NationStates Jolt Archive


Private Najad

Liberated New Hope
25-12-2005, 18:55
Chapter I

True Hope, 40 clicks north of Trinidan, Holifield Base; property of the Liberation Army.
The day before the Ortagan attack.

Baaqir wakes as he does every morning, startled at the sound of the morning bell. His eyes open suddenly as his entire body jerks upward and turns to the side, taking his legs off of his bunk and hanging over the side, still elevated enough for his feet to avoid touching the hard concrete of the floor. Everything still a blur, he is engulfed in a sea of beige. His blanket, sheet, pillow, bed frame; all beige. The beds of the men in front of him, behind him, and across from him, all beige. Their clothing they had slept in, beige. The color of the walls, beige. Even the window, because of the near daily sandstorm, covers the clear cyan sky and turned even the suns rays into yet more common, smothering, muddy, dry, taunting beige.

He looked down to the floor, and slowly allowed his feet to lower, touching the cold hard concrete floor. It was still gray, the only part of the barracks they had not painted in “Ranger Brown” or as it really was, beige. He straightened his beige wife beater, then rubbed his face and arms, which somehow took away the dry and straight feeling that covered his exposed skin. He looks over at the clock at the top of the door at the end of the open dorm, seeing he still has fifteen minutes to shower and get to the mess, and as the others begin to file out he slowly stands, growning, and follows out the door and into the wind.

He gets to the showers and strips down before stepping onto the steal grate and turning on the shower-head, bringing out the warm familiar feel of CP Army sanitation-grade sand running down and all over his body. He grabbed the powdered soap and shook it harshly across his chest and under his arms, then everywhere else, letting the sand rinse it off. As he walks out of the showers and right past the blowers which a few newer recruits use to get the sand out of their hair and anywhere else. Older soldiers don’t even bother. The sand outside gets everywhere. Hair, mouth, eyes, fingernails, ass, feet. Everywhere.

In the mess everyone is dressed in full Army-issued camo as they down their Army-issued embo and Army-issued beans. There they sit at their Army-issued tables in their Army-issued chair and had their Army-issued conversations, such as “Check out the fresh meat” or “Some fucker stole my bottle of Jack.” Sometimes there would be some unlucky bastard talking about his girlfriend of wife back home. If he’s new he’ll be talking about what a “cat she is in the sack” or the size or her tits. If he’s old he’ll talk be what at bitch or whore she is. They never last for more than a year, and hardly a week for that matter.

After mess they all stand and march out to the AT’s and get on board. The officers announce it across the mess and bark commands all the way out the door and to the pads, but Baaqir does it out of reflex. He finishes his meal, he steps outside. This is how things are. He doesn’t even hear the officers. They’re only there to get the fresh meat in line. Now are patrols.

He sits down and straps up, tightly packed between Hainajad and Jamash and twelve other soldiers, all old, in the AT and it takes off. From the open sides of the AT he can see the dunes. Endless and, just like him, beige. It’s not his job to watch. There are spotters on the AT looking out for Nate, but as the AT speeds forward the dunes start looking like white water, gleaming in the sun. Carson, the white-boy from Hamunaptra starts ranting about how “The patrols are bullshit. Why can’t they just find ‘em with satellites?” Muhammed, a corporal just brought in from Eiland Base by Samsonville makes a comment about how the “Nate bastards are tricky,” and “we can’t spot ‘em all from above.” Baaqir doesn’t really care. He always thought if there weren’t patrols then the army would have nothing to do, so they did the patrols just to keep the men busy. This is what the Army does. On True Hope it patrols for Nate. On New Hope they hunt down Alterboys, and on Centris they keep the miners “in check.” This is what they do.

Seven hours of dunes, Carson ranting, and bad jokes before the first half of the shift is over. Nate was almost never out on the dunes. The spotters might make some trick spots, so the AT’s would circle and land. Procedure would be followed and it would actually be a dead sandworm or something. Then everyone would get back in the AT’s and take off, but Baaqir knew Nate was always out in the Basin, where the ground was dry and cracked and the winds swept all the sand out into the outer desert.

For fifteen minutes the AT’s sit down on the “Ranger Brown” sea of dust and the men get out to eat their lunch; Army-issued Mobile Rations in small silver packs. Baaqir grabs his MR and looks at the large Chochski’s™ logo on the side, opening it to find meaty chili, a biscuit, and some fries; just like something he’d get back home at the Chochski’s™ not too far from his apartment. He eats it remembering he’s glad there’s no action, because if he were he’d have to turn on I.V. nutrition or swallow down FDN tablets, which makes him think some more about the patrols and how even the MR’s are there to take up time.

Back on the AT they head further into the desert and finally cross into the Basin, which the white-boy loudly names “the hottest place on any populated planet in the Raumreich.” For all Baaqir knew it was true, or maybe he had pulled it out his ass. For five hours the AT’s skim over rock formations and anywhere else Nate might be hiding, the spotters watching for signs. Soon enough the red lights overhead start flashing overhead and the AT’s start circling. They’d found them.

If there had been new men in the their patrol, then Lieutenant Fisher would be announcing procedure and barking orders; but they all new the drill. Right off Baaqir knows its not a trick spot. There were egger tracks and manure everywhere. Its like they wanted him to find them. Only a few steps off of the AT before the blackness of the interior of a cave draws his eye, and he signals his squad-leader, Akira. After a quick radio-call to Fisher, Akira signals his squad into the cave. Around them the other squads continue their searches. There might only be one cave, there might be twenty.

Akira approaches the cave and signals Carson and Hainijad to take point. They bolt into the cave, weapons up, and take position about five yards in. After that Baaqir and Muhammed follow and soon the whole squad is inside, guns out, lights low, and feet quiet.

Its nearly ten minutes before they hit torchlight, coming out from the left. Akira goes up, putting his back against the cave-wall right at the corner into the corador from where the light glows. Jamash bolts across to the other “door,” silent as a mouse, ready to sweep in right after Akira as soon as the pointman goes in. This round it was Baaqir’s turn. It would have been last time but he traded off with Steves who was transfering the next day, and didn’t want to die twelve hours before getting the hell out.

He goes in and sees six figures sitting around a fire, no time to make them out. One short burst of fire, two headshots, one between the shoulders. Another burst gets one as he’s starting to stand. By now Akira and Jamash are in, too and the other two figures are down. The crackle of the fire follows, Silence. They can see another corrador to the right, tears and high-brass wine of a young one being silenced. This time there is no surprise, so Baaqir goes straight in without Akira or Jamash. One stands in the back against the wall holding two little one’s faces to her hips. She begins to shout something in their language, another short burst. Headshot, two in the chest, one of the little-one’s down. The other falls, too, but isn’t dead. Another short burst. Silence again, then footsteps on his right flank.

Baaqir turns to see one charging at him. Gunshots, the one charging falls. Akira had taken the shot. Then shouts from the other men.

“Clear.”

“Clear.”

“Clear.”

“Clear.”

They search the rest of the cave and then turn around. On coming out Baaqir sees three lying out on the ground, dead. A fourth runs screaming out of another cave he hadn’t seen. Another short burst. On his seven Baaqir hears an explosion but can’t see it. Grenades aren’t precise; there must have been a lot of Nate.

As their squad rounds the rock formations they find the AT’s sitting just where they had landed. Fisher is dragging one by her wrists and puts her on her knees next to two others. He pulls out his side arm. Three headshots.

It is an easy spot. In an hour the location is greened by Fisher. One more hour left in the patrol shift, then home.
Liberated New Hope
16-01-2006, 04:29
Chapter II

His boot hits the landing pad with a loud tap. No soft thud; from the sound alone he can tell they’ve swept off the sand from the storm. Walking back to the barracks he hears an AT coming in over head, hotter than hell. It lands almost half off the pad. Medics rush over, taking stretchers off. Five “Ranger Brown” stretchers, five “Ranger Brown” men. They’d hit a hot cave. Nate must have been packing. Doesn’t matter. Hot caves get scattered. They’re dead by now.

The barracks is empty, except for three bunks down from Baaqir’s; Fellows is packing his things. Got caught having some fun with a Native on last Tuesday’s patrol. He’d been doing it for months, as far as Baaqir knew, but this time Fishers found out. He got stamped with an “conduct unbecoming” charge and is being discharged today.

Fellows was always a sick fuck. He’d been on Baaqir’s patrol squad for a week or so two months ago. On one patrol they caught a few dozen Nate on an egger caravan out on the dunes. Baaqir remembered seeing Fellows drag one off to the other side of a dune. Fishers greened the spot, the patrol was moving out. Baaqir went over to find Fellows. He had his knife out, but she was still alive. He was up on top of her, breathing like a fat man trying to run, her face was covered but Baaqir could still see the eyes. No screams, she didn’t even try to get away. Only her big eyes full of tears and staring back at Baaqir.

Pull out side arm, headshot, then back to the AT’s.

You don’t play with them. You don’t torture them, you don’t fuck them. You shoot and go; one of the first things they tell you on patrol.

Fellows turns and walks past Baaqir and toward the door. They don’t look at one another. As Fellows reaches the door Jamash bursts in laughing, carrying Hainijad over his shoulder. As he enters, Jamash nearly runs into Fellows; Jamash’s eyes widen and he quickly drops Hainijad to his feet. The two of them pass Fellows by, Fellows marches out the door. As soon as he is gone the two start laughing like idiots again, shoving back and forth, about what who knows.

Behind Jamash and Hainijad, Baaqir didn’t notice them on the way in; duty rosters by the door. More marching past the laughing jack-asses as more men in “Ranger Brown” enter the barracks. He scrolls his finger down the list.

Mulland
Myrdock
Nadera
Najad - Guard duty - Northwest checkpoint 5A

“Damnit.”