, or someone would come around the side of the building. He was ready to drop and shoot, because there was no longer any place to run. But miraculously, a moment passed, then another, before he heard the man on the other side shout down. "It's clear," before the sound of him climbing back down the ladder. Anant heard the crunch of gravel on the train-side of the building, and heaved himself back up, rolling once more back onto the roof. He lay there for several endless minutes, hearing the EXALT forces discuss, and then begin to move away.
It was too hot. He knew where the remaining relays were, but getting to them would be too risky. He decided it was time to call for an extraction, and hopefully when XCOM's team got here, he'd be able to get to the last two relays. Anant lay there, exhausted but feeling resolute, and stared up at the stars. He couldn't see them the same way he used to, before the enemy had come from the sky, but beyond all of that, he knew he was watched over, protected.
"Allahu akbar."
Tuesday, May 5, 2015
Technical Difficulties (22 MAY 2016)
"Hey, Pidge," IO Pidgeon turned around, minimizing the screen he'd been working on as he did. Everyone here was cleared at the highest level, but old habits die hard. He recognized the speaker as Technical Officer Jessup, one of the InfoTech guys responsible for the massive computer systems that allowed XCOM to function.
"Jessup," he said. "What's up?"
"You got a few minutes? I want to run something by you." Pidgeon raised an eyebrow. He only knew Jessup casually, but he seemed competent and confident. This reticence wasn't his normal style.
"Sure," he replied. "I need a break from staring at these IMINT reports anyway." He stood and stretched, feeling several pops in his back as he did so.
"Good. It's on my console, down in the server room." Jessup turned and lead the way, with Pidgeon following. It took them a little while, and one lift trip, down to the datacenter behind the research labs. The temperature dropped dramatically as soon as they stepped inside, and IO Pidgeon was happy for the sweater that was part of their regular uniform. Jessup didn't seem to mind, but it was probably a bit colder in England than it was in Australia.
"Here we are," Jessup said, sliding into a seat. "Pull up a chair." he gestured toward a rolling chair at one of the nearby empty consoles. Pidgeon pulled it over and dropped into it, as Jessup logged into the console, then pulled up another screen and logged in again. Pidgeon leaned forward, trying to figure out what he was looking at.
"This is the security log aggregator," Jessup said by way of explanation. "With such a large datacenter, it's best to have a centralized collection of the logs. It makes it easier to detect problems on a larger scale than a single device. It allows us to know when anyone tries to access a flagged site on the internet, for example." Pidgeon blinked, and Jessup paused to smirk at him before continuing. "Yes, I am talking about what you think I am. But that's not why I brought you down here."
"So, what is it?" IO Pidgeon asked. He continued to stare at the lines and lines of text, each composed of seeming gibberish. But finding patterns in chaos was what he did, and he was good at his job. He didn't always have to understand it to find something useful.
"I'm..." Jessup's confident explanation faltered again, and Pidgeon glanced at him. "I'm not sure. It's a feeling, really. Nothing at all that I can point to and call a problem. None of the heuristic scanners are throwing any flags, either. But something is..." he paused again, then shook his head. "Off. Something is definitely off, and it's literally keeping me up nights. It's been a week or so."
"And you're hoping I can spot something?" Pidgeon asked, his eyes back on the screen.
"Yeah. My mate Colman said that's what you intel guys do. She did some Ops time when she first joined the British Army, worked with some of your peers. She said it was bloody amazing how you could take a bunch of barely related images and garbled radio transmissions and turn it into actionable information."
"Yeah," Pidgeon said with a grin. "Never challenge a Secret Squirrel to a game of Twenty Questions or Tetris."
"Secret Squirrel?" Jessup said the phrase slowly, as though testing how it tasted.
"American slang for intel geeks," Pidgeon explained. "I liked it, so I use it when I get a chance."
"I see," the technician replied with a small smile. It was clear that he was still worried about the problem, so Pidgeon turned back to the screen.
"You can sort and filter this list?" he asked. When Jessup nodded, he continued. "Show me. Also, if you can explain what these icons mean, that'll help in detecting any patterns."
They sat there for an hour then two and three, looking at the data in various ways, sorting by date, type, system. Eventually, a couple of Jessup's colleagues joined in, and they combined the data with a network diagram. Pidgeon knew he'd never understand the depth of what these guys did on a daily basis, but he began to be sure that Jessup was correct. Something was definitely "Off". He felt that he was starting to get somewhere, and he could tell by the furrowed brows of the technical staff that they thought so too.
Just then, the intercom chirped, and a second later, Bradford's voice filled the datacenter.
"IT Staff, is Intelligence Officer Pidgeon down there in the datacenter?"
"Sir," IO Pidgeon spoke up. "I'm here, yes."
"We're changing the Watch in thirty minutes, and I still don't have your INTSUM. What are you doing?" Bradford's voice was definitely annoyed. IO Pidgeon glanced at the clock. He'd completely lost track of time.
"Shit," he muttered, then spoke up. "Sir, I'll be right up to explain in person. Something is going on, and I think it's important." Jessup stood up immediately, falling in at Pidgeon's heels, as they hurried out of the datacenter.
Bradford was waiting, arms crossed when they reached Mission Control. He didn't say a word as IO Pidgeon reported, just lifted an eyebrow. Pidgeon swallowed heavily, then started talking.
"Sir," he began, "TO Jessup came to me this morning, asking me to give him my take on a nebulous issue he'd noted in the security logs." Bradford's expression became a bit stonier, so Pidgeon decided to cut to the chase. "After looking it over and consulting with the Technical Control team, there is definitely something going on, something not good. I think..." he stopped, not really wanting to say the words. He glanced at TO Jessup, standing quietly, ready to give support, and got the nod.
"Sir, I think our systems have been compromised."
"What?" Bradford erupted. He obviously hadn't been expecting that. "What do you mean, compromised? How? By who?"
"Sir," interjected TO Jessup. "We're still investigating. Whoever it is, they're good. Really, really good. They've covered their tracks well, which is why I asked IO Pidgeon to take a look."
"Can you tell me anything useful, right now?" Bradford was furious, but the anger was no longer directed at them.
"It appears as though the infiltrator has set up a redirection proxy in one of the edge routers, and is using that as a staging point for their attack. There have been several malformed packets in traffic going to and from-" Jessup cut off, as Bradford raised a curt hand.
"Stop. Try to explain it in simpler terms. I respect your expertise, and I don't have time to learn to speak your language."
"Sir," Pidgeon broke in, "Basically, the threat appears to be coming from outside, and they're tampering with our transmissions going to and from the Nations Bank." He glanced at Jessup again, who nodded in confirmation.
"The Nations..." Bradford turned and dashed across Mission Control, toward the Commander's office.
"You mean to tell me that we've lost everything?" Bradford was on the phone after his brief consultation with the Commander. "I don't care what the records show," his voice was barely containing his fury. "This is unacceptable. We trusted you-" he stopped, fuming while the voice on the other end of the line made some excuse or other. "Fine. We will be taking this issue to the oversight committee." He shoved the phone into the receiver hard than necessary, and turned to IO Pidgeon. "Contact the Council, immediately. Tell them that XCOM is requesting a full emergency hearing. Something has to be done about this, now."
"Right away, sir," Pidgeon turned, just in time to find one of the comms officers approaching. "What is it?"
"The Council," he said. "They're calling an emergency hearing with XCOM. They're on the line in the Situation Room."
"Jessup," he said. "What's up?"
"You got a few minutes? I want to run something by you." Pidgeon raised an eyebrow. He only knew Jessup casually, but he seemed competent and confident. This reticence wasn't his normal style.
"Sure," he replied. "I need a break from staring at these IMINT reports anyway." He stood and stretched, feeling several pops in his back as he did so.
"Good. It's on my console, down in the server room." Jessup turned and lead the way, with Pidgeon following. It took them a little while, and one lift trip, down to the datacenter behind the research labs. The temperature dropped dramatically as soon as they stepped inside, and IO Pidgeon was happy for the sweater that was part of their regular uniform. Jessup didn't seem to mind, but it was probably a bit colder in England than it was in Australia.
"Here we are," Jessup said, sliding into a seat. "Pull up a chair." he gestured toward a rolling chair at one of the nearby empty consoles. Pidgeon pulled it over and dropped into it, as Jessup logged into the console, then pulled up another screen and logged in again. Pidgeon leaned forward, trying to figure out what he was looking at.
"This is the security log aggregator," Jessup said by way of explanation. "With such a large datacenter, it's best to have a centralized collection of the logs. It makes it easier to detect problems on a larger scale than a single device. It allows us to know when anyone tries to access a flagged site on the internet, for example." Pidgeon blinked, and Jessup paused to smirk at him before continuing. "Yes, I am talking about what you think I am. But that's not why I brought you down here."
"So, what is it?" IO Pidgeon asked. He continued to stare at the lines and lines of text, each composed of seeming gibberish. But finding patterns in chaos was what he did, and he was good at his job. He didn't always have to understand it to find something useful.
"I'm..." Jessup's confident explanation faltered again, and Pidgeon glanced at him. "I'm not sure. It's a feeling, really. Nothing at all that I can point to and call a problem. None of the heuristic scanners are throwing any flags, either. But something is..." he paused again, then shook his head. "Off. Something is definitely off, and it's literally keeping me up nights. It's been a week or so."
"And you're hoping I can spot something?" Pidgeon asked, his eyes back on the screen.
"Yeah. My mate Colman said that's what you intel guys do. She did some Ops time when she first joined the British Army, worked with some of your peers. She said it was bloody amazing how you could take a bunch of barely related images and garbled radio transmissions and turn it into actionable information."
"Yeah," Pidgeon said with a grin. "Never challenge a Secret Squirrel to a game of Twenty Questions or Tetris."
"Secret Squirrel?" Jessup said the phrase slowly, as though testing how it tasted.
"American slang for intel geeks," Pidgeon explained. "I liked it, so I use it when I get a chance."
"I see," the technician replied with a small smile. It was clear that he was still worried about the problem, so Pidgeon turned back to the screen.
"You can sort and filter this list?" he asked. When Jessup nodded, he continued. "Show me. Also, if you can explain what these icons mean, that'll help in detecting any patterns."
They sat there for an hour then two and three, looking at the data in various ways, sorting by date, type, system. Eventually, a couple of Jessup's colleagues joined in, and they combined the data with a network diagram. Pidgeon knew he'd never understand the depth of what these guys did on a daily basis, but he began to be sure that Jessup was correct. Something was definitely "Off". He felt that he was starting to get somewhere, and he could tell by the furrowed brows of the technical staff that they thought so too.
Just then, the intercom chirped, and a second later, Bradford's voice filled the datacenter.
"IT Staff, is Intelligence Officer Pidgeon down there in the datacenter?"
"Sir," IO Pidgeon spoke up. "I'm here, yes."
"We're changing the Watch in thirty minutes, and I still don't have your INTSUM. What are you doing?" Bradford's voice was definitely annoyed. IO Pidgeon glanced at the clock. He'd completely lost track of time.
"Shit," he muttered, then spoke up. "Sir, I'll be right up to explain in person. Something is going on, and I think it's important." Jessup stood up immediately, falling in at Pidgeon's heels, as they hurried out of the datacenter.
Bradford was waiting, arms crossed when they reached Mission Control. He didn't say a word as IO Pidgeon reported, just lifted an eyebrow. Pidgeon swallowed heavily, then started talking.
"Sir," he began, "TO Jessup came to me this morning, asking me to give him my take on a nebulous issue he'd noted in the security logs." Bradford's expression became a bit stonier, so Pidgeon decided to cut to the chase. "After looking it over and consulting with the Technical Control team, there is definitely something going on, something not good. I think..." he stopped, not really wanting to say the words. He glanced at TO Jessup, standing quietly, ready to give support, and got the nod.
"Sir, I think our systems have been compromised."
"What?" Bradford erupted. He obviously hadn't been expecting that. "What do you mean, compromised? How? By who?"
"Sir," interjected TO Jessup. "We're still investigating. Whoever it is, they're good. Really, really good. They've covered their tracks well, which is why I asked IO Pidgeon to take a look."
"Can you tell me anything useful, right now?" Bradford was furious, but the anger was no longer directed at them.
"It appears as though the infiltrator has set up a redirection proxy in one of the edge routers, and is using that as a staging point for their attack. There have been several malformed packets in traffic going to and from-" Jessup cut off, as Bradford raised a curt hand.
"Stop. Try to explain it in simpler terms. I respect your expertise, and I don't have time to learn to speak your language."
"Sir," Pidgeon broke in, "Basically, the threat appears to be coming from outside, and they're tampering with our transmissions going to and from the Nations Bank." He glanced at Jessup again, who nodded in confirmation.
"The Nations..." Bradford turned and dashed across Mission Control, toward the Commander's office.
-
"You mean to tell me that we've lost everything?" Bradford was on the phone after his brief consultation with the Commander. "I don't care what the records show," his voice was barely containing his fury. "This is unacceptable. We trusted you-" he stopped, fuming while the voice on the other end of the line made some excuse or other. "Fine. We will be taking this issue to the oversight committee." He shoved the phone into the receiver hard than necessary, and turned to IO Pidgeon. "Contact the Council, immediately. Tell them that XCOM is requesting a full emergency hearing. Something has to be done about this, now."
"Right away, sir," Pidgeon turned, just in time to find one of the comms officers approaching. "What is it?"
"The Council," he said. "They're calling an emergency hearing with XCOM. They're on the line in the Situation Room."
Thursday, April 30, 2015
Visiting Hours (20 MAY 2016)
The medical bay was quiet, but there were a few visitors still, despite the late hour. It had been determined a month ago that, unless there were actual life-saving procedures going on, there wasn't any particular reason to limit visitors to the medbay. Lieselotte Faber sat in a chair near de Matos' bed, while Ana Lucia Mardones leaned against an empty bed nearby.
"You're kidding me," Monica said, her brows lifted in disbelief. "A whale?"
"I wish I was kidding," Liesel replied. "I didn't get a clean look at it myself, but Mardones," she paused, jerking her head toward the other woman, "got an eyeful."
"Si," Ana Lucia confirmed. " It was covered in pods, you could barely see the whale, and the bugs just kept ripping their way out of it."
"Jesus Cristo," de Matos whispered. "How many do you think there were?"
"Armarnis said we killed at least thirty, maybe thirty five," Liesel said with a shrug, referring to her countryman by his nickname. "Who can say how many would have kept coming, if they hadn't blown the whole village to scheiße."
"It was pretty terrifying," Ana Lucia interjected. "Those monsters, up close, they just..." she trailed off, unable to adequately express it.
"Especially after seeing what they did to the people of the village," Liesel agreed. "Mardones here was fearless, though. She killed three of them in under five seconds. Probably would have been more, but she ran out of ammo!" Liesel laughed a bit when Ana Lucia blushed and scowled at her.
"La mierda," she growled back. "I was scared out of my mind. Just couldn't let it get to me."
Monica took Liesel's hand, and reached out to Ana Lucia. After a moment, Ana Lucia shoved herself off the bed, and stepped over to take the offered hand.
"I'm glad you're both okay," Monica said. "It kills me whenever I hear that we've got wounded coming in, and I'd hate to lose another sister or brother." Ana Lucia smiled and squeezed Monica's hand before letting go and dropping back to lean against the other bed again. Liesel continued to hold her hand, while the two of them shared a long look. Just as Ana Lucia began to think she should leave them alone, Liesel turned to her and smiled.
"Who would ever have thought?" she asked. "A German, a Brazilian and an Ecuadorian serving together?"
"Sounds like the start to a bad joke," Ana Lucia agreed. "Stop me if you've heard this one..." The women laughed at that for a moment, before the conversation turned serious again.
"What do you think is next?" Monica asked. "The médicos say I'm going to be in this bed for another few weeks, but I'm dying to get back out there."
"I don't know," Liesel replied pensively. "We keep seeing more out of the X-rays. This new armor is excellent, and I hear they're working on actual laser weapons, but I can't imagine that things will continue to go as well as they have been." As she spoke, Monica and Ana Lucia caught the shadow that crossed her features. Both of them knew that Oksenov's death still bothered her, though she normally hid it well. They also knew the stoic German would open up about it when she was ready, and not a moment before. There was a long silence, each of the women finding herself momentarily lost in her thoughts. It was Ana Lucia that broke it first.
"I think I'm going to head to the gym," she said, "let you two have some time alone." She glanced around, seeing only the newly promoted SSG "Armarnis" Lindemann, taking his leave after visiting Hassan and Daiwa. De Matos smiled at her in farewell before reaching over to take Faber's other hand, holding them both as she looked up from the bed. Mardones left them in silence, nodding to Lindemann when she caught up with him at the entrance, where Makhandule stood waiting for him.
She glanced back once before she left, and smiled a little whens she saw de Matos pulling Faber down for a kiss. They'd be alright. With luck, they'd all be alright.
Tuesday, April 21, 2015
Lashing Out (06 MAY 2016)
"Ox, you're too exposed out there," Glynn called over the squad net. Oksenov didn't answer, but took a shot at one of the Sectoids exposed on the side of the train. Glynn cursed when he reported the miss, and scanned for anything that might take a shot at his comrade. "Ox, damnit, get out of there."
"He's right," SPC Faber said. "I'm taking the shot." There was a moment's silence, then the loud crack of her rifle was followed by the meld canister exploding, and the Sectoid behind it splattering across the rails. She cursed loudly enough, in German, to be heard without the squadnet.
PFC Glynn stood staring at the memorial wall, which now showed three portraits. It had been less than a week ago that CPL Huisman had died in Tennessee, and now Oksenov had joined him. That asshole had always been too confident, too sure of himself. Now he'd never brag about his combat prowess again.
The Sectoids were moving, and Glynn furiously scanned, his cheek pressed to the stock of his weapon, looking for anything to take a shot at, but nothing came into view.
"They-!" Ox yelled, staggering hard against the bench he was hiding behind. "There's something... something in my head!" Glynn lowered the weapon to look at him, saw him shake his head and raise his weapon, then reach up to key the squadnet. "There was a voice, flashes of images," he said. "I think-"
What he thought was never revealed as Glynn heard the slight hum that always preceded the firing of one of their plasma weapons, and a bolt of green light flashed out from the train and took him right above the chest plate of his tactical vest. He fell back, making choking noises.
Oksenov had been arrogant, but Glynn had liked him. He was reminded of his time back in the 82nd, the trash talk, the machismo and the fighting. It never came to anything, anymore than his rivalry with Ox would have. It was just a way to kill the time between missions, which had gotten slower and slower as the Coalition Forces role in Afghanistan had reduced. Damned if that crazy Russian hadn't managed to beat him on kills anyway, even though...
"No!" Glynn had shouted, then stood rooted, staring at Oksenov, now lying still, praying for him to move. He heard shouting and gunshots, as his comrades charged out and killed the Sectoids. He watched as Lehmann approached Oksenov's still body and leaned over it.
"He is dead," came Lehmann's voice over the squadnet, oddly emotionless, though he was still breathing hard from his charge on the Sectoid. Glynn shook his head, slowly at first, and then harder, trying to shake the cobwebs.
"Acknowledged," replied SPC Faber, her accent thick, but otherwise cool as ice. "We need to keep moving."
Glynn heard soft steps approaching, then felt a presence beside him. He looked over to see SPC Faber, staring up at the wall. He didn't need to follow her gaze to know that she too was looking at Ox's picture. He turned away from her, looking back at the memorial.
"Three casualties," she said, no inflection in her voice. "It has been over two months. By numbers, we are doing well." Glynn said nothing, only nodded woodenly. "This has been the most one-sided conflict I have ever read about," she continued. We've killed dozens and dozens of them." Glynn didn't know what she was getting at, and just wished she'd go away. After several moments of silence, he finally replied, hoping it'd be enough that she'd leave.
"Yes," was all he said. She glanced at him, then turned away, dropping her head.
"It does not feel like victory," she said, her voice muffled. Glynn turned then, and saw that her shoulders were trembling. She hadn't been his friend, but she had been in charge. Glynn hadn't really considered what that must feel like. The fact that she'd not been promoted along with the rest of the squad probably felt like indictment by the command, too.
"You didn't do anything wrong," he said, stepping awkwardly up behind her. She whipped around and glared at him. Her eyes were red, but they were dry.
"A man died!" she snarled, "he died under my command. I should have made sure he wasn't so exposed." Glynn backed up, whatever reassuring instinct he'd had withering under her glare.
"Of course, Specialist," he replied, coldly. "Maybe next time, you'll do better." He turned around smartly, though not before he saw the shock on her face, and strode away, every muscle tensed for her reply, but none came.
Relief and anger warred in him as he moved quickly, his footsteps coming down with unnecessary force, echoing down the corridors. Maybe it wasn't her fault, but it felt good to blame someone, to lash out. He almost wanted her to come after him, so he'd have some excuse to yell, but she didn't, and he was left fuming in solitude. Others he barely saw stepped out of his way, until he found himself in the gym.
With a growl, he went to the nearest treadmill, and setting it to a punishing pace, he began to run. Try as he might though, he could not seem to leave behind that frozen instant of seeing Ox fall to the ground.
"He's right," SPC Faber said. "I'm taking the shot." There was a moment's silence, then the loud crack of her rifle was followed by the meld canister exploding, and the Sectoid behind it splattering across the rails. She cursed loudly enough, in German, to be heard without the squadnet.
PFC Glynn stood staring at the memorial wall, which now showed three portraits. It had been less than a week ago that CPL Huisman had died in Tennessee, and now Oksenov had joined him. That asshole had always been too confident, too sure of himself. Now he'd never brag about his combat prowess again.
The Sectoids were moving, and Glynn furiously scanned, his cheek pressed to the stock of his weapon, looking for anything to take a shot at, but nothing came into view.
"They-!" Ox yelled, staggering hard against the bench he was hiding behind. "There's something... something in my head!" Glynn lowered the weapon to look at him, saw him shake his head and raise his weapon, then reach up to key the squadnet. "There was a voice, flashes of images," he said. "I think-"
What he thought was never revealed as Glynn heard the slight hum that always preceded the firing of one of their plasma weapons, and a bolt of green light flashed out from the train and took him right above the chest plate of his tactical vest. He fell back, making choking noises.
Oksenov had been arrogant, but Glynn had liked him. He was reminded of his time back in the 82nd, the trash talk, the machismo and the fighting. It never came to anything, anymore than his rivalry with Ox would have. It was just a way to kill the time between missions, which had gotten slower and slower as the Coalition Forces role in Afghanistan had reduced. Damned if that crazy Russian hadn't managed to beat him on kills anyway, even though...
"No!" Glynn had shouted, then stood rooted, staring at Oksenov, now lying still, praying for him to move. He heard shouting and gunshots, as his comrades charged out and killed the Sectoids. He watched as Lehmann approached Oksenov's still body and leaned over it.
"He is dead," came Lehmann's voice over the squadnet, oddly emotionless, though he was still breathing hard from his charge on the Sectoid. Glynn shook his head, slowly at first, and then harder, trying to shake the cobwebs.
"Acknowledged," replied SPC Faber, her accent thick, but otherwise cool as ice. "We need to keep moving."
Glynn heard soft steps approaching, then felt a presence beside him. He looked over to see SPC Faber, staring up at the wall. He didn't need to follow her gaze to know that she too was looking at Ox's picture. He turned away from her, looking back at the memorial.
"Three casualties," she said, no inflection in her voice. "It has been over two months. By numbers, we are doing well." Glynn said nothing, only nodded woodenly. "This has been the most one-sided conflict I have ever read about," she continued. We've killed dozens and dozens of them." Glynn didn't know what she was getting at, and just wished she'd go away. After several moments of silence, he finally replied, hoping it'd be enough that she'd leave.
"Yes," was all he said. She glanced at him, then turned away, dropping her head.
"It does not feel like victory," she said, her voice muffled. Glynn turned then, and saw that her shoulders were trembling. She hadn't been his friend, but she had been in charge. Glynn hadn't really considered what that must feel like. The fact that she'd not been promoted along with the rest of the squad probably felt like indictment by the command, too.
"You didn't do anything wrong," he said, stepping awkwardly up behind her. She whipped around and glared at him. Her eyes were red, but they were dry.
"A man died!" she snarled, "he died under my command. I should have made sure he wasn't so exposed." Glynn backed up, whatever reassuring instinct he'd had withering under her glare.
"Of course, Specialist," he replied, coldly. "Maybe next time, you'll do better." He turned around smartly, though not before he saw the shock on her face, and strode away, every muscle tensed for her reply, but none came.
Relief and anger warred in him as he moved quickly, his footsteps coming down with unnecessary force, echoing down the corridors. Maybe it wasn't her fault, but it felt good to blame someone, to lash out. He almost wanted her to come after him, so he'd have some excuse to yell, but she didn't, and he was left fuming in solitude. Others he barely saw stepped out of his way, until he found himself in the gym.
With a growl, he went to the nearest treadmill, and setting it to a punishing pace, he began to run. Try as he might though, he could not seem to leave behind that frozen instant of seeing Ox fall to the ground.
Monday, April 13, 2015
In Memory (01 MAY 2016)
"It was the dodgiest squiddie I'd ever seen," de Matos said. She was lying in bed, her upper chest a mass of bandages, while Faber leaned against the side, listening. "It took three shots from point blank range, and still it kept coming. It was Hassan that finally put the caralho down. We were all so focused on it, we never even saw the bastardo Thin Man until he was almost on top of us. Daiwa was the first to react, but not fast enough. Huisman didn't make a sound. He just.. he.."
"Shh," Faber turned and caught de Matos' hand, lacing her fingers through it and squeezing tightly. "Monica, you don't have to talk about it right now." De Matos reached across and covered Faber's hand with her other hand, but she didn't stop talking.
"There was nothing I could do. I heard the shots and Daiwa called that it was down, but before I could even get Houston out of my way, I knew. The hole went straight through, Kevlar, alloy vest, everything. His eyes were still open. They were green. I never realized they were green." Her voice started to choke up and she finally stopped talking, as Faber leaned in to stroke her hair with her other hand, making soft soothing noises.
"But you made it count, Schätzchen," she murmured into Monica's ear. "You went on, and you put the rest of those fickeren into body bags, and you brought him home. More importantly, you brought the rest of them home alive." Faber glanced down the line, where most of the rest of the squad rested. She saw SGT Lindemann visiting with Houston and Maillet, the most severely injured of the survivors.
"Thank you, Liesel," de Matos said, pulling Faber's attention back. "Gata, could you get me some water? My throat is dry." Faber nodded, reaching out to stroke de Matos' cheek before moving away to grab the pitcher and a cup.
"Shh," Faber turned and caught de Matos' hand, lacing her fingers through it and squeezing tightly. "Monica, you don't have to talk about it right now." De Matos reached across and covered Faber's hand with her other hand, but she didn't stop talking.
"There was nothing I could do. I heard the shots and Daiwa called that it was down, but before I could even get Houston out of my way, I knew. The hole went straight through, Kevlar, alloy vest, everything. His eyes were still open. They were green. I never realized they were green." Her voice started to choke up and she finally stopped talking, as Faber leaned in to stroke her hair with her other hand, making soft soothing noises.
"But you made it count, Schätzchen," she murmured into Monica's ear. "You went on, and you put the rest of those fickeren into body bags, and you brought him home. More importantly, you brought the rest of them home alive." Faber glanced down the line, where most of the rest of the squad rested. She saw SGT Lindemann visiting with Houston and Maillet, the most severely injured of the survivors.
"Thank you, Liesel," de Matos said, pulling Faber's attention back. "Gata, could you get me some water? My throat is dry." Faber nodded, reaching out to stroke de Matos' cheek before moving away to grab the pitcher and a cup.
-
"How are they?" Constance asked. She was chafing at being stuck in medbay after her collapse, but the medics said she'd be out in a few more days, at most. Oskar came to visit her regularly, though today he'd spent most of his time visiting the member of the squad he'd just brought back from Oklahoma.
"They're very out of sorts. The pain medicine is very strong," he replied. "Still, they remember what happened."
"It was a good mission," Constance replied. When Oskar's face clouded, she said it again. "It was a good mission, Oskar. Your squad faced the biggest threat we've had, and you brought back enough materiel that the research and engineering teams are going to be busy for months."
"It was not worth the loss of a man," he replied, bitterness thickening his accent.
"It never is," she agreed. "It never is, but you're a soldier, as was Hidde. He knew what was at stake, and he made us all proud." She waited a moment, gauging the expression on his face. "So did you, Oskar. You wouldn't be wearing those stripes on your shoulders if the Commander didn't agree." She reached out for his hand, and after a moment, he extended it, letting her wrap her calloused, slender fingers around his larger hand. The contrast between her nearly black skin and his pale skin never ceased to intrigue him. She squeezed, hard, and he looked up, meeting her eyes for the first time since he'd sat down by her bed.
"It is harder, somehow," he admitted. "When I was KSK, it was human enemies. Even with the terrible things they did in Afghanistan, it wasn't so bad." Oskar clenched his fist, his jaw tightening as well, until he heard Mak make a small sound of discomfort. He relaxed his hands, and gave her an apologetic look, to which she smiled slightly. After a deep breath, he continued. "When I saw Huisman fall, I was scared," he said quietly. He glanced around to see who was near, but no one appeared to be listening in. "It was so much, I wanted to order everyone back to the LZ. We'd barely moved twenty meters, we were still outside the craft. I didn't know what else awaited within, and I didn't want anymore blood on my hands." Constance made a sound of protest, but he overrode her. "Hidde..." he paused, seeking the words. "He was quiet. Barely spoke to anyone, but always willing to help out, if needed. But on the battlefield, he was a monster. He charged in where brave men would hesitate, and he was a virtuoso with that shotgun."
"Oskar, you forget who was with you on that last mission," Constance interrupted. "I knew him, too." Lindemann nodded as she continued. "You couldn't give up, because you knew he wouldn't, in your shoes." Oskar just nodded again. He couldn't dishonor the man's sacrifice by giving up. "You know, he'd be proud of what you accomplished. This is a solid win, and Hidde's contribution helped bring it home, but it was your leadership that saw it through to completion."
Oskar just nodded again, no more words to be said. Mak seemed to know this too, and she just held his hand and closed her eyes with a small, sad smile.
-
The day room was quiet, but it wasn't empty at all. Most of the troopers were there, those not on duty or in medbay, but even the inevitable hum of packed bodies wasn't enough to cover the occasional cough. The small table by the memorial was lined with empty shot glasses, and all of the tables and chairs were occupied with small groups sitting quietly, some drinking, others talking in hushed tones, others still just sitting in silent contemplation.
Most of the troopers didn't know CPL Huisman well, but he was the first casualty since they got here. Some remembered Jensen, but they'd all been so new that his death hadn't made the same impact. Since then, there'd been injuries, even serious ones, but it had begun to seem like XCOM was invincible, that the war was inevitably theirs. Now, the reality of what they did was pinpointed by the photo on the memorial wall, and no one felt like celebrating the strategic victory that the mission represented.
Jade Colman didn't sit with any of the groups clustered around the room. She stood alone at the memorial wall, a full shot of whatever whisky had been going around clutched forgotten in her hand. She hadn't really known Hidde all that well either, but she'd been starting to. After he'd approached her the other day, she'd asked around, and learned that he didn't talk much. Most of those who'd been on mission with him expressed surprise that he'd managed to string so many words together as to actually hold a conversation, let alone the several they'd had before he'd gone on mission. She'd prattled on about rocks and geologic pressures and he'd listened without ever giving any impression that he wasn't really interested. When she'd prodded, he'd revealed small details about his life in Rotterdam, and had told her a couple stories about his brothers in Amsterdam that had her roaring with laughter. He had been a friend, and she'd thought maybe there was more.
But there was no more. Not now, not ever. No more quiet conversations. They'd never go digging around in the tunnels like they'd discussed. This was war, and war tore friends away and ended possibilities. This was the greatest enemy humanity had ever faced, and she'd be damned if Hidde died for nothing. Those bastards wouldn't win this, no matter how many others fell. With that thought ringing defiantly in her mind, Jade lifted the shot glass of whisky, raised it slightly in salute as she stared at the photograph, and drank it down in a single swallow. She placed the glass on the end of the row, then opened her other hand, looking down at what it contained. She blinked several times, then set it down on the shelf, below his picture. It was a geode, broken open so the purple and green crystalls within caught the light, casting tiny ovals of color against the wall. Jade turned away then, approaching the nearest group, who made room for her without a word. Tomorrow was another day, another battle. Tonight, however, she planned on forgetting everything.
Friday, April 10, 2015
Geodes (28 APR 2016)
PFC Jade Colman sat on her bed, towel spread out carefully below her as she worked. She picked up the knobby round rock, looking at it carefully, trying to find the right spot. After several moments of inspection, she nodded absently to herself, and picked up her rock hammer, keeping her eyes on the spot she'd selected. A couple long, slow breaths, and she brought the hammer down sharply, hearing the satisfying crack as the stone split, exactly where she'd wanted it to. She brushed the chips off of her lap, and picked up the stone to look at the freshly revealed inner surfaces.
Just as she'd expected, it was a geode, with traces of amethyst inside. She held it up, letting the overhead light catch on the tiny crystalline points inside, sparkling brightly. As she turned it back and forth, she heard a polite cough behind her. She set the stone down and turned her head to find one of the other troopers standing a respectful distance away.
"Can I help you, Corporal?" she asked.
"I did not wish to interrupt," he said somewhat diffidently, with a small smile. "I've noticed your small collection, and wanted to see how you do them."
"Oh, quite alright," she replied, smiling. "It's always nice to share my hobby." She flipped back the towel, and gestured toward the foot of the bed. "Have a sit, and you can look at this beauty I just opened up." The Corporal sat down, and she caught a glance at his nametape. Huisman. She'd seen him around, and he'd just come back with de Matos on the mission before hers. She'd heard he'd been quite the gung-ho on that mission, but in person he seemed kind of shy. She handed him the half-geode she'd just been examining, and he took it carefully, raising it to the light as she'd done.
"How do you know what will be in it?" he asked as he looked at the crystals. "The outside looks like any other stone."
"Well you never really know for sure, until you break it open," she said. "But you can usually tell a good candidate." She reached out, touching the backside of the stone he held in his hand. "Do you see here, how it's knobbed and bumpy? That, and its mostly round shape are good indicators that it's a geode."
"It is very pretty inside," he said quietly. "You wouldn't expect it with the boring exterior."
"Oh, rocks and minerals aren't boring," Jade said, excitedly. "There's just so much that most people don't realize." He turned his eyes toward her, lifting a brow and smiling slightly. Jade blushed a little. She'd often had this problem, most people weren't quite so enthusiastic about rocks. Still, he didn't seem like he was mocking her, so she continued in a more calm tone. "The processes to create various stones and such are interesting to me. For instance, you know how a diamond is formed?"
"I have read in school that they come from coal," he said.
"That's not actually true. Coal forms when carbon, from some sort of living thing, like a plant, is buried before it can decay, and then compressed over a long time into coal, which is why it burns so well. Diamond, on the other hand, is usually formed much deeper than you'll find coal, and are usually much older than the history of plant material." Huisman's gaze did not waver, but Jade started to feel a little self-conscious, and smiled and waved it off. "It's not interesting to everyone, but it's been a hobby of mine since I was a child."
"I did not know about that," Huisman said. "I am usually interested in pretty objects, so your collection of stones and crystals caught my eye. My mother used to collect such things when I was a child, back in Rotterdam."
"Oh, I got the love of stones from my father," Colman replied. "He was a geologist, always assumed I'd follow in his footsteps."
"But you became a soldier, instead?"
"Surprised everyone," she confirmed. "Even myself, a little bit."
"Why is that?" he asked, setting the rock down on the towel to listen.
"Well, I was in college, studying geology. I had a fiancé, had even moved into his flat. The future seemed pretty clear."
"So why did you enlist?"
"It was few years ago," she said, her eyes going unfocused. "I was on Easter holiday in southern France, when Merah shot and killed several people in Montauban and Toulouse. I had actually been in the shopping center the day before the attack in Montauban. It made it seem quite personal, you understand."
Huisman nodded. "So, you enlisted after that?"
"Yes," she said, her eyes coming back to the present. "I will tell you, my father and my fiancé did not take it well."
"Did you end up marrying him anyway?"
"No," she said, shaking her head and smiling wryly. "As it turned out, a girl in the Army was a little too much for his sensibilities. Last I heard, he married a first-year, who's already given him a daughter."
"Not your dream, I take it."
"Not even a little," Jade laughed. "Even if I hadn't joined up, I still would have wanted to travel, and continue my studies."
"I hear that there are a few troopers alive because of you, from that drop in Toulouse." Huisman said. Jade blushed again, but didn't bother to hide the pride in her eyes.
"Oh my, that was certainly different than my last visit, yes. A couple of the squiddies had grabbed Yusuf and Donohue. I took care of them." There was a certain malicious satisfaction as she spoke, and it made Huisman smile, and Jade smiled back.
"I'm glad you didn't settle down to be a geologist."
"Me too!"
Just as she'd expected, it was a geode, with traces of amethyst inside. She held it up, letting the overhead light catch on the tiny crystalline points inside, sparkling brightly. As she turned it back and forth, she heard a polite cough behind her. She set the stone down and turned her head to find one of the other troopers standing a respectful distance away.
"Can I help you, Corporal?" she asked.
"I did not wish to interrupt," he said somewhat diffidently, with a small smile. "I've noticed your small collection, and wanted to see how you do them."
"Oh, quite alright," she replied, smiling. "It's always nice to share my hobby." She flipped back the towel, and gestured toward the foot of the bed. "Have a sit, and you can look at this beauty I just opened up." The Corporal sat down, and she caught a glance at his nametape. Huisman. She'd seen him around, and he'd just come back with de Matos on the mission before hers. She'd heard he'd been quite the gung-ho on that mission, but in person he seemed kind of shy. She handed him the half-geode she'd just been examining, and he took it carefully, raising it to the light as she'd done.
"How do you know what will be in it?" he asked as he looked at the crystals. "The outside looks like any other stone."
"Well you never really know for sure, until you break it open," she said. "But you can usually tell a good candidate." She reached out, touching the backside of the stone he held in his hand. "Do you see here, how it's knobbed and bumpy? That, and its mostly round shape are good indicators that it's a geode."
"It is very pretty inside," he said quietly. "You wouldn't expect it with the boring exterior."
"Oh, rocks and minerals aren't boring," Jade said, excitedly. "There's just so much that most people don't realize." He turned his eyes toward her, lifting a brow and smiling slightly. Jade blushed a little. She'd often had this problem, most people weren't quite so enthusiastic about rocks. Still, he didn't seem like he was mocking her, so she continued in a more calm tone. "The processes to create various stones and such are interesting to me. For instance, you know how a diamond is formed?"
"I have read in school that they come from coal," he said.
"That's not actually true. Coal forms when carbon, from some sort of living thing, like a plant, is buried before it can decay, and then compressed over a long time into coal, which is why it burns so well. Diamond, on the other hand, is usually formed much deeper than you'll find coal, and are usually much older than the history of plant material." Huisman's gaze did not waver, but Jade started to feel a little self-conscious, and smiled and waved it off. "It's not interesting to everyone, but it's been a hobby of mine since I was a child."
"I did not know about that," Huisman said. "I am usually interested in pretty objects, so your collection of stones and crystals caught my eye. My mother used to collect such things when I was a child, back in Rotterdam."
"Oh, I got the love of stones from my father," Colman replied. "He was a geologist, always assumed I'd follow in his footsteps."
"But you became a soldier, instead?"
"Surprised everyone," she confirmed. "Even myself, a little bit."
"Why is that?" he asked, setting the rock down on the towel to listen.
"Well, I was in college, studying geology. I had a fiancé, had even moved into his flat. The future seemed pretty clear."
"So why did you enlist?"
"It was few years ago," she said, her eyes going unfocused. "I was on Easter holiday in southern France, when Merah shot and killed several people in Montauban and Toulouse. I had actually been in the shopping center the day before the attack in Montauban. It made it seem quite personal, you understand."
Huisman nodded. "So, you enlisted after that?"
"Yes," she said, her eyes coming back to the present. "I will tell you, my father and my fiancé did not take it well."
"Did you end up marrying him anyway?"
"No," she said, shaking her head and smiling wryly. "As it turned out, a girl in the Army was a little too much for his sensibilities. Last I heard, he married a first-year, who's already given him a daughter."
"Not your dream, I take it."
"Not even a little," Jade laughed. "Even if I hadn't joined up, I still would have wanted to travel, and continue my studies."
"I hear that there are a few troopers alive because of you, from that drop in Toulouse." Huisman said. Jade blushed again, but didn't bother to hide the pride in her eyes.
"Oh my, that was certainly different than my last visit, yes. A couple of the squiddies had grabbed Yusuf and Donohue. I took care of them." There was a certain malicious satisfaction as she spoke, and it made Huisman smile, and Jade smiled back.
"I'm glad you didn't settle down to be a geologist."
"Me too!"
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
Gallows Humor (27 APR 2016)
The medical bay was pretty full, but most of the personnel present were visitors, not patients. That was something to be thankful for, Bradford reflected. Four injured, plus CPL Makhandule admitted for enforced bedrest, after her collapse. The Commander hadn't wanted to send her back out again, but without knowing what they'd be facing, he'd wanted the best he had available, and she was the best Rocketeer they had. She'd more than earned her corporal stripes. Bradford stood off to the side of the doorway, watching the buzzing activity for a bit longer before he turned to go.
IO Pidgeon leaned back in his chair, smiling. Ward was so wrapped up he could barely move, and he was still cracking jokes. Pidgeon had come to ghost-write a letter to Mike, since Ward wouldn't be holding a pen for another couple of weeks, and he wasn't entirely sure that the things Ward was dictating weren't at least partially to make him blush.
"Sign it," Parsons paused, considering. "With burning passion and dreams of-"
"Ward!" Pidgeon exclaimed, dropping the pen, "I'm not writing that! You wait until you can write your own smut." Parsons laughed, and tried to raise an apologetic hand.
"I'm kidding," he after the laughter had died off into a series of wheezing coughs. "Sign it, 'With all my love, W', then a couple Xs and Os." Pidgeon rolled his eyes and jotted it down.
"There," he replied, carefully tearing the pages out of the notepad. " You want to proofread?"
"Nah, I trust you, mate," Parsons replied. "Thanks a bunch for doing this. Mike would probably flip if he didn't get a letter this week, so soon after we got permission to start sending mail."
"It's no problem," Pidgeon said, carefully folding the paper to fit an envelope. "So, hey, I have a question."
"Shoot."
"After the mission, I heard several of the others referring to you as Shroud?"
"That's... not a question, mate." Parsons replied after a brief pause. "You want to know why?"
"Yeah."
"Mak tells me it was because my shots just seemed to come out of the darkness, during the last mission. I was on the rooftop, overwatching the battle, with my marksman rifle."
"So, shroud?"
"Yeah," Parsons confirmed, then chuckled. "Course, that's not what Faber tells me."
"What'd she say?" Pidgeon inquired, raising a brow.
"She said it was because they were pretty sure I was dead, when they got me onto the Skyranger," Parsons said with a grin. "Said I was ready for a burial shroud."
"That's horrible!" Pidgeon's eyes widened. "Why would she say something like that?"
"Relax, mate," Parsons returned. "It's just the sort of jokes you make in that sort of situation. It's called gallows humor, and it has a history going back all the way."
"Why?"
"Cause you might die any time you go out," Parsons explained, picking his words carefully, the smile gone from his face. "You can't just stare that in the face without blinking. So, you joke. The jokes may never be funny for anyone who hasn't been there, but they're a damned sight funnier than dwelling on death and pain all the time."
"I guess I can understand that," Pidgeon replied.
IO Pidgeon leaned back in his chair, smiling. Ward was so wrapped up he could barely move, and he was still cracking jokes. Pidgeon had come to ghost-write a letter to Mike, since Ward wouldn't be holding a pen for another couple of weeks, and he wasn't entirely sure that the things Ward was dictating weren't at least partially to make him blush.
"Sign it," Parsons paused, considering. "With burning passion and dreams of-"
"Ward!" Pidgeon exclaimed, dropping the pen, "I'm not writing that! You wait until you can write your own smut." Parsons laughed, and tried to raise an apologetic hand.
"I'm kidding," he after the laughter had died off into a series of wheezing coughs. "Sign it, 'With all my love, W', then a couple Xs and Os." Pidgeon rolled his eyes and jotted it down.
"There," he replied, carefully tearing the pages out of the notepad. " You want to proofread?"
"Nah, I trust you, mate," Parsons replied. "Thanks a bunch for doing this. Mike would probably flip if he didn't get a letter this week, so soon after we got permission to start sending mail."
"It's no problem," Pidgeon said, carefully folding the paper to fit an envelope. "So, hey, I have a question."
"Shoot."
"After the mission, I heard several of the others referring to you as Shroud?"
"That's... not a question, mate." Parsons replied after a brief pause. "You want to know why?"
"Yeah."
"Mak tells me it was because my shots just seemed to come out of the darkness, during the last mission. I was on the rooftop, overwatching the battle, with my marksman rifle."
"So, shroud?"
"Yeah," Parsons confirmed, then chuckled. "Course, that's not what Faber tells me."
"What'd she say?" Pidgeon inquired, raising a brow.
"She said it was because they were pretty sure I was dead, when they got me onto the Skyranger," Parsons said with a grin. "Said I was ready for a burial shroud."
"That's horrible!" Pidgeon's eyes widened. "Why would she say something like that?"
"Relax, mate," Parsons returned. "It's just the sort of jokes you make in that sort of situation. It's called gallows humor, and it has a history going back all the way."
"Why?"
"Cause you might die any time you go out," Parsons explained, picking his words carefully, the smile gone from his face. "You can't just stare that in the face without blinking. So, you joke. The jokes may never be funny for anyone who hasn't been there, but they're a damned sight funnier than dwelling on death and pain all the time."
"I guess I can understand that," Pidgeon replied.
Thursday, April 2, 2015
Echoes (22 APR 2016)
This was not, Corporal Lindemann reflected, the worst thing he'd had to do in the military, but it was near the bottom of the list. He re-crossed his arms and shifted around so the outcrop didn't dig into his shoulder as much, and eyeballed the group of privates toiling away before him. He didn't guess he really blamed them, but he'd be damned if he let them see that.
Nearly two months had passed since they'd arrived, and these troops still hadn't been out of the HQ. Lindemann had been out three times on mission, and even he felt a little stir crazy. He'd been spending more and more time in the hangar with Constance, just so he could get a look at the sky regularly. No, he didn't blame them at all for cutting loose a little bit.
It had all started a few days ago, before the latest abduction. Glynn and Oksenov had started talking smack back and forth, both of them expecting to be selected for the next mission, each bragging about how many X-Rays they'd bag. With only ten troopers left who'd yet to go on mission, their chances were good. The rivalry got a little out of hand, and they'd ended up tussling on the floor of the barracks, and had to be broken up by their peers.
When they'd received the mission alert, neither one of them were on the roster. That night, while Parsons and his squad were in Australia, they'd convinced the rest of the privates to conspire in the prank. It'd been a pretty good one, as such things went, but they'd been sloppy, and got caught laughing about it in the day room afterward. Steps had to be taken, mostly to assuage the outrage from the kitchens. Sectoid fingers didn't look that much like spaghetti, anyway.
De Abreu set his shovel aside, and arched his back, producing several audible pops. Oskar winced at the sound and shifted again. As he did, he caught movement coming up the corridor behind him, and turned swiftly, his whole body alert and ready. He needn't have bothered, he realized a moment later as he realized it was another trooper approaching. Unfortunately, it was far too early for SPC de Matos to take over on supervising the punitive detail. He squinted in the dim light as she approached.
"Who comes?" he called in a challenging voice. The woman paused, obviously not having expected to be challenged, then adjusted her path slightly toward him.
"PFC Colman," she replied. "What are you doing down here?" After a second, she seemed to recognize him, because she quickly added "Corporal," and drew herself up. "Apologies, I did not know you at first."
"I should put the same question to you," he said, bristling a little bit. "This is a punitive detail, and you're neither on the detail, nor are you scheduled to supervise."
"I didn't even know this was going on," she replied, hands raised in defense. "It's usually just the engineers. I made friends, and they usually let me come sift through the excavation piles for interesting stones and rocks. It's kind of my hobby." As she spoke, Oskar relaxed a little bit. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary.
"Well, it's not a good time, now," he said, tossing his head back over his shoulder at the laboring troopers. "These idiots decided it'd be fun to play pranks, so they're working it off." Colman glanced past him, then turned her eyes back toward him, a slight glimmer appearing there.
"Is this about the spaghetti?" she asked. "I heard the kitchens were in an uproar." Oskar didn't say anything, but she must have read confirmation from his expression, and she giggled under her breath, a surprisingly throaty sound. "I wish I could have seen their faces on that one."
Lindemann allowed himself a brief smile, though he kept any amusement out of his tone. "Biological research material doesn't belong in food service areas. Who knows what could have happened?"
"Yeah," she agreed after a moment, then leaned against the wall. "Bet it's no fun having to stand watch, eh? You didn't even do anything wrong."
"Rank has its punishments," he replied. He was the first to achieve the lofty rank of Corporal, which meant he was at least nominally in charge of the barracks. It was an honor, but a dubious one.
"Privileges, too?" Colman replied. "I did note that you got to customize your gear a bit, when I was in the readiness room last."
"Ja," he confirmed. "I've been told it's something of a tradition."
"What's Armarnis?" she asked, shifting her weight. The stone of the wall didn't agree with her, either.
"It's a bit of a long story," Oskar demurred.
"Well, if I'm not allowed to dig through the excavation site, and you're not allowed to leave until your relief shows up, it seems like we've got some time, Corporal."
"I suppose that is so," Oskar shrugged. "It came from my time in Afghanistan. My team was part of a joint operations task force, and I had a workout buddy from Iceland. He'd run for an hour straight, never seemed to phase him, while I usually stuck to lifting." He paused, thinking about it, remembering. "I used to call him Langbein because he was tall, and ran so often." Seeing her confusion, he elaborated. "Langbein is long legs in German. In return, he'd call me Armarnis. I didn't know for a while what it meant, and he'd never explain. After a while, it just stuck, and others started using the same nickname. It wasn't until after he went MIA on mission that I bothered to actually look it up. It should have been obvious, of course."
"Big arms?" she guessed.
"Nein, just arms." Oskar looked back into the cavern where the men toiled, but his thoughts were far away. "I never saw him again, they never found a body. I've kept the nickname since, in memory."
"Makes sense," Colman replied quietly. For several minutes, the two of them just stood there in silence, with only the sound of the picks and shovels echoing through the cavern. After a while, Colman quietly excused herself, leaving Oskar there to watch the troopers.
Suddenly, claxons began to sound, deafening in the enclosed caverns. Oskar listened carefully to the pattern, until he was certain. It was the All-hands alert, which meant everyone needed to be in the barracks, ready to be called. They'd only heard it once, during orientation. This was the first time it'd been sounded in earnest.
"Shovels down," he roared above the din. "Get to the lift, everyone to the barracks."
Nearly two months had passed since they'd arrived, and these troops still hadn't been out of the HQ. Lindemann had been out three times on mission, and even he felt a little stir crazy. He'd been spending more and more time in the hangar with Constance, just so he could get a look at the sky regularly. No, he didn't blame them at all for cutting loose a little bit.
It had all started a few days ago, before the latest abduction. Glynn and Oksenov had started talking smack back and forth, both of them expecting to be selected for the next mission, each bragging about how many X-Rays they'd bag. With only ten troopers left who'd yet to go on mission, their chances were good. The rivalry got a little out of hand, and they'd ended up tussling on the floor of the barracks, and had to be broken up by their peers.
When they'd received the mission alert, neither one of them were on the roster. That night, while Parsons and his squad were in Australia, they'd convinced the rest of the privates to conspire in the prank. It'd been a pretty good one, as such things went, but they'd been sloppy, and got caught laughing about it in the day room afterward. Steps had to be taken, mostly to assuage the outrage from the kitchens. Sectoid fingers didn't look that much like spaghetti, anyway.
De Abreu set his shovel aside, and arched his back, producing several audible pops. Oskar winced at the sound and shifted again. As he did, he caught movement coming up the corridor behind him, and turned swiftly, his whole body alert and ready. He needn't have bothered, he realized a moment later as he realized it was another trooper approaching. Unfortunately, it was far too early for SPC de Matos to take over on supervising the punitive detail. He squinted in the dim light as she approached.
"Who comes?" he called in a challenging voice. The woman paused, obviously not having expected to be challenged, then adjusted her path slightly toward him.
"PFC Colman," she replied. "What are you doing down here?" After a second, she seemed to recognize him, because she quickly added "Corporal," and drew herself up. "Apologies, I did not know you at first."
"I should put the same question to you," he said, bristling a little bit. "This is a punitive detail, and you're neither on the detail, nor are you scheduled to supervise."
"I didn't even know this was going on," she replied, hands raised in defense. "It's usually just the engineers. I made friends, and they usually let me come sift through the excavation piles for interesting stones and rocks. It's kind of my hobby." As she spoke, Oskar relaxed a little bit. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary.
"Well, it's not a good time, now," he said, tossing his head back over his shoulder at the laboring troopers. "These idiots decided it'd be fun to play pranks, so they're working it off." Colman glanced past him, then turned her eyes back toward him, a slight glimmer appearing there.
"Is this about the spaghetti?" she asked. "I heard the kitchens were in an uproar." Oskar didn't say anything, but she must have read confirmation from his expression, and she giggled under her breath, a surprisingly throaty sound. "I wish I could have seen their faces on that one."
Lindemann allowed himself a brief smile, though he kept any amusement out of his tone. "Biological research material doesn't belong in food service areas. Who knows what could have happened?"
"Yeah," she agreed after a moment, then leaned against the wall. "Bet it's no fun having to stand watch, eh? You didn't even do anything wrong."
"Rank has its punishments," he replied. He was the first to achieve the lofty rank of Corporal, which meant he was at least nominally in charge of the barracks. It was an honor, but a dubious one.
"Privileges, too?" Colman replied. "I did note that you got to customize your gear a bit, when I was in the readiness room last."
"Ja," he confirmed. "I've been told it's something of a tradition."
"What's Armarnis?" she asked, shifting her weight. The stone of the wall didn't agree with her, either.
"It's a bit of a long story," Oskar demurred.
"Well, if I'm not allowed to dig through the excavation site, and you're not allowed to leave until your relief shows up, it seems like we've got some time, Corporal."
"I suppose that is so," Oskar shrugged. "It came from my time in Afghanistan. My team was part of a joint operations task force, and I had a workout buddy from Iceland. He'd run for an hour straight, never seemed to phase him, while I usually stuck to lifting." He paused, thinking about it, remembering. "I used to call him Langbein because he was tall, and ran so often." Seeing her confusion, he elaborated. "Langbein is long legs in German. In return, he'd call me Armarnis. I didn't know for a while what it meant, and he'd never explain. After a while, it just stuck, and others started using the same nickname. It wasn't until after he went MIA on mission that I bothered to actually look it up. It should have been obvious, of course."
"Big arms?" she guessed.
"Nein, just arms." Oskar looked back into the cavern where the men toiled, but his thoughts were far away. "I never saw him again, they never found a body. I've kept the nickname since, in memory."
"Makes sense," Colman replied quietly. For several minutes, the two of them just stood there in silence, with only the sound of the picks and shovels echoing through the cavern. After a while, Colman quietly excused herself, leaving Oskar there to watch the troopers.
Suddenly, claxons began to sound, deafening in the enclosed caverns. Oskar listened carefully to the pattern, until he was certain. It was the All-hands alert, which meant everyone needed to be in the barracks, ready to be called. They'd only heard it once, during orientation. This was the first time it'd been sounded in earnest.
"Shovels down," he roared above the din. "Get to the lift, everyone to the barracks."
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