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Ft. Bragg, NC Sol III
0907 December 15th, 2001 AD
The barracks 2nd Battalion 325th Airborne Infantry Regiment occupied were temporary buildings from World War II. They were wooden fire traps and the double-decker bunks were relics of an earlier day as well, but they continued to adequately serve the purpose of temporary shelter for units preparing to embark from Pope Air Force Base. Well over the age of the senior member of Congress, until some local official pushed through a bill to replace them they would have to do.
The 325th was preparing to embark for Diess, a planet that until the previous week no one in the regiment had ever heard of. The powers that be had decided that until their departure they should be "locked down," placed incommunicado, and thus they lingered here in "C-LOC," an acronym that none of them could decipher.
Those with loved ones were completely cut off from communication, for no reason anyone could determine. The barracks were damp, cold and uncomfortable and they had no opportunity to train, since their equipment, including their suits, had been palletized for ease of loading. The food was miserable, tray rations morning and night with MREs for lunch. The skies had been cold, gray and sodden with rain since they left their battalion area. They faced an unknown enemy, reputed to be unstoppable, on a distant planet. And in the case of Bravo Company, Third Platoon, Second Squad, with a squad leader sunk in black depression.
Sergeant Duncan pushed the door open and slumped into the nearest bunk. His troops, grouped at their end of the barracks, looked up from a variety of tasks, some make-work, mostly recreational. There was an endless spades game between four of the squad. Two more of the squad were playing handheld computer games, one was reading and the rest were either sleeping or cleaning equipment. They waited a moment to see if Duncan was going to pass on any information, then all of them went back to the serious business of ignoring their current existence.
Duncan stared at his boots for a moment and then straightened. "The shuttles are landing this afternoon," he said and yawned, "but we're not loading yet."
"Why?" asked one of the card players.
"Who the fuck knows," said Duncan, tonelessly. "Probably for the same reason we're in this fuckin' icebox with our thumbs up our ass."
"It's like somebody wants us to fuck up!" snarled Specialist Arlo Schrenker and hurled his book across the room.
"Wadda ya mean?" said Private Second Class Roy Bittan, trumping with a four.
"Cheep, cheep, cheep," chirped Specialist Dave Sanborn, the Bravo team leader, scooping in the trick. "He means that if we don't get some fuckin' practice with those suits we're go
"F-U-C . . . K-E-D . . . A-G-A-I-N!" sang Sergeant Michael Brecker, the Alpha Team leader, covering Bittan's queen with an ace on the next trick. "We might have done something with the equipment we're trained with, cherry, but we're go
"Yeah," said Schrenker lurching to his feet and pacing between the steel-framed bunk beds. "That's what I mean. I mean, we can't train here, we didn't get to train 'cause we had to get ready for EIB, we didn't get a fuckin' ARTEP, to show 'em we're fucked and there's no way we're go
"The Airborne and Marines are all getting the suits," said Bittan, studying the sergeant's king at length.
"Come on, any day now. Get up or go home. Where'd you hear that?"
"My buddy in S-4. They're go
"Thank fucking God," said his partner.
"Yeah," said Duncan, pulling out the recently issued field manual and flipping to the second page. "O'Neal, Michael L., First Lieu . . . nah."
"What?" said Schrenker.
"There used to be an O'Neal with the One Five-O-Five. Come to think of it he was Horner's driver and Horner is the head of GalTech. I wonder if it's the same guy?"
"What's he like?" asked Schrenker.
"Short, hasn't got much of a short guy's attitude though, 'cause he's built like a fuckin' tank, big-time lifter. Ugly as sin. Quiet, but kinda wise guy when he opens his mouth. Doesn't give `no-brainers' much slack. Gotta punch like a mule."
"When'd you meet him?" asked Schrenker.
" '97? '98?"
"Where'd you find out about his punch?" asked Bittan, fascinated.
"Rick's." Duncan answered shortly, naming off an infamous topless bar in Fayetteville. "There's some interesting shit in this," he continued flipping through the field manual.
"Like what? How to play tiddlywinks while wearing a suit?" asked Brecker, taking the last trick with a ten of diamonds. "Shit, gotta sandbag."
"No, shithead, how to fuckin' survive," snapped Duncan.
"Hey, asshole!" snarled Brecker, tossing aside the trick and surging to his feet, pointing his finger like a knife. "If I wa
"You'd better at the fuck ease, Sergeant," snarled Duncan in turn, his teeth drawn back in a rictus. The rest of the squad was frozen watching the arguing NCOs. The long-awaited clash had taken everyone, including the principals, by surprise. Duncan slammed the field manual to the floor when the other sergeant refused to back down. "And you better at ease right fuckin' now," he continued. "If you have something to say, we need to take it outside," he ended, sounding nearly normal, but the hard lines of his face were unchanged.
Brecker's face worked, his anger and pride driving him into a corner, but the discipline that had enabled him to reach his current rank forced the words out, "Okay, let's take it outside, Sergeant." The last word was a spat epithet.
The two NCOs stalked outside with the hard eyes of the squad trailing after.
"Okay," snapped Duncan, stopping and spi
"You, you fucked up son of a bitch!" growled the junior NCO, restraining a shout with difficulty. They were standing just off the company street and both recognized the danger they were in. Overt conflict would mean instant punishment from the present chain of command. "This was my goddamn squad before you got shoved down our throat and it's fallin' fuckin' apart! Get your shit together, dammit!"
Duncan's face was as cold and gray as the skies but he could not find an immediate rebuttal. Given the silence, Brecker continued his attack.
"I could give a fuck how we got you. If you got off your ass. But I can't order the fuckin' squad around while you pout, they won't listen. So quit your cryin' you shit and lead! Lead, follow or get out of my fuckin' way!"
"Oh, so you know all there is about bein' a squad leader?" whispered Duncan, clenching his fists convulsively. He was on the defensive, knowing the truth of the accusation.
"I know I gotta do more than sit on my ass and mope!"
"Oh, yeah? . . ." Duncan suddenly turned away from the hot eyes on him and looked at the blank wall of the barracks. He felt tears welling up and abruptly changed the subject. "Ten fuckin' years Brecker. Ten fuckin' years in this shit-hole. I can't get away from it. I put myself on levee to Panama or Korea or any other shit-hole just to get out and get graded as vital or talked into staying by the CO. Then the fuckin' chain-of-command changes and the new CO thinks I'm uselesser than dirt. But then there's no levees. I re-up for something else and get classified as critical so I can't change my MOS. The only fuckin' way out of Bragg would be to terminate my airborne status, but that's just another word for quittin'. Finally, finally I get my fuckin' staff stripes, like four years after I should have gotten 'em and now this. I just ca