Barracks Bitch

[Naruto]

Go Weeble!  I love that little guy.  

[Assmunch]

7 hours ago, laguyinhou said:

Fucking awesome. Hope your holidays were great! 

Thanks man!  Yes they were nice, had a bit of a cold snap, but otherwise excellent.  I hope yours were wonderful too.

[Assmunch]

Weeble spent hours reconfiguring his makeshift ghillie.  Every ten seconds he darted his head around looking for movement in the woods around him, paying special attention to his blind spots and doing his best to memorize features on the forest floor.  If they looked even slightly different from what he remembered he got ready to run.  He took a deep breath, knowing he was a paranoid wreck, but also realizing he had to be.  He also decided he couldn’t stay in one spot too long so he changed location frequently and chose positions that provided more cover and clear lines of sight.  And maybe he was too paranoid, but if he felt or heard anything…ANYTHING unusual he scrambled away to find another hideout.

Whisperman could be anywhere, but after thinking about the last two times he decided the psycho enjoyed being able to sneak up on him and remain hidden, unrecognized and anonymous.  Would Whisperman still come at him if he knew Weeble could see him?  So far, he hadn’t, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t.  Weeble planned escape routes in every direction just in case.  He memorized his paths, and had created a picture in his mind of everywhere he’d been as well as the general locations of the groups he’d come across.  Everything was relative to the position of the compound, which was a fixed location against which he could create an overall map in his head of the woods.  Ravines, ridges, fallen trees, clearings, creek beds, odd groups of trees or unusual growth.

So far he’d identified almost all the Bravos in their groups on his runs.  None had seen him.  But he hadn’t stuck around to spy beyond a general grasp of what they were being taught.  He’d seen no sign of Assmunch in any of the groups.

After a pass by the clearing where they’d camped last night he noticed their gear was gone and the clearing was empty.  He’d hoped to snag a few items from someone’s kit.  He’d have to improvise.

Currently he was watching Bootlicker and his escort, who were alone, laying on the ground from a distance watching Chunk, Olympic, Sleeper and Holler discussing a plan to infiltrate the compound.  Weeble had his back to the groups, choosing to use his ears while keeping his eyes on the approach from the other direction.  While Whisperman could probably escape detection and pass by the groups he’d have to swing wide.  Weeble grinned.  Whisperman didn’t want to get caught either.  The groups he was watching were useful approach restrictions.

“The moon’s dark tonight,” he heard Olympic say in a low voice.  “That helps on approach, but there’s bound to be lights on the buildings of the compound.  We’ll definitely be seen if there’s a watch.”

“Assume you’ll be seen.”  The soldier with them offered.  In a slightly louder voice.  “You should always assume you’ll be seen.”

That seemed strange, the way he raised his voice.  Already on edge, Weeble felt his internal alarm ring, the one that said ‘not normal’.  He made a quick check of Bootlicker and his instructor.  They hadn’t moved.  Weeble’s time was up.  He moved away in a slow, fluid low crouch until he made it around the small mound he’d chosen as his retreat.  He glanced quickly behind him and cringed when he saw the disturbed ground he’d come across.  He had to be better.  Leaving paths and trails would get him caught.

He froze when he felt a pressure against his groin.

“Easy there puppy.  You don’t want to lose those.” The Whisper came from below.

He started to look down.

“Uh-uh… no fair looking now, too late for that.”  Whisperman said, then Weeble felt a sharp pain just above his knee and he swallowed the cry that tried to escape from his throat.  The jab was just enough to draw blood.

“Good.  Nice and quiet, just how I like it.”

Weeble’s mind raced.  He dismissed the urge to attack.  Without eyes on the knife that just jabbed him it would be impossible to avoid serious injury.  Whisperman had to be in a prone position, likely on his back or his side.  The same mound that covered Weeble’s retreat allowed Whisperman to hide in wait and Weeble wasn’t stupid, he knew Whisperman probably knew it was his best path of withdrawal and Weeble had walked right into him.  And in spite of never taking his eyes off the woods that led up to the mound, Whisperman still found a way to get there.  Weeble kicked himself.  He’d chosen a retreat that provided the same cover that allowed an enemy to sneak up on him. The mental dissection of his mistake took a single second, in the next he executed a leap and dive.  He needed distance.  It would take Whisperman at least that long to get to his feet and before Weeble ran he might get a glimpse of the man he faced in this sick game.

But if Whisperman was behind him, he had a clear shot to the compound a mile or so to the west and Weeble could make it there before him if he was quick and smart.  As he rolled to his feet after his dive he darted his head back to look.  A shiver went down his back when he saw nothing there, nothing on the ground, and he ran.  He couldn’t afford a single moment of confusion as his legs pumped.  He felt the blood from the wound above his knee soak into his trousers.  Another cut.  He’d have to get more pine sap which wasn’t fuckin easy to get from a pine tree in winter, but it was the only thing that would seal the wound with an antiseptic.  It wasn’t the same kind of cut that Whisperman had given him on his ears.  He wasn’t sure, he didn’t have a mirror to check, but each ear had a notch in it now on the outside edge.  At least they weren’t bleedin anymore, but fuck that pine sap stung for an hour after he’d smeared it on his ears.

But that had given him the best idea for camouflage he could come up with.  Everything stuck to that sap.  Yeah, he was a fuckin mess and looked like some woods monster, but he had leaves, pine needles, twigs and whatever else he could find plastered all over him.  He could lay down on the ground and someone could be a foot away and not figure out he was laying there.  He had to undress to do it properly by laying his BDU’s out to get complete coverage, but his adrenaline and fear kept him warm.

Currently he was running full out in a straight line.  He knew he was fast, too fast to catch easily.  No more fuckin around, he’d chosen his position for a direct run to the compound deliberately for exactly this situation and while he’d hoped that he’d see the Whisperman coming first or avoid him entirely their encounter played into his backup plan perfectly.  The only way he’d know where Whisperman was could only be if he let himself be found.

He was so intent on his goal that he almost missed the large group camped ahead.  He darted to cover behind a large oak and quickly looked around the area to see if Whisperman was there.  Nothing.

What the fuck?  Who were these guys in his way?  The compound was just sixty yards or so away, he could see a couple buildings in the distance.  These weren’t the Bravos.

He’d made another assumption that fucked him up.  He thought the Bravos were the only group out here.  He should have expected there were more compound soldiers, there were too many buildings for the small number that he’d counted with the Bravos.  He controlled his breathing, pulling his arm up in front of his mouth so the steam coming from his breath wouldn’t make a visible cloud that appeared from behind the tree.  Always assume you’ll be seen.  Another lesson.  Whisperman was somewhere nearby, he knew his was.  Weeble had to pick a better position.  This one would allow Whisperman to escape notice by the group if he decided to attack Weeble.  He had to find someplace far too open to let Whisperman get to him without being caught.  He took his time scouting, always with an eye on the woods.

There was a perfect position about fifteen yards from the group encamped, a deadfall where an old rotten tree had broken off about three feet from the ground and lay across another tree it took with it when it fell.  A lot of spindly empty branches as well as the two thick heavy trunks made a perfect hiding place underneath, as well as provide limited attack approaches that Whisperman could use, if the psycho could find him.

But fuck, the trap of the last mound sprung into his mind.  If Whisperman had somehow gotten ahead of him it was exactly the sort of place Weeble would choose, and exactly where Whisperman would wait for him.  FUCK FUCK FUCK.

He knew he should go around, circle back and come at the compound another way to avoid the group entirely.

It was decision time.  What was his goal?  He had many.  Safety, sure, but was that first?  He wanted to learn, he didn’t want to fall behind his brothers.  If he chose safety he wouldn’t learn anything.  Fuck.  Safety was the coward’s way.  That was the old Weeble.  So far, he’d escaped from Whisperman every time.  And part of him had to assume… that fuckin word again… that he only got away because Whisperman wanted him to, or let him go.  Did he need to know why?  Could he assume Whisperman had another goal?  Even if he could believe that Whisperman told him the truth, that he loved playing this cat and mouse game, Weeble had to figure he wasn’t good enough at it to actually give the sicko any real fun.  It could be that Weeble was just an entertaining diversion from the real goal.

And just behind the desire for survival, he had to admit he wanted to know what all this was about.  Who were their hosts?  Why were they here?  Who was Whisperman and why was HE here, sneaking around?  If there was something else going on, he had to warn the Bravos.  While he doubted Major Collins would get them involved in anything bad, maybe the Major didn’t know what was actually going on here.  He didn’t even know how the Major had the authority to take them anywhere, which was not normal in itself.

That tipped the balance for him, and actually made the decision easy.  The Bravos needed to know what they were involved in.  No one told them anything, and whatever this was didn’t fit anything official or above board.  Secret compound in the woods?  A group of soldiers who didn’t wear uniforms, who certainly didn’t maintain military grooming discipline with their sloppy clothes, hair that touched their ears and collars, and facial hair?  Even the weapons Weeble saw weren’t military issue and instead seemed like personal weapons that had been modified in a way the military would never allow.  The explanation given by the guy instructing Shark’s group seemed too basic and easy.  ‘Don’t need to know’, ‘just follow orders’… In a military setting, under a command, absolutely.  But whatever this was… that didn’t fly.

So, the deadfall position was his play.  He couldn’t turn himself over to whoever was left in the compound, he’d never get any real intel that way.  He had to let Whisperman play his game and trust it wouldn’t get too out of hand.  So far, his wounds weren’t life threatening or debilitating, just inconvenient and painful.  He could take inconvenience and pain.  Hell, that was what infantry was all about anyway.

He felt better, having made a decision.

He crawled his way over to the fallen tree.  When he was a few feet away, he quietly spoke.  “I know you’re here, if I see the fuckin knife I bolt and take my chances with that camp.  You fuckin psycho.”

He wasn’t sure and he might be talking to empty air, but it was worth a shot.  He got nothing in return and scooted in, looking for any unusual mounds or shapes, crawling very slowly keeping an escape just in case.

The ground moved and he rolled instantly, avoiding a boot to the face by a hair, his reflexes saving him.

“Better.”  The whisper came.  “I didn’t use the knife.  You can still run.”

Weeble stayed, crouched just out of reach.

“No.  I need answers.”  He replied in another whisper.

“First smart thing I’ve heard out of your mouth, kid.”  Whisperman answered.  “Crawl in.  We need to talk.”

Weeble’s heart was pounding but he committed.  He still moved slowly.  He hadn’t had time to scout any perimeter guards and they could be anywhere.

“Snuggle in close.” The ground beneath the tree trunk moved upwards, some kind of debris covered tarp, and Weeble rolled under the edge of a flap.  This position had been prepared, it was a hollow depression.  Weeble felt good that he’d chosen a position that even Whisperman found suitable, but the preparation as a scouting location which was meant for a longer stay told him Whisperman had used this before.

“Get close, we’re going to get to know each other.”  Whisperman said, pulling Weeble’s smaller body into him tight.  He felt Whisperman’s leg slide over him as well as his arm until they were spooned and Weeble knew he was stuck now.  There would be no easy escape.  There was barely enough room for a single grown man and now, with Weeble in there they were literally twisted up together.  Whisperman’s mouth was on his neck.  At least he was warm.  The man smelled of sweat and earth.

“You’ve earned one question.”

Weeble thought about it.  What was most important?

“Who are the guys in the compound?”  He decided.  He needed to know what the Bravos were involved in.

“It’s complicated.”  Whisperman breathed.  “They’re a militia group we’ve had our eyes on for over a year.  They are not the good guys.”

Weeble felt sick.  What had Major Collins done?

“Your turn.  Who are you?”  Whisperman asked.

“We’re just regular Army, we don’t know why they sent us here.”  He answered honestly.

Whisperman was silent for a few moments.  “You’re all still active duty?”

“Yeah, just got done with Jump School at Benning.”

“So you aren’t civilian recruits they’re training to join them?  Not recently separated or discharged?”

Weeble shook his head just a little.  “No.”

“Is this a mission?  You here to get intel on this group?”  Whisperman asked.

“I couldn’t tell you if we were.”  Weeble answered.  “But no, we wasn’t told nothin, just put on a couple transports and dropped off here.”

Whisperman held still for a full minute, his warm breath flowing over Weeble’s neck.  Weeble shoved down the automatic desire that bubbled up inside him.  They were pressed together, the man’s limbs covering him, his breath caressing his ear and neck while his lips were pressed firmly against him.  Weeble was breathing in the heady scent of the man’s musky odor and he couldn’t help the answering sexual arousal it elicited.  There was something incredibly intimate about this. Part of it was that he’d deliberately submitted himself to this man.  He was vulnerable, and Whisperman was in complete control.  It had become habit for those factors to bring out his sexual desire.  Fuckin hell, as Assmunch would say.  This was no time for that, and Whisperman was NOT otherwise desireable or attractive for fuck’s sake.  But Weeble knew after the terrifying sequence of evasive action of the past six or seven hours a nice hard fuck, even by this psycho, would go a long way towards settling his head.  The sick bastard would probably want to use his knife in some way but as long as it didn’t go further than what Whisperman had already done, he knew he’d let him.  What the hell was wrong with him?

“Is that group over there with you?”  Whisperman finally asked.

“No, all the Bravos are out there in the smaller groups you saw.  I don’t know who these guys are and I didn’t get a good look.  Too busy watching for your fuckin knife.”  Weeble answered.

Very little light filtered into their hiding place.  Whisperman seemed like he was way taller than Weeble, so maybe six feel tall, or more.  He wasn’t that big in size, but his body felt hard pressing against Weeble, definitely active and worked out, with muscles primed for action and not for show.  Probably a lot like Assmunch, definitely not like Sleeper or Chunk.

“They are teaching you skills.”  Whisperman observed, almost like he was talking to himself.  “I need someone who knows more.  Which one of your group would have answers?”

“Assmunch might know.  Or…wait.  That last guy, the one who was alone with one of the compound guys, spying on the other group at the last spot?  Bootlicker, he always knows shit.”

“You get all that Hammer?”  Whisperman said.  “Solo three might have more intel.”

Weeble tensed slightly, and Whisperman responded by holding him tighter.

“You’re not alone, not the only one.”  Weeble breathed out.  That answered so many questions, how he could never seem to shake Whisperman, or hide well enough, how he always seemed to be everywhere Weeble thought he couldn’t be.  How Whisperman made it to this position ahead of Weeble and still found time to hide himself like this.

“Bingo.  I figured you weren’t as stupid as Hammer said you were.  He didn’t cut you up too bad did he?”

Weeble sighed.  A weight he’d felt since this all started left him.  “No, not too bad.  Got my ears, my neck, and my knee.”

“Sorry about that kid.”  And it even sounded genuine.

“What now?”  Weeble asked, relaxed and calm again after what had been a harrowing day.

“Get some sleep.  I’ll wake you when we move.”

He didn’t have to tell Weeble twice.  Now that he knew he was safe from Whisperman, the 36 hours without sleep caught up to him.

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

He didn’t know how long it had been but when he woke up it was after sunset.  Their little hole was dark, and his captor was breathing softly against his neck, still.

“Awake?”  His captor whispered.

“Yeah.”  Weeble answered.

“Hungry?”

“Starving.”

His captor moved.  A few seconds later Weeble felt something against his cheek.  “Nutrition bar.”

Weeble took it, tore it open with his teeth and started chewing.

“Gimme a bite.”  His captor said, so Weeble held it back over his shoulder close to where he knew his mouth was.  He felt the bar move in his hands.   “Eat the rest.  Thanks.” His captor said around the mouthful.

“This isn’t so bad.”  Weeble said, around his own mouthful.  Nutrition bars were always so chewy, hard to break up.  “Beats runnin all over the woods tryin to get away from a psycho with a knife.”

His captor chuckled.  “You did pretty good though.”  He answered.  “You should have heard Hammer cuss when you got him shot at.”

“He did that his own stupid self.  Hey, you don’t think he’ll do somethin bad to Bootlicker, do you?”  Weeble asked.

His captor shrugged.  “He won’t kill him, but depending on how cooperative he is…”. The remainder of that sentence hung in the air like a weight.

“That’s my fault.”  Weeble breathed, as he carefully folded the now empty wrapper and tucked it in a pocket.  .

His captor’s arms tightened around him.  “How old are you kid?”

“I’m just twenty.”  Weeble said weakly.

“It’s a hard lesson.  But if your Bootlicker is anything like you, he’ll figure out a way to avoid the worst of it.  You have to trust your brother.”

Weeble realized he was right.  Bootlicker could take care of himself.  There were stakes here so far beyond them, stakes they hadn’t asked for. They’d been thrown into a situation beyond their control and they were helpless pawns at this point.

“So tell me about you, kid.  You mentioned someone named Assmunch, and Bootlicker.  Nicknames.  What’s yours?”

Weeble gave a small laugh.  “Oh, we’re friends now?  Sharin nicknames?”

His captor laughed, but not loudly.  “Sure, why not?  Call me Mole.  It’s not what my brothers call me, but it’s my designation for this op.  You already heard Hammer.”

“Hammer, I was callin him Whisperman in my head.  His whisper is creepy as hell.”  Weeble answered.

“Yeah, Hammer has…. Issues.”  Mole said.

“I’m Weeble, but my name’s Victor.”

Mole breathed out into his neck.  “Weeble huh?”  Mole’s lips felt good when he spoke against Weeble’s skin.  And now that he knew Mole wasn’t Whisperman, it sent a warm tingling rush through him.  “Why Weeble?”

“Maybe a little cause I’m small, but Assmunch says it’s because I don’t stay down and always get back up.  I don’t quit.”

When Mole squeezed this time, it felt more like a hug.  “I can see that.  You could have run back to the compound any time, or even went to one of the groups.  You didn’t do either.  Why are you out on your own?  Why aren’t you with one of the groups, with your brothers?”

Weeble shrugged.  “I’m not sure.  No one picked me.”

Mole didn’t say anything right away.  “And you didn’t think to speak up?”

“Thought about it, sure.  But for what?  To beg them to include me?”  Weeble paused.  “Nah, I’m done with other people tellin me whether I’m good enough or not.  I can learn just as good listenin in, don’t need no permission.”

“Well that explains the reason for Weeble.”  Mole said with finality.  “So Weeble, you want to help me out?  I’m going to need you to do a few things for me.”

Weeble took a breath.  “If you teach me, I’ll do anything you want.”  He said.  Only after the words came out did he realize what that sounded like.

Mole chuckled.  “Hold that thought.”  And he moved his hand up behind Weeble’s head.  “Mole going dark.”  He said, then returned his arm to encircle Weeble’s chest.  “The mic’s off now.  You should be careful with your words, they could be misinterpreted.”  Mole continued.

Weeble didn’t answer, and he felt his heart speed up.

“Did I misinterpret, Victor?”  Mole asked in a more gentle voice.

“No sir.”  Weeble said softly.

“Well you’re a surprise.  Have you done this before?  Field tail?”  Mole asked.

“No, not like this.”  Weeble answered.

“But not your first time.  That’s good, no lines crossed then.  Been a while since I had any field tail.  How do you want it?  You want front or back?”

That threw Weeble.  He had a choice?  Mole would let him fuck him?  And the way he asked so casually, like it was no big deal.  And not a lot of talking or figuring things out.  Was that normal?  Mole made it seem normal.  He just went right ahead and asked.

“Front, already here, easier.”  Weeble answered, trying to sound just as casual.

Mole chuckled again.  “I won’t lie, I was hoping you’d say that.  Pull ‘em down.”  He said, then his arm was gone and went down between their bodies to undo his own trousers.  Again, right to it.

Mole was surprisingly gentle, even a little loving, as he slowly pushed his spit covered hard cock between Weeble’s asscheeks.

“You ain’t gotta go easy on me.”  Weeble offered as the length slid into him gradual inch by thick inch.

“Appreciate that, Weeble.  It’s more a matter of the room we don’t have and keeping quiet and as still as possible.”  Mole answered.  “Fuck, nice hole, soldier.”  He said as his thick, rigid length slid up inside Weeble’s tight hole.  “Good tail.”

Weeble merely groaned.  He hadn’t gotten nearly enough of Hunter’s dick just a few days ago.  Once they’d had their talk Weeble felt way more free getting what he wanted.  And then, when Hunter left Monday to go back to Bragg, he told Weeble no one owned him and no one had the right to tell him what he could and couldn’t do.  They’d figure out what they had and what kind of relationship was possible as they went.

As Mole’s achingly slow, deep, full thrusts made his body tingle, he remembered Hunter’s words.

“We’re going to be apart for who knows how long, bud.  I know you better than you think I do just from what you told me and you’re going to want to have sex with some of the guys you meet.  And when that happens you’ll get in over your head and feel guilty, and I don’t want that.  I don’t want you feeling bad about yourself, ever.  Not because of sex.”

Weeble had tried to assure him.  “No, Hunter.  I like you.  I wouldn’t want to.”

Hunter had smiled at him.  “I told you Victor, fucking is fun.  We’re young, we’re men, it’s going to happen.  What you and I have goes beyond just fucking.  That part is okay to save for me.  The rest?  You get yourself whatever dick you need when you need it, bud.  It helps keep that adorable smile on your face and I love that smile.”

Hunter was right.  He didn’t have no feelings for Mole, he just needed that dick to put his head back on straight.  For some reason he felt more in control of himself when he let a guy fuck him.  He had power over the guy fucking him and he knew what he was doing.  Plus, it felt so good.

Mole’s hand was pulling on his hip, keeping him moving with his thrusts, and his breath was coming faster against Weeble’s neck.  “Fuck yeah, man.”  He said.

Weeble was stroking his own dick slowly with his sticky pine sap layered fist, keeping rhythm with Mole’s deep thrusts.  Jesus, the man had a nice dick, stretching him out and filling him up.  And so deep.  He wished he could reach down and feel Mole’s nuts.  They were probably as huge as his cock.  A perfect big-man sized set.  He imagined a thick hairy bush covering all of it.

“I’m close.”  Mole grunted.  “Okay if I bust in you?”

“Yeah, do it.  I’m close too.”  Weeble answered with his own grunt.

“Fuck yeah.  Oh fuck… shit… take my nut, kid.  Fuck.” And the rest was just grunting while his cock seemed to stretch Weeble’s hole even more with uncontrolled and violent smaller punches.

Feeling Mole lose control while he shot his seed inside him sent Weeble over the edge and he whimpered as he emptied his own balls into the hideout.

Mole’s hand came off his hip and reached forward to wrap around Weeble’s now spent cock, giving it a few lazy strokes that made Weeble twitch.

Mole chuckled.  “Glad you got off too, kid, I was gonna finish you off.  Fuck, that was nice.  Nothing like some field tail.  Gets your head back on straight.”  He said.

That made Weeble let out a small laugh.  “I was thinkin the same thing.  It just settles everythin down, don’t it?  Is this normal?”

Moles arm went back up to Weeble’s chest.  “I needed that.  I forgot you haven’t done this.  I’m guessing if you haven’t, at least a couple of your brothers have.  Field tail… ”  He paused.  “It’s not exactly normal, or usual, or all that frequent.  On deployment, away from your wife or girlfriend, away from any regular pussy, you get tired of your hand, it’s an excellent way to clear your head.  Some guys would rather die than touch another man’s dick, but most know there’s a time and place.  Seems like there’s always at least one guy in the unit who’ll suck, maybe one brother you get particularly close to and it just happens.  After that first time, there doesn’t seem to be a reason not to.  And if word gets around the unit that one of the guys takes front…. Well most of the others are going to take him for a ride at least once.  But, that’s only in specific, close knit units, it happens very rarely in the general ranks.  Very rarely.  It’s still illegal, and if you’re caught you risk an Article 12 added on. If it’s with a battle buddy. (Author’s note, Article 134 now covers sexual conduct.  And Article 125 dealt with sexual assaults, and used to have a provision against consensual sodomy as well.)  So don’t get caught.  But more than all of that, sometimes… well sometimes you don’t know if there’s going to be a tomorrow.  Do you want to go out without a little piece of joy to take with you?”  Mole’s hips were still thrusting in small movements while he spoke.  “If your brother let’s you fuck him, or you let him fuck you, that’s the bond that’s unbreakable.”

 

Weeble suddenly understood Wanker in a much deeper way than he had before.  He said he was straight, and there was no reason not to believe him, he talked about girls all the time.  And he didn’t go around begging for the Bravo’s dicks, or acting like he cared about it all, in fact he never mentioned it.  Weeble had a hard time understanding how Wanker could let Puta, Footlong and Shark fuck him, then suck off Troll and more than a few of the others without it being any big deal.  But Mole’s explanation put it all into a new perspective for him.

“You take front too?”  Weeble asked with hesitation, loving the way Mole just took for granted Weeble’s hole was his for the duration and he hadn’t stopped sliding in and out.  He’d never had a conversation while the guy had his dick in his ass.  Before Hunter Wicomb, it was quick, quiet, and with a single purpose.  And even Hunter pulled out and lay down before they talked.

Another chuckle.  “That surprise you?  Once you get past the whole getting off with another guy thing, it’s just another hole.”

“Yeah, I thought… I dunno…”. Weeble thought about Wanker and that last week in Germany.  It made sense.

Mole sighed.  “You can’t think of it like it’s some defining aspect of your character, or how much of a man you are.  That’s not what it’s about.  For me, I’m helping a brother out or sometimes… if I’m in a dark place taking a brutal pounding from someone I trust makes the worst of the voices and thoughts go silent.  I put myself in my brother’s hands, and that makes a lot of it alright.  My brother is a safe place.”

Weeble wondered what he meant by the ‘dark place’, but he understood the ‘safe place’ part of that.  Being under a bigger guy was one of the only ‘safe places’ Weeble knew.  That was when he knew he wouldn’t be hurt, insulted, or made to feel small.  “You need to go again?”  Weeble asked after thinking about it for a minute, noticing that Mole’s dick hadn’t gone soft and he was still moving his hips.

“I could.  You don’t mind?”  Mole asked.

“Nah, go ahead.  Bust out another one.”  Weeble answered.

“I’ll make it quick.  Damn, it would be nice to have you on the team.  There’s something about you, Victor…”  Mole said as he picked up the pace again.

“Well it’s gonna take a little time to teach me.  You can get it when you want it.”  Weeble said.

“Sweet.”  And then there were no more words necessary as Mole focused on pumping into Weeble’s ass for the next few minutes.

“Awww shit, yeah…here it comes.”  Mole breathed just before he spasmed into Weeble, and Weeble loved feeling Mole’s hot breath on his neck.  Once again, he slowed but didn’t pull out and just lay still with his cock inside.  “Damn.  So good.  Thanks for taking my load, kid.  You did me a solid, man.  Can’t call you brother, but know I would if you were one of us.” He said against Weeble’s neck.  “I have to go live again, can’t stay dark.”

Weeble understood and gave a small nod knowing Mole could feel the movement more than see the motion.  Mole’s hand moved up behind Weeble’s head again for a brief second.

“Mole is live.” The man said, then paused for a minute before saying “Copy.”

He patted Weeble on the chest, then moved his hand to Weeble’s hip to push against it, withdrawing his dick which seemed to take forever to snake its way out of Weeble’s wet hole.  How big was that thing?  This was definitely Weeble’s number three on his list of getting fucked.  Hunter was first, of course.  Then Brody, his big fantasy high school football player, even though Brody didn’t actually LIKE Weeble that way, he was still nice and was gentle when he fucked him.  And now Mole.  If he knew what Mole actually looked like, he might move to number two.  He was really nice, gentle, kind, even asked permission.  Then after he wasn’t embarrassed or awkward, just treated Weeble like he did before.  Maybe number two was a tie, for now.

Weeble pulled his trousers and underwear back up and redid his belt.

“We have a mission, kid.  You in?”  Mole asked, back to business after getting himself sorted.

“Yeah.”  Weeble answered.

“Good.  We haven’t been able to recon the compound and you have a way in.  We need to know what’s in those buildings.  Can you get us that intel?  Can you get back out?”

“I can do it.”  Weeble answered.  It felt real good how Mole was acting all normal after what they just did, and still treated him like he was capable and competent.

“I don’t want you to take any chances.  These guys don’t fuck around.  If you get caught somewhere you don’t belong it won’t matter who you are and they will make you disappear.”  Mole explained.  “And we can’t help you.  There won’t be a rescue.  They can’t know we are here.  Do you understand, Victor?”

“Yeah, I understand.”  It was a risk, but he wanted to do something.  “They’re ignoring me, prolly won’t even care if I walk in.”  He explained.

“That’s why I asked, they’ve cut you loose.  And look, it’s not critical, don’t think you have to take any risks.  Get whatever info you can and get out.”

“Yes, sir.”  Weeble answered.

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

Ulster McGregor watched Weeble scutter off into the woods, with a grin.  ‘Good kid’ he thought.  Definitely a surprise.  The sex wasn’t planned, just a bonus.  The kid seemed willing enough, and it wasn’t like him to pass some junior meat by when it was ready and willing.  He hadn’t lied to the kid, you grabbed your opportunities when you could.  Hell, Weeble actually  reminded him a little of his own son, graduated now and off to Michigan State.  He was small, like his wife, like Weeble.  Good kid, but he was almost certain Jacob was gay.  He still hadn’t come out to them though.  In his own time, Ulster would let him choose and not force it, Heather made that clear.  He didn’t care either way, although he might try to convince him to take a ride on the other side long enough to give him a grandchild.  But, the test tube baby thing was always an option, now that the science was determined and safe.

His son Jacob was all blustering jock and spent far too much time dating girls without sealing the deal.  According to Jacob, he was still a virgin.  Only one reason for that, when Ulster knew girls were literally throwing themselves at Jacob, stupidly desperate in that horrible teenage girl way when they had a date with a hot, sexy guy like Jacob.  He could sense their painful hopes when Jacob introduced them, how they gushed at his son, their adorable schoolgirl giggles at Jacob just saying something normal.  And he could see Jacob’s complete obliviousness to their attentions.

He wasn’t being prejudiced, Jacob was a fox, in the vernacular of the kids these days.  He had all Ulster’s lean muscular frame, but tight and compact because of his mother’s 5’7” height and far more filled out than his own taller bones, Jacob’s dark brown hair grown long in the grunge style, matching his idols in the music scene.  Jacob was beautifully muscled, rounded, thick, and his dark hair and eyes with full lips gave him a smoldering look.  When he scowled, he didn’t look angry, he looked sexually heated.  It was unnerving.  At times it took him by surprise how much he wanted to lay a kiss on his own son.  When his wife and daughter were out on a girl’s day, they had a boy’s day walking around in nothing, or at most underwear.  But Ulster made it a point to go naked as much as possible.  That was the other clue, Jacob tried to hide it, but Ulster knew he stared at him.  Little bit of a dad crush there and he’d be lying if that didn’t make him feel good.  Still, Ulster wouldn’t behave different with his own son, make him feel bad for who he was, or hide his body just because his son liked to look.  He wasn’t going to make his son ashamed of feeling what made him happy.  And Jake had to understand that his dad didn’t care if he looked.  Hell, Ulster didn’t care if Jake jerked off thinking about him.  He’d rather that than his son fantasizing about some drug addled loser.

Jacob didn’t know what happened when his father was deployed, or on a mission.  If the day came Jacob wanted to come out to him, he’d let him know he understood, and he’d had experiences too, maybe not the details, but of course that would all be determined by the number of beers they’d had.  If he felt comfortable enough he’d confide in his son that he’d had his own experiences with cock and ass.  What he worried about the most, was the type of guy Jacob would eventually bring home.  He wanted a solid, standup guy, with a good job and someone who would treat his son with love, with a strong moral compass and sense of duty.  Of course, a military man was his first choice.  But he’d let Jake choose, and deal with whoever he decided to love.  It was why after Jake graduated and before he went to college, Ulster behaved like an idiot.  If  he came across military guys that he knew swung that way, or both ways, he made sure he invited them home for a couple beers, and made sure Jake hung out with them.  He’d whisper to his wife in the kitchen, and she’d take their daughter to the bedroom to watch tv while the ‘guys’ hung out.  Oh, he knew the guys probably thought he was after them, and that’s why they’d agreed.  And they were always older than Jake, of course.  But he thought it was his fatherly duty to get something going for his son.  Yet, nothing happened.  Still, it wasn’t until Jake left for college that Heather sat him down and explained where he went wrong.  The guys he were bringing home wanted him, not some 18 year old kid, that’s why they agreed to come have a beer with him.  He felt like an idiot.  It also made him think he should have started things going, that maybe he could have been the one to bridge the gap.

When Jake was still a junior in high school, his wife and he had talked about it.  First - to come up with a game plan when they both recognized what they were seeing, then to plan their reaction when it all finally came out and Jake decided to tell them.  He’d felt slightly insulted at first that Heather had tried to caution him about how he should react.

“Hon, you think I’m going to be mad if he’s gay?”  He’d said in confusion.

“U (he loved it when she called him ‘U’), you know how you are, all He-man tough guy combat dude.  That’s probably why he hasn’t told us yet.  You’re scary, U.”

“Babe, c’mon.  I’m a fuckin puppy dog.  You have my balls in your purse for fuck’s sake.  I’m not that tough.”  He’d argued.

She patted his cheek.  “He doesn’t know that, U.  You’re his hero.  He doesn’t want to disappoint you.  He doesn’t want you to love him any less.”

“I love my son!  I don’t care who he is!”  Admittedly, he felt a slight panic when he thought his son might be afraid of him.  He didn’t want that.  For him, Jake was that toddler reaching out to him, that five year old showing him a rock, that 10 year old who just made a base hit.  He was everything he was trying to protect.

“Then, show him more love than you would ordinarily.  Show him it’s okay to be himself.  You don’t have to be the tough guy, sports hero, macho big dick guy.  Hell, touch the boy once in a while, hug him, sit closer than a foot away from him.  He’s still a little boy inside, and he loves his father.  It’s okay to kiss him.  God U, he’s hurting for it.”  God, Heather was so amazing.  She was saying take a softer approach.  Honestly, he thought the way to raise a son was to teach him by example of how to be tough, fight through, shake off life’s stupid accidents, and all the unspoken dude rules that made men act the way they do, with bro-hugs, short handshakes, respectable distance, never letting a discussion get past a certain emotional level.  He hadn’t had the first clue about having a gay son, but if Jacob was gay he would damn sure know his dad wasn’t going to stop being the dad he loved, and who loved him, no matter what.  Jake had to understand his dad was his number one bro, no matter what.

Before that talk, he let Jacob be his teenager self and withdraw to his room, mutter something unintelligible when he walked through the door after school heading straight to his room until dinner, his Walkman earphones on his ears, his sweatshirt hood over his head.

After the talk, Heather would give him a direct look.  So he’d walk up the stairs and knock on Jacob’s door.

“It’s unlocked.”  Jacob would say.  It would be easy to hear a resentful, sullen tone in the words, but Ulster took Heather’s words to heart.

“Just me, Jake.”

“Come in, Dad.”  Jake’s tone always improved when it was him.  Maybe Heather was right, maybe Jake was scared of him. Had he been that kind of dad?

“Hey Jake, how’s school?”  He asked, feeling a little awkward.

“Fine.”  Jake was standing on the other side of his twin bed, hands in pockets.  His room was spotless and the bed was made, as expected in a military house, with a kid who knew the drill.  He’d taken off his headphones, probably to pull his sweatshirt off that was now laying on the bed.  He wore a sleeveless t-shirt that was two sizes too small and hugged his newly developed muscles, BELTON COUGARS printed across it.  As a junior in high school he wasn’t big, but what Ulster saw was an excellent foundation.  He could see the shoulders widening, the chest deepening.  His ass and legs were already thicker than a normal teenager’s, which spoke to his his football training.

“Practice went well?”

“Yeah, coach says I can be varsity next year if I keep going.  He says I have the muscle.  I have the plays and the position down.” Jake was looking at his bed.  Wasn’t looking at him at all.

He didn’t know how to do this shit.  He knew what his son needed, and Heather confirmed it, but no one had any advice on how to bridge the awkward gap.  He threw away all caution.

“I’m proud of you, Jake.”  Was all he said.

Jake darted a quick look at him, then looked down again.

“I mean it son.  You make me proud.  You’re growing into a good man, I can see it.  I can see your effort.”

He saw his son’s chest heave.

“I try hard, dad.”  He said, softly.

“I know, Jake.  I know.”  Ulster said, walking across the bedroom.  “Jake, you don’t have to be like me, okay?”  He said, facing his son from less than a foot away.  “Whoever you are, that’s who I want you to be, okay?”

“Okay.”  Jake said, and his voice sounded so small.  So painfully full of doubt.

“Son.  Look at me.” He said, putting a hand on Jake’s shoulder.

Jake looked up into his eyes, and the tears he saw pooling there almost broke his heart.  His sweet boy.

“I love you Jake, and nothing will ever destroy that.  Nothing.”  he tried to put more meaning into the words, but he didn’t know if Jake understood.

“I love you too, Dad.”  He looked up again.  “I just want to make you proud of me.”

The part of his heart that hadn’t broken before, cracked at those words.  He knew what it meant, what it might mean.

He grabbed Jacob, probably harder than he should have, but this boy meant the world to him, and the slightest thought that he was in doubt of his father’s love and devotion almost unmannned him.  He pulled him close, all the way, a full body embrace. He didn’t shorten it, didn’t let it go, just held it there, his son’s face in his chest, their arms wrapped around each other, for the most intense, emotional, and soul-reaffirming time he’d ever felt.  He wished… he pushed out with his soul, hoping that feeling enveloped his beautiful son, needing him to feel the depth of his love, wanting him to know he would die for him in any situation.  On instinct, he lifted up, and he felt Jake pull his legs up and wrap around him, just like when he was a child.  Jake was high enough now to crest his shoulder, and his son nestled his face into his neck, and it took him back to when Jake was so much younger.  He was still his little man.  His pride and joy.  He needed this as much… maybe more than Jake.  It restored him to his certainty that everything he endured was for these three people - his wife, his son, his daughter.  His deployments, the incoming he took, the time away, the orders he had to follow that he didn’t like… all for them.  All for this kid in his arms.

“I love you Jake.”  He whispered.  “If you ever need this… this right here… I’m here.  Always son.”  The tears were falling from his eyes as he felt the deepness of his son’s hug, the desperate need for his love, and he tried to push every ounce that was in his heart out for his son to feel.

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

 

It felt anticlimactic, just walking into the compound after being confronted briefly by one of the men.  He made sure to circle around well away from Mole’s position before approaching, keeping down and moving from cover to cover.

“What are you doing here?”  The guy asked, leaning against the first building, one foot up and smoking a cigarette.

“I’m hungry.”  Weeble replied.  It was the truth, and he’d decided on that for the reason he came to the compound.

“Oh, you’re that little one.  Where ya been, runt?”

If the man meant to irritate Weeble, he was a few years too late with that insult.  “Runnin around the woods where you left me.”  He answered.  Sure, it had attitude, but NOPE, they weren’t his superiors.  “Just here to get some food, I’ll be back outta your hair real quick like.”

“You look like you rolled around in shit and then fell down a mountain.  What the hell have you been doing?”  The man field stripped his cigarette butt after taking a final puff, tearing it apart, then kicked his heel in the dirt and threw the shredded pieces in the shallow hole before kicking the displaced dirt back over it and stomping down.

“Come on, I’ll take you to get some food.  You’re lucky, there’s probably still some hot food left.  Nancy usually leaves it for the late comers.”  The man explained, moving off toward one of the buildings.  “You can shower and get out of that when you’re done.  Your gear and kit is stored.”

Weeble was creating a picture in his head, memorizing the layout.  All the buildings were in the same brown and grey, cement block construction, most just a single story.   He recognized a star pattern, with a three story building at the center.  It had windows on all four sides.  Lookout, or command center, he thought.  He let his guide take him further in.

 

 

 

 

[daddybear54]

Great chapter, @Assmunch, you're really upping the suspense!

[drew4fun]

This is an AWESOME read!  Love it buddy.

[laguyinhou]

Fucking awesome. Just what I needed. Thanks. 

[Assmunch]

18 hours ago, daddybear54 said:

Great chapter, @Assmunch, you're really upping the suspense!

Thanks!  There’s so many different elements, goals, opportunities and paths for the Bravos here.  I want it to be rewarding for them, and you guys too.

[Assmunch]

3 hours ago, laguyinhou said:

Fucking awesome. Just what I needed. Thanks. 

Thanks bud.  If there’s one thing about the Bravos, it’s that they never stop finding themselves in the deep end of some situation that forces them to think beyond.  

[Assmunch]

15 hours ago, drew4fun said:

This is an AWESOME read!  Love it buddy.

Thank you Drew!  I have to chuckle at this plot in the compound because it’s EXACTLY what happens in the military, where the people who know the plan won’t reveal anything but the bare minimum information, and the players have to operate with almost nothing to go on.  Or at least, not enough of the right information to allow them to have a solid idea of what they have to do.  The grunts are never informed, their direct superiors only slightly more informed, but that careful withholding of intel actually carries up the chain.  However, it does teach the important lesson of reliance on there being someone, somewhere, who does have the whole picture, or at least you hope so.  Sometimes different operators are working in an arena for different purposes and they aren’t told, maybe don’t even know at the highest levels, that it’s happening.  

[Assmunch]

WEEBLE

 

“Get some food, then come get me when you’re done.  I’ll take you to the showers and your gear.”

“Thanks.  I’m Victor.”  Weeble answered, following the man through the building’s door.  All of the buildings seemed to be the same size, about 25 feet by 25 feet.

The man grunted, then pointed to the kitchen with a gesture of a swinging hand.  The cabinets, appliances, and counters took up half the space in the interior of the building.  Only two fluorescent lighting fixtures were turned on in the kitchen area, the other four fixtures remained dark.

“Clean up after yourself.”  Then he turned around and exited, leaving Weeble to figure out where the food was, the utensils, dishes.

He looked around, realizing there was nothing to see, the building was entirely open with no walls inside.  Half kitchen, half bench tables with folding chairs.

He saw that the oven was set to ‘warm’ and pulled open the door.  Two covered aluminum cooking trays sat on the racks inside.  It smelled good.  He rummaged around the cabinets and drawers, grabbing a bowl and something to pull the trays out with.

When he was done, he washed his what he’d used in the sink and set them in the rack to dry.  10 minutes had elapsed.  He went to the single window and looked outside but couldn’t see anything except the lights on the building next to this one.  Something itched at the back of his brain, but he couldn’t identify what was bothering him.

He made sure to walk around the opposite side of the building from his approach before going back to where he’d met the man, noting the distance between buildings and judging size and dimension.  He was sure it was no accident that he’d originally come across the man in that particular place.  Again, he figured Mole already had an exact layout which could be determined from satellite, a flyover or even ground reconnaissance but any detail could provide further information.

From what he could see all of the buildings except the central taller one only had one door.  The plain, basic nature of the featureless buildings again left him feeling odd, but he couldn’t figure out why.  The absence of people didn’t help.  So far he’d only seen two men.  Maybe the rest were in the central tall building?  That would make sense.

As expected, he found his host in the same spot which confirmed his intuition that he was a sentry and not just passing time in boredom against a wall.  And that meant there were other sentries.

Again, there was no talking, no commentary as he followed the man to another building and there was similar minimal effort.  His host had a pace and action to his walking step that Weeble immediately identified as military training.  It was his posture, the length of his stride, the control.  His gestures were precise and limited, made with an aligned open hand.

After entering, Weeble saw six shower heads along one wall, with a short four foot wall separating the wet area from the rest of the room.  A single door closed off a partition which appeared to be a closet judging by its small size.  His guide pointed to the showers then walked over to that door and entered it, closing it behind him.  Curious.

Weeble undressed and went to the showers, turning one of the heads on and waiting for it to heat up.  He wasn’t going to pass up a hot shower even if it seemed useless because he intended to go back out into the woods.  The nap that Mole allowed him accomplished re-energizing him, but the hot water spraying over his tired and sore muscles threatened to suck him back into sleepiness and just as he shut the water off his guide returned with his MOLLE.  He threw it on the cement floor outside the shower and left without a word or look.  Three minutes in a closet, with the door closed?

Weeble pulled out new underwear and thermals, got dressed in a rush and decided before he donned his makeshift ghillie once again, he had to see what was in that closet.  Just in case he was discovered, he reminded himself of one of Bootlicker’s lessons months ago - ‘act like you aren’t doing anything wrong, as if you’re supposed to do it.  Like you do it every day.  No one takes a second look at someone who belongs.’

So he walked over and opened the closet door, looking inside.  It was a typical 3 foot wide closet, with shelves at the back of its 7 foot length.  Mostly empty floorspace, nothing stood out.  A single utility bulb illuminated the space.  If this was where his MOLLE was stored, it wouldn’t have taken his entire shower for his guide to emerge.

It didn’t add up.

He was about to close the door, then thought checking behind the door would be more thorough.  He didn’t expect to find anything except another cinder block wall but it needed doing.

Instead, he found a small box mounted near the corner.  His heart sped up.  He had to close the door to get to it.  The closet was warm.  How?  Forced air?  And then one of the itchy spots at the back of his mind sparked… utilities.  He hadn’t seen any utilities, not outside, not inside the two buildings he’d been inside.  No power lines.  Where was the water heater for the showers?  Forced air meant HVAC, a climate system.  He flipped up the cover on the box and saw a button.  Without thinking, he pressed the button and stumbled as the floor moved beneath him in a painful, slow descent that seemed way too loud.  He almost reached out to hit the button again and go back up, but Bootlicker’s lesson was fresh in his mind.  Like he was supposed to be here.  He invented that his guide had showed him how to put his MOLLE back after he was done, impatient to get back to his sentry post.  Just doing what he was told.  The fiction calmed him immediately.

Except he didn’t have his MOLLE with him.  So, just looking for someone to help him, that was his motivation.

When the lift came to a stop, an entire second compound met his eyes.  Tall, rectangular support columns supported a concrete ceiling overhead about 20 feet up.  The space had the feel of a warehouse, extending into the distance maybe a hundred yards.  He heard a couple distant voices and took a quick look around.  He saw the Bravo’s gear piled up nearby.  He darted over and crouched behind the pile.

A fucking bunker.  Now it made sense.  The dining hall with only a small fridge, not near big enough to hold enough food to feed everyone at the compound.  That second itch went away.  The hum of equipment thrummed, utilities, possibly a generator which would make sense.  An isolated militia wouldn’t be grid dependent.  This was the intel that Mole’s group needed.  He had to get layout, dimensions, inventory.  He’d already seen enough to know each building had its own lift and access to this massive bunker.

He looked around the side of their pile of gear and saw a couple men moving up one of the lifts, the central one that most likely went to the central building.  The voices faded.  Maybe he was alone.

He stood up, noticing his arms trembling.  His recent experience with Whisperman forced him to take note of an escape path back to the lift he’d come down, and he was thankful because that was when he noticed the box with the button that activated it.  He might have only seconds and hitting that button might secure his escape.

Bootlicker’s voice lectured in his head.  ‘Look like you belong, like them.’

I fuckin love you Bootlicker.  He thought to himself.

He looked around after standing.  There.  Simple bunks and lockers, probably where the militia could grab some rest, store their stuff.  He ran over and opened the first locker.  He grabbed whatever he saw that matched what he’d seen them wearing, that hunter’s woodland camo.   It didn’t matter if it fit, hell nothing was going to fit him that a grown man wore.  All he needed it to do was disguise him from a distance.  He threw it on directly over his thermals.  An extra layer wouldn’t hurt.

He took a moment to consider how amazing this entire compound was.  He had no way of knowing how thick the concrete was above his head, but he had a descent time on the lift, which gave a rough idea of how far underground he was.  And he knew this area was rocky, even becoming mountainous further west into Alabama.  It must have taken a ton of money to dig this out, then re-establish a perfectly normal surface environment above.  Or had they let the bedrock do the work, tunneling out what they needed?  if that was the case, there was a bolt hole somewhere, an exit that was probably concealed.  Anyone who planned this project wouldn’t have made the lifts the only way to the surface.

He added that to his list.

Should he go back up and get his MOLLE, and use the exit he found, if he could find it?  Shit, he couldn’t decide.

‘No, you can’t let them know that you know’ Bootlicker again.  Or what Weeble imagined he would say.

Which meant he had to make quick work of his recon.  He began to run the perimeter.  If he heard anything, he could slow to a walk to bring less attention, but he didn’t think anyone was down here.  Everyone must be out in the field training the Bravos or up in the command center.  He could see how this area wouldn’t be used much during active training.

As he made his way around the edge, he made notes.  The concrete support columns were spaced maybe forty feet apart.  Bootlicker could probably calculate the load weight above based on the size of the columns and their spacing but that was beyond Weeble.  He just knew it had to be incredibly massive.  And that meant money.  Something like this didn’t just happen.  This wasn’t some weekend warrior wannabe soldier club pretending to be patriots protecting the second Amendment, wearing their fake patches, fake unearned rank, shooting off their home modified automatic weapon at some dilapidated trailer while downing a six pack,  this was some serious, deep and capable outfit.  He could see how they might get security contracts worldwide, and they probably got paid in the millions.

If these weren’t the good guys, it was a poisonous nest of vipers on American soil.

The upcoming sight of what couldn’t only be a munitions armory stopped him in his tracks.

‘Fuck me runnin’ he said slowly to himself.

.50’s, AK’s, Sigs, Hecklars, M16s, M4’s, M60’s… fuck ALL THE FUCKIN M’S, Tavors, Galil’s, you name it, all hand, shoulder, or stationary weapons covered what looked like a small library’s worth of shelves and walls set into an alcove to one side.  It was like a military geography lesson in small arms.  Glocks of 17, 19, 21 …  Berettas, Rugers, fuckin REVOLVERS like Smith & Wesson, Colt, Ruger, even goddamn CARBINES.  He grabbed a Glock 21 .45 ACP, pulled the slide out of habit for a quick chamber check for cold, and tucked it into his thermal underwear, and three empty magazines. Because, you know… you never know. There must have been over 1000 small and large caliber projectile weapons of all kinds.  Beyond that, launchers in cases piled to the ceiling.  RPGs, small shoulder missile launchers, and a bunch of stuff Weeble hadn’t learned yet, coming late to Infantry but it was ten levels above serious that he fuckin WISHED he had in his own basement.  If he had a basement.  If he had a house. Which he didn’t, but when he did it was gonna look like FUCKIN THIS!  HOLY GOOD GODDAMN.

He didn’t bother with a count, settling on ‘a fuckin shit ton’.  But the next bay stopped him in his tracks.

Ammo and ordinance.  Stacks and stacks of green ammunition cases for individual small and large caliber rounds.  He carefully scanned the multitude, and found .45 FMJ (Full Metal Jacket) boxes. He spent the next 52 seconds cramming the magazines with 13 rounds, then tucked them into his thermal underwear band.   He saw Boxes labeled ‘Grenades’.  At least two hundred of those, stacked 10 tall, five rows deep, four wide.  Probably for hand or the 40-Mike Mike.  Missiles?  Small SAMS, either shoulder launched or truck launched.  C4, bricks and bricks of it.  But the last stack of cases terrified him.  APMs.  They had fuckin mines.  Anti Personnel Mines.

This was on the level of overthrowing a small third world country.  Hell, it could put a dent in a U.S. Army Battalion for fuck’s sake.  He wasn’t stupid, 98% of this was illegal to privately own.  Explosives?  MISSILES?  How the hell do you get your hands on this stuff without setting off every fucking alarm bell in the U.S.?

Screw the recon of the exit.  He should get back to Mole with this intel. But he knew he could get more, and should.

He decided he didn’t need to run.  He would hear someone coming down a lift.  He would still hurry in his recon though, wanting to make a complete circuit before going back up.  His guide seemed more than willing to ignore him for a while.  He had time.  ‘You aren’t doing anything wrong’ Bootlicker’s voice reminded him. He took three deep breaths.

He’d thought the bunker was roughly the size of a football field, but now he knew he’d been so wrong.  Off the side were multiple caverns like the munitions bays.  He passed an opening about 20 feet wide that he saw led to what he could only call a motor pool with toolboxes, vehicle lifts, hydraulics and air hoses.  ANOTHER football field sized cavern contained vehicles of all types.  Troop carriers.  Small pickup trucks with mounts for armaments.  Even Humvees.  Had those even been decommissioned yet after Iraq?  They hadn’t even pulled all the troops out since the mission was now Re-build Iraq and Kuwait.  He felt disappointed when he didn’t see a tank.  Puta would have a field day in this area.

This went beyond small home country militia.  This was an army.  With ALL the equipment.  He dreaded what he might find in the last opening on this side.

Cargo netting covered the opening, but he could look through by putting his head up against it.

No.

That wasn’t real.

His birds.  Three of his birds, sitting there.  AH64s.  He already knew they had the load for them, in some crate back in the munitions area.  But seriously?  IN A FUCKIN CAVERN UNDER GROUND?

Who the fuck were these guys?  He noticed the rail tracks laid beyond his birds, converging into a single track and leading off into darkness.  A way out?  The exit, or one of them?  He didn’t miss that the birds were battle ready, fully loaded and ready for engagement.

He already didn’t want to know what was down the other side of the cavern, but still ran across the width.  Shit, he was the size of a pea compared to the open space.  If anyone actually saw him it would be a miracle.

He passed open showers, a series of open toilets and sinks that comprised the latrine, and curiously a row of five padded waist high tables followed by a similar row of waist high metal stainless steel tables with a raised edge.  It seemed strange, but a little medical?  Examination beds?  Autopsy?  There were drains in the floor.  Weeble shivered with the creeps.

The next alcove he encountered drew him.  Battle gear stacked, shelved, displayed, threw as if discarded in another small library like area.

“Night vision?”  Oh fuck yeah.  He threw it on his head.  He started grabbing.  He snagged a gear pack from a stack.  Oh, a tactical vest. Fuck yeah.  He threw it over his head and settled it on his shoulders, transferring the loaded magazines tucked into his waistband to the pockets made for them.

Knives, comm device, chem heat warmers, glow sticks, target sights with IR and distance, ears… fuckin EARS… he’d pick up conversations a hundred yards away… a breach kit, gear belt with slips, picks, sole covers to disguise footprints  Holy fuckin shit, if he had a chance to bring Bootlicker here and a pickup truck…it was the candy store.  Hell, he’d just tell Bootlicker how to get here, he’d clean this fucking place out, probably hook a small cargo crate to one of the Birds and fly it home.  No, Bootlicker didn’t know how to fly.  Eagle would do it.  If those two could get along.  Still, for this kind of Bootleg Pirate Treasure, Eagle would probably suffer Bootlicker long enough.

Weeble felt a tingle go up his spine.  Eagle said he could fly anything.  Bootlicker could figure out how to cargo so much of this shit.  Could he?  Who else would he need?  Demon?  Fast.  Shit Assmunch would be perfect to logistic everything, figure out what was important, what was dead weight.  But Assmunch hadn’t turned up.  Not Zeus… they were stealing… Zeus wouldn’t like that.  Sleeper wouldn’t take it seriously.  Wanker would have to come with Bootlicker, of course, but Wanker was crafty, sneaky.  Tonka?  Shit, Tonka was perfect.  Heavy equipment load master.  So, he had to contact Bootlicker and tell him the plan.  Then get Demon, Wanker, Eagle, and Tonka.

Fuck.  Whisperman probably had Bootlicker. Might even be torturing him.  But Weeble was going to steal one of these Birds AND a whole bunch of armament and munitions from these fuckers.  So, he’d get Bootlicker free from Whisperman.  And now that he had gear… Whisperman would be getting a couple bloody notches in HIS ears.

‘Nice fantasy, dumbshit.’  He said to himself.  ‘Just get Bootlicker free.’  No one was cleaning this place out.  Where would they put anything they took?  It would never happen.

He came back down to earth, ran the length of the other side, noticing the freezers (probably food), dry storage (canned goods, root vegetables, other humidity and temperature sensitive goods) like a commissary, an area with random goods and necessaries like linens, towels, paper products, chemicals… all maintenance, upkeep, and janitorial goods.  They’d thought of everything, and judging by the inventory they could live underground here for years.

The last opening he crossed on his way back to the lift that would take him  back up to the showers was another cavern the size of a football field.  And that’s where the physical plant was laid out. Power Generation, water treatment plant, a well pump for water, HVAC with a condenser, a heat pump, heat exchangers, a cooling tower….  That told him he must be far enough below ground to have the earth constant.  30 ft?  40?  ‘You know, Bootlicker, you’ve ruined me.  I never knew nothin about fuckin earth constant before you.’

 

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

EAGLE

 

The Bravos weren’t a bad place to nest, he thought.  The Army didn’t like giving up flight qualified pilots, but they didn’t leave him much choice.  He should have gone for the Marines or Air Force, he did have the option of a branch transfer.  They would have been more forgiving if he’d played that card.

They took his Warrant, and he was busted down to Private.  He felt he had little choice when the offer came for this ‘special training’.  I was a fucking WARRANT OFFICER for fuck’s sake.  Enjoy your one stripe, PRIVATE, was the look in their eyes.  How’s it feel?  At the time it felt like they were putting him on the short bus, to be honest.  ‘You don’t follow the rules, you retard.  This is what you get.’  In truth, it was ‘fly straight, land tight, we’ll bump you back up.’  - just a warning.  But fuck them.  He guessed they didn’t figure on him actually enjoying himself.  He first made the choice in a spiteful reaction, why not?  But over the next few months he’d found a rhythm, it sucked less every day and if he was honest with himself he enjoyed the mental break.  Not a lot thinking necessary in an Infantry unit.  Plus, he had Assmunch watching out for him, Sleeper and Zeus standing guard like two fucking Collossi guarding the harbor of Rhodes,  Then Bootlicker digging up intel, Weeble doing most of the work, Demon taking fire with Troll, Wanker being a cum-drain.  He could ride this slow train until they restored his Warrant and pulled him back up to active flight status.

Drinking, that was his Achilles heel.  Showing up for duty drunk or hungover meant you weren’t put behind the stick. He felt that was unfair, because so many of his fellow pilots would be hungover right beside me and yet he was the one singled out.  Maybe it was that he was only 21 years old, and maybe Sling’s bullshit accusation.  Eagle wasn’t even that drunk and it was a joke.

Whatever, he though.  He’d get back up.  They were just trying to teach him a lesson.  The Army couldn’t afford to throw away good pilots, they were rare, cultivated, and protected. Sure he’d fucked up.  He figured out soon after that he should have gone over the pants, not down them, but you know… five or six shots and just as many beers… why the hell did Sling care?  It was still worth it. Sling was packing.  Hefty payload.  Big sweaty salami in those shorts.  Not even partially hard, just soft and unaroused.  And thicker than Eagle would have given him credit for.

They were both drunk, too stupid for words and Eagle made a mistake.  Sling had laughed it off, but must have felt different the next day when he reported it.  Funny that, he was smiling and laughing the whole time Eagle stroked his fat cock in his trousers at the bar.  Hell, he didn’t even pull it out.

It’s not like Eagle jacked off later thinking about it.  He wasn’t a fag.  Sling was just…something, but they sure weren’t gonna fuck.  Eagle touched his dick because he let him put his hand down his pants, it was like a dare, like ‘how far are you going to take it’, like gay chicken, that was all.  Sling didn’t stop him, he looked him straight in the eye while Eagle lifted his shirt, staring, then slowly inch by inch went into his waistband, waiting for him to flinch.  He didn’t.  He smirked.  So Eagle went lower, feeling his scratchy pubes.  His grin widened.  He wasn’t going to stop.  he was literally daring Eagle to grab his cock.  Eagle was still fuzzy on how it had started, but he thought he remembered Sling asking ‘why do you keep looking at me?’  Ten minutes before Eagle’s hand ended up down his shorts.

Which was bullshit.  Sling knew he was good looking.  You couldn’t look at him without noticing how strong his jawline was, or how perfect his hair was, or how straight his nose was, or how his dark eyelashes made his green eyes stand out.  He knew.  And then his lips smiled exposing his perfect teeth.  He knew.  He had to practice his smile in the mirror, he was like a golden boy.  One of those model types.

So of course because he was so arrogant Eagle decided he would play on his vanity.  He didn’t have some fag plan to feel Sling up, grab his dick.  Look… you know how it is… a bro dares you, with his eyes, or explicitly with his words… ‘I dare you to grab my dick.’  You do it, right?  If you don’t, you’re a bitch, you can’t man up, you won’t go the extra mile for your bro, do the difficult shit.  Hell, there were always games, during barracks parties… the Deepthroat challenge.  Lips to balls, no choke, no homo.  You swallow that soft cock and let their pubes tickle your nose, even let them grab your head with both hands and fuck your face.  Normal, right?  Three seconds max.  Everyone’s had their brother’s cock in their mouth, right?  That’s what it’s about.  You gag just to show you don’t like it, wash your mouth out with a gulp of beer, everyone laughs.

Marines now?  Yeah, that’s a different hole.  Marines will let their bro up their dumper.  BUT…not in their mouth.  So now you know the difference between Marines and Army,  For Marines, it’s not gay to let your battle buddy fuck you in the ass, but ABSOLUTELY NO KISSING OR MOUTH ACTION.  In the army, a little oral works, as long as you aren’t ‘into it’, but absolutely NO ASS!!!’  Still, no kissing, same as Marines.

Look, it seems like Marines and Army should get R&R together.  Probably result in a huge reduction in medical attention.  Army could fuck the hell out of the Marines, or Army let Marines fuck their mouths.  Oh wait… yeah, forget all that.  We have the Navy for all that.  Fucking, sucking.  Hell, they have mops they call cumswabs, or maybe that’s a rank and duty on their boats.  They call them boats, right?

Eagle had always wanted to land his AH on a Destroyer and figure out what ‘compartment’ he had to find to get his nuts emptied.  It didn’t matter, the bottom line was he’d always wondered about the Navy, and whether the rumors were true.  Hell, he didn’t even know if all Destroyers were equipped for an AH to land.  Fuck, if they weren’t he sure as shit couldn’t land a Chinoook or anything else.  He decided Destroyers had the serious sailors.  He don’t know why he decided that, but it seemed so tough… all firepower and explosive action, big guns, heavy loads, delivering payload.

He knew all that was just in his head. He knew he’d gone too far with Sling.  He wasn’t a fag and would never have actual sex with a guy.  He’d just heard rumors, heard things from other Army, from the few Navy he’d come across and like 20 marines.  It’s all just fun. It’s not seriously gay or anything.  Dudes don’t do dick stuff with other dudes.  Brothers share everything, but getting off with your bro?  That crosses a line.

But what do you do when it’s in your face all the time?  You just stop caring about casual nudity with other men, or casual incidental touch, so after a while it just becomes a non-issue and nothing special.

So here he was, grounded for the duration of his punishment, shunted over to an Infantry unit for however long they decided.

After joining the Bravos, it took him a while to admit he was spoiled, and generally lazy.  Flight qualified pilots of any branch were in a special category.  It had to do with the training, the demands of the job - both mental and physical.  And it depended on a recruit fitting a very narrow list of criteria.  A lot of your training was classroom, and not just anyone was chosen.  There were no dumb pilots.  The math alone separated the wheat from the chaff.  Then there was the physics, aerodynamics mostly, but also just about anything to do with mass, velocity, parabolic trajectories based on thrust, wind, shear, lift.  And beyond that - engine, torque, rotational speed, rotor and blade size and its effect on lift and maneuverability, fuel consumption.

And pilots had to maintain a level of fitness that allowed their bodies to endure some punishment.  Pilots of all branches had upper and lower height and weight requirements that were more restrictive than the general ranks.  Someone like Zeus couldn’t be a fighter jet pilot, or an AH pilot.  Most cockpits weren’t roomy enough for anyone large.  But, as fit as Eagle was as a pilot, he was nowhere near as capable as infantry.  The first two weeks with the Bravos were spent in regret and agony.  He wasn’t even recovered from the previous day’s punishment when the Bravos rolled out to do something else that left half of them collapsed, sometimes with only a couple hours sleep if they were lucky.

So yeah, after that it was hard to ignore that Infantry never stopped training, moving, PT, patrol, shooting, drills, digging, encamping, fortifying, combatives, skills testing, sometimes with at least 45 pounds of gear on your back.  Some weeks they spent more time covered in sweat and dirt than they spent clean.  Eagle thought he was peak fitness as a pilot?  HAH!  He came in proud and arrogant, he could admit that now.  He thought he was special, a different breed than the grunts in Infantry that he was now ashamed to admit he formerly referred to as morons.  But they weren’t morons.  Some were simple, like Holler, or Weeble, but not stupid.  And that was the bottom line - Infantry were just direct, it wasn’t tricky.  And guys like Assmunch and Bootlicker didn’t miss a thing.  Sleeper, for all his dumb jock act, was diabolically clever in a way Eagle still had to figure out.  Sleeper didn’t add up, that much I knew.  He came across as a dumb goofy muscle head, but every now and then he’d say something in a way that indicated a sharp intelligence.  And nobody…no ONE consistently performed just slightly above qualifying on every task, every skill.  Eagle didn’t know what Sleeper’s game was, it wasn’t like he was lazy or didn’t care.  He just worked hard to not stand out for some reason.

Assmunch… there was something about him.  He wasn’t the smartest guy, but he was above average.  He wasn’t the most capable soldier either, but again…above average.  He didn’t have brilliant ideas, solutions, he wasn’t super tough.  It was that you just knew you could trust him.  He rarely took whole credit for any success.  He forced the Bravos to push just a little harder, knew exactly what to say when things got difficult, actually noticed when an individual was having a hard time.  He had a way of calling out someone who was being a dick without making them feel like they were a piece of shit.  Even before he was Platoon leader he did this stuff.  Deferring to him happened gradually, without deliberate decision.  We all just started asking him what he thought, or went to him with a problem.  He wasn’t loud or brash, didn’t push his weight around, kept confidences.  He didn’t know the answers, but he knew where to FIND the answers and he was rarely wrong.  A solid guy, Assmunch.  A natural leader.

Right now, he should be paying attention to their instructor instead of thinking about Assmunch and the Bravos.  He, Chunk and Dumbo were supposed to be waiting for the signal to move on the compound.  They had a target and an objective.  Infiltrate, disable the enemy, secure the area.  Other units were independent but had the same objective.  All they were waiting on was the ‘Go’ for the operation from command.

Night had fallen about a half hour ago.  The dark would help, recon had noted a watch and perimeter guard.  There was going to be nothing delicate about this.  No weapons.  It was a straightforward physical attack, hand to hand battle, losers got hogtied.  The side with the most successful combatants won the objective and completed the mission.  You couldn’t know how many of your side were successful, everyone was spread out to surround the compound.  And…the part that made him extremely nervous… he didn’t know who they were fighting.  If it was the guys running the compound the Bravos were going to lose, that much he knew.

He decided his best option was to sneak. He knew some of the guys, like Demon, where ever he was, would just bolt straight forward and probably take his guy with a flying tackle.  But that wasn’t Eagle’s style.  Eagle preferred to stack the deck in his favor first and moderate the chaos of a frontal assault.

From what they knew of the size of the compound and position of the buildings they wouldn’t face a group of defenders numbering more than them, which was good.  Their recon count, if accurate, said they were about equal in number, which meant they had to spread out just like the Bravos had.  A multi-directional assault gave the Bravo teams potential weak points that could be exploited.

Usually in any Battle Drill your leader would have to consider how to lay down suppressive fire to allow your platoon to move on an objective.  The compound was considered an entrenched enemy position, which meant approaches were covered and the Bravos would encounter defensive fire.  In this case, without weapons, there would be no actual defensive fire but the Bravos would assume another Platoon held positions to establish suppressive fire that allowed them to move forward.

Eagle played with the scenario in his head while they waited.  “Hey, if we know they’re spread out to cover the 360 degrees of approach, because they can’t afford to let any of us slip past their defensive perimeter, why are we attacking in small groups?  Why wouldn’t we hit one position with an overwhelming force and penetrate?”  He asked.

“This is the plan, Eagle.  They are on alert, and entrenched.  The compound isn’t so large that response to a single point of attack couldn’t allow them to converge in a short period of time, far shorter than we’d have to overwhelm them.  Their intel is as good as ours.  They wouldn’t have to mass together to whittle us down to nothing, just maintain a covered position and eliminate us one by one.  They wouldn’t even need an equal amount of defenders, they could do it with half or a third of our number, leaving the rest of them to flank us.”  Chunk answered.

Eagle frowned.  “But once we reach the buildings, we have the same advantage as they have, we level the playing field.”  He said.

Dumbo shook his head.  “In theory, sure.  But that only works when the enemy doesn’t have intel on the size of our attack force, and remember: we don’t have any units to leave behind to cover us from a flanking maneuver.  They know that we won’t have anyone covering our six, while the arrangement of the buildings in the compound allow them to cover several attack points from a single defensive position.”

“If it was me calling the shots in there” Chunk continued, “ I’d put three men in the perimeter defensive positions on the ground between each building and have a third man on the roof of every building, then have a unit of six or so men in the core center of the compound.  The 360 assault is our best chance of success, and even then we’re probably only going to get a fifth of our number past the perimeter for an assault on the core.  And let’s not forget we’re going to have to clear those buildings as we go AND cover any routes out where they could send a unit or two to through a gap to come back and harass us from the rear.  Right now, because we’ve surrounded the compound, we know they don’t have any men out here, so our six is clear of enemies.  This won’t be as easy as it looks.”

Dumbo snorted.  “There’s a trap somewhere in this, I just know it.  I’m just glad we won’t have wounded in this scenario, only kills.  If we can get Demon, Troll, Zeus and The Nerd to the core, we might have a slim chance of accomplishing the mission.  Besides,” Dumbo gave a short laugh, “we don’t have Assmunch, Weeble or Bootlicker.  We’re playing chess having lost a rook, a bishop and the Queen before the game even starts.”

Eagle admired how Chunk and Dumbo saw the assault sequence from start to finish and just knew it was the best action plan.  Having come late to Infantry Eagle didn’t have the calm confidence in how it all would play out even though their Sergeants Bravo had drilled them to death in Germany.  He’d asked Assmunch once during one of the more ridiculous scenarios they’d endured why it seemed like they were practicing battle drills from WWII instead of more modern Battle Drills.

“Because they work.”  Assmunch had answered.  “Sure, there’s small elements that have changed like we don’t fight in trenches anymore, and bunkers are rare, but those are just representations of defensive positions that limit movement and sight and provide the enemy with weapons support beyond simple automatic weapons.  They teach us to look at a battlefield in terms of unknowns, hidden and highly protected enemies and consider ground troop movements with attack options like approaches and options for cover in various environments.  As much as you want to think of Infantry as some blunt fist pounding the opponent’s skull, we’re actually the precision scalpel that delicately cuts out the cancer.  You always have fixed elements and mobile elements.”

At first Eagle found it difficult to get past his own training as an AH pilot, which had more of an assault support mission.  A couple of well placed missile strikes and the compound would be rubble, but even he recognized there were situations in which that level of destruction was undesirable.  Taking a defensible position from the enemy altered the battlefront and allowed them to pull in supply, support and more combat troops.  Dumbo was right, war was a game of chess and positioning your pieces allowed strategic deployment that could cost the enemy far more than any losses your own side would incur.

“Look,” Assmunch had explained with a sardonic grin, “Infantry thinks on the ground.  But you’ve been conditioned to think from the air, which I think is useful, so don’t stop.  We need your perspective, it helps us from getting tunneled.  Don’t get me wrong, a LOT of what we do requires us to ONLY think in terms of ground assaults, but every now and then that becomes a limitation to our planning.  So speak up if we’ve missed something.  And we aren’t usually told about about the air support part and we’re expected to act without that knowledge.  Our missions and objectives are limited to small, direct moves in comparison to the bigger picture.  That’s on purpose, we’re not supposed to have a bigger strategy in our stupid grunt mush brains.  If the Army wanted us to have smarts, we’d be issued ‘em.”  That last part was a direct quote from Sergeant Walters.

So, Eagle trusted Chunk and Dumbo.  Still, he would have felt better about their chances of success if Assmunch and Bootlicker had planned their strategy.  This Hurry up and Wait was giving him anxiety.

[laguyinhou]

Closer and closer. And why does that layout sound so fucking familiar? 

[Assmunch]

15 hours ago, laguyinhou said:

Closer and closer. And why does that layout sound so fucking familiar? 

You mean of the bunker under the compound?  Thinking about it, it’s used a lot in movies.  Like in the Jurassic Park where they were auctioning off the cloned dinosaurs… that’s the basic arrangement of the underground area.  It’s also sort of what the big base hangar buildings are like, big central cavern for the shop, service and stock inventory facilities in rooms off either side.  Other than those specific examples, it just seems to come forward in my head that it’s a common layout, but I’m not discounting that I saw it somewhere.

[laguyinhou]

On 3/13/2023 at 4:48 AM, Assmunch said:

You mean of the bunker under the compound?  Thinking about it, it’s used a lot in movies.  Like in the Jurassic Park where they were auctioning off the cloned dinosaurs… that’s the basic arrangement of the underground area.  It’s also sort of what the big base hangar buildings are like, big central cavern for the shop, service and stock inventory facilities in rooms off either side.  Other than those specific examples, it just seems to come forward in my head that it’s a common layout, but I’m not discounting that I saw it somewhere.

Yeah...my brain said "I've been there" but can't for the life of me remember if it was dream, reality, or movie. 

[Assmunch]

ASSMUNCH

 

No rest for the weary, as Grandma would say.  Well, someone’s Grandma would say that, not mine.  My Grandma would probably be overjoyed at being stuck in some rustic locale surrounded by dangerous, serious fit men.  Grandma was probably what they used to call a ‘wild woman’.  I snorted.  These were the sorts of things that popped into my head for no reason, mostly during The Suck.

“Focus, Private.”

Yeah yeah.  38 hours without sleep.  Which usually wasn’t a problem, except there was no physical activity to keep me alert.  My brain was skittering off in any direction it wanted.  See, that was the danger, and the challenge of life in the Infantry.  The first dive back into The Suck meant you had to remind yourself of all the lessons all over again.  Eventually it would become second nature, but for now I had to reinforce my intent, sharpen my focus, and smack down any stray thought that wasn’t primary.   The Suck, the monotonous drag of 20 hours of patrol for days at a time, encampment, perimeter and sentry shifts, a maximum of two hours of sleep if you were lucky, drills, 15 minute meal breaks, squat or maybe flop breaks if you were, again, lucky.  Your mental and physical condition deteriorated by the hour until you were just a stumbling zombie with one thought - forward.  Followed by the second thought - ambush.  You wanted to rest, but knew it wouldn’t be long enough or deep enough to make a difference, and would only make you want to cry when you realized you’d just have to climb back on your feet for another march.

Objective.  Target.  3rd thought, but rare.  Honestly, you stopped caring and knew hoping for it just forced it further away.  If you reached your Objective, found your target that was all well and good.  But that wasn’t your GOAL.  No.  Deep in The Suck, your only goal was staying on your feet, and forward.  And don’t get deaded.  Yeah, deaded isn’t a word, but it’s a fun way to say shot, blown up, bled out, fucked up, erased, cancelled and about fifty other words we liked to use for going home in a bag.  See?  Infantry can be fun. It’s a fucking laugh a minute.

“Private!  Focus!  You goon out on me and we’ll go another 40 hours.”

Which made me laugh.  “Fuck.  Sorry.”  I said.  I really was.  This was unprofessional.  Private Goon needed to fucking pull it together.  “Where were we?”  I asked politely.  I tried to flex my numb arms for the 20th time since being tied to the chair.  Mission Fail.  No flex.  I repeat, No Flex.

“Your men.  You were providing me with a list of their skills, abilities, weaknesses.”  the man in the shadows said.

“I was?”  I said, puzzled.  “I thought I was in the middle of telling you about the night I fucked your mom in every hole.”  I looked down.  “Maybe that was the other guy.  You all look alike.”  I took a moment to think.  “No, it was your sister, that’s right.”

I knew it was coming.  It didn’t help.  I bounced off the concrete after his boot slammed into my chest.  Trapped by the ropes and the chair I had no control over my momentum.  I had a brief, proud moment that I kept my head from bouncing.  Protect the ole helmet, grunt.  I made a mental double tap against my skull with imaginary knuckles.  That made me laugh, while gasping against my deflated lungs.  I was seriously a hilarious grunt.  Oh, The Suck has at least one benefit, and that was you just don’t have the energy for pain.  Yeah, that’s right, you get tired enough and you get hurt, your brain just shrugs.  And let me tell you, if you’re paying attention, you recognize that pain can be ignored.  Oh it’s still there, but it’s far away, doesn’t matter, and you can even make it not exist at all. And right now I just couldn’t give a fuck.  It wasn’t the first time I’d been treated like a soccer ball in the last couple hours.  Or six.  Hell, it could have been days.  Nah, I wasn’t that far gone yet.  Just hours.  Maybe.

He let me giggle like an idiot for a minute before yanking me and the chair up to vertical once again.  Then he went to the door and knocked.  The door opened and another man came in carrying a bowl of something and a large pitcher of some liquid.

Oh yeah, meal time.  God, it smelled so good.  And seeing the pitcher I realized how thirsty I was.

“I know what you’re thinking, Private.”  He said conversationally.  “You’re thinking I can’t actually kill you, or injure you, or torture you to get the info I need.”   He took the bowl and pitcher from the other guy and put it on the table before dragging it across the concrete in front of me.  The horrible squeal of the metal legs echoed in the small room and it was downright rude and jarring.  The sound surged my brain into focus.  Shit.  Everything hurt.  Focus was a mistake.

“But see, I don’t have to actually hurt you at all.  The mind is an awful thing.  True torture isn’t about leaving physical scars.  It’s the mental scars that break you.”  He continued.  I watched him lean over and take a deep breath of whatever was in the bowl.  “Mmmmmmm.  You know, Nancy makes the best stew.  The rest of that buck your giant brought in was just perfect.  It’s the spices, and the gravy.  Damn, I’m hungry.  Are you hungry?”

Private Goon was hungry.  I was so hungry, they hadn’t fed me from the moment they took me away from the Bravos.  A day?  No, two, it had to be two days since I climbed off the transport.  “I hate stew.”  I lied.  I loved stew, especially hot, delicious home made stew with big chunks of meat and vegetables swimming in a thick, savory gravy steeped for hours over a low flame on a cold winter day.  The scent was worming its way through the air.  I could taste it.

He took a bite and savored it.  He chewed slowly, staring me in the eye.  “Well, you’re missing out.”  He said around the mouthful.  A small drip of whatever delicious sauce it sat in trailed down his chin.  “Fuck, Nancy can cook.  More for me, I guess.  For every lie, every evasion, every non-answer I take a bite, leaving less for you.”  He smiled.  “I’m not trying to be the bad guy here.  I want to feed you.  I really do.  But I need intel.  It’s a fair trade.”

I steeled my resolve and smiled back.  “Like I fed your sister my dick?  She was hungry too.”  Which made me laugh again.  Cackled like a crazy loon.  And that thought cracked me up even more.  Man, I was fuck - ing - high -lareeous.

He shook his head and took another bite then poured himself a cup of water before chugging it down.  “Fuck, sorry but I just can’t stop chowing.” And he spooned another large portion into his mouth.  “Stop me anytime you’re ready.”

I couldn’t keep my eyes from following the spoon from the bowl to his mouth.  It wasn’t a big bowl.  Another few bites and there wouldn’t be any stew left.

“It’s up to you.  You have all the power here.”  He explained with reasonable, even tones, holding out a heaped spoonful near my face.  So close.  “Just one piece of intel.  That’s all I need.  It doesn’t even have to be anything important or critical.”

I could give him something stupid, right?  Like Dumbo didn’t like the dark, or Zeus wouldn’t act on his own.  There was no real useful information in that.  Just something that would get me a bite of food, and once I had that bite I could use the relief from hunger to shore up the fortress.  My mind snapped back.  No.  That was the game.  Once the door was cracked, it was over.  I would have compromised myself and he would use that to push me further.  The only way through this, my training told me, was to always refuse.  You NEVER trusted your captor to live up to whatever bargain they made.  If they gave you what they promised you, then your brain was convinced cooperation would save you.  It was a lie.  Even if it wasn’t a lie and it bought you better treatment or even release - a critical part of your capability to resist was destroyed.  You could never trust yourself again.  You’d stepped on the road to cooperating with the enemy.  You became a traitor.

Civilians might believe there was a difference between mock operations and an actual battlefield.  There wasn’t.  What you do in one, you’d do in the other.  Once you accepted a course of action that bred weakness, you could never trust yourself when it truly mattered.  Doubt seeped in.  And this guy was right, even if I understood at a foundational level that he couldn’t actually hurt me physically, he couldn’t kill me, or maim me, he could still make my life extremely difficult and uncomfortable.  While it doesn’t take much to kill someone, that also meant it was easy to keep them just a couple steps from death in a state where they wanted to die but couldn’t.  A single bite of food a week is all that was necessary to live.  A small cup of water every two days.  Your body would eat itself eventually, but that took weeks, sometimes months.  And one good meal, a soft bed and a good night’s rest, and they could start all over again with more weeks of deprivation.  They didn’t have to lift a finger or exert themselves at all.  If I wasn’t prepared to maintain resistance when there weren’t any actual stakes, when I knew they didn’t have the time to push me to that threshold, I was unsuitable in every way for real combat situations.  And Sarge would say refusing to take the opportunity to test yourself was the most dumbshit fucking decision in the history of dumbshit Grunt decisions in the entire Kingdom of Dumbshit Grunts.  Battle and war were all about making the hard decisions, taking a path that was the most difficult.  There were no easy paths when the lives of your men, your brothers, were in the balance.

That’s the part that sent a golden glow of strength through me.  My brothers.  For them, I’d die.  I’d suffer a thousand cuts, a hundred crippling wounds, if I could keep them safe by doing it and give them the best chance of success.  The minute I gave the enemy intel I would reduce their chances of survival.  If I could die to give them the chance to get home alive, I would do it gladly.  I wouldn’t betray them for a fucking bite of stew.

“Fuck you.”  I grinned before closing my eyes.  Ah, it was good to rest, to let it go.  Whatever was going to happen, I didn’t need to stick around for it.  With a single deep breath I was gone, inside.  No more me.  No more hunger, or thirst.  No more aching body.  Yeah, I was giving up my trump card, but it wasn’t something they could use against me.  I resolved to stay under for the duration.  It would no doubt create a small crisis for them, and that thought comforted me just before all thoughts bled away like a morning fog.

 

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

The shock of ice cold water drenching and choking me brought me out of the emptiness.  I gasped and hacked trying to clear my throat and lungs.

“Aw, shit.  There goes your water.”  He said in a dry but contrite defeat.

“Ggggnnnnnhhhh” I groaned.  Coming out of the depths, I didn’t get to pick and choose what to pay attention to, and I felt every ache and pain in my body as well as a swollen soreness in my jaw.  “You hit me?”  I opened and closed my mouth.  “I thought we weren’t doing that.”

He squinched his face up in a cringe.  “Thought you passed out, tried to bring you around.”

I didn’t buy it.  “So that was your first move, the water only occurred to you after that?”

He shrugged.  “Yeah.  Sorry.  I really am.  I’m not used to ‘Interrogation Lite’ in my line of work.”  he actually made air quotes with his hands.  “There IS a rule book, believe it or not.  The thing is, the list of ‘don’t do this’ is the actual playbook.  Not at your level, of course.  They will roast your nuts in a military tribunal if you do any of that shit.  Me though?  Don’t do this is my bread and butter.”  He was talking like he was having a dinner conversation.

“God, you’re an asshole.”  I grumbled.  Oh, the adrenaline had me sharp and aware now.  It wouldn’t last, but in spite of the awareness of the pain I was in, I welcomed it.  “And that’s not in ‘air quotes’ “ I even held the pause.

That made him laugh.  “I like your style, kid.  You’re fun.  I can tell, we’re going to be good friends.”  He walked back to his chair behind the table.  “Oh, I ate the rest of your stew too.  It was so good I let you catch a couple zz’s while I finished.  Now, “ He suddenly became serious.  The switch was creepy in its swift perfection.  “who the fuck are you?  You and these other children we’re babysitting?”

Gloves are off, I guess.  My jaw was proof of that.  Was his little speech about ‘don’t do this’ a warning?  Up to this point things had been civil.  Trust me, getting kicked in the chest while tied to a chair was playtime in these situations, a gentle introduction.  I was a pretend prisoner undergoing pretend interrogation.  Yeah, I know what I said before about there being no difference.  Turns out I lied.  Don’t feel bad, I lied to myself first so who’s the bigger chump here?  You can’t help but try to do the math in your head during this shit.  Hmm, a Chump AND a Goon.  I’m really sailing through this shit like a fuckin pro!  I chuckled at that.

“Something funny, Private?”  My Inquisitor asked.  He didn’t let me answer.  “I’m going to level with you, because I realize this has all be set up as some game and you were told it was training.  Which I admit, was what we signed up for.  That was the plan.  Right up until two of your men went rogue.  So, did Collins send you here to get intel?  Does he want to stick his nose into our business?  You should know, that crosses a line.”

This was all news to me, and I told him so.  “How the fuck should I know?  I haven’t been with my men since this all started, thanks to you and your circus apes.  We’re just stupid infantry grunts trying to get through the suck.”

“Yeah, just simple grunts without a Command, unassigned.  YOU. DON’T. EXIST.  You expect me to believe you don’t know that?  I had my men snoop around.  All of you disappeared ten months ago as far as the Army is concerned.  And that - “. He pointed an oddly long index finger at me, “sends off every fucking alarm bell I got.  And then we got Collins playing all nice, which isn’t his usual modus operandi.  So, do yourself a favor, kid.  Whatever you’re mixed up in, just spill it.  We don’t want to kill you, but there are stakes here that are way above your pay grade.  The circles I operate in, that Collins operates in are world shaking.  You’re a monkey in a zoo, and Collins and I…we’re the zoo keepers.  More accurately I’m the guy who captures or kills the wild animals and manages the ecosystem so that the predators don’t outnumber the prey.  And now it seems Collins is raising his own pack of wild wolves and that’s not his job.  So you may not know all the details, but you know something.  And that’s your only ticket to staying above the dirt.”

He got up out of his chair and knocked on the door.  Before he left, he turned around.  “I really am sorry kid.  I know you didn’t ask for this.  None of this makes me happy, but you should know I’ll sleep just fine whether you live or die and I’ll put a bullet through your skull without a single regret.  Do the smart thing.  Right now we can agree you aren’t too far in and I’m good with turning you over to Collins without a scratch.  But you gotta give me something.”

He turned to the guy who opened the door.  “Get him some food, and let him sleep.”

I don’t know whether it was the tone of voice he used, or the words he chose to speak so casually, or the end of interrogation protocol by allowing me to eat and sleep, but I believed him.  Still, not even the promise of food and sleep could shake the cold knot of fear from worming its way inside my gut.  I especially didn’t like how the Bravos didn’t officially exist.

And if the words didn’t do the job, the beating I then got from the ape at the door certainly drove reality home.  I did get to eat, which was nice.  Did you know chewing is optional when eating?  Yeah, chewing is impossible when your jaw barely works.  I could barely get my swollen tongue to push the food into my throat, whole.  Not like I wasn’t hungry enough to just pour it down my throat without chewing anyway.  The delicate logistics of delivering a small enough morsel to get through my ruined mouth was its own torture when all I wanted was to shovel it in.  There was also a small comfort in the recognition that getting a beat down from an ape is not too different from foreplay with your ass kicking boyfriend.  I was just missing the brutal ass fucking that went along with it.  That was always the best part.

Thoughts of Kevin lulled me to sleep.  If my punished mouth could have smiled, I would have.  I needed a clear head to think my way through this, and only sleep would give me that.  I wasn’t Kevin, who could add all this up in a few seconds and see the bigger picture from all the puzzle pieces.  No, Private Chump Goon needed a clear head.  Preferably one that didn’t feel like a sledgehammer was bashing it.

Pain is what we eat for Breakfast.  Huah!

 

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

BOOTLICKER

 

The knife at his neck only provided a minimum of additional motivation because he was inclined to go with this sneaky asshole anyway.  He was bored with the lessons from his instructor, bored of the cold empty woods, bored with Demon’s stupid questions, the delays, this whole fucking day.  Bootlicker would have followed the man threatening him if he’d only asked.  Admittedly, the knife at his neck did make it more appealing.  Whatever this guy wanted, the knife meant it was bound to be more interesting than level 1 fieldcraft from the instructor.

He’d stepped away from his group to drop a deuce and was embarrassed to be caught mid-shit with a hand over his mouth and a knife pressing into his soft neck.  Never even heard the guy.

“Make a sound and I slit your throat.”  The guy whispered in his ear.  A little creepy, that.  The guy could have whispered from a foot away, he didn’t have to press his lips to his actual ear.  And then, when he spoke, the warm moist breath that came with the words slathered inside his ear canal, across his cheek.  It was like a lover’s caress.  Weirdo.  He filed that assessment away for potential future exploitation.

Bootlicker raised his hands to show he wasn’t going to resist.  “You mind if I finish?”  He whispered back.  “Gotta wipe at least.”

“Make it fast.”  The weirdo replied.

Bootlicker paused for a second but the weirdo didn’t move his face away from his ear, or the knife from his neck.  Yeah, definite sicko here.  Maybe he liked watching guys take a shit.  Bootlicker had read about that type, but hadn’t run across any up until now.  Yeah, this was way more interesting than a lecture about tracking through terrain.  Weirdos weren’t much of a challenge usually, you just dangled in front of their face whatever their favorite creepy thing was and they were happy to do whatever you wanted.  Sometimes a challenge was fun, the whole figuring out what it would take to get someone to do what you needed.  But with weirdos, it was a different kind of fun.  They got so excited.  Like a puppy when you held a treat up for them to see.  Maybe this weirdo wanted him to shit on his chest while he watched.

Bootlicker finished up with a shrug and a couple handfuls of leaves.  It was a shame though, he felt like he was finally going to be able to push out a good, long shit.  They didn’t call MRE’s Meals Refusing to Exit without good reason.  You get backed up in the field, and when a good rumbler finally decides to breach you want to make the most of it.  At least there wasn’t the never ending wipe of a chow hall dump.  It was small consolation.  There was no telling when the next urge would come.  It could be a week and then all he’d have to look forward to was seeing how big of a turd he could push out, and if it broke a Platoon record.

Once he’d tightened his belt, the weirdo grabbed his coat by the scruff of the neck and yanked him around to move away from where Demon and Troll were still listening to the droning instruction of their guide.

He remained docile while the man pushed him forward every few steps with a rough shove.  By doing that he was making it impossible for Bootlicker to step quietly.  This guy didn’t seem like the careless type which meant there was a purpose to enforcing Bootlicker’s clumsiness.  He divided his attention between choosing his steps and thinking about this change in scenario.

The Bravos had already been separated into small groups.  Standard for either training development or small unit operations.  It was possible that this guy was tasked with peeling off various soldiers for one training purpose or another.  Bootlicker didn’t think so.  The silent attack coupled with leading him away from his group indicated the Bravos and their instructor weren’t supposed to know.  An idea popped into his head - the man’s rough treatment ensured a trail the others could follow, and they were just talking about tracking through terrain.  Was he now the target?

That seemed off, and inaccurate.  Why make it easy on them like the man was doing by refusing to let Bootlicker place his feet carefully?  Anyone could track a messy trail, especially in winter through leaf fall and dead growth.  And what did this guy even need Bootlicker for?  He could do this himself.  It almost felt like the man didn’t care about leaving a trail, that he knew they wouldn’t follow them.  Everything felt off from the knife to his neck, to being attacked when the others were distracted and HE was distracted, now this clumsy travel.

“I can actually be way more careful in leaving a trail, you know.”  He told the guy.

“Doesn’t matter.”  The man said in a loud whisper, giving him another shove.

“You aren’t going to tie my hands?”  Bootlicker asked.

Another shove.  “Doesn’t matter.”

“What if I call out?  Someone will come running.”  Bootlicker tried a third time.

A harder shove this time, forcing him to stumble.  “Doesn’t matter.  Shut the fuck up.”

When Bootlicker regained his balance, he felt a sharp sting on his ear.  His hand came away bloody.  The fucker had cut him. The sharp tang of coppery blood invaded his nose.  Definitely a puzzling development.  Bootlicker tried to fit that information into the profile he was building of the man.  If he was going to manipulate this guy, he needed a motivation.

The knife seemed important.  He hadn’t sheathed it and kept twirling it in his hand as they walked, flipping it, tossing it over the back of his hand to grab the handle again from the other side, changing the blade’s direction in his fist over and over again.  That was another clue.  Bootlicker didn’t get a sense of agitation from the guy, so it wasn’t a nervous tic.  Practice?  Habit? Showing off a skill to intimidate Bootlicker?  The man’s head and eyes constantly scanned the woods around them, never looking at the knife while it moved.  There was something hypnotic in the confident moves, a pattern.  Bootlicker began to memorize the various movements as they walked.

It wasn’t long, maybe a half hour, before they approached a small rise.  The man circled around to the right and with a move that looked like an optical illusion or a magic trick he let go of the knife with his right hand and with a lazy and casual motion reached out to grab Bootlicker’s upper arm with his right while catching the knife with his left.  The weird part was that the knife just seemed to hang there until it was gripped once again.  Bootlicker tried to figure out if it defied gravity for as long as it seemed it had.

Around to the right a hole sat at the base of a rocky cliff that was about 11 feet high.  The hole looked natural, maybe from erosion, and it was barely wide enough to fit a grown man.  He received a kick to the back of his knees and he collapsed.  The man didn’t let him fall, and instead lowered him with firm control until his knees were on the ground.

“Feet first.”  The man commanded.  Bootlicker thought the rough whispering was overly dramatic like Michael Keaton in the movie Batman Returns.  Maybe someone else would be intimidated.  Bootlicker saw it for the silliness it was.

“Can’t you talk normal?”  He said, scooting on his butt into the hole.  He saw a flash out of the corner of his eye and felt another sting on his ear.  A cringe was all he would allow himself.  He didn’t waste the opportunity to learn.  That knife skill enticed him more than the Airborne course, more than survival training, more than range training and qualification.  It should be easy to master.  After all, he hadn’t neglected his hand tricks while in the Army.  If anything he’d climbed up a few skill levels by palming anything he wanted, fooling the Bravos with card tricks, lock picking and picking pockets.  Before the Bravos had left Germany he had keys for 80% of the motor pool.  He never used them, but you never knew when or if it would come in handy.  For practice before they left, he snuck into the NATO ally section at Graf and left the keys on the desk of the NATO allied commander with a note.  After duty hours, of course.  He wasn’t yet at the level of a daytime duty raid.  Knife handling, control and skill seemed like it was a necessary for his path.  Aside from the brief time in Basic when there was no avoiding being treated like a diseased worm, being railroaded into the Army was the best thing that ever happened to him.  Almost infinite resources, toys, access, danger and adrenaline, skills and training in EVERYTHING.

The hole was dark and he had no idea where his feet needed to be as he scooted inside.  It didn’t take a genius to anticipate the small crevice would have to open up.  There was no purpose to forcing a grown man into a hole that didn’t, and if the weirdo was joining him there would have to be more room.  He wasn’t surprised when he felt his feet hit air, then his knees, thighs.  He hoped the ground didn’t fall away too far but at least it all felt wide.  Scooting six inches at a time while blind was not enjoyable.

Once his stomach hung over the edge, his feet contacted solid ground.  He realized he would have to move away from the entrance because no doubt the weirdo would be coming in at any time.  Without his body blocking the tight tunnel, a slight bit of light filtered in, allowing him to see minimal features of the hideout.  It would take his eyes a minute or so to adjust completely but he could make out enough room overhead that he didn’t have to squat.  He looked around.  The space wasn’t large, maybe seven feet long by five feet wide, sort of an oval.  The odor of wild animal was everywhere, that sharp musky scent so overwhelming nothing else could compete.  A small lumpy pile sat nearby.

While he was contemplating what the pile might be, a hard boot jammed into his back and sent him sprawling against the wall.  He should have anticipated that.  The weirdo was smart.  Bootlicker could have been waiting to attack while the weirdo was vulnerable and stuck in the tunnel.  In the time it took Bootlicker to regain his feet and turn around, the man was standing in the den with knife flipping across his knuckles, back and forth.

“Make yourself comfortable.”  The coarse, gravelly voice didn’t echo, but still sounded too loud for the small enclosed space.

Bootlicker moved over to the pile intending to sit.

“Not there.”  The weirdo growled.

He pushed down the frustration.  “Here?”  Bootlicker pointed to a spot 2 feet away.

“Fine.”

As he sat, Bootlicker thought he might break the ice.  “Yo-“

“Shut the fuck up.” The man interrupted.  “Fucking babies.”  Bootlicker watched him search through the pile.

Bootlicker’s reflexes caught something thrown at him.  His eyes were almost completely adjusted now and rather than just shadows he saw features resolve.

“Eat that.  Drink your own fucking water.”

“Than-“

“Shut the fuck up.”

Interesting.  This was going to be fun.  He’d never had to get inside someone this combative.  In most cases of opposition, recognition of authority lowered resistance.  Well placed subservience smoothed and defined a relationship they felt comfortable with.  This guy didn’t care.  Bootlicker knew there was a way past the man’s gruff and irritated frustration, he only had to wait for the man to give him a clue.  There was always a clue.  The weirdo didn’t pull him away for his sparkling personality, unless this was some kinky thing.  He wasn’t getting that read.  People who wanted something like THAT from you usually didn’t treat you like shit.  With those people it was all about being overly nice.  This had a purpose, a purpose the weirdo felt was either beneath him or he felt wouldn’t pay off.  He didn’t want Bootlicker here, that was clear as day.  Orders?  Was he just some unfortunate slave to someone else?

He took a bite of whatever it was that was wrapped in the foil package.  It was too dark to see.  The weirdo would reveal everything he expected soon, Bootlicker guessed.  The weirdo was definitely not the patient type.  As Bootlicker chewed, he felt the clotted blood pull at his skin with every movement of his jaw.  ‘This is exactly the adventure I needed.’  He thought with a grin.

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

“Name.”  The man coughed out.  His voice sounded like he was choking on a wad of steel wool.  Seriously, it was so ridiculous.

Bootlicker opened his eyes from his short nap.  By mutual unspoken agreement they’d both leaned back against their respective walls and closed their eyes after eating.

“Bootlicker.”  He answered.

A knife flew at Bootlicker.  He almost didn’t dodge in time.  It thudded off the dirt wall where his chest used to be.

“Name.”

“Evans.”

Bootlicker sighed.  It was right there on his uniform.  Like always.  Which meant a game of follow the leader.  He hated this game, it was the ultimate in boring.  ‘Prove you know how to listen.  Prove you know how to follow the rules.  Prove you’re smart.  Prove you’re willing.  But most of all - Prove obedience.’  For fuck’s sake, he didn’t get the name Bootlicker because he had a shoe fetish.

“Can’t we just skip this?”  He said softly.

Another knife.  He didn’t bother to dodge this time because he was expecting it.  He just knocked it aside.  It was just timing.  They weren’t thrown with deadly force.

He shouldn’t have come.  This was going to be no different than the usual slow, painful drip of information he always had to endure.  Skills and information were always taught at a rate that the dumbest idiot could grasp.  And Bootlicker was a rabbit among turtles.  No.  A cheetah.  He didn’t need a slow feed, didn’t need repetition, multiple examples or explanation.  Practice was what he needed if it was a skill.  Additional pieces was what he needed if it were information.  Everything was a puzzle.

He darted his eyes to the man who was now easy to see with his complete adjustment to the dark.  He was picking his fingernails with another knife.  Bootlicker didn’t bother retrieving either of the knives the man had thrown.

“Which direction did we travel to get here?”  The raspy voice asked.

He pointed to the wall on his right.  “Southwest.  Heading 194.  Approximately.”

The man’s eyebrows twitched.

“Close enough.”  He said taking his eyes off his fingernail project to stare at Bootlicker.  “How far did we travel?”

“Two and a half clicks.  Approximately.”

“Fine.  Elevation?”

Bootlicker smirked.  Showing off was one of his favorite things to do.  “Specific, I don’t know.  This area of Georgia doesn’t exceed 360 meters. Floor is 280.  We’re somewhere between 310 and 330 meters.  And delta from origin is…” he paused.  “12 meters.  Approximately.  Maximum deviation of this grid is 40 meters.”

“The compound?”

Bootlicker referenced the three dimensional sketch of the area he’d already built in his head.  “Heading 72 degrees, four clicks, elevation delta minus 23 meters.”

“Who gave you a map?”

Another smirk.  “Ft. Benning.  The board outside the Cadre building.”  He just had a feeling the man had seen the 6 foot by 4 foot display behind plexiglass that posted information about Airborne command, Ft. Benning, the state of Georgia with both a general terrain map and a detailed map of the base, the town of Columbus, state parks.  He didn’t think the man would believe that most of the information came from when he completed AIT here.  Over a year and a half ago, his core navigation module provided all the information he needed and he exceeded the boundaries of the requirements because like usual he was bored after internalizing the course demands.  While the rest of his AIT class struggled to learn how to use a compass, grid building, resection, identifying terrain features, he began figuring out the rest of the state and then the region.  With every detail the picture in his head resolved in finer, smaller segments until he was satisfied he could walk on foot through the countryside from Pensacola to Nashville without following a single road.

The look on the man’s face was droll disbelief.  “How far is the border of Alabama?” The man’s voice scratched.

Yeah, now came the expected proof and confirmation.  Just once it would be nice to be taken at face value.  These mundane plodding human livestock could never conceive he operated efficiently.  “Approximately 20 clicks.”

“You know exactly where you are.”  It wasn’t a question.  “In your head.”  The man wasn’t looking at him, but bobbed his head while looking at his knife as if trying to come to a decision.

“Scud attack on the barracks.”  The man rasped.  “Didn’t even make it out of Saudi Arabia, never set foot in either Kuwait or Iraq.  Never fired a single round.  Missed my jugular by a fingernail.  Was told I was lucky they could save this much of my voice.  Normal is whatever you decide it is.”

Bootlicker approved of the lack of anger, lack of self pity in the man’s ravaged voice.  The man went back to flipping and twirling a knife through his fingers, across his knuckles, through his palms.

“Observations.”  He continued as if he hadn’t just exposed the most painful regret of his entire life.  Something in the refusal of emotion resonated with Bootlicker.

He took a breath.  Somehow, he felt it would be worth it to take a leap of faith.  After his talk with Gary, his cellmate in jail, he kept his unusual personality carefully hidden.  Gary was right - it was creepy to the human livestock and made them suspicious, even frightened.  So he perfected the charming, engaging, helpful nerd persona for general interaction.  If he needed a different one for a specific situation, like the firm control he exercised with Wanker, that was easy enough.  Wanker believed he was the only one chosen to see a different side of Bootlicker, and that served to ensure Wanker’s loyalty and dedication.  Wanker believed they were a team.

“All of it?”  Bootlicker asked.

The direct and intense stare he received sent a thrill through Bootlicker.

“At least three forces, multiple objectives.”  He started.  “We’re pawns, the Bravos.  Ultimate objective is a new policy directive straight from the Pentagon.  This is a testing ground for us, but there’s a battle behind the show.  We aren’t fully welcome here.  We weren’t at Airborne.  We won’t be in the Ranger course.  Our success won’t be measured by training metrics.  The training is only a method to evaluate whether a change in policy can be implemented.”

“You’re sure you’ll be sent to the Ranger course?”  The man asked.

“I saw the file myself.  The compound is a pit stop.  Unscheduled.  Major Collins exercised some of his broad discretion to get us here.”

“What do you know about Collins?”  The man asked.

Bootlicker let the slight grin play across his lips.  So much information.  The man referred to Collins by name, without the rank of Major.  That signified familiarity and dispensed with the respect.  A personal relationship of some sort, known, no chain of command.  The detail of how the man lost his voice indicated a medical separation from the military.  His clandestine retrieval by the man indicated he wasn’t affiliated with the men from the compound.  But that wasn’t confirmed.

“Major Collins is running the program we’re in.  He’s working for the Pentagon in this.  He reports directly to a General, skipping over the usual intermediaries.  That alone makes whoever he is very important.”

“Why?”

It was a question intended to confirm that Bootlicker grasped the subtleties of military politics, so he answered.  “It means he’s protected.  It gives him authority beyond his rank.  It means he works outside the usual limited environments a Major would be allowed.  He has few restrictions, wide discretion, deep funding and the ability to commandeer resources like a NATO training base in Germany and enough slots in the Ranger course for an entire Infantry platoon.”

“Is this a specific career objective for your Platoon?”  The man asked.

“Speculating?  Yes, but only because Major Collins won’t waste highly trained, specifically targeted troops after he gets his answer from the program.  Those of us who make it will likely end up SOF.  All this would be a colossal waste of time, personnel, and money if he didn’t use us further.  That seems unlikely.”

The man snorted, which with his broken vocal ability only sounded like he was choking on rocks.  “You haven’t spent enough time in if you think the Pentagon doesn’t throw away all three of those things every day.”

It was Bootlicker’s turn to snort.  “Then that tells me you haven’t exchanged a single word with Major Collins, and probably have never laid eyes on him.”

The man gave him an unimpressed slow blink.  Confirmation.

The back and forth revealed further information to Bootlicker.  The man was receiving information he didn’t know before, including that the Bravos knew their purpose and their pipeline.  Bootlicker let him have the assumption that the knowledge was a given fact among the Bravos even though it wasn’t.  There wasn’t yet a reason to reveal that Bootlicker was the one who discovered the information and held it closely so far.  He might be impressed to know just how Bootlicker came to know these things.  But it wasn’t time to reveal that.  That would create an imbalance in this negotiation.  The man wasn’t livestock in his mind anymore but he also wasn’t an equal yet.  The signs were good that he might be but Bootlicker wouldn’t let himself hope yet.

In the silence, Bootlicker picked up one of the knives the man had thrown at him and began trying to figure out how to manipulate it across his hand.    He focused on moving it in one direction, working out the method to flip the handle out of his grasp so that the blade contacted his knuckles.  The man glanced briefly at his actions, then went back to his unfocused stare.

“What were you told before being dropped off?”

Up until then, he’d managed to catch the knife every time he dropped it.  He would be clumsy until he found the rhythm.  The question distracted him and he felt the knife bounce off his thigh.  He picked it up and resumed.  “Nothing.  Pack out and load up.  That’s it.  We don’t know what we’re supposed to learn here, but given what we’ve been doing the last 36 hours, it’s a crucible.  Our baseline capability was measured.  The instructors who selected us in small units are teaching us scouting, recon, field skills and tonight is a mock attack on the compound using modified battle drills.  We’re supposed to plan an infiltration or frontal assault.  We’re meant to lose.”

“They won’t let your units penetrate beyond the outer buildings.”  The man observed.

“Zeus will have something to say about that.”  Bootlicker returned.  He didn’t give anyone else a snowball’s chance in hell now that he’d been take off the game board.  He would have maximized the talents of Demon and Troll to get further than that, but without him dictating the strategy neither of those two had the brainpower to modify the plan on the fly.  “But yes, the other group will have secondary defenses.  They will make sure they have overlapping coverage for their initial defense.  And without Assmunch we won’t have an overall multi layer assault plan.  Our small units will be acting independently.  It’ll be a slaughter.”

“Yup.  Gonna get your asses kicked.  We can watch from a distance position if you want, but we’ll be enjoying each other’s company for the foreseeable future.”  The voice was grating less and less on Bootlicker’s nerves.

“I’d rather work with you on the reason you’re here.”  Bootlicker replied.  He didn’t want to watch the grunts flounder and lose to the Charlies.  It would only bore him.

“Oh?  And what would you know about that?”  The careful disinterest spoke volumes.

Instead of a direct answer, Bootlicker made a show of looking around their small cave.  “We only got here yesterday morning.  You, however, have been using this hideout for a least a few days longer than that.”  He let the rest, the natural conclusion of that information, hang unspoken.

The split second hesitation in the man’s constant knife flipping glared louder than anything he could have said.

“Looks like the little guy was right.”  The man said.  “That little fucker was trickier and faster than he had any right to be.  ‘Bootlicker would know’ he said.”

That could only mean Weeble.  An unexpected laugh came out of his mouth, surprising him.  Genuine humor was rare for Bootlicker.  “Just think of him as a cornered feral cat if he doesn’t like whatever you did to him.”

A grunt was the man’s response.  Then a pause before  “You’re awful cooperative for someone who has no idea what he’s involved in.”

“Involved?”  Bootlicker mused.  “We’re just here.  Pawns aren’t involved, they occupy spaces to force other….”  He stopped suddenly.

“Took you long enough.”  The man actually managed to insert a snide tone into the crushed gravel of his words.

Bootlicker ignored the verbal arrow.  Multiple game pieces of different levels of power appeared in his mind.  The very nature of the compound itself, the instructors he’d seen, the rough military discipline without actual military presence, Major Collins and his ability to get them here, and the last piece was this man and his comfortable hideout that spoke of long term recon.

“Put it together.  I’ll clear up any incorrect assumptions or conclusions.”  The man said, his tone of voice, such as it was, drastically different.

“Major Collins has additional objectives he hopes to gain by our presence here.”  Bootlicker began, speaking as soon as the thoughts came.  “You don’t know what they are, which means you aren’t associated with the Major and not part of his plan.  But you also aren’t surprised that Major Collins is directing this.  That indicates you have objectives as well that differ from his.  There’s something about the compound, or the organization here you both want to know, I think.  You yourself aren’t active duty any more, probably a medical discharge just before Desert Storm, or during it because your fitness wouldn’t be determined until you rehabbed and could be evaluated by the board.  When doesn’t matter.  Your questions… our arrival forced you to figure out what part the Bravos had to play, you weren’t expecting us.  And you chose a grunt Private, well two of us if I include Weeble, to provide you intel and that means you are desperate.”

The man stopped him with a hand.  “Not desperate.  Trying to avoid collateral damage to the pawns.”

Fair enough.  There was still something missing and it immediately came to mind as he recognized the hole in the strategic moves.  It made no sense for the man to reveal himself to Weeble and Bootlicker.  Clandestine surveillance wasn’t an overnight operation.  While he couldn’t know of any immediate or critical timeline that would make a breach of operating procedure that necessary it was beyond foolish to seek the minimal information any Bravo could provide.  No one at higher levels would ever think Infantry Privates had valuable intel.  It didn’t add up.  He kept that to himself.  There was another game here.  One he was now determined to figure out.  And finding out things he wasn’t supposed to find out was his specialty.

Sergeant Walters or Horvath were better targets.  Hmmm, except if the play was to target soldiers younger and easier to manipulate and control.  How interesting would it be if a pawn could be seized and converted to play for your side?  Or did different sides even exist?

His only path ahead was cooperation, but that suited him just fine.  There was quite a bit he needed to learn from this man and it didn’t matter which faction he played for.

 

[laguyinhou]

Curiouser and curiouser.  Amazing writing as always. Your writing is amazing. 

Edited April 10, 2023 by laguyinhou