Barracks Bitch

[Guest]

The range covered in this story is really amazing. Looking very much forward to future installments. Hope someday it's printed and bound so I can have a copy sitting on my shelf. Well written, intricate, and immensely enjoyable.

[Assmunch]

21 hours ago, djsg said:

The range covered in this story is really amazing. Looking very much forward to future installments. Hope someday it's printed and bound so I can have a copy sitting on my shelf. Well written, intricate, and immensely enjoyable.

Thanks man!  I really am trying to push this into novel territory, and I do have an end-game plot sketched out that is a decade long for these characters.  So I keep writing.  I appreciate the compliments.

[flip]

I recently discovered this thread and love it. you've crafted believable characters, that we care about, and a great informative story. I've learned a lot about the army and training. In addition, you've made me horny as fuck...my well plowed ass thanks you.

[Assmunch]

SLEEPER

 

Their upcoming attack using Battle Drill 2, specifically a 2-328 Raid, on the compound didn’t have much chance of success.  The skills of the Charlies, who Sleeper now knew served as defenders, were roughly equivalent to the skills of the Bravos in head to head combat.  Neither side had weapons, so any advantage there was off the table.  Numbers were in favor of the Charlies because for some reason the Bravos were down one Assmunch, one Weeble, and one Bootlicker - two strategists and a wildcard removed from the game board.  Terrain and fortification benefited the defenders, at least initially.  And the Bravos faced another deficit - battlefield communication.  The Bravos had no way to adjust their movements and attacks during the battle so deploying troops to take advantage of weaknesses that opened up could only happen if a squad saw it, which was unlikely when the majority of their individual attention would be on their own individual struggle.  The point was being able to operate and make battlefield decisions in the moment toward the mission goal when there was lack of command or radio silence.

Sleeper was doing the math in his head and it would take a miracle to break through multiple layers of defense.  Maybe he should have gone with a full platoon frontal assault or even a three squad multi directional.  While both the Charlies and the Bravos had their physical powerhouses, no one could match Troll and Zeus, especially if you added in Demon’s support for Troll and Sleeper’s coordination with Zeus.  Those two could tie up three enemies each and make a hole in defenses like a knife cutting through butter.

Sleeper thoroughly hated the decisions a battle commander was forced to make.  He felt much more comfortable as second in command.  It was easy when you had smart leaders like Assmunch and Bootlicker.  The two of them had different approaches but both saw ways to take advantage of strengths and minimize weaknesses.  And Sleeper didn’t discount the power of confidence and commitment in a chosen course of action.  Bootlicker was always, in everything, so sure he was right that often what seemed like a terrible idea at first ended up working by sheer determination.  Bootlicker forced a square peg in a round hole because that’s what he wanted to happen and he didn’t accept that the round hole wouldn’t cooperate.  That square peg was going in, period.  It also helped that Bootlicker loved to cheat, mostly because he didn’t see it as cheating.

“There’s no such thing as cheating.”  Bootlicker explained once.  “If you don’t take advantage of everything you can, you aren’t trying.  It’s stupid to  avoid a solution just because it’s unfair, or it’ll piss someone off, or it wasn’t in the instructions we were given.  Fuck that bullshit.  Limits are for losers.  If you want to win, then fucking win.  The bullshit you deal with when you lose doesn’t feel any different than the bullshit you deal with when you cheat to win.  So fucking win.  Bullshit is going to be there anyway, may as well get something out of it.  And I don’t know about you, but in our line of work losing means getting dead, so, well… I’m not doing that.”

He had a point, Sleeper knew.  However, Bootlicker didn’t see value in working within given restrictions.  Normal people couldn’t operate the way Bootlicker did because Bootlicker didn’t care about consequences.  Sleeper secretly suspected Bootlicker did half the shit he did because he wanted to find out what the consequences would be.  No one could figure out why the fuck someone like Bootlicker wanted to join the Army or how the fuck he was even allowed to stay in.  Maybe the Army didn’t know about the worst stuff Bootlicker did.  But he sure got chewed out enough for the stuff they did know about, plenty of counseling, non judicial punishments, even disciplinary actions in his service record.  Boy, Sarge worked overtime trying to come up with new and brutal punishment duties for Bootlicker, anything that might crack his smug, unbothered reaction to being caught.  Bootlicker just did whatever Sarge ordered him to do without blinking or complaining.  He cut the grass outside their barracks with a pair scissors - the entire 20 by 30 foot swath.  He filled an entire water buffalo with a single 1.5 gallon bucket.  That particular water tanker had a one thousand gallon capacity.  He did it from a spigot on another water buffalo 200 yards away.  Or there was the time he had to clean the parking lot at Command.  Spotless.  No weeds in the cracks, no loose gravel, no oil or fluid stains on the asphalt.  Sarge always tasked one of his minion Sergeants Bravo to be Bootlicker’s minder during these punishments.  Ordinary soldiers wouldn’t need a minder, but Bootlicker liked to cheat.  So one of the Sergeants Bravo would pester him continuously throughout the day.  Maybe Bootlicker had the right approach, at least for the Army.  If losing meant you or your brothers might die, and cheating gave you an edge to keep that from happening, why wouldn’t you do it?

Sleeper forced himself away from that thought.  Losing someone during his command was what he feared the most.  Losing one of his brothers at all was too disturbing to give thought to.

Assmunch was completely different. He didn’t exactly accept loss, only the fact that it was possible.  Assmunch was the opposite of Bootlicker.  Where Bootlicker only looked at ways to succeed and used every trick to make that happen, Assmunch considered all the ways things could go wrong and fail and adjusted his plans to eliminate those possibilities, which often left a direct path to success.  Sleeper guessed that was where Assmunch’s confidence came from.  For him, there was only one good answer and he knew it would work if everyone did their part.  And then, he trusted his men to pull their weight.  In Assmunch’s eyes you had value, you were necessary, he needed you and what you could do.  In contrast to Sarge constantly screaming how stupid you were, how incompetent, what a colossal failure you were in the Army’s eyes, Assmunch made you feel important, that you directly contributed to everyone’s success.  It made a huge difference in individual effort.  Assmunch inspired.

That was something Sleeper hadn’t learned to do yet, inspire his men.  He gave orders, made decisions, asked for input, all of it.  But they didn’t look at him with trust and belief like they did with Assmunch.  Maybe because Assmunch always looked for a way to do the right thing and Sleeper didn’t.  Assmunch agonized over it sometimes.  But there was a distinction between how Assmunch focused on that and Sleeper accepted sometimes the option to do the right thing was available, and sometimes it wasn’t and you still had to do the job.

Sleeper gave a small sigh.  Leadership.  Something he’d only realized as he grew older, just before he joined the Army.  Wrestling had been good for that, with coaches, team captains, thinking about strategies for winning as a team not just individually.  If there was anything that demonstrated leadership it was that a leader considered how a team could achieve a goal while arranging the skills of individuals to their best effect.  It was funny how he’d run away to join the Army thinking it would help him avoid responsibility, and instead ended up feeling responsible for these men around him, his brothers.  And fuck Assmunch for making him Platoon second.

So now he lay prone under a shrub, something called Privet, in the dark searching for any other option.  They’d discussed a hidden squad sneaking in from another vector while the main body of Bravos created an attack diversion.  But Zeus didn’t ‘sneak’ and he was their only guaranteed physical attack dominator.  Weeble could sneak, so could Bootlicker and Wanker.  Shark was pretty good too.  But none of them had the sure ability to overwhelm defenders and if Sleeper were choosing someone to defend the inner part of the compound it would be their best fighters.  A three man squad would be the minimum, two to create the hole, one to penetrate to the objective.

Sleeper growled.  Committing to a planned attack strategy without second guessing at the last minute was so fucking frustrating!  It was one thing when you knew your plan could succeed.  Try committing to an attack strategy you knew would lose.  Everything in him was fighting moving forward with this disaster.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and nearly jumped out of his skin as he screamed in a whisper “FUCK!” While he rolled to his feet and got caught in the privet bush.

“Sorry Sleeper.”  Weeble said in a whisper.  Or rather, the ugly lump of leaves and pinestraw said it with Weeble’s voice.

“Weeble?”  He whispered back.  “What the fuck, man?  Where the hell have you been?  How long have you been here?  What the fuck?  I mean… what the FUCK?”

“SHHHHH, Sleeper!  I can’t stay.  Just wanted to let you know there’s a whole warehouse underground, it’s huge.  If you want in, just go in any of the buildins.  There’s lifts.  Hard to find, just look for a button on the wall.  Good luck!”  And the pile of leaves and pine straw scuttled away a couple feet without anything more than a slight rustle of sound.  “Oh!  Don’t get caught, prolly better let Bootlicker and Wanker handle it.  Pretty sure you ain’t s’posed to know about it.”  And then the form disappeared in the dark.

Motherfucker.  Fifteen seconds.  That’s all the time the interaction took.  He’d let his guard down, let his mind wander.  A potential enemy had caught him unaware.  That was how he had to look at it, even though it was Weeble.  And where the fuck was his compound instructor and Zeus in all this?  Out of the three of them someone should have noticed Weeble sneaking up.  The trouble was he couldn’t spare personnel for a rear guard perimeter, they were too spread out and he had to devote everyone he had to the attack drill.  In any battle drill there were assumptions.  In this one, a forward platoon attack on fixed defensive positions your six was assumed to be guarded by friendly forces with little to no enemy potential.  That would change during the drill as they engaged and each squad had to keep a lookout around them for potential encirclement.  Even so, Sarge would have his fucking balls on a plate for this if he knew Weeble had so easily snuck up.  It was exactly the sort of dirty trick Sarge would play.  It was exactly something Seargeant Horvath would do as well.  He could send an assassin in the dark to take out command personnel and leave the Bravos scrambling.

It was too late to revise their attack plan to take advantage of Weeble’s information.  But if he had a chance during the upcoming battle he’d spread the word hoping someone could get inside one of the buildings.  Weeble’s mysterious appearance did remove one worry from his mind.  He already knew Assmunch was inside the compound, possibly a hostage, and recovery was a third tier goal, however unlikely.  Sleeper mentally reviewed 2-328 for the 18th time:

RAID

2-328. A raid is a limited-objective, deliberate operation entailing swift penetration of hostile terrain. A raid is not intended to hold territory; and it requires detailed intelligence, preparation, and planning. The Infantry platoon and squad conducts raids as part of a larger force to accomplish a number of missions, including the following -

Capture prisoners, installations, and/or enemy materiel.

Capture or destroy specific enemy command and control locations.

Destroy enemy materiel or installations.

Obtain information concerning enemy locations, dispositions, strength, intentions, or methods of operation.

Confuse the enemy or disrupt his plans.

Liberate friendly personnel.

So Assmunch would likely remain a prisoner as his liberation was not a primary objective.

Bootlicker had disappeared from his squad mid-afternoon and was MIA.  But Weeble had been seen on a few occasions early during the day running through the woods.  Sightings grew more infrequent as the day wore on until no one knew where he was in the last few hours leading up to this drill.  But now that Sleeper knew Weeble was accounted for, he felt better.  He didn’t worry about Bootlicker much, disappearing and doing his own thing was what Bootlicker did.  Sometimes it benefitted the Bravos, sometimes it was just a crazy scheme Bootlicker wanted to enact.  In this drill Bootlicker’s presence wouldn’t add much, and just maybe he was off trying to figure out a way to succeed or implementing it or more likely figuring out a way to screw up whatever Objective the Charlies were given.  Unless he needed your help in his scheme, you never knew what he was doing.

He glanced at his watch and noted it was two minutes to execution of the drill.  He wondered if the Charlies had been informed of the exact moment of execution.  Probably not, they were obviously tasked with defense of a fixed position with their own objectives.  It wouldn’t help them develop and hone their skills if they knew when the fight was coming to them.  He did have to chuckle when he thought how stupid Hollywood movies were.  Ops command used absolute time to coodinate a battle or attack, GMT or Greenwich Mean Time, regardless of global position.  The men on the ground used a countdown.  There was no ‘everyone, synchronize your watches.’  That was useless and a group that trained together frequently would laugh at that.  If every single one of you weren’t using the exact same timepiece in the exact same condition there was no synchronization, it just wasn’t possible.  Troops used for engagement depended upon real time intel at the target location to execute.  If a support function was necessary like air or artillery they’d wait for a green go from command, but it was up to field commanders to set it all in motion which could be minutes later.  Getting in position, signaling readiness, a last minute check on sitreps meant actual execution time was variable when your attack forces were dispersed.  Without comms it was hard to know what was happening elsewhere so you executed your part with the blind trust assumption that at least one other squad would be successful.    

In an ordinary drill, the cue for Battle Drill 2 would be the enemy’s initiation of direct fire contact, which they wouldn’t have in this exercise as there were no weapons in use.  By not having weapons all steps up to Step 11 in the Battle Drill were assumed to be a YES which took care of suppressive fire and positioning on the enemy.

Sleeper wouldn’t have much to do on this drill as Platoon leader until the Bravos could draw in.  Whoever survived the initial defense would dictate Sleeper’s next move, as well as whatever enemy forces survived and how and where they regrouped.

The sharp rat-tat-tat of weapons fire broke the night’s silence.  Without thinking, his training kicked in and it didn’t matter that they had been told there would be no weapons fire.  That was the cue for execution, and he cursed the fact that the Charlies knew that too.  Fuck.  Of course the element of surprise would be eliminated.  Motherfuckers.  He and the rest of the Bravos broke cover and ran for the perimeter of the compound.

This wasn’t going to be some honor system of ‘I got you, you’re dead’ and expecting the enemy to stay down.  No, this was live combat to disable and injuries were going to be sustained.  They knew enough to avoid breaking bones that would take weeks to heal, but everything else was fair game.

Sleeper saw Zeus running for his target out of the corner of his eye, so he knew to take the other guy who was crouched and ready.  It was too dark to see which of the Charlies it was but he wasn’t worried.  Only two of the Charlies could match him hand to hand and this guy wasn’t either one of them.  He didn’t even spare a thought of doubt for Zeus’s chances of success.  Both of these guys would be moaning in pain for the next couple hours after he and Zeus got done with them.

“Goddammit!”  Zeus’s opponent yelled just before Zeus knocked him from his feet with a tucked shoulder to sail four feet through the air and slam onto his back.  Zeus had never played football, but the tackle wasn’t half bad.  Before he could even catch his breath Zeus had him face down and was tying his wrists and ankles.

Sleeper had to grapple with his opponent for fifteen seconds or so, but he eventually body slammed the guy to the ground.  “Don’t wait for me, Zeus, I’ll be right behind you.”  he said as he tied his opponent up and dragged him away from the other one.  If they weren’t in too much pain they’d both eventually scoot together and free each other from the ropes, but by then it was Sleeper’s hope the battle would be over.

The compound lights chose that moment to extinguish, and they plunged into darkness.

“Fuck me, this  - Ungh - sucks donkey - mmmmgghhhh - dicks.”  Zeus’s victim grunted with gasps.  “That was the worst, oh God, I’m gonna die.”

“Pussy.  Grunts don’t die, we aren’t that lucky.”  Sleeper laughed as he climbed to his feet.  He gave the guy a hard kick to the ass as he passed him.

“I hate you.”  Were the final words Sleeper heard as he moved forward toward his last visual of Zeus just before he felt a fist hit the back of his neck just below his skull and he went unconscious.

***************

SHARK

Being a squad leader had one benefit above all others: you didn’t have to follow some stupid other squad leader’s dumb plan that would get you deaded.  Did it matter that you still had to follow your Platoon leader’s dumb plan that was also going to get you deaded?  Did it matter if it was your LT’s dumb plan?  He sighed.  There was a certain amount of relief when command KNEW it probably wouldn’t work.  Battlefields were filled with desperate maneuvers that had slim probabilities of success.

In any operation you had personnel who were critical to the success of the dumb plan, and then there was everyone else.  The sacrifices.  He mentally corrected himself.  Sacrifices, with a capital ‘S’.  Sacrifices had a part to play, and beyond that their role was minimized.  Someone long ago figured out battle plans flowed smoother when you didn’t expect too much from the grunts.  Taking a position and providing suppressing fire for a squad or unit that had critical personnel tasked with the mission objective was the usual.  The Sacrifices didn’t have to know what the ultimate objective was, they just had to hold a position.  Support.  Sit and Suck. Suffer.  A lot of S-words, a lot of F-words, and a whole lot of feeling underutilized knowing the rest of your unit was doing the fun stuff.

The minute the lights cut out he knew their chances of success went right down the toilet.  They had no night vision gear.  His three man squad or anyone else would never be able to see the signal.  Assumptions would kill you every time and in this case it was their assumption that they’d have visibility.

He sighed again.  No plan survived first contact with the enemy.  Time to get creative.  Mobility was crucial.

He turned to Wanker and Dumbo.  “Remember the first month at Graf?” He asked, referring to one of their initial small squad drills in Germany, just after they’d all been assembled as a new Platoon and taken through Sarge’s ball crushing evaluations.  “The urban noose?”

“Yeah.”  Wanker said.  “This is sorta like that.  What about it?”

“Remember how Demon fucked up Sarge’s plan by just being a complete maniac?”

Wanker snorted.  “That’s why we called him Demon.  How are we gonna work it?”

Shark smiled, exposing how he got his nickname, his trademark fucked up teeth.  “Havoc.  You and me, Wanker.  Dumbo, pick your moment carefully.  If we can’t see beyond ten feet, neither can they.  Wanker, you know some of the Charlie’s moves and what they call them, right?  Move fast and don’t engage unless you can cripple, leave that to me.  You just focus on making them deviate with new orders.  It’ll depend on how well we can convince them we’re Charlies.  No contact long enough for them to figure it out, okay?”

“Copy” Wanker said.

“Copy” Dumbo repeated.

While every battle drill had its official designation, well drilled units up to the Platoon level in Infantry often had their own name for them.  Like Battle Drill 8, Minesweeper.  Deeper levels of sub drills just got confusing if you called out a bunch of numbers.  Wanker was going to pass along all the conflicting orders he could manage.

“Let’s go, we’re going to give the Brotherhood a fighting chance.  With any luck, our boys will know what’s up.”  With that, Shark broke cover and tore off to the right where he’d seen Sleeper and Zeus make their charge.  The Charlies wanted darkness?  Well that didn’t only work in their favor.  Defensive positions had a specific weakness in that the troops had to maintain that position.

Maybe Sleeper’s plan wasn’t so dumb, holding back half the teams for a staggered attack pattern.  The Charlies would hear attacks happening at other approaches while half of their teams would have to wait in position knowing they couldn’t abandon their defense point in favor of providing support to others.  If the lights were still on, Shark would not have been able to divert.  They’d be seen and the Charlies would be able to reposition.  And there wasn’t a long window Shark could delay moving.

In seconds they were standing with their backs to the building wall and Shark darted his head around the corner to assess.  Two bodies on the ground, hog tied, scrambling to move towards each other.  Their dimensions did not match Zeus or Sleeper’s profiles.

“Two disabled.  We’ll need to do something to delay them getting free.”  Shark whispered.

“I got it.”  Dumbo replied.  “You two stay on the move.  I’ll try to follow the sounds and find you.  But I know the plan.  It might even been better if I’m a few seconds behind you spreading different intel than what you’re telling them.  No one will be able to figure out what the fuck’s going on.”

“Copy.”  Shark replied before darting around the corner with Wanker on his heels. As if by silent agreement, he and Wanker gave each of the disabled Charlies a medium kick as they jumped past, eliciting grunts of pain from them.

Another body lay fifteen feet away and it was beautiful the way Wanker immediately mirrored his split-second re-direct to slam his back against the building.  By now the practiced movements to clear a position forced an automatic sequence of action.  Their brains didn’t even have to think about what they’d seen. With two bodies hog tied, the third should have been as well.  Unless the third wasn’t a Charlie.  But their brains didn’t have to think that far.  All it had to do was say ‘different’ and training took over.  Caution.  Assess.  Clear the room.  Six was clear.  9 o’clock was clear.  Body at 12 o’clock.  Unknown at their blind 3 o’clock.

He held up a hand and made several motions.  Wanker responded with the Bravos’ hand sign for ‘acknowledge’ before darting to their 9.  The absence of weaponry simplified what they had to do.  Wanker was bait and recon.  If there was a Charlie lying in wait around the corner, he saw Wanker and knew that Wanker could see him.  If the Charlie abandoned his protected position to strike, then Shark could disable him.  If the Charlie followed his training, he wouldn’t move towards Wanker until checking for an ambush and Wanker could engage.

Now, Wanker wasn’t the best at combatives but with Shark it was two on one. The smart move would be for the Charlie to evade and escape.  And there was a Charlie, single, as Wanker’s hand signal flashed.  He returned the sign for ‘flank’ and stepped outside an arm’s reach past the corner as Wanker moved.

The Charlie was no fool and he knew he was a goner in a two against one so he leapt backwards and made to run.

“Give it up, Devreaux.”  Shark said running after him after he recognized the face.  “We’ll just tie you up and won’t beat you.  If you make us chase you it’s gonna hurt.”

“Just gotta keep you busy, Snaggletooth.”  Devreaux said.  “Already took your pretty boy off the game board.”

So, it was Sleeper lying there unconscious.  Idiot.  It didn’t take a genius to figure out what happened.  Zeus and Sleeper depended way too much on strength and power.  Devreaux had let Zeus pass, wisely, in favor of incapacitating Sleeper in an ambush.  Instead of moving forward with caution to clear the position, they rushed and Sleeper fell into a trap.  That was a rookie mistake and Sleeper should have been past the point where he made those.  At least Zeus made the right call and moved forward without Sleeper.

Devreaux was fast and Shark knew he couldn’t catch him, which was going to throw a wrench in their plan.  Shark was just about to call off pursuit and divert when Dumbo came out of the darkness ahead and clotheslined Devreaux, sending the Charlie horizontal to slam into the packed earth.

“Damn, that had to hurt.  Give him two for running, Dumbo.  Wanker, we move.”  Shark commanded.

They darted through the compound from fighting group to defensive positions, running fast enough to avoid identification.  Wanker would throw out a drill nickname, cycling between three of the Charlies’ drills, leaving confusion in their wake.  Frequently they came across Bravos.  Like sonar, when they saw the form of a soldier Shark let out a low ‘tch’ sound with his tongue behind his teeth.  An answering ‘tch’ was the Bravos sign of friendly.  If there was no answer, Wanker just whispered ‘Beanbag’, or ‘Harvest’ or ‘Barbarian’.

Shark had no idea what drills or maneuvers those terms referenced, but the deception worked.  How would anyone know a Platoon’s customized playbook well enough to give battlefield orders, except a member of their own Platoon?  Fuck those Charlies.  Training was a beautiful thing, especially when you could use it against the enemy.  No one questioned trusted orders on the battlefield, not if they wanted to keep their stripes.  It was a good lesson for the Charlies to learn.  Establishing an accompanying password or code, some secret gesture or sound helped.  The Charlies just had the rotten luck to have their secrets stolen by two crafty spies.  Bootlicker and Wanker proved their worth again and again with their infiltration and intel.  A lesser leader than Assmunch would have clamped down on the questionable activities of those two.  But Assmunch had seen their talent for trouble as an asset.  The Bravos didn’t even care anymore when they paid the price as a unit for something Bootlicker or Wanker had done.  One time Shark overheard Assmunch telling those two ‘stop fucking getting caught like you’re stupid grunts.  You’re not, so do better.”

After sowing what chaos they could, Shark led Wanker and Dumbo in a jog to the position they were supposed to maintain.  Whatever Bravos were left would assault the center.  All the action was a good distance away and they only had to watch for stragglers and pick off any Charlies trying to reposition.  The three of them wouldn’t be useful in direct engagement anyway.  The Bravos had tanks like Zeus, Troll, Cellblock and Chunk for that, supported by terrors like Demon, Fitch and Olympic.

Without compound lights, the night was black, very black.  After Germany, Shark wasn’t surprised by the kind of darkness you only got when you were far enough away from city lights.  When you were out on patrol in a rural area the absence of light was at first eerie and unsettling.  Sounds seemed sharper and more clear forcing a nervous hyper awareness.  People said when you lose one of your senses your others grow stronger.  Shark didn’t believe that.  It wasn’t that they grew stronger, you just paid more attention.  In a normal situation you heard ten or more noises in a single second.  Shark had counted.  Your head dismissed most of those as unimportant unless you focused on them.  Sitting in class people were breathing, moving, the air conditioning was blowing, a bird was singing outside the window, your pen was scratching on the paper in front of you, your stomach was gurgling, saliva was squelching around in your mouth.  Everywhere.   Everything had a sound.

So when you were in the dark, your head, not your ears, paid attention to all the sounds your ears already heard.  And Shark didn’t hear anything he wasn’t expecting to hear.

“Hey Wanker, let me get some hole.”  He said.

“Now?”  Wanker replied in a calm, ordinary tone.

“Yeah.  We’re good for a few minutes.  Won’t take me long.  It’s been a week, bro.”  he answered.

Wanker moved to pull the lower layers of his uniform down just over his ass after releasing his belt.   “Do your thing, dude.”  Wanker said getting on his hands and knees.

Shark moved up behind him, his hard dick already freed.  Neither of them exposed anything more than was necessary, as usual.  Wanker’s obedient acceptance of being dicked sending a surge of pleasure straight to his pole.  Just snap his fingers and he had a hole to fuck anytime he wanted it.  It was even better that Wanker didn’t get eager about it, never asked him for a fuck.  There was something thrilling about having someone so obedient who had no expectations, who wouldn’t turn it into something it wasn’t.  It was clear Wanker attached no significance to the act.  He didn’t even feel bad about being used.  That was what did it for the brothers.  If Wanker had turned into a little bitch, or some flaming faggot (sorry Zeus) the Bravos wouldn’t have stood for it.  As long as this stayed in the realm of a sexual handshake, no one was going to put a stop to it or complain.  Because Wanker hadn’t changed.  He was still Wanker.

“Wait.”  Wanker said before spitting in his hand and reaching back to grease his asshole with spit.  “One sec…”. He spit again, and reached back to slick up Shark’s shaft.

“Thanks.”  Shark said.  He kept forgetting that part.

He eased forward into Wanker’s tight hole.  The heated furnace of his brother’s ass was a welcome feeling in the cold night air.  He chuckled at the thought that there was a time he would have found a thought like that gross.

It wasn’t even like he was having sex with Wanker.  It was just getting off, releasing some tension.  Neither one of them had any kind of feelings that got in the way.  Wanker had a hole and he didn’t get warped about what happened to it.  Any way, any position, any action - slow or fast, hard or gentle - Wanker just kept his hole in position so a brother who needed it could fuck out a little aggression, boredom, pent up frustration or just get rid of that distracting buildup that all men had to deal with from their nuts.

Shark hadn’t had much pussy, only one girl in fact had ignored his unfortunate face and mouth and let him get rid of both their cherries.  For her, it was just a matter of needing the credential with her girlfriends after they heard that your period wasn’t as bad if you weren’t a virgin.  That’s the crazy shit girls did.  Most of them were insane.

He knew she’d only picked him because he wasn’t going to say no, not the way he looked, and she could firmly set expectations.  She didn’t have to do all the manipulation, the luring, the subtle hints and flirting she’d have to do with most other guys.  He was less work for something she saw as a medical procedure.  And they used a condom.  And she complained about how uncomfortable it was.  And she bossed him around about how he was doing it.  Losing his virginity: two out of ten stars.  Pussy?  Eight out of ten stars.  Women?  Five out of ten.  Based on his single experience.  But hey, you had to have a benchmark, right?

So when he slid raw into the sloppy hole Footlong had left behind in that winter shelter in Germany, he was jolted into an appreciation of Wanker’s ass as a welcome release, and Wanker in general as a receptive fuck.  He would never have even considered it if Footlong hadn’t fucked Wanker first.  Knowing a buddy had taken the first leap helped him bridge the off limits feeling that he would have had.  Ass wasn’t all that different from pussy.  And he gained an appreciation for all the things that actually mattered in fucking someone, and just sticking your dick in a hole was really the least of it.

Since then, he’d fucked Wanker every chance he got, which wasn’t all that much since there wasn’t too many places they could do it when at Airborne.  And he decided that aside from the tight, warm, gripping wetness of Wanker’s hole, his favorite part was how Wanker never blinked when he asked.

A few of the other brothers were getting theirs too, it wasn’t a secret, not in the brotherhood.  Wanker was a resource and by silent agreement (and Assmunch, Sleeper and Zeus’s warning) they kept it respectful and emotionally dry.  The world would be a much different place if men could have this sort of arrangement with women.  It didn’t always have to be about love and feelings.

As he pumped away, Dumbo kept watch in the night.  Wanker had a nice cushioning butt for throwing a fuck, which was good for Shark.  His hipbones stuck out a little because he was on the thin side.  So he could appreciate not banging bones during what was supposed to be a feel good experience.

He gripped Wanker’s hips and with every thrust forward he pulled back, bucking up inside his buddy’s hole.  Wanker was a real trooper, not even grunting in discomfort.  That was the third thing in favor of fucking Wanker, he never complained, he just took the fuck like a good slut.  After a couple minutes Shark could feel himself getting close.

“Fuck yeah, I’m gonna nut, bro.”  He whispered.

“Sweet.  Juice that hole, buddy.”  Wanker whispered back, a little out of breath.

Number four on the list - you could dump your load right in his ass, or his mouth, he didn’t care.  From what Shark gathered, hardly anyone got to cum inside anyone they had sex with these days.  Even couples that had been together a while still used condoms all the time.  It seemed like only married people didn’t.

He let out a low moan as his cum flooded Wanker’s guts in several long spurts balls deep.  It took him about 30 seconds to come down from the high.  He would never hate that feeling.  He pulled out and put his dick away.

“You done?”  Dumbo asked.

“Yeah, you need a go?”  Shark replied.

Dumbo moved closer and pulled his dick out.  “Just a blowjob.”

“You good, bro?”  He asked Wanker with a pat on the shoulder.

“A-1, bro.”  Wanker replied.

Shark went over to the post Dumbo had just left to take his turn at watch.  Wanker went to work on Dumbo’s average dick while Dumbo used both hands to guide his head for the type of mouth fucking he needed.  Shark shook his head as the usual disappointment flooded him after seeing Dumbo’s low hangers swing with every hip thrust into Wanker’s patient lips.  Like his ears, Dumbo’s nuts were legendary.  Shark would give anything to have balls like Dumbo’s, nuts that actually swung, the size of plums instead of his own walnuts drawn up in a tight sack.  At least the Gods were fair and gave Dumbo an unremarkable dick.  Maybe not real fair, he still had to walk around with those ears.  He sighed and kept eyes and ears peeled out into the darkness, wondering how the assault was proceeding.  The frequent wet gurgle behind him told him the assault on Wanker’s throat was going as expected.  Wanker did suck a mean dick.

*****************************

MARINES POTTER AND BATTLES

 

“Well ain’t that somethin’”. Lance Corporal Potter drawled, watching through his night vision optics as the Bravo they called Dumbo stiffened up with an orgasm right into Wanker’s mouth. It was uncontrolled and slightly violent, yet Wanker allowed himself to be manhandled and violated as Dumbo thrust and quivered with spastic jerks.  Quiet as a mouse though.  The Bravos were approximately 30 feet away, and Potter only had a partial profile of the sexual act.

“Yeah, sure is.”  Battles answered, watching the action himself.  The one called Shark had done his deed just before.  At least they had the sense to have a watch.  “Dude didn’t even spit it out.” He continued after everyone pulled themselves together and resumed guard in crouched positions.

Potter grunted.  “Let’s move.  This team’s holding a retreat position, they’re not going anywhere.  We’ll go west.”

They moved off into the darkness.  Major Collins wanted a thorough report on tonight’s attack drill from initial engagement to the cease of hostilities.  Potter knew he and Battles couldn’t be everywhere at once and specific fights or activities weren’t what the Major was looking for.  This was a test for the two junior Marines, to see how much information they could gather without being discovered.  To determine if they could organize the information and relay it both in a way suitable for a senior officer’s digestion and relevant to the operation of a Marine of Potter’s rank.  A test to see if they could properly identify elements of the assault in terms of strengths and weaknesses.  Who was sticking their dick in who wasn’t battlefield intel.  And if you don’t want a reputation in the military, you don’t offer information that your superior hasn’t asked for.  In any circumstance.  It was called information compartmentalization.

Your LT doesn’t care how dirty the latrine is, or that maintenance won’t fix the shower drain.  That information is properly given to your Staff Sergeant.  Don’t tell your Colonel the armory issued you an M16 with a cracked stock.  And don’t spread gossip up the chain, or within the ranks, ever.  Within your unit, that’s unofficially acceptable depending on the nature of the gossip but It’s still discouraged.  Now, go outside your unit and the one hard rule is ‘answer only when asked’ but you still need to demonstrate discretion.

In Iraq, or during any deployment really, secrets are hard to keep.  You know who’s cheating on their wife or girlfriend.  You know who the Barrack’s Bunnies are on post.  You know who got chewed out for a fuckup.  And most of the guys know who’ll ‘do a favor’ for another Marine.  Potter and Battles decided early on they didn’t want their business known and kept their own arrangement close.  That was another reputation you didn’t want if you expected to go anywhere in the Corps.

Wanker’s status as the Bravo’s joy-hole didn’t fall within their orders, so unless the Major asked it wasn’t pertinent to the mission.  Potter gave it no further thought.

 

An hour later they made their way back to the camp Major Collins had them create earlier that day about a mile from the compound.  It wasn’t easy in the dark woods, another test.  He and Battles could have used their optics but they didn’t need them and conserving the battery was an important part of maintaining the operational effectiveness of your gear in case you needed it for something critical.

They found Major Collins sitting back against a pack, reading a book with a penlight.

“Sir.”  Potter said, walking up.

“Corporal.  Private.  Eat first.”  Major Collins gestured with the penlight at two aluminum foil wrapped bundles just a few feet away.

He and Battles threw themselves on the ground with grateful moans.  “Thank you Sir.”  Battles said.

The only light was from the Major’s penlight.  Honestly, they’d adjusted to the dark and would rather not have the light at all.  The Major’s use of the light signaled their camp was safe and normal camp protocol was allowed.  They opened the foil to the rich smell of a hearty stew.

“Fuck, that smells good.”  Potter said before he could stop himself.  “Apologies, Sir.  Won’t happen again.” He said immediately.

Collins clicked off his pen light.  “Relax Marine.  We’re not in ranks.  casual communication permitted.  In fact, when we’re alone, I expect it from you two.  I’m just another Marine, Potter.”

“Yes, Sir.  I mean Major.  Yes Major.”  Potter said.

“Now eat.” Major Collins said.

Man, the stew was good.  Something about a warm meal after a full day’s exertion.

“Wow, what kind of meat is this?  So good.”  Battles said around a mouthful.

“Deer meat, I think.  I could eat five bowls of this.”  Potter said around his own mouthful.

Potter tried to eat like a civilized human.  There was a Major in their presence, after all.   The Major had taken care of them, providing healthy Marine sized portions of the deep, savory, thick stew filled with onions, potatoes, big chunks of meat, and a few other vegetables.  It was salty with a hefty amount of spice and heat.  It didn’t take long to finish when you were trained to eat fast in the field.  Battles policed the containers and remnants while Potter gathered natural materials from around the camp so he could create a mock compound to give his report.  The night air was dry and chilly, somewhere in the upper 30’s or low 40’s and it felt good.  After boot camp in Southern California, he’d had a rude shock in Iraq after thinking that being in a Middle East country was going to be hot.  It was, during the height of the day and all throughout the summer.

But otherwise it cooled down drastically at night.  This temperate Georgia winter reminded him a lot of winter in northern Iraq where it was rare for the temperature to fall below freezing, but it still got close.  Dawn and sunrise on a crisp, clear northern Iraqi morning was damn near beautiful, as much as the country and government itself sucked.  It was on those mornings that Potter felt like Iraq wasn’t all that different from America.  Farmers got up and tended to their animals, the day promised only good things, the distant hills blurred and greyed with a morning haze.  Sharing a dallah of Qahwa (Arab coffee) with the indigenous Kurds who were effusively friendly.  The Kurds weren’t their enemy in the conflict.  The US actually considered them allies against Hussein, but the military didn’t really ask permission for a lot of things they had to do, so people occasionally got butthurt.  Compensation was given. And part of the Arabic culture was to ask for 20 camels when you only deserved 2.  The art of negotiation was considered a fun challenge in their culture.  And serious negotiations were prolonged and often involved sharing Qahwa.  It had the feel of being almost ceremonial.

As far as getting maximum concessions was concerned during the process, it wasn’t dishonest he eventually learned, to demand more than you were owed.  It was expected to demand more.  No one in the Iraqi or Kurdish culture would take a claim for 20 camels seriously and an opponent was expected to counter with an equally absurd low ball offer.

It was probably racist to use camels, he corrected himself.  Kurds raised goats and sheep.  Camels were for Bedouin, the nomadic wanderers who wanted little to do with anyone.

Now, anytime he thought about Iraq, it wasn’t the lopsided constantly moving fight across the country as Saddam’s forces were in continuous retreat from the superior force of the coalition armies comprised of the U.S., Britain, France, Germany, the Soviet Union, Japan, and even Saudi Arabia and Egypt.  He didn’t think about that much, and instead thought about how good it felt to actually help the Kurds, the families he’d met, how coffee wasn’t just something you gulped down to give you a jolt, it was meant to be enjoyed.

Potter appreciated his time with Operation Provide Comfort in Northern Iraq after they’d taken care of kicking the living shit out of Saddam Hussein’s sad little army.  He’d learned a lot, but mostly he UNlearned American prejudices.  People were people, and most regular people were only concerned with surviving day to day.  And just like in America, city people were far more caught up in political bullshit than the simpler population in the countryside.  The Kurds only wanted their homeland back after Saddam Hussein’s brutality against them.  It was disheartening to see how little the Kurds possessed, how much they had given up to flee, and their generosity in the face of their destitute existence contrasted with the relative wealth of American soldiers spoke volumes about who they were as a people.

Trying to give them gifts to ease their poverty only resulted in an argument over some trinket or item they tried to force in trade so that the transaction wouldn’t be one sided.  Often it was items they could not afford to give up, having so little to begin with.  Part of it was pride.  Potter learned that if you offered the gift as compensation for something they had done or would do, it allowed them to accept it, as long as it wasn’t too valuable.  Money was not acceptable, except for merchants or businessmen.  Food that had been prepared was also not acceptable.  Raw goods or useful items were received well, if they were in payment for a service such as information or help.  Small trinkets of no real value were highly coveted by the children, if the items were uniquely American.

It could be confusing how they tried to milk you for everything you owned if they were negotiating for something they wanted or needed, but try to give them something for free and they would never take it and suddenly you found yourself in some weird reverse negotiation of trying to get them to give you LESS while they argued that it wasn’t right that you gave them anything, and if you did it was too much.

Alternatively, battle maps made him think of his time driving back the Iraqis before he ever saw the gentler side of the people of Iraq.  his miniature compound he was currently arranging for Major Collins’ briefing brought back memories of field planning from his early days of the Gulf War, his unit gathered around some cobbled together basic layout of their objective on the ground while they watched their Lieutenant describe the battle plan using sticks, rocks, or utility items from their gear.  Scale was important in battle maps.  Accuracy of position was important.  Critical elements needed to be represented if they measured any weight on the battle.  Major players had to be identified.  Private Battles watched with riveted attention as he arranged the map, and he could feel the Major’s heavy consideration of his every placement.  He wasn’t nervous, even if Major Collins came down from Heaven, the Pentagon.  Potter knew his shit, he wasn’t worried about that.  And Major Collins was refreshingly easy going for an officer.  Potter knew that came from confidence and having nothing to prove.  It was something Potter tried to emulate, having seen it before in other leaders.  There was a time and place for being a hard ass, but if you used it sparingly it carried more weight.

Leadership was tricky like that.  It was one of the reasons he both liked and respected Assmunch.  They weren’t so far apart in rank Potter felt awkward calling him by his Platoon nickname even if he didn’t quite understand why they called him that.  No, Assmunch was one of those rare soldiers who even as a junior enlisted possessed this self awareness, confidence, and ease of command that felt like he was senior.  He didn’t act like a Private.  He didn’t carry his lowly stripe like the others.  Just like Collins didn’t carry his Major like other Majors that Potter had encountered.  It was quality.  Potter didn’t think that could be taught, but when he found someone with it he made sure he was all eyes and ears.  As the lowliest NCO he didn’t deserve or merit the personal attention of someone like Major Collins.  Yet, here he was and he was damned if he wouldn’t give the man his best.

“The Bravos separated into mostly 3 man units and spread out in an encirclement of the compound, forcing the Charlies to divide their defense.  The Bravos were far more capable of acting independently without direct command than the Charlies.  That will become clear just after contact…” Potter began his debriefing

[laguyinhou]

Amazing chapter! Thanks! 

[Assmunch]

1 hour ago, laguyinhou said:

Amazing chapter! Thanks! 

Thanks man!  A lot of strategy went into this one.  I REALLY want to get to the reason everything happened like it did, but I'm almost there.  

[laguyinhou]

Can't wait! 

[BestCatcher]

On 5/15/2023 at 9:19 AM, Assmunch said:

Thanks man!  A lot of strategy went into this one.  I REALLY want to get to the reason everything happened like it did, but I'm almost there.  

Dear, gawd…more please! This series captures the reader with its amazing plot and character development as well as its erotic man-on-man encounters. (In)patiently waiting for more 😜

[Assmunch]

14 hours ago, BestCatcher said:

Dear, gawd…more please! This series captures the reader with its amazing plot and character development as well as its erotic man-on-man encounters. (In)patiently waiting for more 😜

Ugh, I know man.  Just been on a crazy tear of life interruptions for the last few weeks.  Pipe leaks in my townhouse (defective copper pipe, been fixing them one by one as they occur, but I think I’m going to just redo them all and get it over with.  Won’t take me too long.) a week long visit from the mother in law, a destination wedding, and it’s my birthday in a few days.  I refuse to celebrate it, I’ve had enough.  LOL.   I do have the next chapter fleshed out and partially written.  Just need to fill it out and complete it.

[laguyinhou]

Happy birthday! Can't wait, but happy to wait for the next chapter! 

[Assmunch]

Battle Buddies Chapter 26

 

“Conclusions?”  Major Collins asked after Potter finished his debrief.

 

He took some time to think.  Most of it he already put together while he and Battles trekked back to their camp.  “The Bravos’ strategy was effective for this target, but only because the size of the compound was manageable for a single Platoon.  Leaving a rear guard of several squads kept their enemy from converging again, then allowed their forward elements to focus on breaking through.  Casualties were minimized for the attacking force, and enough defense troops were neutralized that focusing entirely on their objective was possible.  I think it would have gone differently if weapons were used.  The lack of cover on approach would have made it a slaughter without another attacking force drawing the defense away from entry points.  Also, weapons would have brought the rooftops into play allowing better coordination of the defense as well as domination of the entire battlefield.  The Bravos would have had to engage at a distance, at least initially, slowing the pace of the battle considerably, and allowing the defenders more time to modify their plan on the fly.  The chaos after initial contact and separation of the defense forces worked against the Charlies.  It appeared as if the Charlies didn’t have a secondary plan in place if initial contact didn’t proceed as expected.  They were unprepared, too confident in the superior position their fortified defense provided, too reliant on having the time and ability to pass battlefield orders.”

Major Collins gave a short negative shake of his head.  “You think.  Suppositions and conjecture have no place in your information.  If you aren’t sure, it doesn’t make it into your report.  If more weapons were a factor, or their application, then relate that in a decisive way.”  But then he nodded.  “Knowing all this, what would you change about the Charlies’ decisions?”

Battles spoke up first.  “There was no reason they should have let the Bravos dictate dividing up the defense into smaller groups.  They were already surrounded.  That was the mistake, not anything that happened after.”

Potter looked at his friend.  “That was the scenario, the conditions of the drill.  You can’t change that.”

Battles shrugged.  “Why not?  The Charlies had the intel that an attack was imminent hours before engagement.  The drill started then, not when contact was made.  They allowed their enemy to surround them, gave them ground without putting a plan in place to compromise that advantage.  That was fucking stupid.  No one told them to allow themselves to be surrounded.  The conditions of the exercise said there would be an attack on the compound and to prepare a defense.  That was it.  Their defense plan could have started right that minute.  They could have sent up to half their forces out of the compound long before the Bravos converged and forced the Bravos to face a pincer or deal with the flanking force first.  I sure wouldn’t leave an enemy at my back.  Instead, the Charlies probably thought they’d been given a gift of hours to develop a plan of defense.  And they squandered it by doing nothing while they waited for the enemy to come to them.”

“And how would acting sooner have changed the outcome?”  Major Collins asked.

“The Bravos wouldn’t have had the forces to surround the compound, leaving the Charlies a path for retreat or reinforcement at the very least.” Battles said.   “And the Bravos’ ability to penetrate to the objective would be in serious doubt without that additional manpower because they would have had to choose one or two attack vectors instead of a perimeter wide simultaneous attack.”

Major Collins once again relaxed to recline his beefy body back against his pack.  “Excellent breakdown.  Your information gathering and surveillance of the battlefield was well done, the progression of the attack was conveyed in clear, concise way, your evaluations and conclusions are well supported.  But you’ve failed.  Tell me why.”

Potter scowled.  His eyes darted over the mock compound made out of rocks and pine cones on the ground.  He looked at Battles who was also scowling.  He didn’t speak.  He didn’t want to say anything wrong.

The Major grunted.  “Nothing?”  He paused for an answer.  “Alright.  Get some sleep.  I have another mission for you in a few hours.”

******************

WEEBLE

He knew he should return to the hidden lair where Mole was waiting, but he wanted to watch at least the start of the exercise.  Part of him was excited to tell Mole what he’d discovered.  The other part wanted to be with his brothers.

He felt kinda good that he was able to sneak up on Sleeper and scare him.   Ordinarily he wouldn’t be that good, but Sleeper’s distraction made it way easier than it should have been.

Maybe that’s part of it. He thought to himself.  Inattention and distraction of the enemy.  He resolved to ask Mole.

Oh!  I just ‘bout did it to myself!  Whisperman was still out here.  Yeah that would suck, getting knifed while patting yourself on the back for how awesome you were at sneakin around.

He found a relatively concealed position that covered his back so he could watch the battle for the compound.  He settled into a nice little pine straw and leaf mound.   He didn’t have long to wait, less than ten seconds, before the sharp POP POP POP of weapons fire broke the night.  Small caliber, his ear told him, maybe a .22, definitely a sidearm.

He wore the night vision optics that he’d stolen from the underground warehouse, but they were tilted up on his forehead and inactive.  In Germany the Bravos had a week of night operations instruction which included basic familiarity with night vision gear.  Before then he thought all Infantry had access to whatever special gear was available but that assumption was destroyed when he found out no one in the Bravos had training in their use either.  It turned out all that fancy stuff you saw in the movies was only available to special units.  Most of the reason was money.  Regular Infantry didn’t get no secret missions deep in enemy territory surrounded by jungles and crazy stuff.  You got the gear for the job you had.  And sometimes, you didn’t even get all that and had to fight without it.  As Sarge said, the Army expected you to fight with a gun and your boots, and anything else was a luxury.

From the small rise he occupied, he could see a good portion of the perimeter and watched as multiple teams of Bravos ran forward to where matching teams of Charlies waited in hidden positions.  But not all the Bravo teams moved initially, holding back for a secondary assault.

It felt strange watching it all happen from a distance.  He knew just by how they moved who was who, saw Zeus’ huge form and Sleeper’s only slightly less huge form run towards the buildings.  Across the compound he saw Troll, Olympic and Footlong running, and not far away from them was Eagle and Chunk.  He didn’t think that team was gonna get anywhere, Eagle didn’t see much point in giving maximum effort most of the time.  He did alright, but you could tell he thought being a grunt wasn’t good enough for him.  And without good support, poor Chunk was going down too.

Silent, AF and Cellblock ran fast, two forward one rear, on another vector.  He chuffed with humor, thinking ‘vector’ wasn’t a word he’d ever thought he’d use, but damned if it didn’t just worm its way into his brain after all his training and instruction.  Dimples and Alaska matched the speed of the others and Weeble felt a moment of pride that even though no one was near the others, they moved as a synchronized unit perfectly timed for simultaneous contact.  Maybe it was an accident, or coincidence.  Another word he felt stupid using - coincidence.  It meant the same as accident only fancy.

And then the lights went out.  He scrambled to flip his optics down and switch them on.  It was all dark, he couldn’t see nothin’.  Damn things were useless!  Batteries dead or somethin’. Well, he needed to get back to Mole anyway.  He flipped the optics back up and retreated from his position with slow, deliberate movements.

He didn’t question the spark of danger that jolted him to action, diving to his left in a shoulder roll that brought him back to his feet in two seconds.

“Not bad.  But you still let us sneak up on you, little puppy.” The coarse gravel of Whisperman’s voice sent a chill through him.  He knew Mole was watching from his hideout fifteen yards away.  His makeshift ghillie was now ruined from his frantic dive.  Mole wasn’t going to save him, not that it was necessary since he now knew Mole and Whisperman worked together.  Whisperman wasn’t going to kill him.  But another cut wasn’t out of the question.

For the first time he was able to see the Whisperman.  Not the man himself, but his rough figure.  No wonder Weeble had never caught him.  He looked like one of those bushes with the tiny leaves that were everywhere here in the woods.  His camouflage was complete.  How many hours did it take him to do that?

“Get your night eyes back in position, little puppy.”  Whisperman continued.  “This time, try flipping open the lens cover.”

GodDAMMIT!  Lens cover.  So that daylight or bright lights didn’t fry the electronics.  He smashed the feeling of being stupid down as he repositioned the optics and opened the cover, revealing the details of the night in shades of eerie green.  Another GODDAMMIT went through his head as he realized Whisperman had been watching him for longer than he’d realized if he saw him messin’ with his optics.

“We’re exposed up here.  Why are you in the open, Hammer?”  Mole’s calm voice from behind Weeble, startling him even more.

“They aren’t looking at the woods, Mole.  You don’t need to protect your little pet, I’m not gonna hurt him.  Much. Got my own pet now.”  Whisperman replied.

Weeble saw Bootlicker crouching behind Whisperman.  He didn’t look like he was a prisoner.  And he didn’t look hurt, which sent a wave of relief coursing through Weeble’s chest.  Weeble chanced taking his eyes off Whisperman for a split second to glance back at Mole.  He was squatting so that his profile didn’t appear above the rise that looked down upon the compound.

“We need to go home.  Can’t do anything while the mice are scurrying.  Weeble’s got intel for us, I’m sure.”  Mole said in a slow, bored tone.

Weeble locked eyes with Bootlicker even though Bootlicker wasn’t exactly focused on him because he didn’t have no optics.  A satisfied thrill went through him, at the thought he pulled a Bootlicker when Bootlicker himself hadn’t.

“Yeah, let’s go home.  Got lots to tell ya.”  Weeble said, his smug grin bleeding through to his voice.  He didn’t know where home was, but Bootlicker didn’t know that either, now did he?

He saw Bootlicker’s arm flick and the knife flew to thud between his feet before his mind registered that his brother just threw a knife at him.

Filled with confidence, Weeble bent down and pulled the knife out of the dirt.  “Thanks Bootlicker!  Can always use another one.”  He said, putting the knife inside his blouse.

The look on Bootlicker’s face was priceless.  He still didn’t get it that Weeble could see everything with his optics, even the puzzled shock on his face.

“Let’s go.”  Mole said.

Weeble didn’t even stop to think that he’d turned his back on Whisperman without a single fear until he’d followed Mole for a good ten steps.

Yeah, fuck you, sicko.  You and Bootlicker are better together.

He didn’t stop grinning the whole way home.  And every time his instincts told him to move, he skipped or hopped ahead without looking back.  That fucker wasn’t gonna take another notch out of him, let him bleed Bootlicker for a while.

*****************************

BOOTLICKER

What had gotten into Weeble?  That knife should have made him squeal and jump.  And the confidence in his voice?

Bootlicker was just messing with him, trying to show off for Hammer, and Weeble was close enough for Bootlicker to feel like he could get the knife to sink right between the little guy’s feet, even in the dark.  They weren’t that far apart so he felt like his practice would pay off.  And he executed it perfectly.  Besides, real world situations were best to internalize a skill.  He nailed it.

But Weeble hadn’t even moved.  Not a flinch or gasp of surprise.  And his ridiculous camouflage.  Nothing like Hammer’s, who looked like a shrub.  Weeble was just covered with forest garbage.  He looked like a pile of crap the wind had blown up against some rock during a storm.  Still, in the dark like they were, he knew if Weeble went to ground he’d have to step on him to know he was there.  He’d have to try it out, to see if he could hide like that.

His foot crunched a dead stick in the path and he immediately felt a sting on his ear.

“You better pay attention, recruit.  I lo-o-ove teaching lessons.”  Hammer grated.  “Whatever you got in your head, get rid of it.  There’s ONE thing you think about now, and that’s where you put your feet.  The next one will really hurt, and I will enjoy it twice as much.”

Two flicks later, and one shallow stab to the hip and they finally reached a hole in the ground covered by a leaf strewn tarp.  It didn’t escape his notice that every time Hammer stepped forward to give a knife flick to Weeble, his brother somehow took an extra step, a little faster, and Hammer missed.  Weeble didn’t even look back.  It looked like Hammer just picked the wrong moment.

Bootlicker felt like his skills were falling behind, and that didn’t feel good at all.

Pay attention. He thought to himself.

*************************

ASSMUNCH

He was too tired, beaten, and sore to care when the ape came through the door for the fourth time and grabbed him off his cot.

“Stand up.”

Like hell.  He was going to get a beating no matter what level of cooperation he gave.  He no longer cared.  After the first time, the ape hadn’t beaten his face and he felt like maybe the swelling had gone down a little.  Small mercies.

Through each ordeal, it was thoughts of Kevin, of his dad, Tim, and his mom that kept him going, taking his mind away enough to push the punishment to his body far enough away that he could ignore it.  He knew it was possible he was having a psychotic break with reality, but again he couldn’t bring himself to care.

The second time, after they’d let him sleep for a bit, he’d done as the ape asked only to get a knee to the groin and a bone shaking fist to the ribs.  After that, the ape strung him up to hang from a suspicious hook in the concrete ceiling to continue his beating.

The worst part?  The ape didn’t talk.  Just used him as a punching bag.  Then when he’d had enough, or the ape got bored, he would be released and the other guy, the interrogator, would enter and ask him his questions.

“What has Collins tasked you with?  I know you have a mission.  What is it?”  He didn’t answer the man.  After the second beating he learned that saying anything, even a sarcastic response, just weakened his resistance.

“What were you sent here to learn?”  The question was one he’d already answered, and he’d answered honestly.  So this time he began making the outside world disappear.  Part of it was the need to mentally escape.  Did people have psychotic breaks on purpose?  He’d always thought it happened subconsciously but he was deliberately seeking it out.  Was it an actual psychotic break when you were in control of it?

Reality was whatever you decided it was.  The more you believed something mattered, the more real it became.  If you viewed something as a barrier that’s how it solidified in your mind.  A speed bump could become a mental wall.  And if you could decide to manifest a barrier, couldn’t you also decide the opposite?  The power was his to decide.

He felt a soothing rush of calm quiet descend inside him with the realization.  His pain was only a state of physical being.  He didn’t have to tie his mind to his body, they could be separated exactly how he separated himself from reality in the place where there was no him.  Wasn’t that what he did when he went to that place?  He forgot his body existed?  And he could decide what to let in, what to ignore, what to perceive and in what amount.  It wasn’t an all or nothing question.  It was a matter of degrees, a spectrum.  In the darkness of his mind, he let what his ears heard penetrate the emptiness.

“—— don’t tell me, you aren’t leaving me many options.”  The man said.

He spoke of options.  Another lie.  The man’s options weren’t options for him.  Their goals were not the same.

The clarity he felt at this moment focused his thoughts in a way he’d never thought they could be.  With clarity came simplicity.  Unrelated concerns were discarded.  Pain was one of those things.  His current situation was another.  Neither affected what he had to do.  That was the gift of simplicity.  Complicated nuances, grey areas, even factual distinctions could be discarded.  Those considerations were intended to cloud the basic nature of the proposition, to obfuscate choice and steer the mind.  To argue was to accept that there was an opposing viewpoint but that in itself was a dilution of simplicity.  If you were certain and held surety, no other viewpoints could exist.  There were few things in life so foundational as who he was, his sense of self.  Regardless of the man’s questions, the concept of simplicity revealed he wanted Andrew to betray who he was.  His answers didn’t matter.  Facts didn’t matter.  Intel didn’t matter.  There was just one purpose to his entire ordeal - pushing him over the threshold of betrayal. Telling the man about the Bravos, how they functioned, their training, their individual skills was a line he wouldn’t cross.

The remainder of what the man said was lost in unintelligible sounds that his ears refused entrance.  Interaction was no longer useful.  The man said the same things he’d said from the beginning without exception.  His words provided nothing and did not improve Andrew’s situation.  He’d already learned the most important lesson: known, experienced pain was seductive.  Maybe it was just his own unusual approach to pain, but he found himself far more interested in how different types of pain had different ‘flavors’.  There were spikes that flared then receded.  There was a lingering, burning pain.  Aching throbs, deep searing pain that was blindingly white in his mind.  Crippling pain where you couldn’t use your muscles.  Pain that sunk inside your bones and spread like an infection.  Some stayed, some left, some built and swelled, others gradually weakened into nuisances.  And so many more kinds.

Each of them came from a unique place and affected a limited and specific aspect of his mind.  It became clear that for every type and level he experienced more possibilities existed that he wasn’t subjected to.  Nothing during this process instilled fear in him until that realization.  The Ape was being careful.  No bones were broken.  No injuries given that he couldn’t recover from.  And that made him afraid because he found himself wanting to know and categorize what those kinds of bigger pain were.  He felt the need pulling at him.  Seductive.

Well, he couldn’t feel any of it if he kept himself separated.  He would have to rejoin reality.  Experiencing his beatings fully felt like a necessary rite of passage.  It had become obvious he could endure them so what was he avoiding it for?  Prize fighting boxers didn’t retreat.  Cage fighters had to take some hits to deliver punishment of their own.  Hiding in a corner was an acceptance of defeat, a surrender of weakness, a recognition that he couldn’t handle the reality of his situation.  Turning away and refusing to confront his current impotence stole a critical piece of his manhood - his ability to stand resolute.

The hours of ordeal cycled him through refusal, hatred, determination, acceptance, small windows of rational thought where he could reason out a purpose and the goals of his captors.

No.  They had done him a favor.  The Place Where There Was No Him was not to be used to avoid reality, to escape and hide.  It was a place of calm to center his mind which allowed him to better handle the world outside.  It enhanced his mental state.  Smothering himself gained him nothing.  They couldn’t hurt him, not really.  The threats were empty.  He’d be dead already if that option was on the table.  You don’t feed a dead guy.  You don’t let a dead guy sleep.  You drive him to the depths of despair and insanity before putting a bullet in the juicy mush of his skull.  The road of torture was a one way express lane of ever more monstrous injuries until the mind was as broken as the body.  And at that point, death had long been an eventuality.  If a prisoner was important enough to systematically dismantle, he was too important to put back together again.  He either needed to stay broken, or be disposed of.

None of that was the method they’d used on him.  In fact, they should already know he had no information.  From that he could conclude this little production had another purpose.  And there didn’t seem to be any real value for either the man or The Ape.

 

The piece of him keeping track of the outside world registered his body once again being hung from the hook in the ceiling.  Ah.  He would have to chew on this puzzle later.  For now, he needed to focus on the beautiful pain that came from his body being stretched out so that his prior injuries flared up.  God, it felt like that first painful stretch the day after an intense and exhausting workout, when your muscles were weak and burning, tightened up in a near cramp and useless.  The feeling of his muscles and flesh tearing, shredding… it was so fucking good, like the scald of a super hot shower.  A slightly burning sharpness that expanded and contracted before settling into a dull warmth.  A good flavor.  Maybe he could do something to make the Ape angry.  Yes.  He almost smiled from the expectation of how much fun this was going to be.  He restrained himself only because he wanted to use that smile to its greatest effect at the right moment in the future.

There was another aspect to experiencing pain which made it deep or shallow.  Foreknowledge.  If you saw it coming, the anticipation reinforced the pain.  Expectation added the imagined future pain to the actual present pain so you experienced almost twice the pain.  For others, that was something undesirable.  Andrew found himself wanting it.

The booted kick to his shin wasn’t too forceful, but he lost all control of the muscles and nerves in his leg while the electrified impulses stormed like a chaotic stampede of bison.  The way the pain bled away in tingling heat was regrettable but it needed to go away so he could feel the next strike.

The Ape did know his business so Andrew knew he had a little time.  The next strike would be somewhere else.  That was part of the game as well - random locations, varying the force of the strike, alternating the timing.

“Ooooof!” He gasped as the Ape jabbed his clustered fingertips into the soft and tender meat of his armpit like a snake attacking, then grabbed his lat muscle before that stabbing white electricity dissipated to dig his fingertips in and twist the lat.  “Unnnngggghhhhh”.

He laughed through the pain when he remembered something his dad used to say when they got hurt as kids - “Let me poke your other eye and you’ll forget all about how much the first one hurts.”  Turns out dad was right.  One pain did extinguish another, at least initially.  He’d have to remember that.

He lifted his leg to kick out at the Ape.  He hadn’t made contact in any of his attempts yet, but it was a move that always resulted in the Ape getting a little more creative.

“Oh!  Still got some fight in ya.”  He observed as he moved up close and grabbed Andrew around his neck with his left hand and squeezed his throat.  Andrew felt his right hand loosening his belt before being jammed down the front of his trousers.  He had to be going for the balls.

“I didn’t realize this was a date.”  Andrew managed to gasp out just before he felt the mans hand pass his balls to hook around underneath and Andrew croaked out a struggled inhalation past the squeezed hand on his neck as the Ape jammed two thick fingers all the way inside his ass.

“Well if it wasn’t before, it sure is now, right sweetheart?”  The Ape said just an inch from his face, staring into his eyes with an intense stare.

If he hadn’t experienced Kevin’s fat dick tearing into him just last week right after his boyfriend had choked him out cold, the Ape might have succeeded in his expected surprise.  As it was, Andrew just flashed back as a warm flush of pure pleasure converted all the pain into something that only heightened his need to be brutalized.  He let his eyes roll back as his vision narrowed with the loss of oxygen as he tried to focus on the Ape’s fat fingers jabbing violently up inside him.  “Between you and me, recruit” the Ape whispered into his face.  “I’m going to get the most out of it when we go to level 2.  Daddy’s dick is hungry for some grunt pussy.”

 

He couldn’t have been out long, getting choked out is usually just a temporary unconsciousness primarily as a result of loss of blood flow to the brain.  Once the blood is allowed to travel again, your brain wakes up pretty soon after.  He had plenty of experience with it and the fuzzy first few seconds of coming to were always a special treat.  Your brain woke up before your body did, the world expanded, and it took a couple seconds for your brain to remember losing consciousness.  Those seconds were pure heaven.

He realized his trousers and briefs were pulled down to his ankles so he hung there exposed.  The Ape stood before him in a similar state of undress.

“Nice.”  The Ape said, letting his eyes roam over Andrew’s nude body.  “I do like it more when they’re lean.  You know why?”  His eyes darted up to Andrew’s as he asked the question.

“So you don’t have to think about how fat your momma is?”  Andrew coughed out.

“Shhhhh”

The Ape moved up to him and stroked a finger down his sore ribcage, causing the muscles to contract painfully.   He sighed, or he meant to.  It came out sounding more like a gurgled groan.  As his hand got lower, the Ape traced around over his hip to continue down across his ass and then grabbed it in a rough clawing grip to pull his tortured body up against his own.

They were almost equal in height, and the feeling of the Ape’s bare skin against his felt disgusting.

He heard the door opening but couldn’t see past the Ape’s face, his eyes staring straight into his own.

“Already at Level 2?”  Andrew recognized the Interrogator’s voice.

Without breaking his stare, the Ape answered.  “He doesn’t seem to care about the pain.  So yeah.  Level 2.”  In a fictional scenario, the Ape’s breath would have smelled like rotted meat, or something vile, but it didn’t.  Just slightly medicinal.  Mouthwash?  He also didn’t miss that the Ape had said more words in the last ten minutes than he had for all the hours of beatings.

“You sure we can’t bleed him?”  The Ape asked.

“Maybe later, but I think he’ll break before that.  Where’s your patience?  Where’s your pride in craftsmanship?  You know slow and low pays off.”  The Interrogator replied.

The Ape grinned while he looked at him, almost lovingly.  His hand handn’t released Andrew’s ass, and in fact had slowly crawled toward his ass crack.

If he thought a little rape was going to break Andrew, he was in for a rude surprise.  No, Andrew wouldn’t enjoy it, nor would he welcome it.  He loved the fact that Kevin was the only one who’d done that to him.  It felt special, and important that Kevin’s dick was the only dick he’d had, because for him, it wasn’t about dick, it wasn’t about getting fucked.  It was about submitting himself to a man he loved, and admired.  It was how Kevin TOOK it, just slightly more than how Andrew was willing to let him.  After all, you could tell someone to kick your ass, but it didn’t mean they could actually do the job.  Kevin could do the job, and he had the equipment necessary to make it meaningful.

He and Kevin had something unique that allowed that surrender to intimacy, completely due to Kevin’s immense patience in their friendship.  Carol had taught Andrew that surrendering to intimacy wasn’t a character flaw, wasn’t a statement on your manhood.  She showed him that he was stronger BECAUSE he allowed it.  And Kevin was brutal because Andrew wanted him to be, not because that was his nature.  Kevin’s nature was gentle, intellectual, kind and generous.  Andrew knew he played the tough guy for him, for them, that Andrew needed him to be a man in everything.

In high school, maybe Kevin could have gone either way.  He wasn’t a soft or weak guy anyway.  Andrew recognized how Kevin’s general demeanor grew and changed as they really grew closer.  In general, in public, Kevin projected strength through silence.  He stood tall.  Well, tall for a short guy, which he was in high school.  He had a growth spurt in those two years Andrew hadn’t seen him, and it was good to see his former thickness get redistributed into a physical form that looked like power.  Working out helped.  Joining a sport like track helped.  And Andrew could tell he’d also been taking martial arts of some kind, but Kevin had been tight lipped about it.  The round-house kick that clocked Andrew in the jaw wasn’t something an amateur could execute as flawlessly as Kevin had in the hotel room.  He could keep his secrets, the way Kevin moved told its own story.

Andrew was proud of him.  When Kevin came to his Airborne graduation he could see the difference.  The set of his now broad and rounded shoulders.  The way his arms didn’t ever relax into a straight line when they were hanging, but instead were slightly bent at the elbow.  It was an indication of physical dedication, training the body.  Beyond that, the way he stepped with the foot movements, the flex of the knees.  His clockwork eyes didn’t twitch and instead seemed to recognize, identify, categorize, dismiss everything.  When they were young, Kevin saw everything but it was the hyper awareness of a prey animal.  Now, his consideration was more like a predator.  No fear.  Confidence.  Almost dangerous.  Well… to civilians he WAS dangerous.  Weeble could absolutely take him down.  Hell, Wanker even stood a chance.  Dangerous was relative.

The thick finger pushing up against his hole forced him to return to reality.  Thinking about Kevin was something that was guaranteed to take him out of the world outside.  He could think about that man for hours and not know anything that was happening outside.

But he knew how to play this.  It wasn’t difficult to figure out.  The main thing about rape was that it was a demonstration of power, of control.  And if there was one thing he learned from Sarge, it was to change the battlefield.

“It’ll be the best grunt pussy you ever had.  Go ahead and find out.  Maybe we’ll both enjoy it.”  He tried to inflect a bored, almost eager tone.  The Ape’s dick was nothing special, nowhere near Footlong’s, nor Zeus’, or Kevin’s, in order of descending length.  And Zeus’ was even thicker than Kevin’s even though Kevin’s was a fucking pipe.  So yeah, the Ape wasn’t going to make the impression he thought he would.  Andrew had seen some truly impressive cock, in full swollen, throbbing glory.  The Ape might make his wife scream out in pleasure, which was still a very big ‘might’, but Andrew doubted he would even register it beyond the initial penetration.

The Ape’s eyes finally left his and turned to give the Interrogator a look.  Without looking back, he said “Oh.  You used that grunt pussy before?  Huh?  Sounds like this might not be the first round in the chamber.”

Andrew almost laughed.  Fishing.  “I could be cherry.  Might not be.  Only way to know is to fuck that dick in.  Right?  I mean, I’m just hanging here.  I can’t stop you.  Maybe your friend with all the questions wants sloppy seconds.  I can totally make you cum.  That’s a promise.”

Andrew moved his head slightly to look past the Ape’s.  He hid the surprise when he saw Lamont standing there.  So, the Charlies were here too.  And why was Lamont not strapped up like he was, hanging from a hook in the ceiling with his pants around his ankles?  Obviously the leaders were given the special treatment.

The Ape’s face turned back to his.  “Oh, I’m gonna take you for a ride, handsome.  Don’t you worry.”  And he darted in and gave Andrew a quick peck.

Information.  It was everywhere.  The Ape wasn’t actually into this.  Andrew squashed the feeling of immediate relief.  That kiss could have been far more full, more involved.  Instead, it was the absolute minimum, as if kissing another guy was the job, not the goal.  Again, Kevin to the rescue.  Andrew knew what a real kiss was, knew the heat, the desire, the hunger of a real kiss.  Even one without the infectious madness of a tongue invading beyond the perimeter of your lips.  This guy, he saw it as a tool, a perfunctory act.  He chuckled.

“What’s so funny?”  The Ape growled.

Andrew considered his responses.  “You can do better than that.  Just pretend I’m your mom.  You can relax.  Let’s just get it over with.  Go ahead and get your nut.”

A flare of anger flashed through the Ape’s eyes.  More information.  This was not going the way he wanted.  He pulled his hand away from

Andrew’s ass.

The absence of the Ape’s finger on his asshole allowed him to relax.  Either it would happen, or it wouldn’t.  But the psychological game was now in unfamiliar territory.

The Ape stepped away, but not before Andrew saw his dick had gone soft.  Truthfully, the Ape wasn’t a bad looking guy.  On the beefy side, like Chunk, thick legs, soft abdomen, solid pecs, big arms and a sturdy neck with flared traps angled down to wide shoulders.  But it was his forearms and hands that made him an ape.  Just as big around as his upper arms, his forearms were heavily muscled and furred, and that continued into heavy wrists and giant paws that were tufted with hair.  Hell, his middle fingers looked equal to most average guys’ dicks.  If Andrew made the ‘OK’ sign with his thumb and forefinger, that would be the diameter of the Ape’s middle finger.

As if summoned to purpose, the Ape walked around behind him and grabbed his hips, allowing him to look at the Interrogator and Lamont.  He no longer cared about what the Ape intended.  The Interrogator was calling the shots.

“Brickmann, just tell them what they want to know.”  Lamont entreated.  He look concerned.

Andrew gave him a look.  “How would I know anything, Lamont?  And why are you here?”  He felt the Ape move up behind him, nestling his nude body up against his.

Lamont shook his head in disappointment.  “Just want to talk some sense into you, is all.  Don’t let them do this.”

Andrew laughed as he felt the Ape’s once again hard dick slide up between his legs.  “Let them?  Are we in in the same room?  Seeing the same things?  Just leave, Lamont.  You don’t need to watch this.”

Lamont glanced over to the Interrogator.  Then he looked back, and his eyes looked sad.  “I’m supposed to watch this.  Training.”  He said the last word like it was the full explanation.  Which it was.

“Yeah. Okay.”  Was all Andrew could manage.  Lamont watching him get fucked in the ass was its own special torture, and the Interrogator likely knew it.  Strangers held their own shame.  A contemporary…that was shared shame.  Andrew almost broke.

But this was for his brothers.  It was so he could look them in the eye and say he hadn’t sold them out.  It was so that even after everything they took from him, he could walk with confidence that he knew in his heart he wasn’t a traitor.  That he could hold their trust.  That he deserved their respect, his honor, their honor of him.  And they deserved his greatest effort, every single one of them.  They had given him their trust.  It didn’t matter that almost everything he knew about them could be found in a military file on someone’s administrative desk and the Ape and the Interrogator could probably make a phone call to one of their active duty buddies to have the intel in less than 24 hours.  What mattered was that HE wasn’t the one who gave it to them.  His men were HIS men.  And fuck anyone who thought they could break that bond of brotherhood.  He would die before betraying them.  They deserved no less.

“You won’t break him.”  He heard Lamont say.  “He’ll die for them.”  Yeah, Lamont knew the score.

A scoffing chuff answered Lamont’s certainty.  “He THINKS he would die for them.  But that hasn’t been tested, has it?”  The Interrogator’s voice said.

When had he decided to cut off his sight and go inside?  Strange.  Sometime during his thoughts of love for his brothers.  He didn’t even know what the Ape was doing back there.  It didn’t matter.

“Don’t test it.  He won’t break.  I don’t think even the worst you can do would work.  He’ll endure anything.  I’ve seen it.”  Lamont answered.

“Hmmm, Private.  Are you actually squeamish?  Can’t take a little psychological and physical pressure?”  The Interrogator said with humor.  “This isn’t even past the ‘let’s be friends’ part of an interrogation.   If you can’t stomach it, you can go.”

The emotionless dry tone of the Interrogator’s last words covered the room with a blanket of eery darkness.

“Is he your friend?”  The Interrogator asked.  “You don’t want to watch him suffer?”

“No, that’s not it.”  Lamont answered quickly.

Andrew chuckled again.  “Lamont, you’re over your head.”  He choked out.  “This is going to happen.  You’re here to learn.  So learn.  I’m learning a whole shit ton.”

Lamont remained silent.  As did everyone else.  The Ape was still behind him, but damned if he would expand his awareness to feel what he was doing.

“Hey.  C’mon.”  Lamont said weakly.

“Lamont.”  Andrew said in a serious voice.  “Go.”  And it was when he said the word that he let himself go to drift.

“Fuck you assholes!”  Lamont shouted.  Andrew didn’t know what he was doing, but heard a scuffle.  One of the downsides to shutting off your senses, but that was fine.  Half a minute of random sounds and then the room was silent.  He didn’t care.  There was nothing to care about.

“Hey… get your feet, soldier.”  A rough voice said in his ear minutes later.  Was it minutes?  An hour?  It was time passing.  Time passed.  It was emptiness and silence, then the voice.

Feet?  He had no feet.  The voice sounded nice, though.  Concerned.  Warm.  Well, maybe not warm, but…friendly?  Maybe friendly.

“Okay, let’s just get you in your bunk.  Sleep if you want.”

Sleep?  Bunk?  Was he here?  Who the fuck cares? He thought.  And there was Kevin, looking really good in his tight cowboy shirt and Wrangler jeans, with that smile that was almost a smirk, maybe a grin, but his grey eyes said it was a challenge.  Kevin.  Yeah, the outside world could go fuck itself.  Kevin was inside.

 

************************

 

 

“Well….”  Offden said.

“Yeah… well fucking what?”  Brickmann snarled.  “These were supposed to be kids.  BABIES.  FUCKING SNOT NOSED BABIES!”

“HEY!”  Benson shouted.  “Give it a rest.  Why the fuck is everyone so angry?”

The group was gathered down in the bunker, combining intel on the two groups of training recruits, every one a Private in the U.S. Army.

“Because HE -“ and Brickmann jabbed a finger at the Big Man, “said this was easy money, a babysitting job.”

“You got a problem with working and earning your pay, Brickmann?” Nancy said in a friendly voice.

“That’s not the point and you know it, Nancy!”  Brickmann shouted back.

“Oh?  You would rather be crawling in the African desert with sand wiggling it’s way up inside your asshole hunting Somalis?  That more your idea of earning good money?”  Nancy replied.

“You know what Nancy?  I love you too much, and your cooking to fight with you.  What do YOU think about these kids?”  Brickmann argued back.

Nancy shrugged.  “For their age, and experience?  They’re good.  Whoever trained them, they didn’t slack.  I say we pull them in.  Give them everything.  Hell, half of them will be working for us in two years, you know that.  Let’s invest.”  Nancy looked over to the Big Man, Ulster McGregor.  He was the one who had to make the decision.

Ulster had his brows furrowed, deep in thought.  “Brickmann.  Do you know the  kid we’ve got in Interrogation?”

“Him?  Yeah, that’s my nephew Tom.”  Brickmann answered.  “My brother David’s son.  David was Army down to his bones, raised his boys right.“

[laguyinhou]

Fucking hell was that worth the wait! 

[BoYGaSM]

HOLE-EEEE-SHIT!  That last paragraph….   WOOF!  Love where this is going!   As usual im so hooked on this read, AMAZING dude!

[BestCatcher]

Oh, FUCK, Assmunch! Straight outta left field, buddy. Amazing!

[DCWildBtm]

Just awesome! U r gifted.