An Unwelcome Development

Uh, about that…O'h never mind! ;-)

 

Just when I think this story can't get any better...
In the words of the immortal Gomer Pyle;
SURprise surprise surprise...

 

Phew! *wipes sweat from brow*
This book has a different flavor from the first, as we move from raw survival mode into consolidation and power struggles.
I have been worried that there wasn't enough action, and that the book wouldn't hold reader's attention.

 

It's holding our attention....keep going with it.

 

The only thing missing is The Fedmen coming over the horizon in sailing ships w/cannon...
(Keep up the good work sir, no way this could ever be 'boring'...)
Speaking of cannons... you need blacksmiths/gunsmiths and 'chemists' in your army if Zed is to dominate long term, under a unification flag. Not the stars and stripes(revulsion factor), maybe the cross of St. Andrew.

 

Flags…yes, I have an idea! ;-)

 

Wow, I'm 139 posts behind on this story. I've got some catching up to do.
Women. Best/worst distraction ever.

HD

 

great story zen

 

“Be careful of that!” one of the day laborers was handling the backpack sprayer haphazardly as he loaded it into the vehicle. My day had started at the compound, gathering up the items on the shopping list that Sadie and I put together the previous night and the sprayer was one of them.

I had a quick confab with Lavelle and Jacob. They'd been spending more time with the trainees than me, so I relied heavily on their opinion as to who we would take with us. We ended up with eleven and I left it to them to slot them into the existing teams.

I was taking all of them with me, leaving a bare bones security force behind. It was a calculated risk, leaving our two communities with such little coverage, but I needed as big a force as I could muster, they'd only be gone for a day or two, and I just didn't see anyone constituting a threat big enough that a handful of our people, behind our defensive works, couldn't handle.
Later, as we left our homes behind, an itch developed between my shoulder blades. I tried hard to convince myself didn't mean anything.

The sun was three fingers above the eastern horizon by the time we were all loaded, men and materiel. Looking over the people, they displayed a range of emotion. There was an element of pride that goes with being part of a solid team setting out to do good work. Looking past the group dynamic, I saw a stoic, keeping his own council, several 'chatty Kathies', talking, their outlet for built up tension. More than one set of rosaries made their endless loop past fingers that might later be stroking triggers instead. The instructor corner of my brain wondered briefly if the beads might have an application in training. I shut him up by telling him to bring it up later and we'd discuss it then.

I stood on the door sill of my Jeep, letting my people see me, as they passed in review, sitting ramrod straight in the back of Alphonso's safari bus. Lavell rode shotgun and got a devilish grin as he caught my eye. He plugged a cable from a small device in his palm, into the truck's dash, and a moment later, the PA system mounted in the truck which a half dozen weeks ago was telling tourists about various points of interest along their tour, now pounded out Led Zeppelin's “The Immigrant Song”
I shook my head, unable to repress a grin as I watched a truckful of Afro-Caribbean folks singing a English rock band's song about Vikings.
“We come from the land of ice and snow...”

That might have seemed incongruous to me before I moved here, preconceived ideas and all, but I've found many people of the eastern Caribbean have pretty eclectic taste in music. Lavell's grin was a clue that maybe there was some premeditation involved. Anything to get a rise from the boss.

My mind drifted on the drive from the compound to my neighborhood, as it often does. I do some of my best thinking while I'm driving, something about the mindlessness of the activity and the repetitive low frequency noise working together to set up a zen state. I was transported back four and a half decades, memories of my dad asking me what allowed the pyramids to be built.
I gave the rote answer of levers and inclines and wheels and slave labor. When I was through he shook his head. Mystified and miffed that my correct answer was wrong, I demanded his answer.
“Music”
“What?! How can music build pyramids?”
“It gets people to work together in harmony. It focuses them on the task, the rhythm consolidates their individual, relatively weak force into one large strong one. It sets the mood. Music transports you. It can lift you to incredible heights or bring you to the lowest of lows.”
That lesson, like many of his, stuck with me through my entire life, popping up at times like these.
My thoughts shifted, thinking of various songs, how they made me feel, events they were inexorably tied to, for good or bad. The thread moved back to music as a tool, and on to the battlefield. Drums have traveled with armies for millennia. Lacking that, stamping feet and clashing weapons on shields built stout hearts on one side while making them quail on the other. As the thread unwove, twisting this way and that, I chuckled at the thought of things coming full circle and modern day riot police forming shield walls and stomping feet and chanting repetitively just like their forefathers four or more thousand years ago.
“What's funny?”
I snapped out of my reverie and looked at Sadie.
“Huh?” Clueless.
“You just chuckled. What was so funny?”
“Nothing.” I wasn't going to explain the whole thing to her. “Just thinking about how history repeats itself.” That seemed to satisfy her and I drifted right back to where I'd left off.
Sort of.
Want to see me cry? Play the national anthem while I'm looking at Ol' Glory. Even though I'm fully aware of the process, I'm as prone to nationalistic fervor as the next guy. Often times “Amazing Grace” is played at the same event, a memorial of some sort, frequently by the mournful droning of bagpipes. Which brought me back to the battlefield and a time before the cross of St. Andrew was added to St. George's making Britain great. The otherworldly, unnatural caterwauling cacophony of the bagpipes that the kilted warriors brought to battle, so unsettled the English soldiers that parliament outlawed them as 'weapons of war'.
A double set of curves came up and Alphonso slowed the safari bus to negotiate them. I closed the distance and the bass beat covered the distance. I couldn't make out the rest of the song, but I realized that after a few seconds it low vibrations grabbed me at a sub concious level my nodding head keeping time.
Low booming speaks to us at a level where we have little control over it. My mental thread ended with thoughts of Jim Jones, who used drums and bass in his rallies, mesmerizing the masses. So powerful was it that people gave up all they had, even unto themselves, shifting their lives to a raw settlement in the jungle of Central America. Powerful enough to get them 'drink the kool-aide'.
And those were my thoughts as we made the turn off the main road, dropping down into our neighborhood. On top of everything else, I needed to worry about the ethical use of music. It's power was too much to forego entirely. Or was it? I'd done plenty of other things to manipulate people. Of course it was for their own good. The collective good of the survival of our little community. From little things like using proximics and body language to bigger things like using rewards like praise, or food to get people to do what I wanted, what we needed them to do.
What was one more thing?
Just the fact that I was worried about it was enough, right?
Right?
I pulled the Jeep in next to Alphonso's truck. The stereo was still going, the people still singing.
“ Buffalo Soldier, Dreadlock Rasta. Fighting on arrival, fighting for survival. Driven from the mainland, to the heart of the Caribbean.”
Sighing, I put the lever in park, grabbed my rifle and got out of the Jeep.

 

Thanks Zen.

 

thanks Zen,great story

 

We lov u lon time, bring $5 girl! ;-)

 

There was a lot of activity in the yard in front of Jacob's house. No loitering, but people on the move. Entering and leaving the building. Walking toward the building, I realized that there were a lot of faces that I didn't recognize. They looked at me blankly, not showing any recognition and no more interest than that generated by the arrival of a safari bus filled with armed people.
I found this disquieting but hadn't had a chance to examine why, when I was stopped by someone I did know. “Good morning, Mrs. Smith!” I smiled at the deacon's wife, relief at seeing a known person adding to the pleasure of greeting someone that I liked.
“Good morning Zed!” a broad smile that crinkled her eyes lit up her face. “I know you all are busy helping others, but we do miss having you around. Although I must say that Mr. Shaffley is filling in for you very well.”
“Oh?” surprise and concern prevented a more cogent response.
“Oh yes! He's always busy, helping. He sent a group of people over to help with our meeting house and he attends most of our meetings, when he can make time. Sits right up front where everyone can see him. Showing a good example to the other folk.”
“Yes, it's important that everyone sees him.” Mrs. Smith didn't notice my snark. I switched topics. “Who are all these people? I don't recognize many of them?”
“We've been getting a good amount of people in need. It's hard to think of your neighbors as refugees. We've been doing what we can for them, and by your excellent example, they've been helping us too, doing what they can with what talents the Good Lord has blessed them with.”
Her unabashed faith in a God of Good Works might be missplaced, but she so fully exuded kindness and optimism, that I found myself with a smile of my own. She took my hands in both of hers. “May the Lord bless you and Sadie for all the sacrifices you are making and the good that you are doing. I pray that he gives you the strength to carry on.” She presented a cheek which I dutifully leaned down to kiss, giving her hands an affectionate squeeze. Thanking her, we parted ways.

Shaffley was sitting at the desk when I entered. Fiona was leaning over, talking to him, her clothes looking about to lose their battle to contain her assets. They both made a point of taking their time to finish up their conversation before noticing me. Two vehicles pulling up into the yard wouldn't have escaped their attention, my appearance wasn't a surprise. This was a powerplay. Like the boss that makes you wait half an hour to see him even though he's not really busy.
“You're spending an awful lot of time behind that desk.” I kicked myself after the words left my mouth. I was letting him and his game get to me.
“Just filling in while you're gone. Trying to keep the good work you started moving forward.”
Fiona smirked at me and gave Mark an admiring look. “When will you be back with us?”
Shaffley was playing it well. There were several people in the room who were trying hard to look like they weren't paying attention to us. Mark sounded totally sincere. To the point that I started to doubt myself. I softened my tone.
“We've made a good start with the Kirwin Terrace and I thought I could start spending more time here. But the Palestinians have asked for my help to deal with the Guardsmen. If that goes well, we should be able to come home in several days.” Mark's expression didn't change when I used the new name for what used to be the National Guard. He was obviously familiar with it. He also didn't offer to help us deal with them.
Not that I wanted his help.
“Lot's of new faces around here.”
“Yes!” Mark straightened, sitting up in the chair, elbows on the table, weight forward, eager. “The program you started is going well. We have people coming in looking for help.” he gestured at the piles of paper on the desk. “I've started a file on everyone. What skills and talents they have, so I can best put them to work that fits them.” The pride was evident. He was pleased with the work he'd done. “It'll all be ship-shape when you get back.” A micro expression slid across his face. I almost missed it, and wasn't sure what to make of it.

Before I had a chance to contemplate its meeting, our attention was drawn to the door as several people entered, Lavell, Sadie, and Jacob. Lavell stopped short, I guess in surprise at seeing Shaffley behind the desk, almost causing a pile up as Sadie and Jacob almost ran into his back. They arranged themselves in a small semi circle facing us.

“We're all set Zed, got all the people and gear gathered up and loaded in the vehicles. Just waiting on you.” I nodded understanding at Lavell's report.
“People?” Shaffley looked surprised and worried. Lavell looked at me and I turned to Mark. “we're taking most of the guard force with us. We're leaving Maria in charge of a small group that should be enough to keep the community safe for the day or two that we are gone.”

This development had caught him off guard and he struggled with a response. Looking around at the people in the room, knowing he was playing to an audience. Unfortunately it wasn't an homogenous group and that made it harder for him to know how to respond. He took the safe path. “Oh, right. Sure. Of course.” He temporized, spooling up. “The people you were asking for to help the Palestinians. Cool. We'll be fine while you're gone. I'll put myself in the guard rotation to help out.”
I shook my head, half admiring how quickly he turned that around. Jacob saw a break and took it. “I'm going to get something from my room” He gave Fiona a meaningful look and headed down the hallway. She pause a moment, made up her mind, and followed a second behind.

The look on Mark's face as his eyes followed Fiona down the hallway made the trip in here with its unpleasant interaction, worthwhile. Having no other business in the HQ, I waved goodbye to Shaffley as I turned and headed out the door, the others following after.
We'd made it as far as the porch when raised voices and thrown objects told us how Jacob and Fiona's conversation was progressing.
“Shouldn't we make sure everthing is OK?” Lavell's concern evident in his posture, leaning back towards the door.
“Every is very much not OK.” If I'd had to guess, care for Jacob was wrestling with glee at Fiona's sticky situation in Sadie's mind. She continued, “which is why they need a chance to talk.”
“That's not talking.”
“Semantics. You know what I meant. What are you so worried about, anyway?”
“Things are already getting thrown. One of them could get hurt.”
“They won't. Not physically, anyway.”
Lavell looked to me to back him up. “What if he kills her?”
I shrugged. “I very much doubt that he will lay a hand on her. But, if he does, that would be a piece of information I'd like to know.”
Lavell cocked his head back, surprised at my answer. Or the manner in which I delivered it. “At the cost of a person's life?”
“They're both adults. Responsible for themselves and their actions. They are both aware that what they do has consequences. Who am I to interfere in that?”

Our debate was cut short by Jacob's appearance. We watched as he approached, looking absolutely normal. He walked past us and took his place in the Jeep. Lavell looked back at me. “You lucked out. That could have gone sideways and gotten very messy. Especially with whatever it is going on with you and that Shaffley.”
I stepped in, hand on shoulder. Connection was important. “It was a risk, sure, but I was very confident in how it would go. We've talked about it. And it was critical that he knew that he had my confidence. As I just said, actions have consequences, even distrust. Maybe especially distrust.

 

It's long past time to kill him! ;-)

 

yes.....thanks zen

 

Ok.
I'm ready to post the next section. It's going to be a bear to get it all shifted over here...
It's 12,700 words. The average novel is 60-80k and my normal postings are 15-2500 to give you some idea.

Get up, go use the bathroom, get a couple of coffee, a snack to sustain you and buckle up. it's going to get a bit bumpy...

“So, you're clear on what you need to do? Any questions? Anything I've forgotten?” Mid morning found us back at Captain Montaigne's outpost, getting ready for a hectic day of preparation and training.
“No. We're good.” Lavell stood with his team, ready to depart. I looked them over, five soldiers ready to go in harm's way. I'd let Lavell pick his crew and he'd done well, solid performers who'd been through previous battles with us. I'd feel comfortable having any of them fighting next to me.
“Daniels.” He'd been kneeling next to his gear, double checking he had what he needed. He looked up at Lavell when his name was called. “Go over our mission profile for us.”
Daniels closed the hard case and stood, dusting off his hands on his pants, more to collect his thoughts than to clean any dirt off of them. “Travel via the most likely route that the Guardsmen will take, scout out a primary ambush site, a secondary site, fall back positions, prepare fighting positions for the follow up forces, and start collecting intell.” He looked at me as he finished.
“Good man. Are we forgetting anything?”
He thought for a moment, eyes down and left, working into a slow head shake, then he shrugged and met my eye. “Probably. But nothing important. We're good to go.”

I turned back to Lavell. “My tax dollars paid for your training as a scout. Good to know I'm finally getting something for my hard earned money.” I gave him a lopsided grin. His people chuckled dutifully.
“That's something I don't miss about the old days.”
“What's that? Scouting?”
“No. Paying taxes.” The group chuckled again, a bit more honestly. But there was an awkward pause, Lavell's joke reminding us that there were 'old days' and the transition to our new normal had not been a pleasant one.
“Well, don't worry. Taxes are inevitable. You'll be paying them again before you know it.” The chuckling changed to groans at the thought of being subjected to the universally despised. burden.
“On that note. . .” Lavell held out his hand and we shook. A gesture that I extended to each member as the filed past me on the way to their vehicle.

Lyle, Juice, and Stan had assembled our rag-tag group and was working on organizing them. The basis of that organization incorporated the people we'd been training at the housing community, folks from the Captain's group, and the Palestinians into the existing fire teams lead by my three group leaders. Each team had five or six soldiers that had fought in at least one, if not more, battles, had the most training, and some time working as cohesive units. Those people would in essence, become corporals, fire team leaders. They'd add backbone to their groups.

We had just a couple of short hours to build these teams formed from four disparate groups into a cohesive fighting force. I'd spent some time thinking about it over the last day and had a plan. Now to see how well it would work.

“Ok! Listen up!” Coversations trickled to a stop as faces turned towards me. I stood on the bumper of my jeep so everyone could see me. “You've been formed into teams. We have part of a day to get you ready to fight the Guardsmen. To get you ready to fight to protect your families, your new, struggling communities. You are working hard to put things back together and the Guardsmen want to take that from you. They want you to work for them. To be their slaves. Will you let them do that?”
“No!” The response was ragged, a bunch of individuals responding. That would not do.
“Will. You. Let. Them?” I met eyes with each word. Boring into them. Challenging them.
“NO!” This response was better. More cohesive. Yes, I was trying to motivate them, but I was also taking the very first steps in making them a team. An entity of its own. Remember that 'corps' means 'body. But then, so does 'corpse'.

“Look around you. There are people you know, some you don't. Perfect strangers. Who will you fight harder for, friends, strangers?”
We were back to a disorganized response.
“Friends, or strangers?” I prompted, glaring at them once more, adding just a pinch of disdain and disapproval. They didn't have to like me.
“FRIENDS!” They were starting to catch on.
“That's right. Soldiers don't fight for their countries. They fight for their friends. They fight for person next to them that they have shared experiences with that form and inform them. Today you will start to build relationships with people that you've never met before, relationships that will be stronger than any other you will have with anyone else, whether it is your wife or husband or child. And here is how we start. You have five minutes to introduce yourselves to the other members of your teams. Go!”

They milled about, a low murmur building. Really? I took a deep breath all the way into the very bottom of my belly, back arched, and bellowed, “GO!”
The silence was immediate. Some braved a look at me, but most didn't, shocked into stupidity.
“Four minutes, thirty seconds!” My follow up got them moving towards their team leaders who finally got a clue and started rounding them up. I felt bad for not giving them a heads up, but they needed to start anticipating and working on their own initiative.

“You've got your work cut out for you.” Montaigne and his shadow, Raoul, still sporting the tactical sloppy look, joined me, watching the interactions of the people as they introduced themselves to their teammates.
“Take half a hundred newbies, mix them with a couple dozen vets, shake, don't stir, and have them ready for combat in twenty four hours. Piece of cake!” My poor attempt at an stiff upper lip British accent added to the absurd humor of my response. My old friends chuckled.
Raoul looked over the milling masses, measuring them. “I'm surprised the Arabs aren't all in the same team.”
“Oh, that's what they wanted, no doubt.”
“You couldn't fully trust them, if you did.” Montaigne mentioned one of the reasons that I'd spread out the twenty two young Palestinian men as evenly as I could among the teams.
“Not only a trust issue, but one of integration and to subsume them so that they and we don't see them as 'others'.” I took a deep breath and yelled, “Two minutes!”
There was a brief lull as the milling mass listened to my warning then went back at it with a renewed vigor.
“What's the most powerful weapon on the battlefield?” I turned to face the captain at his seemingly out of place question.
“The radio.” I answered. It lets you coordinate your forces, and call in air support and artillery.”
“Here, I thought these might come in handy.” the captain handed me a plastic shopping bag. I pulled out one of the large blister packs it contained.
“Perfect! Thank you!” A couple of months ago, the two pack of family band radios would have cost about fifty bucks. Now they were priceless. Literally. They were irreplaceable. We certainly couldn't manufacture replacements. I wondered how long it would be before anyone was able to do so. A small, previously inexpensive item that I'd wished I'd stocked up on.
I shoved it back into the bag that contained two other identical packages. I'd have Daniels set them up later. Oh. Wait. Daniels wasn't here. Oh well, something would occur to me.
“I figured they'd come in handy, coordinating your people tomorrow. We had a full case of them in the warehouse. There's also a thirty six pack of AA batteries in there. That should see you through the next little while.”
“I do appreciate it.” We shook hands and then I turned to the group. “TIME!”
Lyle, Stan, and Juice had separated their groups for the meet and greet exercise. They watched tentatively as I approached. Heading for Juice's team first, I picked one of his original members. Pointing to one of the new people I asked, “Who is this?” Without hesitation he replied, “Jackson!”
“Jackson”
“Yes sir!”
“Who was that?”
“Gumbs, sir!”
I nodded my head. “Good.” I moved to Stan's team and repeated the process. But while the veteran knew the newbie's name, he couldn't reciprocate. I got in his face. “Down and give me twenty!”
He looked at me, trembling slightly. He didn't have to like me, I reminded myself. “What seems to be your major malfunction? Haven't you ever seen “Full Metal Jacket”?”
“Ye..yes.”
“Yes what?!”
“Yes sir.”
“When I tell you to drop and give me twenty, to what do you think I am referring?”
“Push ups?”
“Push ups, what?”
“Push ups, sir.”
“Then why are you still standing there, wasting my time?”
It was comical, how fast he dropped, anything to get me out of his face. By force of will I managed to keep any expression from my face. A smile, let alone the belly laugh I wanted to let rip would ruin everything I'd done so far.
I found several more violations as I moved among the group. They got much better at dropping and pumping out the push ups without so much prompting. I noticed some whispering, as people quickly tried to rectify lapses in their introductions.
“QUIET! If you haven't learned your team mates name by now, it's too late. You'll have to pay for your failure to prepare. This is not a game, people! When I, or my leaders, give you instructions, you need to follow them. If you waste time, if you fail to follow orders, if you don't use the time allotted to you to prepare, the consequences will be much worse than having an old white guy spitting in your face as he yells at you and makes your sorry ass do push ups! People will die! You will die! Your best chance at survival is to do as you are told, when you are told.”

I had everyone's attention. “I know some of you are regretting volunteering for this little army we are putting together. You are thinking, “I could be at home with my wife or my girlfriend, or both.” That earned me some cautious laughter. “And you are right. But it wouldn't last. Sooner or later, the bad guys will find you, hiding in your house. They will kill you and rape your women. Hopefully in that order so you don't have to watch. This, right here, is your best chance of survival in a crappy situation. This is the best chance of survival for your family. Remember that”
I stood, hands on hips, as I made eye contact with every last one of them. “Remember that.” I repeated, letting them stew a moment. “If you don't want to be here, leave. Now.” I paused, staring them down.
“NOW!”
“GO!”
Feet shuffled, expelling awkward feelings into the ground. Heads hung, eyes peeked from under brows. But nobody moved. I noticed I was holding my breath. Nobody wanted to go first. As long as that first person didn't happen, everyone else would stick.
Three.
Two.
One.
“Ok. Good. You've made your choice. And right glad I am. Together we can do great things! Come on, let's do this!”
I lead the way to where the rifles were. Having nothing to occupy my mind other than placing one foot in front of the other, I had a chance to realize that I was feeling crappy. My gunshot arm ached and the wounds from the dogfight hurt, I was tired, hungry, and cranky. As I walked I reached into my pocket and found the comforting shape of the amber bottle. I shook a pill out, working up enough saliva to get it down my throat. Even though the medicine hadn't had a chance to hit my bloodstream, I immediately started feeling better. Magic.

Arriving at the jeep, we soon had the teams outfitted with long guns. Despite the case of AKMs donated by the Arabs, we didn't have enough of one type of rifle, having about an equal number of Aks and Ars. The best we could do was keep things homogeneous within each team. Stan's team received AKMs while the other two had Ars, either A2s and A3s or M4s. The full auto weapons went to the team veterans who had the discipline to not flip the switch to rock and roll unless they were ordered to.

Team leaders, veterans, and I took a couple of minutes to pull the bolts from all the rifles. Even though we hadn't issued ammo, nor magazines, we were going to do some potentially dangerous things in our compressed training program. A negligent discharge would cause more harm than just the wound it produced. It would kill every bit of morale we'd gained to this point.

Juice and Stan tag-teamed going over the four rules of safety, then lined them up and had them perform ninety degree turns, giving them the chance to actually practice the muzzle awareness mandated by rule 2.

We had very little time. One of my main goals was to prevent us from shooting ourselves. In light of this we moved on to Snake drills. The teams formed lines with six to eight foot intervals between soldiers. Team leaders and vets were at the back of each line.

“GO!” I kicked off the drill. Lyle, Juice, and Stan moved forward, threading their way through their lines. When they were clear, they brought their weapons up and aimed at the targets we'd designated. As they crossed through the line, muzzles came down, guns in a flat stock low ready so as to not cross their team mates. As they came out the other side, the rifles came back up on target. Lyle got to the front of his line first and took up position in front. As soon as he got there, the next, last person in his line moved forward, mirroring Lyle's performance.
The vets had done this before and were doing a great job modeling for the newbies. They moved well, knees bent, sights floating, staying close to on target, then smoothly, rifles came down, as they passed through the line and just as smoothly back up.
The vets were all at the front of the line and now the people from the housing community moved forward. They'd done this drill with us before, and it showed. A couple of times I had to call out 'Trigger!' when someone was slow to return it to the frame, but not more than that couple of time.
They didn't have quite the self assurance of the vets, but there was little for my critical eye to find fault with as I walked among the lines, looking for problems.
Which I found, once it was the newbies' turn.
“YOU!”
I took several quick steps, pushed the muzzle down from where it had been pointing at a team mate's back and grabbed the man's elbow. “Watch your muzzle!” the newbie looked crestfallen, knowing he'd screwed up.
“Drop and give me twenty!” My peripheral vision noticed a lack of movement. “What are you clods looking at? MOVE!” I looked down the end of the line that the object of my attention had come from and pointed at the last man in line. Turns out the next last man was a woman. “You! Go! Don't hold up the line because one of your team mates screwed the pooch!”
I watched just long enough to see her obey, a small part of my brain processing that she moved very fluidly.
I wished Lavell was here as I turned back to the man frozen in front of me. This was sergeant's work. “Why are you still standing there!”
He shook himself and dropped, cramming the muzzle of his rifle in the dirt as he did so. “Numbnuts! I
s that the way you treat the tool that is going to keep you alive?” I kept up the abuse while he cranked out the rest of his pushups.
Finished, he stayed in the plank position, unsure of what to do next and clearly afraid of doing the 'Wrong Thing'. I noticed it was no strain for him and that he was in particularly good condition. I left him there while I bent down for his rifle. The flash hider saved the crown from any damage but I made a slow show of thoroughly checking the rifle over. He was holding the plank with only the slightest of tremors.
“What's your name, son?”
“Jameson, sir.”
“Are you Irish?” wondering if he'd pick up on the pun and what he'd do with it if he did. His very afro-caribbean face looked up at me. “Black Irish, sir, on my father's side.” I wasn't sure if he was tweaking me. There was a lot of Scots-Irish intermixing here, so it was very likely that he had a Mick progenitor. And I couldn't remember exactly what constituted 'black irish', so I let it go.
“Get up, Whiskey!” He jumped to his feet with athletic alacrity and I jammed the rifle back in his hands. “Back of the line! Try it again!” It took him a second to work out how to hold the rifle to safely make it to the back of the line, but he did, indeed, work it out, and sprinted back to where he could start again.

 

Meanwhile, the drill had been running apace, coming to a close, everyone in their former position, with the lines now twenty or so yards forward of where they'd started. Whiskey was the last to finish up, properly this time.

“Good job people!” Grins popped out on faces at the praise. We couldn't have that. “Lyle, your team finished first. They can rest in place. Juice, you guys came in second. You all owe me ten push ups.” That was met with groans, but quiet ones. They didn't have to like me.
“Stan, being last, twenty push ups each. Go!”

Lyle's people sat and watched, smiling, as their rivals performed their punishment. “You must, must learn to act as a team. A weak member can put the entire team at risk. Do not be the one to let your team down. Teams, look out for each other. We get tired, we get hurt. Be ready to help a teammate that needs it. He'll do the same for you.”

They'd finished up their push ups and all of them were sitting now. That wouldn't do.

“Up! On your feet. Same drill, in reverse!” A few minutes later the teams were back where they started, breathing hard from the exertion, no one wanting to be second or third. I doled out the punishment and got them lined up again.

“One more time people!” groans greeted that pronouncement. “If you have energy to groan, I'm not pushing you hard enough! This iteration, is forward moving again, with an addition. Everytime you pass through the line, you will take a knee, aim in at your target, press the trigger, stand, pass through the line and do the same again on the other side. Wash, Rinse, Repeat. Clear?”
Mumbles weren't was I was looking for.
“Are. We. Clear?”
“YES SIR”

This run was brutal, being a series of lunges as they went to the kneeling position and back up, twenty five times. They hated it but they did it. And they looked back on it fondly when we did the last iteration which found them going prone where before they'd knelt.

“Take ten people!” The word was used deliberately. They didn't need a reminder, but quickly found places to flake out and get comfortable. They'd regret it when it was time to get up again. “Lyle, Stan, Juice!” I turned and walked away to make some distance, knowing my team leaders would follow. I found a shady spot and sat, joined seconds later by the three.
“Take a load off.” I gave them a moment to get comfortable and started in. “Thoughts? Comments? Criticism?” I looked them in turn, stopping at Lyle. “Yeah. I think you're doing good. This is what you do and I trust you to do it well.”
A shift of the head to Stan. “I agree with Lyle. You've got a good plan worked out. I wish we had more time, but we don't. So yeah, what Lyle said.
Juice didn't wait for me to look at him. “I'm concerned. We've absorbed a lot of new people, and you know what? I don't trust them to have my back in a fight. I've got more newbies than experienced people.”
I nodded while he talked. “I get it, brother. Until we can fight them, we won't know how they'll do, and until then, we won't know what we've got.”
Juice wasn't ready to let go, yet. “Can't we get by without them? We have a bit over twenty solid people without the newbies. All of them proven fighters. With the advantage of an preset ambush and numbers that are on par with what the Guardsmen showed up with a week ago, we'll kick their asses!”
“What if they bring more guardsmen this time? Don't you think that's likely, considering they are coming back to prove a point?” That gave Juice pause. I continued. “We need overwhelming numbers, I'm not sure we have it, but it's the best we can do. We need the newbies for that. Volume of fire has an effect in and of itself, even if some of it is going wide. And, we need to give these folks a chance to get experience. Before this is over, and I'm not just talking about this battle, but everything that's coming after, we are going to need a much larger fighting force than we currently have. Recruits that haven't been in a fight are an unknown until they have a chance to experience it.” I paused for a second to let that sink in, then circled back around. “Juice, I agree that the newbies will probably be of limited value. Do you think that they are actually a negative? That they will hurt our chances?”
He thought about it for a moment before answering. “No. I guess not. I suppose the worst thing is one of them shooting us by accident.”
Stan cut in.“And after what you did to Whiskey, everyone's been super careful of their muzzles.”
“What?” I feigned looking hurt. “I wasn't too hard on him. Just a couple of push ups, sheesh!”
“You embarrassed him in front of everyone else. My team, hell I had to do push ups because of him. He's not too popular right now.”
“Is it a problem?”
Stan looked to where everyone was lounging. I followed his gaze and saw Whiskey standing by himself a little apart from the rest of his team. “I don't know. Maybe. I should be able to fix it.”
“Keep me posted and let me know if you need help. Anything else before we move on?”
There wasn't anything so I hit them with the next item. “Team names.”
“What about them?” Stan asked for them all.
“They're important. We need them.”
“What's wrong with what we've been doing? You know, using our the first letter of our names? 'Team Sierra' is fine with me.”
Juice jumped in to answer Stan. “Because you aren't 'Juliet'” Lyle started the laughing which turned into general guffawing almost instantaneously. “Least you're not named after no bean!” he managed to pause his laughter long enough to inject.
“Yah, deh mahn! Lima bean dem nasty meh sohn. Dey disgusting!” Juice dredged up his fake St Thomian accent, which didn't help matters.
“Leopards.” Lyle stated as the laughter died down. We all looked at him, not sure if we should start laughing again. “Leopards for true?” Juice took the thread. “Den we be da jaguar dem.
Lyle rolled his eyes in long suffering patience at the fun Juice was poking at his heritage.

I rolled both names around in my head, mentally picturing screaming them at the top of my lungs in the middle of a battle. I took a cue from the old rule of naming your dog; image going out into your front yard and calling your dog. Turns out I liked them. Both of them. Two sylables, some hard consonants, ok, cool, I'm down with Lyle's Leopards and Juice's Jaguars.
“Ok. Works for me.” We looked at Stan expectantly, waiting for something clever. He just left use hanging. While I waited I searched my brain for a cat name starting with 'S'. All I came up with was 'siamese'. Stan's Siamese was a non-starter.
“Strikers!” Lyle offered proudly.
“Stingrays!” Juice countered.
“Stranglers!”
“Snakes!”
“Serpents!”
“Does it have to start with an 's'?” Lyle asked, and the others watched for my answer.
“No, I don't suppose it does.”
“Cheatahs!” Lyle threw in, now that I'd thrown open the door to other letters, and keeping with the cat theme.
“Lions!”
“Tigers!”
“and Bears, oh my!” we finished in synch.
We paused, at a temporary loss for further suggestions. Stan just shook his head. “Can I think about it for a while?”
“Sure. As I said, I think it's important, so get it right.”

Our ten minutes was up. Time to harass the recruits some more.

We moved on to fire and manuever drills, first with the teams covering each other, then larger elements within the team, and finally down to buddy teams.

Our last 'dry' drill was to simulate the ambush. We took turns with two of the three teams setting up in a classic 'L' shaped ambush which the third team drove into. While it was similar to 'playing army', considering that we weren't really shooting at each other, it did give them a chance to see what it would look like, how it would evolve, how to track moving targets with your sights, and what it felt like to point a gun at another human.

The sun was a few fingers past meridian at this point. I needed another week with these people. Live fire, moving targets, force on force training. But I wasn't going to get it. Maybe the Guardsmen wouldn't show up tomorrow? Maybe they'd seen the error of their ways and turned to peaceful pursuits?
Yeah. Right.

I didn't have a week. I didn't have a day. Time to move to live fire.

We got the bolts back in the rifles and worked on dry fire. Buddies would run the bolts for their teammates so they could keep stocks in shoulders and their cheekwelds. They closed their eyes and concentrated on 'catching the link', keeping control of the trigger during let off and reset. My team leaders and I walked the line, looking for issues. Improper trigger control. Bad sight alignment. When found, we'd pull those folks off line and give them some one on one attention.

“Jaguars!” All eyes pivoted to me. The teams were sitting on ground, finishing up a short hydration break. “head over to the jeep and draw ammo for all three teams and bring it back here.” There was a lot less hesitation now, as opposed to this morning when we started. As soon as the words left my mouth, they were up and moving. I watched them for a moment before turning back.
“Leopards! Get the targets set up.” Once they were up and moving I looked at the remainder. “Um, ah, Stan's men, follow me!” we headed over to the home center where we were met by Raoul who helped us locate some rope, a couple of garden carts, plywood, and spray paint. I lined out what I wanted done, and ten minutes later we were ready to return. It helped that Whiskey was an experienced carpenter. Once he understood what I wanted, he organized the process, detailing people to do the various tasks. That piece of information got filed for later.
I was also glad to see that the previous animosity seemed to have dissipated.

We got the rifles zeroed with few issues and worked pure marksmanship for a short while. It's amazing how a good explanation accompanied by students demonstrating what they've learned, with quick, efficient correction, can yield great results.

We redid the fire and maneuver drills of earlier in the day, this time live fire. Now that we didn't have a stationary firing line, the potential for injury rose, but our early work paid off and I didn't catch a single violation of muzzle discipline. As I stood, watching I put my hands in my pockets where my right hand found that familiar bottle. The previous pill was starting to wear off. Why wait until the pain gets too bad? Besides, I deserved it for all the hard work I'd done today. I even splurged and washed it down with some water.

I was certain the warm glow I experienced a few minutes later was a result of my pleasure at a job well done, as the people, MY people performed their training properly. A natural pause came up and I gave everyone a break. Well, almost everyone.

“Stan's Men!” I hadn't realized when I started capitalizing it, but there it was. It was a bit of a misnomer, there being exactly three women on Stan's team, but they didn't take exception to the name. At least, not to me. “Please get our device and set it up.”

A couple of minutes later I had everyone in front of me again. “We have a moving target, consisting of a couple of sheets of plywood in carts. On the plywood are painted figures of people. Each team will get one pass. Your magazines will only contain five rounds. As the target passes before you, aim carefully, track the target and let the trigger off as you've been doing all day.” A hand went up. I paused and pointed at it.
“Will we need to lead the target?”
“It will be moving at a slow jog at fifty yards, so yes, a little. Good question. I'd aim for the leading edge. That should get you hits. Remember to keep swinging while you pull the trigger. Many people stop and end up missing behind. Cool?”
He nodded. “Cool. Sir” he added quickly.

The Leopards lay in wait in their firing positions. Each place had limiting sticks to mark out the arc of fire they were to stay within. The cart trundled into position, pulled by some of the Jaguars via a long rope. Despite the long rope, they were still within the the firing area of the furthest Leopards who assiduously kept their weapon's muzzles in safe directions.
“Bam, bambambam, bam.” the first shooter quickly went through his five shots, finishing before the target had cleared his field of fire. His partner learned from that and slowed down, laying down much more deliberate fire. I watched the cart progress, splinters flying from the plywood. Most of the riflemen got the timing, a couple didn't get off their fifth round and a couple followed the lead of the first and finished early.
The target cleared the last shooter, the line was clear and we went forward to check the target.

“Eighty three hits!” Crowed Lyle. He looked at Stan and Juice. “Be dah dere!” he challenged. The Leopards cheered their prowess.
“Out of a possible two hundred and fifty. That's, lets see...” Juice looked skyward while he did the math. “a hundred and sixty seven misses. I think the Jaguars will have no trouble beating that there.” The Leopards' cheering stopped.
“That's actually a bit better than I was expecting” my words took some of the sting out of Juice's calculations. “Moving targets take some work to master.” I pointed to the targets, where most of the misses were behind the painted silhouettes. “This is typical and it happens because the natural tendency is to stop swinging the rifle when you pull the trigger. Keep the swing going. Who's next up?” The holes were quickly taped up and the carts reset for another run.

Juice's jaguars jumped to their positions and quickly were in position. Their timing was a bit more deliberate, having the advantage of watching the previous team. The last woman finished her five shots and cleared her weapon. Half the team got up and moved forward to check the target while the other half stayed in their positions. Juice was definitely trying to one-up Lyle with a small display of tactical discipline. He counted off the holes while one of his vets kept a running tab on a small note book.

“Ninety seven!” Juice declared, the proud smile topping the puffed out chest. Lyle sucked his teeth in disgust, triggering a round of giggles and jeers from the jaguars. Happy hands got the targets ready for the last run.

Stan had his people in a huddle, everyone on one knee. But instead of facing in, they were all looking outward. Looking at it more closely, they were formed in lines radiating from the center, where Stan was. His veterans were close to him and formed the head of each line. At a quiet word from their leader one of the lines ran in a crouch and took their positions. Once in place the next team moved, and so on, until one line was left with Stan. They followed their teammates into position, with Stan picking up the rear. I gave a slow deliberate golf clap. Stan took off his hat and bowed low then dove into the prone in the last spot.

The shooting wasn't slow, and it wasn't fast. I watched muzzle to see if they would stop, and few of them did. They kept their swings going. The target got to Whiskey and I paid particular attention. His form looked good and it seemed like he was getting good hits. The targets made it to Stan, who looked at Juice, Lyle and I to make sure we were paying attention, he then made five very deliberate head shots, the splinters exploding from the back of the target making it obvious that he was connecting.
“Show off” Juice groused.
The target stopped and none of Stan's team moved. Half of them actually turned in place to watch their backs.
“Show offs” Lyle repeated.
Stan joined us at the carts and started the counting. He made certain we noticed the five hits to the heads of the targets.
“Show off.” I echoed my friends' opinions. But the grin on his face was infectious and we all dapped him up in congratulations.

“One hundred and twenty! We smoked your asses!”
“Whah!”
“No mahn, dah can' be righ'!”
“Count them for yourselves.” Stan countered Lyle and Juice's protestations. They relented, smiles broke out, brothers happy at the good performance turned out by one of their own. His men had remained silent through out, still in their positions. I admired the discipline he'd gotten from them, so quickly.

 

“Jaguars! Leopards! Stan's Men! Gather round!” I climbed up on one of the target carts so everyone could see me. “ Each and everyone of you has done well. You've done everything we've asked of you. We've crammed several days worth of training into half a day. It's not as much as I wanted, but it will have to do. I've seen video of the Guardsmen and they aren't the National Guard that you are used to, back when things were normal. It looks like they've padded their numbers with gang members. From what I saw, training and discipline were lacking. Any one of you is worth several of them.
You've heard what I do to gang bangers, yes?” That elicited proud laughter and shared comments. I let it go a couple of moments. “Well, we're going to do the same thing tomorrow. My team leaders, your team leaders and I will do everything we can to make sure that it won't be a fair fight and you will have every advantage. Apply what you've learned, do what you're told, keep yourselves calm, and we will kick those jumped up Guardsmens' asses! You with me on this?”
I was answered by a chorus of affirmative responses. It died down after a few seconds and I continued. “So. Training is over for today.” that earned me more cheering. “Our hosts have graciously invited us to lunch.” Another round of cheers. “Here's how we're going to do it. Jaguars, take the carts and other materials back to the home center and
return it to our hosts. Leopards, clean up the shooting range. Leave it better than we found it. Police up the brass and put it in my jeep.
Stan's Men, for winning the shooting competion, you get to go directly to lunch. Congratulations!” There was some mostly friendly grumbling at that, but it seemed good natured. “Ok guys! I'll see you after lunch. Dismissed!”

Anna went overboard with lunch. I didn't have time to fully partake, settling on a burger and a small bag a chips, which, when I think about it, was quite a treat. Wolfing it down, a mechanical function to fuel the body, I wished I could have savored it, but I had too much to do while my people took this break.

“Have everything you need?”
“Got a couple of spare days crammed in one of your pockets?” I grinned as I responded to the Captain.
“I wish I did. I'm sorry the Palestinians took so long to contact you. They made a tough situation even more difficult.”
I shrugged. “Pride will bite you in the ass everytime. We'll get it done though. We've got good people, well motivated. They'll do. I could use some stuff from the home center, though.”
“Name it, you've got it.”
“I'd like to grab some picks and shovels, that sort of thing. We'll bring them back when we're done.”
“Sure. Absolutely. Anything else?”
“You got a five gallon bucket of combat experience I can spray my newbies with?”
He laughed with me and then I watched as an idea occurred to him. But then he shook his head.
“What?”
“Nah, it's nothing. Never mind.”
“Come on. Let's hear it.”
“Well, you know the derelict housing project just up the hill?”
“Sure. Got damaged in hurricane Marilyn and was never repaired. You have problems with squatters?”
“Sort of. A group of dogs moved in. Some feral dogs from before, joined by a bunch of recently released family pets. There's probably thirty or forty of them.”
“Wow! That's a lot of dog food!”
“Exactly. They are terrorizing the neighborhood, not just us, but people still living in the homes around here.”
“We had the same thing over by us. Smart bastards sent a cute little dog to lure out a child. I got her back but got worked over some in the processes. You want us to take care of this dog pack for you?”
“It would be a big help and might be what you are looking for.”
I nodded slowly, thinking it through. “Ok. Good. Thanks.
I hated to cut the lunch short, but our schedule had a new addition we had to shoehorn in. The teams were enjoying themselves, laughing and telling stories. I was glad to see them mixing easily with Captain Montaigne's folks. By the looks of some of the body language some of them wanted to take the mixing to another level.

I found Stan, Lyle, and Juice and told them about the new addition to our day and how I wanted it organized. Fifteen minutes later we were all loaded into vehicles for the short jaunt up the hill to the abandoned ruins of the housing community. Before we left, I told the troops what were were doing. I expected a certain amount of resistance to the idea of killing dogs. Hell, I wasn't thrilled with it either, but it needed to be done. As expected, a couple of people raised objections. I told them about the little girl, and showed them the wounds Princesses inflicted on me. I omitted the main reason I took on this job.

Our plan worked as well as a half-baked, on the fly plan could be expected to. The wind cooperated and we were well into the ruins before the dogs knew we were there. The three people designated to act as Judas' Goats drew the canines out of their dens. They came in slow, tails straight, bellies low to the ground, still cautious of Man.
The moment came and we opened fire, unleashing hell upon our best friends. I felt we were breaking an ancient compact with our former companions but I picked a target, and pulled the trigger anyway.
They quickly figured out that we had tricked them and they took off, heading out by several different escape routes. Stan's Men were detailed as a blocking force, and a moment later I heard them open up, taking the escaping dogs under fire.
The shooting slackened as we ran out of targets.
Now the dirty work started.
People were detailed to administer the coup de grace to the pitifully whimpering wounded pups. The looks of betrayal in their intelligent eyes cut soul deep.
As part of the initial planning, between the team leaders and myself, I explained my desire that the newbies be the ones to perform this awful task. I felt a right bastard as I watched them go about their work, knowing I was the author of their upcoming nightmares.
I tried to console myself with the rationalization that it would help them survive the morrow's fight.
It was cold comfort.

A radio call alerted Lavell of our aproach. He'd used his time well, having picked a good location and then designating firing points with limiting sticks deliniating arcs of fire. While he and his crew had set the locations they hadn't improved them. That was the job of the troops and the reason we stopped at the home center for picks and shovels.
Lavell's people each guided a team to their places and work commenced on digging fighting holes. Seeing that was well in hand, Lavell led me on a tour of the ambush site.

“Jacob and the twins are out there.” Lavell pointed down the road in the direction that the Guardsmen would come. “Providing security and early warning.” I nodded at that. The three teens had bonded during training, glad of company of their contemporaries, rather than hanging around with adults all the time.
I'd kept them separate from rest of the trainees as far as not putting them on one of the teams. Instead, they were assigned to me. I needed assistants to run errands and I had the kernel of an idea of forming a unit around them. Until then, they were my 'headquarters company'.
“Picking a spot was difficult, there are so many houses right on the road between here and there.” Lavell looked around, surveying his choice again, looking for flaws in his choice. He'd picked the only stretch with no buildings. There was a half mile of road that was in a flood zone. The road typically was under a foot or two of water anytime we had a torrential rain. Approximately once a year.
No one wanted to build in a flood zone.
Looking east, the road came down off a hill and curved to the right. Hills bracketed the road on either side, the one on the left closer, almost up to the road. On the right, or south side, the road's shoulder slipped into a small seasonal creek with a fifteen to twenty yard run to the bottom of that hill. It was upon this one that our teams were hard at work digging in.

Lavell escorted me to a spot midway along the hill, just above the rest of the line of fighting postions. It had a commanding view of the entire kill zone as well our foxholes. “Nice.” I complimented. Daniels had carved out his own spot and was hunched over his gear. We fist bumped in recognition, neither wanting to interupt the other.
“Thanks. I've set this up for you. I think it's pretty much GTG for your command post, but if you want anything else, let me know and I'll detail some troops to handle it.”
“Great job, Lavell. I figure you've located your own place?”
“Yeah. Obviously we need to be seperated. I'll be over by the 240. I'll show you in a moment.”
“Hey Zed?” Daniels interupted, looking up, his face illuminated by the glow of the small screen in his hands. “Yeah, Dee, whatcha got?”
“I sent out the drone and I was just checking the take.”
“Anything interesting?”
“Surprising, no. It's very quiet between here and as far out as I am willing to send the hexicopter.” He paused, checked the screen to verify it showed what he wanted and then passed it up to me. I was presented with a view of the road, presumably somewhere between us and the bad guys to the east. Painted on the road, covering both lanes was a stylized, intertwined 'G' and 'M' surmounted with a crown. Urban heraldry. Typical tagger work, it looked like it belonged on the side of a building. “Well, if we had any doubts that the Guardsmen had gang members in their ranks, I think this puts them to rest.” I handed the screen to Lavell, who looked at it a moment, then handed it back to Daniels.
“Thanks for the intell brother. I guess you can put your baby to sleep for the night. Let her have a good night's sleep. She'll need to be up early.”
“You think they'll come first thing?” Daniels showed the slightest hint of concern.
“It's what I would do.” Lavell answered. “Just before dawn”
I nodded my agreement. “Me too. However, I don't know if they are disciplined enough to pull that off. I guess we'll find out.”

Daniels went back to his electronics and Lavell and I got back to the planning.
“How are we initiating and closing it?”
Lavell turned and looked at the hill the road descended from. “The 240 is up there, along with Frank and Cyril. They'll initiate once the last vehicle is in the box. We're going to park a derelict car in one lane to restrict the flow and keep the follow on vehicles from bypassing the lead.”
“Won't that make them suspicious?”
“I hope so. I'm counting on them bunching up on the lead vehicle as it slows to check out the dead car. If we're lucky they'll stop and get out to check on it. Speaking of initiating it, are you going to give them a chance to surrender?”
“Yeah, that's the sixty four thousand dollar question, isn't it? Giving them a chance increases the risk to us exponentially.”
“But if you just light them up, that could be viewed as murder by some. You might have people that fail to fire because of the moral issue. Or troubled consciences after, if they do.”
“I get it. It's been banging around my brain box for the last couple of days. I guess I just haven't come to a decision yet.”
“Running out of time, Zed. Decision might be made for you.”
I nodded agreement but didn't have anything to add.

I nodded, agreeing with Lavell's assement. “How do we close the box?”
“Back in the day we would have used command detonated explosives. Det cord around trees, or a mine in the road.”
“Explosives would be nice. But we ain't got none. How about cutting a telephone pole, notching it so it falls across the road?”
“How are you going to finish felling it? Lavell countered. “Somebody runs out with a chainsaw? They'll be awfully exposed. To our fire as well as ours”
“Yeah, and Mr. Murphy will show up and the saw wont start. Or a squall will blow through tonight and knock it over prematurely.”
“And someone would have to climb the pole and cut the wires first.” Lavell continued coming up with reasons my idea wouldn't work. All of which made sense.
“Well then, what's your idea?”
Lavell shrugged his shoulders. “roll burning tires across the road? Or some other thing with fire?”
My turn to shoot him down. “how do you get the tires to stop in the right place? Who's going to light the fire?” I pursed my lips, shrugged and sighed. “I have enough stuff at home to make a device. I just wasn't thinking far enough ahead.”
“Too much on your plate, dude. We're over thinking this. We just stop them by taking out the driver and or the vehicle. Detail Frank to concentrate on that as his main task.”
I thought it over and remembered something. “I think you're right. Frank and Kiko with his Garand. He can share some of that black tip ammo with Frank. Turn that vehicel from cover to concealment.”
“I'd forgotten about the AP rounds. Yeah, those two, shooting straight down the road, along with Stan's team who held the end of the line of fighting positions pouring fire into the side of vehicle should be enough to pin them in place.”
“Done. Show me the sniper hide and the machine gun placement.”

We climbed the western hill, about a hundred feet above the road surface. The hill rose another hundred feet above us. Velazquez and his partner Petri were in the hole with the FN MAG. Actually, it was a M240B, but I'd always think of it as a MAG.
Petri was, quite literally his 'partner' in a 'don't ask, don't tell' way. They were both competent, ex-military, squared away on the GPMG and had done good work in the last battle with the gang bangers. I ignored the occasional, brief PDAs that passed between them. As long as it didn't interfer with the job, I didn't care who was doing what, to whom.
The machine gun had a great field of fire, all the way down the road, which extended just within the effective range of the Belgian beauty. An ammo can was open, but the belt wasn't inserted yet. A plastic tarp lined the floor of the hole.
“Smart.” I remarked upon seeing it. “Those links are precious.”
“Thanks Zed. We learned after the last time. We vowed we'd never sift through dirt and mud to find stray links again.” He and Petri shared a look and a chuckle over the shared memory.
The fighting position was neat, and well constucted. “Where'd you get the sandbags?” The front of the site was protected by a sandbag wall. Actually, the bags were probably filled with dirt, the spoil from the hole they dug. While there were lots of rocks, big and small around they could have used, the bags were much safer, trapping incoming bullets, rather than causing possible richochettes off of rocks, the redirected projectiles or spalling from the rock potentially causing injury.
“They're actually pillow cases.” Petri's pride was evident, as was the lilting list that he cranked up to 'campy' for our benefit. “We soaked them in tea to stain them brown, then used some mud to complete the look. A few well placed plants and we are ready for company.”
“I just love what you've done with the place, girlfriend. You'll be on the cover on next month's “Home and Machingun Nest” A hand on my out thrust hip accented my over the top statement. Lavell smiled uncomfortablely, while Velasquez and Petri burst out laughing. Seeing Lavell's discomfort set them, and then me, off again. I reined it in as quickly as I could, for his sake, and a few moments later we were straight faced and all business.
“You clear on your targets and their order?”
“Yes, sir. Stop the lead vehicle in the constriction, once the tail vehicle is inside the box. Then pin any other vehicles that are still moving. Third, target dismounts, and other targets that you might designate.”
“Perfect. What if the lead vehicle is going to clear the constriction before the rear vehicle is in the box?”
“Stop them anyway. We can't let them through the kill zone.”
“Exactly. If that happens, get them stopped as quick as you can so you can help stop the rear vehicle, You're in the best position to do that.”
“Roger that, sir. Understood.”
“You two are good to go. Good hunting!” I bumped fists with them and turned my attention to the hillside around us. I was trying to find the sniper hide and wasn't having much luck.
“Ok, I give up.” I was watching a likely place and was disappointed when a rifle barrel stuck out next to a tree. We climbed the seventy yards to where Frank and Virgil had their fighting hole. Virgil was behind the spotting scope, range card between him and Frank. Seeing the Winchester model 70 brought back vivid memories of the shot at Threeballz that set off the fighting retreat which ended with Jacob almost buying the farm.
A shiver shot the emotions up and out of my spine.
“I need you to close the back door. Don't let the tail vehicle leave. Or any of them. The 240 will initiate.”
“Got it. I'm loading the black tip. They'll tear up the engine and rip right through the passenger compartment. What about your buddy with the M1?”
“Kiko? I'm putting him on the line adjacent to the end of the box. He'll be running the AP too and be able to rake them from the side. Between the two of you, you should be able to keep anyone from leaving.”
“Roach Motel” Frank lead in.
“They check in, but they don't check out.” Virgil finished, giving us all a chuckle.
“That's your primary responsibility. Next, they may have heavy weapons, like that 240 that Velasquez is on.”
“I thought Velasquez was on Petri?” Virgil played up being perplexed.
“I think they take turns playing who's gunner and who's loader.” Frank played at being clever.
“You two seem very interested in that relationship. Something you want to tell me? Are you spending to much time in this pit together?”

Before they could reply, Lavell interrupted. “Is that Jacob?” We followed his gaze, down the road. A figure had rounded the curve and become visible. Virgil got on the spotting scope. “Yup. That's him”
A second later, two more people came into view behind him. Jacob didn't give off body language that he was concerned about them. “Those must be the twins.”
“Yup.” Virgil confirmed again.

 

“I think you need to see this.” Jacob shook my hand in greeting, starting with the conventional and moving through bro/dude and ending with ethnic. The twins stood behind Jacob, forming an echelon, one on either side. They were outside of handshake range and made no move to change that. “Garvey, Harriette.” I took a step and stuck out my hand, Harriette's shake was somewhat better than her brother's.
“She perfer's 'Aitch' “ Jacob informed me.
“Sorta rhymes with bitch” Garvery tweaking his sister seemed to be second nature. So did the full force punch she landed on his upper arm, rocking him back a step.
“Aitch it is then. As a side note, while you are in a specialized unit with somewhat relaxed rules, I still need you to think about how your actions affect not only your team, but all the other ones. You just had upwards of seventy five of your fellow troopers watch that interaction, which was performed not only in front of them, but me too. Can you understand how that might effect our efforts?”
“Yes, sir.” Their hung heads was a good show of contrition. It seemed sincere enough but I didn't know them very well at all, and they were, after all, teenagers. Masters at manipulating parental figures.
“Jacob, they are your soldiers. What they do reflects on you. Understand?” His head joined theirs, hanging. “Ok. Consider yourselves chastised and the recipiants of an ass chewing. Understood?”
“Yes, Sir.” They were good kids and I was fairly sure they'd take what I'd said to heart. It was a very minor thing in the overall scheme of things. But it's better to catch things while theare are small and easily adjusted then wait and hope they will sort themselves out without your interference. I've also found that people like to know what is expected of them.

“Good. Now, what have you got for me?”
“We scouted up the road at least a mile. We went carefully, and it was further than we originally intended, but it seemed safe so we pushed on.”
“What made you think it was safe?”
“There weren't any people. None. No signs of activity. We could have gone further, but we knew we needed to come back and report. It was on our way back that we found the house you should see.”
“Just the one? What makes it special?”
“On the way back we started checking out the houses more closely.” Garvey took over from Jacob. “We checked around the outside, then looked in the windows. Searching for people and some clue as to where they went.” Aitch continued.
“Did you find any?”
“We didn't” Jacob took his turn. As he did so, the mood of the trio changed, mostly in Jake. He gathered himself and he continued. “We were almost back here and it was my turn to check the house while they covered me. Going around back I found a doghouse and a chain, there was fresh dog shit and a puddle of dried blood, but no dog.
I continued the rest of the way around the house and didn't see anything else unussual, so I went to a window.” He paused and I prompted, “What did you see? Anything?”
“The window was covered with flies.”
“Flies?”Lavell shivered almost imperceptibly.
“Yeah, you know, house flies. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. I got a bad feeling about it so we came back here to report.” Jacob's face took on a haunted look. Poor kid, he'd seen things no one should have to see, done things no one should have to do. In a way, I was glad that it still effected him, rather than becoming totally inured to it.
“How far away is this house?” An idea forming in my head.
“Close. Just around the corner. Maybe quarter mile.”
I thought for a minute, then got on the radio. “Jaguar six, Leopard six, Stansmen six.”
The three team leaders responded quickly to my call. I mentally thanked Captain Montaigne for the gift of the radios. “I need the three of you down here now. Hand the team over to your seconds. Let's move, daylight almost gone.”
“Roger that.”
“Heard”
A double click rounded out the responses. I turned to Lavell. “I'm going to take those three and these three.” I motioned to the kids in front of me, “to go check it out. Have someone go to the corner with one of the radios so they can relay in case the geography interferes with the signal. Keep working on the preparations for tomorrow's party.”
“Will do. Be careful Zed.”

“I wonder if the family ate Rover, or the attackers did?” We stood around the bloody puddle in the backyard. Juice voiced the question many of us wondered about.
“Don't know.” I gave the obvious answer. “Lets check the house.”
The rear door opened when I turned the knob. I pushed the door open, remaining outside. The sound hit us first, then the smell. The buzzing, droning, hum of all those insects affected us at a deep, primal, genetic memory level, as did the sickly sweet smell of decay. A thousand and more generations of programming on the double helix told me to stay outside, that aweful things waited for me inside. Things that would be bad for me, bad for my tribe. Death, disease, disaster.
I wrapped my shemaugh around my face, paying close attention to its placement around my nose and stepped into hell.

We cleared the house quickly, ignoring the awful things that didn't pose a threat to anything but our sanity. Once we'd determined that no enemy lurked, we went through the house and opened all the doors and windows.

They were all dead. No need to check for pulses. It reminded me of the house across from Doc Shoemachers. Only worse.

The dining room had been the center of the action. Specifically the sturdy dining table. Where once it had provided a comfortable place for family meals or holiday feasts with friends and family gathered around, sharing the physical, emotional, and spiritual nourishment that communal meals provide, the table now served to frame a milieu straight out of a hideous, feverish nightmare.
Two woman shared the table. Their heads were next to each other, in the center of the table, their bodies spread out opposite from each other. Hands were nailed to the table with sixteen penny nails. That appeared to be the only mode of bondage.
It was more than enough.
At best guest it was mother and daughter who shared their final time at the family table. They'd been used very badly. Broken noses, blackened eyes, various small indignities, cigarette burned nipples, assorted cuts. They were covered with what I assumed was the discharge of many men serving to punctuate their debased acts.
While they were covered with countless physical insults, none of them were serious enough to cause death.
Bloody seepage puddled up under their privates. It wasn't a stretch to figure that after these demons were physically sated, that they satisfied their spirit's bloodlust by employing more dangerous penetrants. I shuddered, imagining what these womens' insides looked like.

The women were not alone in the room. A man, father? Husband? Was strapped, naked, to a stepladder, propped against the wall. The added height ensured that he had a bird's eye view of the proceedings, with none of the participants blocking his view of the degradation and depredation of his family.
His wrists and ankles were bloody and void of skin where his frantic attempts at breaking his bonds had caused self inflicted injury. His left forearm was deformed. He'd struggled so violently he'd actually broken his own arm.
At some point he'd been emasculated, the member relocated to his mouth, an unimaginative cliché. He'd fouled himself, providing the material for his ultimate demise, as someone, probably incensed at the smell, plugged the husband/father's nostrils with the noisome excrement. Combined with the blockage in his mouth, suffocation provided surcease from his suffering.

The final horror was in the corner, where a small table held a smaller victim. A boy, eight to ten by the size of the pitiful body had received the same treatment as what I assumed were his mother and sister.

The Garvey ran from the room, retching, his friends following. A low moan eminataed from soul deep from Juice, raising in pitch and volume until it came out as a roar, a primal scream at the cold, uncaring god that could let such a thing happen.

I stood, calm and still, unaffected. Except for the unceasing stream of tears flowing from my eyes. I'd stopped trying to wipe them clear, they were immediately replaced. “OUT!” I pointed toward the door. No one needed to be told twice. They gathered in the backyard, huddled. Aitch and Jacob, on either side of Garvey, had their arms around him.
I walked past them all, to the small shed in the back. The door was open wide, eliminating my concern about finding some other horror within. It had been quickly trashed, shelves cleared, the floor littered with their contents. It was dark at this point, and I needed my flashlight to located what I wanted. There! I picked the can up, which felt at least half full. I shook it, concerned that it was no good, but a few seconds later the marble broke free and started rattling around inside.

Slowly walking around the front of the house I contemplated the damage done to my soul, how much of it was self inflicted, and in the overall scheme of things, how much would be added to the bill with my current plan.
Standing in front of the largest section of wall, uninterrupted by doors or windows, I gave the can a final shake then started spraying. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the rest of them slowly come around the front of the house to watch me. Reaching as high as I could, I put the finish touches on my creation.
An intertwined 'G' and 'M', surmounted with a crown.

“You are an absolute bastard.” Juice looked at me with a mix of loathing and admiration.
“Any doubt that they're responsible?” Juice didn't deny it, and neither did any of the others.
“But why do it? What's the point?” Garvey hadn't worked it out yet. I'm not sure how many of them had, minds stunned numb from their recent exposure to the unthinkable.
“Shouldn't we bury them? Don't they deserve to be treated with respect?” Aitch looked around for support, ending with me.
“Yes. But not yet.”
“Not yet? What are we waiting for?” I suspected Aitch's rush was as much to cover up, to hide from sight the awful thing inside as it was to do the right thing for the bodies. Juice started moaning again, and Lavell tweaked to it. “Juice was right. You are a bastard.” His look didn't have as much of the admiration as Juice's had.

 

The team leaders headed back with orders to send half of their people up to tour the charnell house. Once cycled through, the other half would come up and become witness to man's inhumanity. They were led through the front door where they couldn't miss the spray painted sigil on the wall.

I retrieved the shovel and pick I'd spotted earlier in the mess on the shed floor. Neither the labor, nor the pounding of the tools were enough to keep the sounds of the witnesses from reaching me. I'd decided on one large grave, thinking that being together for eternity would make me feel better, if not them. I swung the pick with vigor, wanting to have Mother Earth ready to receive her children once I was done with their final rape.

One of the troopers must have heard me in the backyard. He picked up the shovel and worked his way into my rhythm, clearing the spoil that my pick loosened up. A moment later another came up to me, a hand on my shoulder stopped me and they gently took the pick from my hands, ripping blisters unnoticed in the process. I was squeezed out of the hole and saw more people joining us.
Someone had the foresight to tell them to bring tools with them to the house, and soon a half dozen people were working on the hole. They swapped out often, everyone wanting a chance to open the hole.
Sadie found me and took me aside. We sat at a picnic table fighting the associations it brought up. She made me drink, knowing I'd forgotten and sat next to me, quietly. She said nothing as there was nothing to say. I traded the waterbottle for her hand and we sat. Just sat.

Everyone must have had their chance to attend the ghastly wake and they didn't need me to tell them how to be decent. They'd delegated their own selves to preparing the bodies for burial, and while Sadie and I watched, four sheet shrouded bundles where laid on the ground near the grave.

“Sir?” I looked up to find a deputation of three troopers standing before me. “Would you please say a few words?” I'd been lost inside myself and lost track of what was going on around me. The grave was finished, and the troops stood waiting for the ending, the final chapter in this sad story.
I so, did not want to do so, but it was my duty. My pennance. I needed to fulfill my part of the contract. The pact between me and my people. Sadie stood and held out her hand. I took it and we made our way to the head of the grave.
Folks standing next to the bodies looked at me anxiously. My nod set them loose and they reverently, lovingly, transferred the bodies to the grave, where they laid them side by side, father first, then mother/wife, big sister and little brother, a macabre imitation of the stick figure families found on the back of soccer mom's mini vans.

I thought of what I should say. Who was I to address my words? Uncomprhensible inhumanity such as this makes me laugh in the face of the Loving God who would allow such transgressions against our spirit to stand.
And people call me a bastard.
Any number of silken tongued masters of rationalization draped in expensive vestments paid for by the faithful, desperate to be told 'everything will be OK', could smoothly explain how this made sense in His master plan.
But not me brother. Not me. This made no kind of sense. Say some words? Oh I had some choice ones for that twisted puppet master in the sky!

Sadie sensed my hesitation, knew the argument raging in my head. “Play to the audience. It's about them, not you, and certainly not that poor family in the ground. You started this, now it's time for you to finish it.” I closed my eyes and nodded affirming to myself and her may understanding and acceptance of her solid council.

“Father, please receive you children into your loving embrace. Cover them with your Grace that their spirits may be made clean. Help them heal, to forget, and with your Love, that they may forgive those who have transgressed against them.”
“And for us, Father, I ask that you give us the Wisdom to know the right course of action and the Strength to carry it through to it's conclusion. May your Light illuminate our path through the darkness, that we, in turn, may be a beacon of Hope to those in need in these trying times. All of these things we pray, in your Name.” The group chorused the final 'amen' in perfect time.

Slowly, solemnly, I walked to the pile of dirt, completing the ritual, I bent, filled a hand, stood, turned, and let the soil dribble from my hand as I swept my arm back and forth, getting some on all four bundles.

Sadie and I stayed until the end. We trudged back to the ambush site soul weary. Last night I'd agreed to help the Palestinians, today I'd rounded up people from five different places and trained and equiped them while a battlefield had been prepared for their arrival. Lavell had briefed me on the plan and while that, all of that, would have been a full day, I had to end it with the discovery of a horror house which I turned into a propaganda event, ending with a solemn graveside ceremony.
That was a lot to cram into a week, let alone a day.

Lavell agreed with my assessment that the risk level was low until daybreak and so I ordered and he instituted a twenty five percent alert. Between worry about tomorrow's battle and the horrific scene they'd all seen, I'm not sure how much sleeping would happen, but still, they need the chance to try.

So did I, apparently, according to Sadie. She prepared a place near the command post and led me to it. Curled up in my poncho, plate carrier as a pillow, I closed my eyes, knowing sleep would never come.

Clanking treads tore me from my sleep. I looked wildly around me. I'd overslept! The sun was up a full hand and a half. The troops, weapons clutched tightly, peered over the lips of their holes expectantly, watching the curve where the enemy would appear.
They'd heard the treads too. One or two glanced my way. I tried to give off an air of unconcern nonchalance. They must have bought it because they to a man, they reflected the same back to me.
The lead Humvee came around the corner and into sight, followed quickly not by another hummer, but by a couple of deuce and a halfs, over filled with guardsmen. I did the math in my head and realized we no longer had a numerical advantage.
And then there it was.
The Bradley was a cross between a tank and an armored personnel carrier. Along with several machine guns, its turret sported a 25mm Bushmaster chain gun. Basically a small automatic cannon. Of limited value against main battle tanks, it was the perfect machine for the threat we posed, dismounted ground troops.
Where had it come from? I didn't think VING had armor! How had I missed that? If I'd known about it, I might have been able to come up with a way to deal with it. But not now! It would tear us to shreds.
I snatched up the radio. “All units, hold your fire! Let them pass!” I re-keyed the mic and repeated the order. Our only hope was to let them through our ambush unmolested and us unnoticed.
The lead hummer was in the constriction and Velasquez opened fire. As planned the vehicle, now driverless, nosed into the parked vehicle, plugging the gap perfectly. Job one done, Velasquez moved to his next target, the tail vehicle.
The 240's 7.62mm rounds bounced harmlessly off the front glacis plate of the Bradley, bright red tracers flying off vertically into the sky as they ricocheted off the AFV's armor.

As agreed, our machine gun firing was the signal for our men to open up. Which they did, pouring a withering fire into the guardsmen in the trucks. I had a moment's hope that we'd pull this off as I witnessed the devastating destruction they were raining down on our foe.

Then the Bradley spoke. The machine gun raked our line while the chain gun started spitting high velocity cannon shells at us. The first burst took out our machine gun nest and I watched, fascinated as the two lovers cartwheeled through the air, missing several limbs between them.

Our main weapon now out of the fight, the Bradley's turret slewed to the left and started chewing up the hillside at the level of our fighting positions. One after the other our carefully prepared positions were utterly destroyed.
Our return fired had slackened off to nothing as my troops cowered in the bottoms of their holes, hoping to escape notice.
Looking to my right, I saw the AFV's machine gun pouring relentless streams of 7.62x51 bullets at anything resembling a target. As it worked its way up the line, so did the Bushmaster, looking to converge in the middle.
Right where I was.
I fired round after round after round at the Bradley, magazines getting changed without conscious effort on my part, hoping to get a lucky round into the right place. My barrel was smoking from the sustained fire and the forward handgrip was no longer able to cope with dissipating the heat, my left hand starting to blister.
I bore down, ignoring the pain, aiming and working the trigger. Lather, rinse, repeat.
I was losing the race as the turret kept turning and the barrel working its way towards me. A quick peek showed the machine gun finishing up working over the position next to mine.
I returned my attention to the armored monster just in time to be able to look straight down the bore as it belched flame and smoke, a barely discernible moment later the shells exploded around me, I was enveloped by noise and light as I was lifted up and thrown back down, down, down into darkness.