Kaukolastan
13-01-2005, 04:19
OOC: Had to write an assignment for creative writing, and kind of liked it, so I'm going to pretend it's NS-original, and not a transfer. Anyhow, I hope you enjoy the show!
Stripes
Sacks froze, and Aiker got the stripes. The word shot through C Company, jumping from mess tent to quartermaster to Med and back again, the gossip moving full circle before the confirming satellite call was even patched through to Brigade HQ.
Did ya hear?
Na, what?
Sacks locked up in some Fundi village.
Out near Firebase Four? I heard ‘bout that.
Yeah, sumbitch went cat-a-ton-ic on us.
Sacks stood in the muddy oxen path, the gunk sticking to his heavy boots, crawling up the sides, and slipping into his socks, squashing out from between his toes with every slogging step. His BDU pants clung to his sweaty skin, and he’d left his flak jacket back at the Firebase, sick of hauling the twenty pounds of Kevlar and ceramic through the muck. His sweat stained brown undershirt contrasted with his sun burnt skin, and only a smattering of cream on his nose and the floppy fishing hat from Home kept his face spared from the rigors of the brilliant star above; still his face peeled, and he squinted behind his sunglasses, raising a caked hand to try and both shield the light and swat away the bugs that swarmed into his pores.
Sacks glanced back, looking at the six other men with him, walking down this one-man path through overgrown jungle and boiling heat. All but one scratched and swatted, shifting to move their sticky clothes from their bodies, rolling the weight of ammunition and gear from one shoulder to another. All but one brushed soaked hair and adjusted fogging glasses. All but one watched nervously at their feet for a waiting wire or plate; all but one flicked their eyes nervously at each unknown animal call.
All but one worried. All but one cared.
So Aiker got the stripes.
He smiled from the point of the squad, chewing a wad of tobacco in his open mouth, unperturbed by any mere insect or weather condition. His slicked back blonde hair gleamed in the wetness, and eyes laughed from behind polarized lenses as he tapped his foot on the ground. Pausing his chew for a moment, he shoved the wad to the side of his mouth and asked, “You ladies feel like keeping up, or am I gonna have to go grease the whole lot myself?” He patted the top of his Car87, the sleek, polymer rifle of the Excursion Forces, letting his palm come to rest on the optics array on top the weapon, above his personalized engravings on the side panels.
Aiker was ice and fire, a casual, laid back killer, the kind of man who smiled as he twisted the knife. He swore with a church-boy grin; he smoked dead men’s cigarettes. Command gave bonuses for body count, things like tobacco, soda, and music. Aiker always had the best supplies in the base, but anyone could get them… if you paid his price.
But Sacks froze, and Aiker got the stripes.
Did you hear about Mike?
Nah, man. What up?
Mo-fo froze on patrol, two a’ his got whacked.
Shit.
Tellin’ me. Anywho, Aiker got the nod.
He celebratin’?
Heh, if you can pay yer way.
I ain’t got shit, man.
He got some Fundi “workin’ girls” from in town.
Fine, I’m in.
In that muddy path to nowhere, Sacks ran his thumb over the back of a worn coin, a two headed mint mistake he’d gotten for his eighteenth birthday. The coin faces were smooth, streaked from oils and grime, and the ridges on the rim had been worn away long ago. As he worked his fingers on the coin, Sacks was taken far from the stink and sweat, to a home far away, a place of bright colors and shining lights. He stared forward, leaving the war far behind, dream-walking down the streets he knew as a child, only a year ago. He stopped at a theatre, he raced down the boulevard, and he snuck through his girlfriend’s window, so many infinities ago.
“Aiker to Sacks, come in Sacks. You there, Dream-boy?” Sergeant Aiker stood in front of his fellow soldier, grinning and poking him in the forehead.
Sacks’ eyes focused again, still wishing to cling to that ephemeral dream, even as the grotesque reality returned, in the buzzing gnats and Aiker’s cruel grinning visage. “I’m here.” Sacks glanced to his feet, moving one boot against the other, not wanting to look into the face of his war.
“Gee, that’s comforting.” Aiker snorted his high, almost boyish laugh that emerged through the chew. As he laughed, the sun shone from his teeth, perfect white despite his nicotine abuse. Those perfect white teeth glinted in Sacks’ vision, driving him to distraction, the utter incongruity of that minutia. “Why don’t you try something new, and keep your head in the game?” Aiker gave him a light, mocking slap on his cheek, almost like a lovers’ tap. “Maybe you’ll keep someone alive this time.”
Sacks tensed, memories flashing in his mind, gunfire and screaming, his own paralysis. His fist clenched at his side, knuckles turning white. “I’ll be fine.” He spat through his closed mouth, restraining his desire to lash out at this abomination before him.
Aiker just smirked, “You want to hit me? How quaint.” He tapped his stripes. “Remember, I rank you. If you hit me, you’ll get the brig.” Again, Aiker slapped Sacks against the bottom of the cheek, not even hard enough to leave a mark, but enough to make the other soldier seethe.
“Move out.” Aiker commanded, motioning into the swamp. “We’ve got some Fundis to cook.”
The patrol moved forward, shuffling behind their sergeant, but Sacks stood in the path, staring at the mud on his pants, shifting the weight of his empty holster around. He should be carrying a pistol, Doctrine said to, but Doctrine hadn’t been out here, in the slime and muck. Doctrine didn’t have to worry about jock rot and heat stroke, or cleaning out the inside of a precision instrument that took a plunge into a bog. Doctrine said to wear armor. Doctrine said not to shoot civilians. Doctrine said that Aiker should have been drummed out.
But Sacks froze, and Aiker got the stripes.
“Hey, what-choo lookin’ at, huh?” Navarro asked, shifting his Skipjack rifle to his hip, resting the tribarrel assembly against his open jacket, his broad face split in concern. The big man seemed to ignore the crisscrossing belts of ammunition for the support gun, reaching out and shaking Sacks in a concerned manner.
Sacks turned to the machine gunner, removing his glasses to wipe them on his shirt. “How did we come to this? How did I let that… that… savage get the squad?”
“Christ, man, don’t blame yourself. You’re a great guy. You’ll do great back Home. Get a wife. Get some kids. Get the hell out of the Army.” Navarro checked the receiver on the Skipjack, and then looked back to his friend. “This is hell. The army needs demons. Aiker is a monster, and that’s just right. This is his place. It’s not yours.”
Sacks turned to the sky, his expression pained, his words leaking out like water through a frozen pipe. “Those people… I couldn’t see who was who; they were hiding with the civilians.”
“You don’t need to make excuses, man. I understand.”
He snapped his gaze down, staring right into Navarro’s eyes. “There were kids, John! Kids! One was no older than my sister, and she looked right at me, right down the scope…” his voice died into a choking noise.
“No one expected you-”
“But the Chief was down, and I could have saved Frank and Diego if I’d just had the balls to order-” again, he froze, remembering that terrified face set in the glint of his scope lens. “No! She was looking right at me, pleading with me… and Aiker…”
Navarro glanced at his Skipjack, remembering the snarl of the whirling barrels and the arc of blue flame, the stream of hot lead that tore through flesh and cloth with contempt, sundering the men, women, children, and beasts of burden alike, casting them down in a tide of blood and fire. He recoiled from the wicked looking weapon, taking his hand from the over-cage and grip handle, away from the belt receiver, reacting as if the barrels were still hot from their bloody volley. “Look, I ain’t takin’ sides. You couldn’t do it because you cared. Aiker could because he didn’t. The army don’t need care workers. The army needs killers. Aiker’s a killer.”
“And Aiker got the stripes!” Sacks snapped out, lashing out at the only thing close to him. “Are you a killer, too?”
Navarro paused. “By now… yeah, probably… shit happens out here, man. Just get out of this shit-hole, before it gets to you, too.” The big man began to walk away, and paused to let Sacks catch up.
Sacks un-slung his Car87 and exhaled heavily, blowing the gnats from his face. “I won’t be a killer.” He breathed, moving to keep up with the squad.
As he rounded the hill, the squad was waiting expectantly, with Aiker grinning maliciously and tapping his foot like a bored nanny. He was always grinning before he got to strike someone down. “You two done yet, or are we going to have to get some condoms from base?”
Navarro just laughed and retorted, “They don’t come big enough.”
Sacks glared at Aiker, loathing the crass humor, the sneering perfect teeth, the glinting lenses, the slick hair. He looked daggers towards Aiker’s perfect head, and he said nothing, simply digging his feet into the ground, squashing a caterpillar underfoot and unconsciously, secretly, moving his fingers over the safety. Aiker laughed again, and the squad began to move out, leaving Sacks in the rear. He slowly took his hand from the Car87 and shook it in disgust, as if it had moved into oil of its own volition. Sacks followed the squad.
The march lasted forever, one dreary footfall after another. A tripwire here, a landmine there, it was all the same. There was a pit trap, a rope trap, and a spike trap. The squad got hung up when they spotted a burden beast wandering loose, and Aiker almost gave the order to shoot it, just for spite.
Sacks watched his feet, watching the mud move past his view, but never leave, like he was walking a slow treadmill, the terrain just rolling and repeating. He moved on autopilot, oblivious to any danger that was removed by the squad point men. All he saw was the sliding muck and the faces of the crowd, that young girl. He remembered picking up the legs, then the arms, staring blankly at the scorch marks where hundreds of Skipjack needles had shredded the meat and bone. He remember getting sick.
He remembered freezing. He remembered Aiker getting the stripes.
More bodies?
Yeah, some punk in Charlie dropped the ball out there.
Jesus, what happened?
Froze up in combat, but Aiker took care of it. Good kid, that one.
That’s good news, at least. How many Fundis did they take down?
The squad reports twenty-six confirmed enemy dead.
Damn fine work on Aiker’s part, then. You giving him a commendation, Cap’n?
…And Stripes.
“That’s it, kids, the Golden Goose. It’s time to cook it.” Aiker thumbed towards the top of the ditch in which the squad crouched. Over the lip, hidden from view, a small set of huts waited, oblivious. There were four mud and thatch structures, each designed to hold two families, and two boats were moored on the plank dock. Aiker raised one eyebrow, “This is a center of Fundi activity, and we’re going to neutralize it.”
An almost inaudible sound floated out over the group huddle. “They’re not Fundis.”
Aiker paused, looking as if he’d been slapped. No one interrupted him, never! “What was that, Sacks?”
“They’re Fundalisi. They’re not “Fundis”.” Sacks whispered again, slightly more vocally.
“Oh, I’m sorry I offended your convictions, Sacks. Now, might I get on with the strike plan, or do you have something else worthless to contribute?” There was silence, and Aiker nodded, rolling his eyes. “Now, barring any more commentary from the peanut gallery, here is the strike plan:
“Dumier, Chang, you’ll take up behind the fallen logs by the paddy back there, and on “Go”, hit those boats with rockets, land locking the opposition. Once you’ve shot your rocks, close in and sweep. Dietrich, Navarro, I want converging fields of fire on the square, cut down any runners. Sacks and I will move in from this side, hook out along the back, clear the paddy, and clear the town, linking up with Dumier and Chang as the battle moves. Remember, no one leaves the combat area, and anyone shot is confirmed enemy killed.” He threw another sick grin, larger now that the killing was close.
Sacks felt queasy in his stomach. Hunting the enemy was one thing, stopping the opposing forces was what they were here to do. But Aiker was prepared to slaughter an entire village in the hopes of catching a few sympathizers, and Command was turning a blind eye. He would probably get commended again. I’ll probably freeze again. He wiped away the treasonous thought. I can do this. We’ll fight the enemy, and then we’ll return to base.
“It’s go time, people.” Aiker motioned, and the squad spread out. As the men vanished into the brush, he turned to Sacks, clicking his radio off. “Don’t screw up out there, jagoff. People might die… again.”
“I’m fine.” Sacks muttered.
“What? I’m sorry, I don’t speak pansy.”
“I’m fine!”
Aiker snorted. “We’ll see.” He toggled his radio, clicking it once. There were two sets of clicks, both teams giving the ready signal. Aiker laughed a little, a twisted, maddened laugh. He turned into the radio. “Go!”
With that, he lunged over the ditch, erupting onto the soggy field, fifty meters from the village. Sacks followed, popping over the lip and sighting in on the field. From somewhere to the left, there was a dual pop, and a streak of light, leaving two smoky trails hovering in the air, connecting the fallen logs to the docks, passing between the huts and leaving a stunned rush in their wake. The simultaneous concussion shattered the wooden harbor, hurling planks in all directions, sending the punctured boats riding on tongue of flame before plunging them into the debris filled water below. The blast knocked over the nearest hut and sent people sprawling into the dirt as every piece of pottery in the village shattered from the overpressure. Pandemonium erupted in the village.
The enemy soldiers charged from the huts, clasping their old automatic rifles, but before they had made ten paces through the square, the buzz-saw fire of the Skipjacks had cut them to ribbons, the blue-white blaze roaring from the tree-line so far away, filling the air with a hot wind and a noise like a tremendous swarm of locusts. The needles lacerated the air and sought targets with uncaring trajectories, punching through mud and stone and flesh without regard, leaving tattered hunks of meat splattered gruesomely from the water troughs and hut walls, where seconds before, a platoon had stood. The tracers scythed through the air, moving into the huts, crashing the walls down as giant invisible blades cut through the crude structures, hundreds of needles at a time.
Sacks and Aiker charged across the field, darting through the high grass, their weapons raised to the ready. Ahead, one of the “farmers” attempted to pull a weapon from his vest, but Sacks fired first, a single snarling snap-crack from the Car87 that sent the militiaman toppling to the ground, screaming and writhing. Sacks tried not to flinch, every time he saw the convulsing man. He tried to stay aware, to keep his senses open; he tried to stay focused on the others still standing; he tried to detach himself from reality, to go back into his own pleasant dream world. Try as he might, the screams and gunfire kept him firmly glued in this realm.
Aiker had no such moral quandary, firing again and again, letting loose bursts of fire into any moving figure, and randomly strafing the thin huts. Sacks caught up to him as they rested against a wall, preparing to duck around the corner into the square. Winded, Sacks declared, “You’re supposed to check if they have a weapon first! Doctrine says-”
“Forget Doctrine! If I take the time to check, I might get shot by one of these Fundi bastards! Shoot first, tag as enemy later.” Aiker howled another laugh and stepped out into the cut between the buildings, firing blindly into the opposite hut, before ducking back against a wall to change clips. He slapped the fresh double magazine into the receiver, winking as he did so.
“These might be civilians!” Sacks checked around the corner.
Aiker yanked the charging handle, throwing a derisive glance back. He declared softly, carefully, almost delicately. “These are all enemy soldiers.”
“Even the children?”
“Of course!” Aiker stepped out again, tagging his radio. “Clearing hut one!” He opened fire into the building, blasting wildly into the window, swinging the Car87 around like a pendulum, and then charging into the room with a banshee scream.
Sacks did not follow, but waited outside, covering the opposing building, wishing silently that he would here a sudden, sharp crack, and that Aiker would never come out of the hut. Instead, he heard a muffled scream, a woman’s scream. Terrifying thoughts erupted in Sacks’ mind, and he dashed around the corner, snaking into the hut.
Inside, there was carnage. Holes punctured the walls, broken pottery and furniture was scattered about, and bodies littered the floor, cut down where they stood by the Skipjack and the Car87 fire. In the corner of the room, behind an old metal stove, he spotted Aiker standing over a woman, who was crying on the floor, curled in the fetal position. Aiker kicked the cringing Fundalisi, driving her back into the corner. In his hand, he held a lit lighter, and he moved it towards the thatch roof, watching her terrified expression.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Sacks cried out, staring in horror.
Aiker shrugged, showing his incredibly maddening smile again, appearing starkly demonic with the lighter. “Just mopping up the enemy.”
“She’s not the enemy, Aiker!”
“Oh, I don’t know… I think she looks like the enemy. Did you know you get a carton of cigs for ten kills?”
“You’re insane!” Sacks raised his Car87, pointing it at his Sergeant. “Let her go!”
“What’s this? Don’t try to grow a pair right now, Dreamer-boy.” Aiker glared at him, not even remotely moved by the weapon aimed at him. “This is war, and she is an enemy asset. She makes more enemy, after all.” He grinned again, and Sacks wavered against that perfect smile.
“Just… just let her go, and I won’t say a thing.”
“I don’t think so, kiddo.” Aiker moved the lighter closer to the thatch.
“Stop! Stop, or I’ll…”
“You’ll what? Shoot me? You’d shoot your own countryman? How would you explain that to your dear friends in the unit?”
Sacks felt a tear on his face, the madness of war shoving into his mind, a wedge in his conscience. Any way he went, he would fall into the abyss. “These are enemy combatants… you said so yourself… perhaps they got lucky…”
“Really? How convenient!” He sneered. “So, you can’t bring yourself to take out a threat, you let men die, and now you threaten your sergeant… you’re a real bastion of society yourself. At least I get the work done.”
“It’s not my fault! There were-”
“It’s not mine, either! This is hell, Sacks, and we’re all just getting through it! If I can kill more of them, then the war will end sooner, and people like you can go back to playing house.”
Sacks went loose, dropping to his knees in defeat. The gun lowered in his hands, and he began to sob on the floor, unable to even stop this tragedy. Aiker sighed in pity and turned from the crumpled man, raising the lighter again, whistling as he began to douse the wall in gasoline.
Sacks saw the world through dirty tears, heard his own sobs ringing hollow in his ears. How could he judge Aiker when he had failed to save his own people? At least I get the work done. He heard the words in his mind, bouncing from the walls and repeating in stutter-fire.
Sacks had frozen, and Aiker had gotten the stripes.
The woman was sobbing, begging to him as he looked up. His hand closed on the molded grip. The safety clicked off, and there was a deafening silence as he raised the rifle. The woman looked up in desperate hope, Aiker glanced back in disbelief, but Sacks held his breath with cold professionalism as the rifle settled to his shoulder.
Aiker froze, and Sacks got the stripes.
Stripes
Sacks froze, and Aiker got the stripes. The word shot through C Company, jumping from mess tent to quartermaster to Med and back again, the gossip moving full circle before the confirming satellite call was even patched through to Brigade HQ.
Did ya hear?
Na, what?
Sacks locked up in some Fundi village.
Out near Firebase Four? I heard ‘bout that.
Yeah, sumbitch went cat-a-ton-ic on us.
Sacks stood in the muddy oxen path, the gunk sticking to his heavy boots, crawling up the sides, and slipping into his socks, squashing out from between his toes with every slogging step. His BDU pants clung to his sweaty skin, and he’d left his flak jacket back at the Firebase, sick of hauling the twenty pounds of Kevlar and ceramic through the muck. His sweat stained brown undershirt contrasted with his sun burnt skin, and only a smattering of cream on his nose and the floppy fishing hat from Home kept his face spared from the rigors of the brilliant star above; still his face peeled, and he squinted behind his sunglasses, raising a caked hand to try and both shield the light and swat away the bugs that swarmed into his pores.
Sacks glanced back, looking at the six other men with him, walking down this one-man path through overgrown jungle and boiling heat. All but one scratched and swatted, shifting to move their sticky clothes from their bodies, rolling the weight of ammunition and gear from one shoulder to another. All but one brushed soaked hair and adjusted fogging glasses. All but one watched nervously at their feet for a waiting wire or plate; all but one flicked their eyes nervously at each unknown animal call.
All but one worried. All but one cared.
So Aiker got the stripes.
He smiled from the point of the squad, chewing a wad of tobacco in his open mouth, unperturbed by any mere insect or weather condition. His slicked back blonde hair gleamed in the wetness, and eyes laughed from behind polarized lenses as he tapped his foot on the ground. Pausing his chew for a moment, he shoved the wad to the side of his mouth and asked, “You ladies feel like keeping up, or am I gonna have to go grease the whole lot myself?” He patted the top of his Car87, the sleek, polymer rifle of the Excursion Forces, letting his palm come to rest on the optics array on top the weapon, above his personalized engravings on the side panels.
Aiker was ice and fire, a casual, laid back killer, the kind of man who smiled as he twisted the knife. He swore with a church-boy grin; he smoked dead men’s cigarettes. Command gave bonuses for body count, things like tobacco, soda, and music. Aiker always had the best supplies in the base, but anyone could get them… if you paid his price.
But Sacks froze, and Aiker got the stripes.
Did you hear about Mike?
Nah, man. What up?
Mo-fo froze on patrol, two a’ his got whacked.
Shit.
Tellin’ me. Anywho, Aiker got the nod.
He celebratin’?
Heh, if you can pay yer way.
I ain’t got shit, man.
He got some Fundi “workin’ girls” from in town.
Fine, I’m in.
In that muddy path to nowhere, Sacks ran his thumb over the back of a worn coin, a two headed mint mistake he’d gotten for his eighteenth birthday. The coin faces were smooth, streaked from oils and grime, and the ridges on the rim had been worn away long ago. As he worked his fingers on the coin, Sacks was taken far from the stink and sweat, to a home far away, a place of bright colors and shining lights. He stared forward, leaving the war far behind, dream-walking down the streets he knew as a child, only a year ago. He stopped at a theatre, he raced down the boulevard, and he snuck through his girlfriend’s window, so many infinities ago.
“Aiker to Sacks, come in Sacks. You there, Dream-boy?” Sergeant Aiker stood in front of his fellow soldier, grinning and poking him in the forehead.
Sacks’ eyes focused again, still wishing to cling to that ephemeral dream, even as the grotesque reality returned, in the buzzing gnats and Aiker’s cruel grinning visage. “I’m here.” Sacks glanced to his feet, moving one boot against the other, not wanting to look into the face of his war.
“Gee, that’s comforting.” Aiker snorted his high, almost boyish laugh that emerged through the chew. As he laughed, the sun shone from his teeth, perfect white despite his nicotine abuse. Those perfect white teeth glinted in Sacks’ vision, driving him to distraction, the utter incongruity of that minutia. “Why don’t you try something new, and keep your head in the game?” Aiker gave him a light, mocking slap on his cheek, almost like a lovers’ tap. “Maybe you’ll keep someone alive this time.”
Sacks tensed, memories flashing in his mind, gunfire and screaming, his own paralysis. His fist clenched at his side, knuckles turning white. “I’ll be fine.” He spat through his closed mouth, restraining his desire to lash out at this abomination before him.
Aiker just smirked, “You want to hit me? How quaint.” He tapped his stripes. “Remember, I rank you. If you hit me, you’ll get the brig.” Again, Aiker slapped Sacks against the bottom of the cheek, not even hard enough to leave a mark, but enough to make the other soldier seethe.
“Move out.” Aiker commanded, motioning into the swamp. “We’ve got some Fundis to cook.”
The patrol moved forward, shuffling behind their sergeant, but Sacks stood in the path, staring at the mud on his pants, shifting the weight of his empty holster around. He should be carrying a pistol, Doctrine said to, but Doctrine hadn’t been out here, in the slime and muck. Doctrine didn’t have to worry about jock rot and heat stroke, or cleaning out the inside of a precision instrument that took a plunge into a bog. Doctrine said to wear armor. Doctrine said not to shoot civilians. Doctrine said that Aiker should have been drummed out.
But Sacks froze, and Aiker got the stripes.
“Hey, what-choo lookin’ at, huh?” Navarro asked, shifting his Skipjack rifle to his hip, resting the tribarrel assembly against his open jacket, his broad face split in concern. The big man seemed to ignore the crisscrossing belts of ammunition for the support gun, reaching out and shaking Sacks in a concerned manner.
Sacks turned to the machine gunner, removing his glasses to wipe them on his shirt. “How did we come to this? How did I let that… that… savage get the squad?”
“Christ, man, don’t blame yourself. You’re a great guy. You’ll do great back Home. Get a wife. Get some kids. Get the hell out of the Army.” Navarro checked the receiver on the Skipjack, and then looked back to his friend. “This is hell. The army needs demons. Aiker is a monster, and that’s just right. This is his place. It’s not yours.”
Sacks turned to the sky, his expression pained, his words leaking out like water through a frozen pipe. “Those people… I couldn’t see who was who; they were hiding with the civilians.”
“You don’t need to make excuses, man. I understand.”
He snapped his gaze down, staring right into Navarro’s eyes. “There were kids, John! Kids! One was no older than my sister, and she looked right at me, right down the scope…” his voice died into a choking noise.
“No one expected you-”
“But the Chief was down, and I could have saved Frank and Diego if I’d just had the balls to order-” again, he froze, remembering that terrified face set in the glint of his scope lens. “No! She was looking right at me, pleading with me… and Aiker…”
Navarro glanced at his Skipjack, remembering the snarl of the whirling barrels and the arc of blue flame, the stream of hot lead that tore through flesh and cloth with contempt, sundering the men, women, children, and beasts of burden alike, casting them down in a tide of blood and fire. He recoiled from the wicked looking weapon, taking his hand from the over-cage and grip handle, away from the belt receiver, reacting as if the barrels were still hot from their bloody volley. “Look, I ain’t takin’ sides. You couldn’t do it because you cared. Aiker could because he didn’t. The army don’t need care workers. The army needs killers. Aiker’s a killer.”
“And Aiker got the stripes!” Sacks snapped out, lashing out at the only thing close to him. “Are you a killer, too?”
Navarro paused. “By now… yeah, probably… shit happens out here, man. Just get out of this shit-hole, before it gets to you, too.” The big man began to walk away, and paused to let Sacks catch up.
Sacks un-slung his Car87 and exhaled heavily, blowing the gnats from his face. “I won’t be a killer.” He breathed, moving to keep up with the squad.
As he rounded the hill, the squad was waiting expectantly, with Aiker grinning maliciously and tapping his foot like a bored nanny. He was always grinning before he got to strike someone down. “You two done yet, or are we going to have to get some condoms from base?”
Navarro just laughed and retorted, “They don’t come big enough.”
Sacks glared at Aiker, loathing the crass humor, the sneering perfect teeth, the glinting lenses, the slick hair. He looked daggers towards Aiker’s perfect head, and he said nothing, simply digging his feet into the ground, squashing a caterpillar underfoot and unconsciously, secretly, moving his fingers over the safety. Aiker laughed again, and the squad began to move out, leaving Sacks in the rear. He slowly took his hand from the Car87 and shook it in disgust, as if it had moved into oil of its own volition. Sacks followed the squad.
The march lasted forever, one dreary footfall after another. A tripwire here, a landmine there, it was all the same. There was a pit trap, a rope trap, and a spike trap. The squad got hung up when they spotted a burden beast wandering loose, and Aiker almost gave the order to shoot it, just for spite.
Sacks watched his feet, watching the mud move past his view, but never leave, like he was walking a slow treadmill, the terrain just rolling and repeating. He moved on autopilot, oblivious to any danger that was removed by the squad point men. All he saw was the sliding muck and the faces of the crowd, that young girl. He remembered picking up the legs, then the arms, staring blankly at the scorch marks where hundreds of Skipjack needles had shredded the meat and bone. He remember getting sick.
He remembered freezing. He remembered Aiker getting the stripes.
More bodies?
Yeah, some punk in Charlie dropped the ball out there.
Jesus, what happened?
Froze up in combat, but Aiker took care of it. Good kid, that one.
That’s good news, at least. How many Fundis did they take down?
The squad reports twenty-six confirmed enemy dead.
Damn fine work on Aiker’s part, then. You giving him a commendation, Cap’n?
…And Stripes.
“That’s it, kids, the Golden Goose. It’s time to cook it.” Aiker thumbed towards the top of the ditch in which the squad crouched. Over the lip, hidden from view, a small set of huts waited, oblivious. There were four mud and thatch structures, each designed to hold two families, and two boats were moored on the plank dock. Aiker raised one eyebrow, “This is a center of Fundi activity, and we’re going to neutralize it.”
An almost inaudible sound floated out over the group huddle. “They’re not Fundis.”
Aiker paused, looking as if he’d been slapped. No one interrupted him, never! “What was that, Sacks?”
“They’re Fundalisi. They’re not “Fundis”.” Sacks whispered again, slightly more vocally.
“Oh, I’m sorry I offended your convictions, Sacks. Now, might I get on with the strike plan, or do you have something else worthless to contribute?” There was silence, and Aiker nodded, rolling his eyes. “Now, barring any more commentary from the peanut gallery, here is the strike plan:
“Dumier, Chang, you’ll take up behind the fallen logs by the paddy back there, and on “Go”, hit those boats with rockets, land locking the opposition. Once you’ve shot your rocks, close in and sweep. Dietrich, Navarro, I want converging fields of fire on the square, cut down any runners. Sacks and I will move in from this side, hook out along the back, clear the paddy, and clear the town, linking up with Dumier and Chang as the battle moves. Remember, no one leaves the combat area, and anyone shot is confirmed enemy killed.” He threw another sick grin, larger now that the killing was close.
Sacks felt queasy in his stomach. Hunting the enemy was one thing, stopping the opposing forces was what they were here to do. But Aiker was prepared to slaughter an entire village in the hopes of catching a few sympathizers, and Command was turning a blind eye. He would probably get commended again. I’ll probably freeze again. He wiped away the treasonous thought. I can do this. We’ll fight the enemy, and then we’ll return to base.
“It’s go time, people.” Aiker motioned, and the squad spread out. As the men vanished into the brush, he turned to Sacks, clicking his radio off. “Don’t screw up out there, jagoff. People might die… again.”
“I’m fine.” Sacks muttered.
“What? I’m sorry, I don’t speak pansy.”
“I’m fine!”
Aiker snorted. “We’ll see.” He toggled his radio, clicking it once. There were two sets of clicks, both teams giving the ready signal. Aiker laughed a little, a twisted, maddened laugh. He turned into the radio. “Go!”
With that, he lunged over the ditch, erupting onto the soggy field, fifty meters from the village. Sacks followed, popping over the lip and sighting in on the field. From somewhere to the left, there was a dual pop, and a streak of light, leaving two smoky trails hovering in the air, connecting the fallen logs to the docks, passing between the huts and leaving a stunned rush in their wake. The simultaneous concussion shattered the wooden harbor, hurling planks in all directions, sending the punctured boats riding on tongue of flame before plunging them into the debris filled water below. The blast knocked over the nearest hut and sent people sprawling into the dirt as every piece of pottery in the village shattered from the overpressure. Pandemonium erupted in the village.
The enemy soldiers charged from the huts, clasping their old automatic rifles, but before they had made ten paces through the square, the buzz-saw fire of the Skipjacks had cut them to ribbons, the blue-white blaze roaring from the tree-line so far away, filling the air with a hot wind and a noise like a tremendous swarm of locusts. The needles lacerated the air and sought targets with uncaring trajectories, punching through mud and stone and flesh without regard, leaving tattered hunks of meat splattered gruesomely from the water troughs and hut walls, where seconds before, a platoon had stood. The tracers scythed through the air, moving into the huts, crashing the walls down as giant invisible blades cut through the crude structures, hundreds of needles at a time.
Sacks and Aiker charged across the field, darting through the high grass, their weapons raised to the ready. Ahead, one of the “farmers” attempted to pull a weapon from his vest, but Sacks fired first, a single snarling snap-crack from the Car87 that sent the militiaman toppling to the ground, screaming and writhing. Sacks tried not to flinch, every time he saw the convulsing man. He tried to stay aware, to keep his senses open; he tried to stay focused on the others still standing; he tried to detach himself from reality, to go back into his own pleasant dream world. Try as he might, the screams and gunfire kept him firmly glued in this realm.
Aiker had no such moral quandary, firing again and again, letting loose bursts of fire into any moving figure, and randomly strafing the thin huts. Sacks caught up to him as they rested against a wall, preparing to duck around the corner into the square. Winded, Sacks declared, “You’re supposed to check if they have a weapon first! Doctrine says-”
“Forget Doctrine! If I take the time to check, I might get shot by one of these Fundi bastards! Shoot first, tag as enemy later.” Aiker howled another laugh and stepped out into the cut between the buildings, firing blindly into the opposite hut, before ducking back against a wall to change clips. He slapped the fresh double magazine into the receiver, winking as he did so.
“These might be civilians!” Sacks checked around the corner.
Aiker yanked the charging handle, throwing a derisive glance back. He declared softly, carefully, almost delicately. “These are all enemy soldiers.”
“Even the children?”
“Of course!” Aiker stepped out again, tagging his radio. “Clearing hut one!” He opened fire into the building, blasting wildly into the window, swinging the Car87 around like a pendulum, and then charging into the room with a banshee scream.
Sacks did not follow, but waited outside, covering the opposing building, wishing silently that he would here a sudden, sharp crack, and that Aiker would never come out of the hut. Instead, he heard a muffled scream, a woman’s scream. Terrifying thoughts erupted in Sacks’ mind, and he dashed around the corner, snaking into the hut.
Inside, there was carnage. Holes punctured the walls, broken pottery and furniture was scattered about, and bodies littered the floor, cut down where they stood by the Skipjack and the Car87 fire. In the corner of the room, behind an old metal stove, he spotted Aiker standing over a woman, who was crying on the floor, curled in the fetal position. Aiker kicked the cringing Fundalisi, driving her back into the corner. In his hand, he held a lit lighter, and he moved it towards the thatch roof, watching her terrified expression.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Sacks cried out, staring in horror.
Aiker shrugged, showing his incredibly maddening smile again, appearing starkly demonic with the lighter. “Just mopping up the enemy.”
“She’s not the enemy, Aiker!”
“Oh, I don’t know… I think she looks like the enemy. Did you know you get a carton of cigs for ten kills?”
“You’re insane!” Sacks raised his Car87, pointing it at his Sergeant. “Let her go!”
“What’s this? Don’t try to grow a pair right now, Dreamer-boy.” Aiker glared at him, not even remotely moved by the weapon aimed at him. “This is war, and she is an enemy asset. She makes more enemy, after all.” He grinned again, and Sacks wavered against that perfect smile.
“Just… just let her go, and I won’t say a thing.”
“I don’t think so, kiddo.” Aiker moved the lighter closer to the thatch.
“Stop! Stop, or I’ll…”
“You’ll what? Shoot me? You’d shoot your own countryman? How would you explain that to your dear friends in the unit?”
Sacks felt a tear on his face, the madness of war shoving into his mind, a wedge in his conscience. Any way he went, he would fall into the abyss. “These are enemy combatants… you said so yourself… perhaps they got lucky…”
“Really? How convenient!” He sneered. “So, you can’t bring yourself to take out a threat, you let men die, and now you threaten your sergeant… you’re a real bastion of society yourself. At least I get the work done.”
“It’s not my fault! There were-”
“It’s not mine, either! This is hell, Sacks, and we’re all just getting through it! If I can kill more of them, then the war will end sooner, and people like you can go back to playing house.”
Sacks went loose, dropping to his knees in defeat. The gun lowered in his hands, and he began to sob on the floor, unable to even stop this tragedy. Aiker sighed in pity and turned from the crumpled man, raising the lighter again, whistling as he began to douse the wall in gasoline.
Sacks saw the world through dirty tears, heard his own sobs ringing hollow in his ears. How could he judge Aiker when he had failed to save his own people? At least I get the work done. He heard the words in his mind, bouncing from the walls and repeating in stutter-fire.
Sacks had frozen, and Aiker had gotten the stripes.
The woman was sobbing, begging to him as he looked up. His hand closed on the molded grip. The safety clicked off, and there was a deafening silence as he raised the rifle. The woman looked up in desperate hope, Aiker glanced back in disbelief, but Sacks held his breath with cold professionalism as the rifle settled to his shoulder.
Aiker froze, and Sacks got the stripes.