Boot
A Seaportian Chronicle
The dropships thrusters increased in sound as they lowered the beige vessel towards the ground. Inside, Jonathan Fisher fidgeted uncomfortably in his crash seat at the safety belt strapped across his chest too-tightly. Two hours of being strapped in like this had made him really sore and having another two dozen men and women packed inside the troop compartment with him didn’t make it any better.
At least the ride was almost over, and then he would get his feet planted back on the ground. Still, what a trip! Two hours from the middle of Tshar City, over fifteen different stops to pick up guys, mostly guys from other recruitment offices, and now they were finally getting off this blasted bird! With no windows to open to let in a blast of fresh air, only minimal AC and the bay door shut, they were broiling in there!
The Peralie slowed down and Fisher could feel the funny feeling in his stomach start to fade away as the big bird continued slowing and descending, quickly going from one hundred meters or so to ten above the ground. With a rather sudden stop which made Fisher lurch forward in his straps, the dropship finished the descent to the ground gently, touching the cement landing pad with a gentle bump.
With a sigh of relief, Fisher reached up and wiped off his sweaty forehead with some effort, angling his arm through the tight straps. The familiar hum of the Peralie’s engines then died down slowly, leaving the packed compartment with an air of emptiness and silence. Before Fisher could say anything, one of the men in the back spoke.
“Well, we’re here.” There was no response to his comment; no sound except for breathing and faint noises on the outside. Then the bay door cracked open. Hydraulics hummed as they lowered the ramp. Bright sunlight blazed through the cracks, momentarily blinding the recruits.
Fisher’s eyes shut tight in response to the brilliant sunlight. He then heard a strong, authorative voice yelling at them.
“Out, out, out, out, out, out! Outta the ship! Outta the ship!” Fisher unbuckled his safety harness and staggered up and outside amidst the sea of other recruits, desperate to be out in the open.
Still rubbing his eyes, Fisher stumbled outside. He took a few steps to get a good grip on the ground before opening his eyes. Squinting in the blinding sunlight, he took a few seconds to adjust before looking around and taking in his surroundings.
They were on a raised, mobile landing pad. The pad, one of six, was parked against a twenty meter high and ten meter thick concrete wall sheathed in two feet of solid steel on both sides. The wall ran all the way around the rectangular training facility which in turn exactly twelve barracks per two for two rows facing each other, forming a bit of a street. This ‘street’ was on the side of the wall about thirty yards from the landing pads.
Other buildings Fisher could recognize included a mess hall, what looked like a vehicle depot and a medical station. Added to this were numerous other buildings, including two massive structures, one in the center and one against the wall leading away from the barracks. The entire base was built on a concrete field about two kilometers long and one kilometer wide.
Beyond the base to the north wall was a sheer vertical cliff over two hundred meters tall. Looking around, Fisher could see grass surrounding the other walls. At the corner of each wall, fifty meters high, were heavy-duty guard towers with gun turrets poking out of them. He could also see a few missile silos sitting ominously in the center of the compound.
After a few kilometers of grassy plains, abrupt cliffs rose over a hundred meters into the air. Fisher could see from his position that there looked to be a maze of canyons and grassy roads winding through this rocky maze. Taking another look around his new home, Fisher put his hands in his pockets and whistled. Then he heard the screaming of his muscles, the need to move around a bit. Fisher did so, stretching his legs, cracking his neck and knuckles. He planted his feet firm on the concrete, and then swung his top half around one way, then the other. The result was a series of very satisfying cracks. He sighed, smiled and hung his arms limp. Turning around to see what he was supposed to a do, a booming voice from behind him caused him to straighten, stiff as a board in fright. Wheeling around, he saw the most physically fit and well-built man he’d ever seen in his life wearing blue sweats and a white t-shirt, yelling at him.
“Give me twenty five!” Fisher looked around uncertainly. He’d seen enough war movies to think it was pushups this man wanted, but he wasn’t sure. Confusion in his voice, Fisher asked him.
“Eh, twenty five what?” This wasn’t what the man wanted. Grabbing Fisher roughly, he threw him on the ground. Fisher caught himself with his hands as the man yelled at him.
“Pushups! Now do now and fast or it’ll be fifty!” Fisher lay prone for a moment, face turning red and feeling humiliated, and then started pushing out the required amount, counting as he went.
Wary of the mans threat, Fisher double-timed it through the exercise and stood up, panting. Catching his breath, he looked up to see another recruit leaning against the side of the parked dropship. The fit man saw it too, for he quickly marched over and demanded.
“Boot! You think the Peralie’s gonna fall over?” Looking rather confused, he shrugged.
“Nope, I’m just resting.” He said quietly. That also was the wrong answer, for the man turned on him, saying with a streak of wicked humor.
“Well, if you’re so concerned for this aircrafts structural support, you can help more! Press against that thing, all your strength. Don’t let the ship fall down now, I’ll tell you when you contributed enough for the cause of a structurally sound transport. I’ll give the mechanics your regards, now push!” The man, frightened now began pushing himself against the wall with all his might. He quickly began to get red-faced and was soon breathing hard.
The man then turned to face the recruits whose attention he now had.
“I am Drill Master Carson. Apparently you misfits made the mistake of joining the Safan’s, and my job is to convince you to go home. Now listen up, if you don’t you can support rester over there.” He jerked a meaty thumb at the huffing man pushing at the Peralie. Fisher glanced around uncertainly, and then looked back at Carson.
“The rules here are pretty simple. I am God! And Drill Master Porter is assistant God!” Here he pointed to an equally well, built, stocker man with thin black hair. “What we say goes without complaint. No one rests unless you’re dead. We are the law, boss and order. No trooper sits, squats, eats, rests, drinks or walks to another place without us saying so! You will wake up every morning with five minutes to dress and fall in line for roll call. You will have to run when you fall into formation and are permitted two walking steps to get into ranks. If it takes more than two steps you will do twenty five pushups. If it happens again, fifty, seventy five, etc. If you wish to move from any place to another, you will either run or double time it! Am I clear?”
All two dozen voices, Fisher included, yelled out loud and clear.
“Yes Drill Master!” The man scowled, then looked at the man still pushing the peralie. By now he was shaking like he was made of jelly and had sweat pouring out of everywhere. With a dismal nod, he said “At ease.” before saying to everyone.
“Now, follow me. And run!” Without another word, he turned around and began running at a healthy pace. The rest of the assembled recruits also began running. Fisher ran over to the man, now gasping for breath and sweating fiercely. Pulling him to his feet, he helped him get into a decent run at the back of the formation. Concern on his face, Fisher asked.
“Hey, what’s your name?”
“Lars, Carter Lars. You?”
“Fisher, Jonathan Fisher. Now let’s go!”
By the end of day one, Fisher and the rest of the recruits had been given the tour of the complex. Fort Charlton, a nice-sounding name. However from what Fisher had seen, it would be anything but nice. An hour from the nearest town, Fort Charlton was the largest military complex for one hundred miles. Besides serving as a training base, it also housed installations not made for training including a full-fledged communications center, a fleet of battle-ready growler LRVs and rumble tanks ready for anything, and two full squadrons of gunships and VTOL attack craft added to a squadron of I-46 fighter jets.
For training purposes, the base hosted a wide feature of exercises. The plumber’s nightmare, a fiendishly ingenious network of pipes twenty feet high and wide and eighty feet long. Recruits climbed up one end, then across the top, then wormed their way through in a prearranged course designed to thoroughly work every muscle in the body.
On the stretchy run, recruits ran on a treadmill which increased in speed and elevation while attached to a giant rubber tube pulling them towards a wall. The longer you lasted, the fewer push-ups you did when you finally fell off.
Not that it made much of a difference at the end of the orientation day Fisher had done more pushups in that one afternoon than in his entire life. Now it was lights out, 2110 hours. Exhausted, Fisher lay on his bed breathing deeply. He wasn’t exactly out of shape; he’d been a star bush baller during school. But that’d been a while ago and he had about an inch of fat on him. From Carson’s heinous descriptions though, he’d either loose it fast or die. He could sign a quit slip and hitch a Peralie ride out, but he wouldn’t do that. Then what’d he say? “Oh yeah, I was a Safan for two days but I pansied out and ditched.” No, not him, no sir.
No, he was determined to tough it out. He would survive the training, earn his rank and become the most deadly Safan around. A smile crept across his face as Fisher shut his eyes and thought about his glorious military career.
Fisher was dreaming. Since he was in a deep sleep this was no surprise. And as he was in Safan boot camp, what happened next was no surprise either, except for him. Snoring quietly, Fisher was sunk in a deep, peaceful slumber. He was dreaming of many things, most of them unrealistic. Flying creatures chased him while he watched from far away, stars screamed curses at him.
He heard a noise in the distance. A far-off, faint trumpeting sound which was oh-so familiar. Getting closer and louder, he turned his head to find it. It grew in pitch and intensity, soon roaring around him and drowning out everything else. Unable to stand it any longer, he opened his eyes and bolted up.
He slammed his forehead on the bottom of the bunk above him, the blaring sound of the morning bugle filling his ears. With a groan of pain, he reached up and rubbed his now throbbing head. Eyes closed, he opened them again and looked around for his watch. The luminous blue digits glowed 0530 hours. Disgusted, he threw a pillow over his head and tried to ignore the screaming bugle. Another, even more familiar and much more frightening sound awoke him again.
“Move it boot! Get your fat rear outta that bed and start running on the double!” Alarmed, Fisher snapped back awake and looked into the beet red face of Drill master Carson. Nodding dumbly, he fumbled out of bed and pulled on his grey sweats and combat boots. Still half-asleep, he staggered outside into the frigid dawn air. Shivering from the cold, he peered and looked around. The first rays on sunlight were just barely starting to peek over the top of the cliffs. He could see the rest of the cold, gray base stretching out before him, illuminated only by big flood lights. In the distance he could hear the metallic crackle of recruits firing guns, and the distant thunder of super-sonic jet fighters taking off.
Confused, he looked around, trying to figure out what he was supposed to do. He could see the shadowy and tired recruits also stumbling out of their barracks, herded by the drill masters. Breathing into his hands and rubbing them together, he tried to warm himself up. He suddenly became aware of a burning thirst, and headed over to Drill Master Carson and sleepily asked if there was a tap around.
He was quickly fully woken up by the bucket of icy cold water smashing into his face. He was immediately alert and jumped in alarm; he started backing off, sputtering, Carson yelling in his face.
“There, you need some more? Or are you filled up? Now fall into formation on the double!” Fisher, drenched in freezing water made even colder by the chilly dawn air, did as told. Remembering his place in rank, Fisher and the others fell into rank. Taking five steps, Fisher stood to attention, teeth chattering.
“Fisher! Hit the ground and give me twenty five!” Looking around bewildered as Carson called off several other names, Fisher remembered then the two-step into rank law. With a sigh, he hit the ground and began dolling out the punishment. As he had just being harshly awoken, he took a while to do this, but he did do it and stood up panting just in time to see Carson turn around and order them to run.
“This will separate the men from the boys.” He called over his shoulder. Fisher stood there in a state of depression for a moment, and then started running after them. Soon all the recruits were going at a quick jog. Running through the parade ground and around the vehicle depot, they headed in a beeline for the main gates. The monster gates, two meters of solid sanamantium, were already opened for them and they ran through them and onto the wet, dew soaked grass.
Fisher heard the sound of an engine, and turned in time to see a pair of headlights barreling down on him. The headlights turned to the side though, passing ten feet away from him at a slow speed. A growler passed, loaded with three Safans, apparently just back from patrol. They had their helmets in their hands. They looked at the passing recruits with mixed looks of pity and amusement, remembering their own training and feeling sorry for the boots. The vehicle passed, driving into the base through the open gates.
Fisher continued running, the only sounds were that of heavy breathing and the sound of multiple boots crunching down on the dewy grass.
They has run a mile and Fisher was feeling quite tired, he was sweating and breathing heavily now. The fresh air of the outside was a nice change from the staler air of the city, but he was still running low on energy. But he knew his second wind would be coming soon so he persevered on.
They had run for a good half hour now, almost three miles. They were in the canyons now, the sheer near-vertical cliff faces loomed over them on every side. Ahead of them the one hundred meter wide grass road snaked on and on. He was exhausted now. His second wind had come and gone. His tongue hanging out like a dog, he was more stumbling then running. But he kept up; he was not going to fail. Heart pounding, gasping for air, he expected the call to halt and rest to be soon like back in basic training.
A mile later, Fisher was realizing that it wasn’t stopping soon. He was near the back now, most of the recruits had fallen a good ten meters behind the drill masters who were still going like engines, legs moving like well-oiled pistons, propelling the forward with no sign of breaking down. Then, to Fisher’s right, a recruit fell out of formation, slowed down, teetered and fell in a heap, chest heaving violently and retching out onto the grass.
Fisher moved towards him to help only to be fiercely reprimanded by Carson.
“Leave him.” Fisher hesitated for a moment, and then recognized the absolute power in Caron’s voice. Turning around with the others, he left the poor man to retch away on his side.
After six miles of running, Fisher was barely going faster than a walk. Gasping like a fish out of water, he was moving completely automatically. His body had taken over, moving like a machine and Fisher had transported to a corner in the back of his mind, barely aware, just going along and waiting for the torturous ordeal to end. Finally, spittle covering his mouth, he heard the blessed words.
“Halt troop!” Fisher fell to the ground in relief, exhaustion taking over. A mistake. Carson was on him immediately. “Did I say rest boot? No, we never rest here unless I order it! You want to lay down so much? Give me forty here and now!” Body screaming in protest, Fisher dumbly began the grueling punishment. Hoisting his quivering form in the air, he barely managed to lower himself without dropping. He began the second one, every muscle working at the maximum to push himself up, then lower himself down. By pushup three, a few recruits managed to weakly laugh at his misfortune. Carson turned on them like a demon. “Really funny huh? Well don’t let me keep you from such joy, give me fifty! All of yah!” By the time they’d stopped running, five others had dropped in their tracks from exhaustion, all left there.
The laughter turned to moans as they too hit the dirt and began working on pushups. To tired to count them off, they silently toiled for ten minutes as they attempted the seemingly impossible task. Fisher managed to finish, just barely. On screaming muscles he forced himself to his feet, and feeling very sick, looked Carson, eyes dull and skin pale.
“Sir, permission to throw up and lean against cliff?” He managed to say weakly. Carson nodded dismally and Fisher proceeded. He puked out what was in his stomach, not much, and then began dry heaves. A long string of yellow bile spilled out of his mouth, completely empty of contents. Finally, he stopped, wiped his mouth and collapsed against the cliff wall, barely staying on his feet.
The other men finished and many of them lost their meager lunch also. Carson stood impassively, waiting for the lurching to finish.
“So, anyone feel like quitting yet?” Four hands weakly rose without a sound. Carson nodded, and then tapped in a command on a datapad. Over the cliffs, a peralie flew in and landed beside them, washing the boots in warm exhaust. The hatch popped open and showed a bunch of normal army troopers calling out to them, drinks in hand.
“Come-on guys, you gave it your best shot. You don’t have to take this crap. The normal army is a lot better, and you’ll get more humane treatment.” Five men staggered over to the dropship and piled in onto the cushioned crash seats. They were tossed bottles of water and D-rations. They immediately began wolfing down, refilling their empty stomachs. Fisher had almost a full mind to go with them. He took a step forward, and then stopped. His heart fell in anguish. He wanted to go! To leave this miserable boot and it’s demons of instructors. But he couldn’t, his cursed pride would not allow it.
A sigh overtook him, he mentally fought himself to go or stay. Then the troopers looked on them sadly and shrugged. One last one called out to them. “You can head to us anytime guys, anytime.” Then the bay door closed, the peralie rumbled and began to liftoff, taking Fisher’s hope with it. Rising higher and high above the cliffs, it accelerated and vanished from sight.
Fisher turned to Carson and the remaining boots. They were all he had left now.
Post Merged: November 17, 2010, 12:30:08 PM
After twenty minutes of assorted calisthenics, the boots were surprised by the site of two transport LRVs complete with troop cages roaring around the corner and rolling to a stop in front of them. They stood there for a moment, stunned at the unexpected site before Carson’s roaring voice brought them back to reality.
“Whoever ain’t on in ten seconds walks!” That was all the motivation Fisher needed. Shoving boots out of the way, he clambered onto the nearest growler and pulled himself into a seat, breathing hard. The drill master, monster that he was, he been pushing them through rather vigorous other exercises, granted after a five minute break for water. More pushups jumping jacks, squats, knee-bends, the works. Thoroughly starving and ready to sleep forever, he slumped onto the metal bench, soaking in the early morning warmth gathered on the growler’s metal seats. The sun was out now, though it did not yet peek over the towering cliffs all around him. Inside the canyons it was still a labyrinth of cold not yelling willing to relinquish its icy grip.
As the other recruits scrambled into the beastly vehicles, Fisher wiped the glistening sweat of his head. He would need a shower soon; he was already drenched in it, even a blast with that hose would be nice.
The rest of the boots finished getting on, not at all doubting Carson threat of walking back. All on in less than ten seconds, Carson himself pulled himself up and sat down in the passenger seat of Fisher’s vehicle and grunted the order to drive. The engines came to life, sending vibrations throughout the cage where Fisher and ten other men sat. With a jolt, the LRV lurched forward and began to move increasing speed to sixty miles an hour. After several hours of exercises in sweats, Fisher was burning hot and the blast of wind was an absolute gift from heaven.
Quickly cooling off the hot, sticky sweat which drenched him, he smiled for the first time that day. Muscles relaxing and the wonderful feeling of blood pumping through his body after the vigorous workout, he relaxed the best he could against the metal cage. A sudden jolt shot though the metal which slammed into him making him sit up as the cage slammed into his head. Nursing his head, he decided that rest could wait for later.
In about ten minutes of winding through the canyons and crossing several bridges which overlooked even deeper and more perilous gulches and splits in the Earth, the pair of growlers finally arrived back at Fort Charlton. Rolling in through the gates, they turned right, drove straight for always then stopped outside a small, insignificant looking building. Carson hopped out of from shotgun and motioned the boots to follow. The LRVs bounced up as over one thousand pounds of human departed and fell into formation quickly.
This time Fisher managed to get into rank in just two steps, avoiding the fate five others suffered, doing fifty pushups each. Finally they too joined the formation, panting heavily. Carson stood for a moment, hands on his hips before calling out in his loud, authorative and voice.
“Any of your pukes ever shot weapon before?” Immediately Fisher’s face brightened as his hand shot up and he called out.
“Yes sir!” Ten or eleven others recruits hands came up also as they called out they had fired a gun before.
“Well good! The rest of you, this’ll be your lucky day! Now follow me.” He spun around and headed for the small building. Stopping by a two foot thick steel door, he typed in a ten digit code and waited as the door slowly opened. Stepping inside, he motioned for the boots to follow. Fisher moved forward, stepping inside the building. In front of him was a door frame and what looked like a secretary’s desk. No one was seated there though; apparently Carson had taken over the entire place for training.
Stepping through the door frame after Carson, Fisher stopped mouth wide open. Apparently he was in the munitions dump. The walls were covered with rifles, handguns, shotguns, machine guns, even a few rocket launchers. Fisher began quivering with excitement. This is what he signed up for! The opportunity to use all these military-issue guns! Raising a hand a victory pump, he silently blessed whatever God may have granted him this. Looking back at the Drill master, he stood still and waited for orders or something. He didn’t have to wait for very long.
“Now boots, listen up! Your firearm is your life. You are going to learn everything that you can and more about your firearms. You will need to know how it works, why it works, how to fix it, how to assemble it and disassemble it blindfolded among other things. Now don’t start whining, you’re all probably thinking this is stupid, just teach us to shoot the daje thing right?” A few murmurs of agreement rose from the boots. Carson kept going. “Well, in the middle of the battlefield if your gun ain’t working right, you’re gonna want to know what’s wrong with it and fix it before the Cortalans fix you! Now look at what I have here.”
Reaching up on the weapon-laden wall, he retrieved the iconic ARG-16 Assault Rifle. Holding it in his hands, he introduced the elegant death-machine
“This is the ARG-16 assault rifle, workhorse of the Seaportian Armed Forces. Fires twelve rounds a second, it carries a sixty bullet clip. His weapon has an effective range of five hundred and sixty yards and fires ten millimeter tungsten rounds, it can fire steel-jacketed armour penetrating rounds, the ideal bullet for everything, and shredder rounds which splinter on impact, great for mowing down un-armoured troopers like Cortalan Harkoni’s. It comes with a digital ammunition counter which will tell you how many rounds you have left, and an integrated TVD link, this will link up with your helmet and paint a firing reticule on your visor which will aim wherever your gun’s muzzle is pointed.” Putting the assault rifle down, he picked up a TR9 automatic handgun from a rack.
“The TR9 is your standard-issue sidearm; it fires 12.7 millimeter semi-armour piercing high explosive rounds from a twelve-shot clip. You will be issued one of each of these weapons to carry, clean, maintain and keep with you at all times at all costs. You weapons are to never be beyond arms reach from you, if we get attacked and your rifles in the barracks halfway across camp, it’s not going to do you much good is it!” There was a murmur of “No sirs” through the boots. Looking up at them as if he was just noticing them for the first time, Carson asked.
“How many of you have ever fired a weapon?” A few men, Fisher included, stuck their hands up in the air, most though didn’t.
Fisher and a few other gun-users snickered at the others whose faces turned red and they sunk down, looking embarrassed. Carson killed the humor.
“Won’t be so funny when they’re behind you in a firefight!” That killed the humor for sure and the laughter died down. “Now line up and grab a rifle and a sidearm. Remember, keep it with you at all times, you’ll never know when you might need it.” Fisher obeyed and quickly fell into a growing line to grab his weapons. As he took one, he suddenly has a new sense of power as he clutched the elegant metal device in his hands. The power flowed through him, enticing him. It was beautiful, deadly. Weapon in hand, he stepped outside the armory, ready to face the world.
Or so he thought.
Five weeks later
After three weeks of boot camp, it was getting better and better. His muscles were stronger, what had become twelve mile dawn runs were getting easier and easier, he was barely out of breath. Four more men had dropped out but no one else was listening to the marines who dropped by after every run to try and get them to pansy out. More than likely they trainees would unload their guns full of stun rounds at the marines and laugh when they screamed and convulsed as the rubber training rounds bruised and numbed them. It wasn’t too long before the troopers quit showing up and offering them a way out.
Pushups and other such exercises were now a fact of life, no one really cared about them anymore except for the fact they wasted time and were boring.
Carson and the other Drill Masters kept juicing up the training though, adding more loops and quirks to make it harder for the trainees. A week ago they’d introduced a new game for their enjoyment and for the boots misery. Called ‘jab-jab,’ it was quite simple. If a drill master said jab, all boots around him would stop whatever they were doing and punch their left shoulder. If he said jab-jab they would punch their left shoulder, then their right. They would keep it up until the drill master said recover, if you mixed up you got pushups.
It sounded simple enough when Fisher first heard it, but it soon became a constant pestilence. For soon it was almost impossible to follow what the drill masters said, often it would play out like such.
Fisher would be cleaning his rifle, a task he knew by heart now, when the drill master would call out loud and clear.
“Jab! Jab, jab, jab, jab recover jab, jab, recover jab!” Inevitably, no one could keep up, got confused and had to do however many pushups that the drill master had in mind for their failures. In the end, no matter how hard they tried, there was just no appeasing the merciless men. Pushups were handed out for no reason at all.
The food was definitely interesting. Mess was always a fascinating time of day, often very stressful for the trainees. To help in both the training process and to help build tolerance for all food, the staff had worked out a rather elaborate method.
At the front of the mess hall was a large wheel, nicknamed ‘the wheel of chow.’ On it there were four selections, spaced un-evenly all over the wheel. Lots would be cast and the winner, lucky or unlucky depending on the wheels outcome, would spin the wheel as fast as he could. The wheel would spin for a while and then eventually stop at either GOOD, RATIONS, EMERGENCY, or HUNT. If it landed on GOOD, the boots were given very good food, delicious and very filling and the spinner was praised. If the wheel landed on RATIONS, they would be given field ration food, canned and vacuum sealed substances which were nourishing, but were somewhat lacking in flavor. In this case the spinner was usually ignored. If it landed on EMERGENCY, they were served emergency rations, small tasteless capsules of super-compacted nutrients which while filling, turned into a bland sludge inside the mouth, and the winner was often given dirty looks are shoves.
If it landed on HUNTED however, well, the spinner was often on the run for most of the day. For if it landed on HUNTED, the boots were packed up into a dropship, given some basic equipment, and had to get their own food, whether through trapping small animals or foraging for edible greenery. So all-in-all mess was quite an interesting time of day. If you messed up you were most wanted, you got some good stuff and you were praised, at least until the next meal.
Fisher was in a saw-dust pit, pumping more pushups. These were his last exercises before a few minutes of free time, time he considered precious. He finished up, pushing himself up to his feet with a grunt. The last hour and a half has been assorted calisthenics and his body showed it. Red-faced and blood pumping, he was coated in a glistening layer of sweat, sweat he looked forward to washing off of himself in a few minutes. Cracking his knuckles, he hopped up out of the pit and towards his friend Lars, more commonly known as Patch for when he’d fallen out of a rapidly moving vehicle and hit the ground, breaking his arm, several ribs and cracking his jaw. When he’d got out of the hospital, he’d been covered in black and blue blotches; hence the nickname Patches which soon was shortened to Patch.
Patch had just finished another bout of weapons training, shooting at moving targets from alternating ranges. He was just cleaning his handgun; a small rod with a small, conical brush at the end was in his hand probing in and out of the barrel to insure it was in perfect condition. The magazine lay on his lap, the slide, spring and action were disassembled and laying on a neat little cloth right beside him.
That was definitely one perk of being in the Safan training, you got to carry your guns wherever you went. Well, you had to carry them, but Fisher thought of it as a privilege and not a task. He liked the comforting weight of the pistol at his waist the reassuring pull of the rifle slung across his shoulder.
Plopping down on the metal bench beside Path, he breathed a sigh of relief.
“Man, good to have that all over with. You heading to town tonight?” Patch gave him a sly grin, looking at him while he continued to clean.
“Daje yeah, wouldn’t miss free night for a week of good on the wheel of chow!” Free night was the one night of the week they were given leave to head over to the town, usually to the bar and drink themselves out, get together with the local girls, easy for well-built men in the infamous Safan uniform, and get into fights with the army, air force and marines. All-in-all they would usually get back to base in time for an hours sleep before waking up to face the morning regime. It was completely worth it though.
Still, Fisher asked.
“You sure you’re going this time? Don’t you remember what happened the last week?” He still remembered all-too clearly when Patch had bitten off more than he could chew, getting into a fistfight with three marines. Well, it was a fist fight until someone stuck a knife just under his ribs. He’d managed to knock one out and give another a mouth full of broken teeth before he went down like a sack of rocks. It took three days in the hospital to recover, and the instructors made sure to make the week a living hell for him.
Patch grinned sheepishly and rubbed his face with his right hand.
“Yeah, well they were asking for it. ‘Sides, I’m bringing a clip of training rounds to pop ‘em with if they try any trouble again.” He picked the clip up off his lap and shook to for emphasis. Fisher rolled his eyes and snorted.
“Ah, so this way you can get drunk, into a fight, and get nailed by the MPs for assault with a lethal weapon!” Patch looked at him defensively.
“It ain’t lethal when it’s training rounds!” He shot back.
“At five feet they sure are, remember Darson? Took a training round to his shoulder at five feet a week ago, tore through his skin and muscle and cracked his shoulder? Besides, you started the trouble in bar back in the first place, and what the daje are you going to hit after five shots of fire ale?” He shrugged his shoulders before replying.
“I’ll just get real close, drop them like flies.” Fisher was all-to ready to point out his plans flaw.
“Ah, so that way you will be able to get incredibly tanked, get into a fight at close range against a bunch of guys with shivs?”
Patch glared at him as if he was upset that his plan was ruined, which he probably was.
“This is why you don’t get invited to the parties, your so daje obsessed with reality!” Fisher smirked at this.
“Parties? What parties’ man? The only party we’ve ever had here was when Jaison sent all the staff off packing in a hurry with that bogus message about Cortalan terrorists and then locked the base up!” Patch grinned as he remembered that care-free day, and the week of horrible retribution that followed it. He finished cleaning the TR9; then he put the brush and oil away into the small cleaning kit. He began the fine job of resembling the gun. His oil-slicked fingers moved like liquid, fluidly and precisely re-arranging the pistol’s parts into their correct place. Within a minute the weapons parts were all inside, the chrome surface shone brilliantly, and the clip slid into place with a satisfying click.
Fisher held out his hand in a gesture Patch recognized well. Expertly flipping the pistol around in his hands, he handed it butt-first to Fisher who curiously picked it up, examining it with fascinated eyes. Carefully going over it, scanning the spotless surface, he let out a low whistle of approval before handing it back.
“You did good man, real nice job. I swear, I think you’re the best one outta all of us in the field of assembling weapons. Real nice.” He handed it back to Patch, careful to make sure the safety was on. Patch grinned again, pride obvious in his face.
“Yeah, I just have a knack for putting stuff together. I was even good before this; I put my engine back together once.” Fisher considered this for a moment, and then said with teasing eyes.
“You know, Carson may need someone to volunteer for motor pool duty soon, I hear his personal vehicle is out of commission. Maybe you would like to show your loyalty to him.” Patch’s look went from pride to denial. Raising his voice, he half-yelled.
“Carson can fix his own daje car!” He must have said it too loud, for a second later a familiar, booming voice made him jump to his feet.
“Turn around, both of you!” Fisher also shot to his feet and snapped around to gaze into the never-happy face of Drill Master Carson. Everyone else turned their heads and once saw they weren’t in trouble, went about their duties. This kind of thing was common and routine. Patch was turning a bit pale now; Carson was not what one would call forgiving. Fixing his deadly stare on Patch, Carson barked out a question.
“You! Are you smart?” Patch didn’t have time to think and said only what came to mind.
“Yeah, I’d consider myself pretty bright.” Carson’s face twisted into a cold, joyful smile. Fisher and Patch’s heart rates both shot up, that smile was never good.
“Well then, demonstrate your intelligence. How long is a piece of string?”
Patch’s face went blank as his mind franticly raced. Seeing Carson’s patience swiftly dwindle, he stammered out.
“I-I don’t know sir.” Carson looked at him with disgust, wrong answer.
“Oh, so you’re a dummy huh? A lying dummy; give me a hundred, double time!” With a slight groan of despair, Patch’s face fell with his body as he hit the ground and began quickly pumping himself up and down, counting in grunts. Fisher couldn’t help but snicker at his friend’s misfortune, another mistake. Carson’s face turned on him like an auto-turret, and he quickly snapped out a question.
“How long’s a piece of string?” Fisher’s mouth moved as he thought, speaking coolly.
“Twice as long as half of it.” Carson sized him up and crossed his arms and equal disgust.
“Oh, a wise guy hey? Give me two hundred double timed!” Fisher’s face also fell with his spirit as he too hit the ground and began doling out pushups. As he did, he swore he could hear Patch quietly laughing.
Post Merged: November 17, 2010, 12:30:51 PM
One week later
Fisher grunted as the BSR round slapped by his head, hitting the tree. He ducked and rolled behind a bush and popped back up, rifle ready. He scanned the area, his trained senses detecting any anomaly in the seemingly serene forest. Nothing moved; nothing out of the ordinary. Bush jumpers chattered rapidly and scurried into their barrows; tree-hopper birds leapt from their tree branches and flew off in search of prey. No sign of his un-seen assailant, not yet at least. Then came the familiar crack of an ARG and another round whistled by his ear.
This time Fisher managed to pinpoint the source, and after making a zigzagging run through the trees, wheeled around and returned fire. The thunderous roar of the weapon shook his hand and made his armor rattle, but he held onto it, firing three short bursts at his attacker. He got down behind a tree and waited for a reply. Nothing for a while, but then came a groan followed by a voice.
“Hit!” Fisher grinned under his visor and snuck forward to the downed victim. Moving semi-silently crouched down low, he crunched over a bed of dead leaves, a scout’s nightmare, and came to a stop by a rock and a prone figure with a big red splotch dominating his chest, standing out against the grey armor. Fisher felt a bundle of pride well up inside of him, tightening his chest up inside of him.
From the voice fisher could tell he who he had it, Mayson, one of the lead guys in B spear. He was half in a fetal position, clutching where the BSR round had hit him smack-dab in the middle of the chest. If it had been a real bullet he would have most likely been torn in half, but as it was just a BSR, he would be almost completely immobile for a few hours.
BSR rounds were a chemical compound inside a plastic shell casing. When it was ten centimeters from a surface a proximity fuse would dissolve and cover the target in the chemical compound which was a heavy deadener, completely numbing the body part hit. It also triggered the training armor, and depending where hit, the armour would freeze, lock up as to simulate a real wound. If a leg was hit the leg would freeze and etc. Though is cases like this chest shot or a headshot, the armor would register the fatal blow and lock up the whole armor.
As Fisher scavenged extra clips and such from the fallen man, he heard him mumble through his helmet.
“Humph, lucky. Hope Marks gets you good.” Fisher ignored him, finished harvesting him for valuables, and set out again.
It was all part of an elaborate training exercise. The troopers of A Spear were faced off against the troopers of B Spear. In order to win, Fisher and the rest of A spear would have to capture the base which had been evacuated for the training exercise. Dropped off twenty miles from the base in the forest, they’d split off into fireteams go different ways and then rendezvous back at the massive cliff overlooking the base.
Fisher’s unit had run into trouble fifteen miles from the rendezvous point, they’d gotten ambushed by a deep patrol from B and in the fight half of Fishers fireteam was cut down, and when escaping they’d hit a landmine which decimated the rest of them.
Now Fisher was heading to the RZ alone, hoping to reach the area by nightfall if he stuck to the trees and moved quietly and slowly. Shouldering his rifle, he stepped up his pace, heading for the still-distant cliffs.
By the time the sun had receded beyond the horizon, Fisher was where he was supposed to be. He’d contacted his leader, Spearhead Chorci, and was sure this was the place he was supposed to be. He was quite visible as he moved against the mountainside, one thousand and some feet above the distant base below.
Looking down, he could see tiny flickers of light moving to and forth, specs of vehicles so far below. Gulping, heart pounding in his chest, he slowly edged his way along the all-too narrow ledge jutting out from the hard rock which pressed against his back.
Trying not to think of the easy imaginable fact that if he dropped he would fall almost a thousand feet and be reduced to processed meat inside his armor, he oh-so carefully pulled himself along the rock face, practically glued to the sheer cliff towering above him, trying to desperately ignore the complete, almost tempting fall below him.
After what seemed like an eternity, he finally reached the end of the ledge and onto a ten foot flat area. He fell flat on his stomach; hear beating like a drum and blood pumping through his body. Pulling himself backwards with his hands, he propped himself up against the cliff and took a quick breather to relax. Pulling his scratched plastered helmet off his head, he let the cool air blow against his shining face, glistening and slick with sweat.
That time out of the stuffy helmet was very refreshing, letting the chilly night air cool off his burning head. Letting out a satisfied sigh of relief, he relaxed against the rock for a moment, feeling the cool breeze blow through his hair.
Post Merged: November 17, 2010, 12:33:10 PM
I now need a person to reply so I can post the rest, otherwise it all merges into a post that is too large.
