2/19th Special Weapons Group

Restricted Area, Alfenwehr West Germany

Late Winter- January, 1986

Day 15 of Repairs

Day 7 of the Second Incident

Afternoon, 1400 Zulu

Bomber was standing next to me, both of us carrying M-16's we'd pulled out of the armory of the War Fighter Tunnels, dressed in uniforms pulled from stocks. We looked good, but we were both exhausted, chewing on Vicoden like candy, and still in pain. My pinky was taped to my ring finger, Nancy was pretty sure they were going to have to pin the bone, making it so both palms had metal in them.

Melkin and Lancer were opening the door. Lancer had insisted on being part of the door team, quoting the "most expendable" rule that guided our lives. He made constant jokes about being blind, but twice I'd walked into the bathroom and found him sitting in a stall crying softly.

One of the times Dobbs had been sitting with him, holding his hand.

I'd kept silent about that.

Dobbs was behind us, an eyepatch from the medical clinic over the empty socket, her face speckled with scabs. I'd seen her chest too, it was the same way, along with her left shoulder. Nancy had put in a lot of stitches, and told me privately that Dobbs had won the shrapnel game, with 128 separate holes. Bomber had come in second, his legs torn up with 78 little holes in them. Stokes was third, most of it in that big ass of hers. Sherry had beaten everyone at stitches or staples, clocking in at almost 200 of them. Dobbs had come in a close second with 145. None of the rest of us were even close.

Sherry had taken what he called "the most painful shit of his life" yesterday, and I'd stood over Nagle while she'd used a metal rod to stir through it, looking at. I have no clear what she was looking for, since it was shit, but hey, she knew shit I didn't. His color was good, he could wiggle his fingers and toes, his drainage tubes were clear of infection, his breathing was good, hit heartrate and pulse strong. He was doped up on morphine all the time, but he was in good spirits.

I still had a chest tube in, the LT still had a drainage tube in his skull and was often light sensitive or suffered from migraines. But he refused to rest during them, working even while his hands shook.

Twice Nagle sedated him, four times he'd suffered seizures, and when he slept he often mumbled about Vietnam, and often became dazed and returned to Vietnam, mumbling to himself or outright talking to people who weren't there or that he was mistaking us for.

He was dying in front of us.

And there wasn't a goddamn thing we could do about it.

Nagle had spent all her time sleeping, reading a manual, or following the manuals instructions working on us. Lanks and Stokes had gotten a lot of practice too, mainly working on Nagle. They'd had to put a chest tube in her at one point, which apparently went in differently on a woman. She had to sleep sitting up, pneumonia having set in. She told me that if a female had large breasts, and injured her ribs, it put her at risk of pneumonia and bronchitis. The other females bitched, but she pretty laid it down that they had sleep sitting up, the LT backed her up, and they got used to it.

Aine had been her annoying self. Exploring the complex, shadowing me, following Stokes or Nagle around like a puppy, and in general, being a weirdo. We knew she slept, but never actually caught her doing it.

We'd marched the Major to the barracks entrance, cracked open the vault door, and marched him outside at gunpoint. He had been only in BDU's, no cold weather gear, and he had stood there, in the dark and cold, and pleaded with us not to leave him out there to freeze to death.

We tossed him a .45 with a single bullet in the chamber and shut the door on him.

Me? I slept. A lot. And tried to find a nice quiet place with dim lights to grope Nagle, but she was usually too busy. I quit after about the third time when I found Aine waiting in the back of a supply area, or in the rear shower.

Dobbs offered to beat the hell out of her, but I waved it off.

Which brought us back to why we were standing in front of the lower access point, all armed (except for Lancer), and all on edge.

Someone had started trying codes about a half hour before, but the LT had ordered Mellins to override them, keeping the door shut, until we got down there, eventually locking out the panel. We'd geared up, Dobbs insisting on coming along as soon as she heard Lancer had insisted on going, and headed down to the door that we'd locked out.

The far access.

Lancer waved Melkin back, the other man dropping into the small alcove that would give him a little cover, and when Melkin whispered 'clear' Lancer flashed us a grin under the bandages that covered his eyes, and pushed on the door. He put his shoulder into it, the door slowly opening, sunlight on snow pouring into the tunnel with us.

"DON'T MOVE!" Came from both us and from outside.

"TWO NINETEENTH SPECIAL WEAPONS!" From us.

"DELTA ONE OH EIGHTH RANGERS!" From outside. "WE'RE HERE TO GET YOU OUT!"

"Stand down." Came from outside.

"Send one forward." I shouted. Lancer had moved to his right, away from the door, and pressed against the wall.

"Strickland, go forward." Someone ordered.

Outside the pad in front of the door had been cleared of snow, but I could see a massive amount of snow on the ground. Fifteen to twenty feet. They must have worked for hours to clear the pad. I couldn't see the Rangers, but one stood up, out of the snow, dressed in extreme cold weather gear, and moved forward. He had his rifle raised over his head with both hands.

"Are you going to ask them any questions?" Melkins whispered.

"Like what? Who won the Superbowl?" Lancer whispered back.

"I'm Staff Sergeant Strickland, 108th MI, Delta Company." He called out.

"Yeah? What's your post nickname?" I called out.

"Top of the Rock." He answered. "Hey, weren't you blind last time?"

"I recovered." I called back. "Go ahead, come on in, one at a time."

Eleven more shapes resolved themselves, standing up out of the snow and brushing themselves off. Two were carrying M-60's, but all of them kept their weapons pointed away from everyone. One of them turned and waved, four more people coming out of the snow.

"We brought medical. The message said you had badly wounded." The one who ordered Strickland forward.

Strickland had reached us and Lancer held out his hands. "Your weapons." He said.

Strickland looked back. "They want us to turn over our weapons."

"Unless you want to stay out in the fucking snow, you turn in your weapons and be subjected to a search." I called out. "Otherwise you can stay out there, or we'll kill you where you stand."

We couldn't tell his expression under the cold weather mask, but I could tell by their body language that they weren't happy.

"Off with the mask and goggles." I told Strickland, leveling the M-16 at him. "Now."

He gave a sigh, then handed Lancer his rifle before he pulled off his helmet, revealing he was wearing an extreme cold weather mask and cap. He pulled the mask and goggles off his head. He was a redhead, his hair barely in regs.

"Go stand over by Dobbs." I ordered, pointing at where Dobbs was. "Stay at least three meters away. Dobbs, if he gets to close, shoot to kill."

"Yes, Corporal." Dobbs said, staring at Strickland with a flat eye.

Strickland nodded, moving slowly to where Dobbs was pointing.

"Take off the cold weather gear, leave your LBE and Kevlar vest behind, with your helmet." Dobbs ordered.

"No fucking..." Strickland started to say.

Dobbs raised her rifle, aiming it right at Strickland's face. "Do I look like I'm fucking around?" She grated. The scabs all over the side of her face, the bruising, and the black eyepatch all gave her an evil look that Strickland decided not to fuck with.

Strickland glanced at her the fire selector and the trigger of her weapon, able to see that it was on Semi, the whitening of her knuckle showing she had pressure on the trigger. He gulped, and undid his LBE.

We let them in one at a time. Making them give Lancer their weapons, where he stacked them in the little cone we'd all been taught, resting each weapon's forward sight on each other; then moving to where Dobbs watched them strip off their cold weather gear; then moving ten paces down the tunnel where my cousin James and Mellins had them covered from the firing spots. Mellins yelled twice for them to keep at least a single arm interval from one another.

Four of them were carrying medical bags, told us stretchers had been left on top of the lower egress shack, but we made them follow the same rules.

We weren't getting ganked again.

Once they were all down to their winter BDU's and boots, we made them walk in front of us all the way to the control panel. The Captain in charge of the Rangers told them to all comply, to take it easy.

"How did you get up here?" I asked the captain.

"Snowplow and two Bradleys." He answered.

I just grunted.

When we got to the command center the LT was standing in the middle of the room at parade rest, and I saw the Rangers react to that sheer presence that rolled off of LT James.

"While I realize you are expecting an apology for the treatment you have received at the hands of my subordinates," The LT states, that flowing formal cadence hiding the slur and Brooklyn accent I'd heard from him several times. "You will not be receiving one." His smile was a small cold thing that didn't touch his eyes. "Two nineteenth Special Weapons has learned not to trust appearances or apparent credentials, as well in harsh lessons of survival."

His smile showed a little teeth, which made the smile worse somehow. "Specialist Nagle, you will oversee the supposed medical personnel as they examine your patients. Those of you who are medical personnel please raise your hands."

Six hands came up, and Nagle motioned them over to herself. "One weird move, and I'll kill you." She threatened, showing them the .45 she'd taken to carrying by putting her fingers on the butt.

"The rest of you will stand over there, and I will personally verify your credentials." The LT stated. He glanced at me. "Corporal Stillwater, at the slightest hostile move, at any signal from me, you will immediately execute that man."

"Roger that, sir." I said, setting the rifle on the console and slowly drawing my knife before moving over to stand next to the LT.

"Let us begin, gentlemen." The LT stated. "You will hold your wallets out toward me with your left hands, you will withdraw your dogtags from inside your uniform and hold the chain with your right fist, letting the dogtags hang from beneath. Any deviation will be punished."

I grinned.

"Sir, are you going to let him get away with this?" One of the men asked, looking at one of the Rangers who had Captain rank on his lapels.

"Just relax, Lieutenant, they're just being prudent if our briefing was accurate." The Captain said. "Right, James?" He grinned.

"Absolutely, Captain Parker." The LT answered.

The LT checked the Captain's ID first, and the Captain moved over by me.

"You look better than last month." The Captain said quietly.

"Feel like hell." I told him. "Nagle doesn't like it that I'm on my feet." I scratched my chest. "Stupid chest tube."

"Get that bad?" He asked me as Strickland moved over to us.

"There's seventeen of us alive." I told the Captain.

"Out of how many this time? Twenty?" The Captain asked. "Not bad."

"Forty-eight." I told him.

"Fucking Hell." Strickland said.

"Yeah. Welcome to Hell." I told him.

"At least you're rescued." Strickland offered.

"Yeah. You saved us, Congrats." I answered.

He didn't get the sarcasm.

Nuremburg Army Medical Center

Nuremburg Army Post

West Germany

February 1986

I sat in the smoking section, my arm in a sling. I had a new drainage tube to replace the one they'd taken out two days ago from my chest, this one sunk into the meat of my shoulder. Surgery had removed a few pieces of steel, some bone chips, and fixed where I'd torn it up inside. It ached constantly, but I ignored it and savored the Marlboro from the pack my brother had smuggled me.

He'd visited me twice. He was attached to some unit out of the States, a National Guard unit, and their CO thought he was the greatest thing in the world. Each time he snuck me milkshakes and a pack a cigarettes. He'd flipped through my charts, scanning them. It was easy to look at him and dismiss him as a bruiser without a brain, not realize that he was a genius, and that he probably understood every fucking thing on the charts. Him telling me that I'd be OK carried more weight than the doctors, as weird as that was. Yesterday he'd brought me something special.

Innie.

SOG had let her go, her CO arranging for a jet to take her to visit her twin brother. She was valuable, important in her field. Already on the fast track to promotion, she'd be Captain inside of a year. She'd told me what she could, it wasn't much, but I could tell she loved her work.

She didn't ask me about 2/19th.

It might seem weird, but she demanded to see every scar, questioned the doctors about every wound, and stayed in my room till I went to sleep. She'd brought me a stuffed pink bunny, and I went to sleep with it in my arms.

She let me be something besides a machine, and with her holding my hand, that singing emptiness faded into warmth. Not like when Aine touched me, not a burning, slick, sick feeling warmth, but gentle caring warmth that let me cry for Cass.

Something had come up, and she'd left just after breakfast, telling me she'd see me later.

The bunny was sitting inside the sling that held my right arm tight to my body.

Sherry was out of ICU, and the doctor had come in to see Nagle and tell her she'd done a pretty good job for no training. When she came to me and Bomber's room to have dinner with us she was packing another manual, with "PROPERTY OF NAMC" stamped on it. She'd pretty much grunted at us, reading the manual.

Lancer, on the other hand, had pretty much finished his military career. They were going to hold him over till the eye socket wasn't so raw, and his other eye healed up, so they could give him a prosthetic eye, but he was blind. He'd be getting 100% disability, but I imagined that was a small comfort for the loss of his vision and his career. Like me, he was career Army, planned on staying the whole twenty years.

We'd both figured we'd die in uniform, and now, once his paperwork was finished, he'd be going home. In his words: "To smell a dog's ass for the rest of his life."

Aine had been checked out, found to be perfectly healthy, not a mark on her, and was sent to Graf.

Fucking bitch.

She'd stopped by my room, given me a kiss on the forehead (ignoring my glare), then skipped off with a wave. She was probably out dancing in the snow at Graf and annoying my platoon sergeant with her chipper attitude.

The waiting room was warm, and it was much nicer without the MI dwonks who kept asking about the CIA fuckheads, but we'd already agreed to deny we'd ever seen them. Not like they could prove those guys had even made it to the barracks.

I knew Sergeant White and Sergeant Butcher were going to cause trouble down the line. Both of them were in the hospital with us, both of them with their jaws wired shut. Apparently they'd written statements that I'd assaulted them, so more than likely I'd lose what little rank I still had, or it would just be more evidence in my court martial.

Personally, I'd stopped caring about the time I'd gotten confirmation that my family knew that Cass had died on that frozen fucking mountain.

I took another long drag off the cigarette and blew it at the ceiling. The wheelchair was uncomfortable as hell, but they wouldn't let me walk around. They'd rebroken Stokes' leg the day before, much to her complaints, and put in new pins and rods, claiming that it would fix her limp.

Nancy had gotten in a screaming match over the scar on her face. Apparently Nuremburg had a new plastic surgeon who told her that he could completely get rid of it, and Nagle didn't want that. The scar was a mark of survival to her, part of who she was now.

I'd seen the LT earlier in the morning, sitting in his room with his family. He'd had to have surgery, twice, and was blind the day before. He was taking everything calmly, in that infuriating manner of his. I'd met his wife, a quiet woman who's eyes glowed with warmth when she looked at LT James' stern face. His ten year old daughter was a quiet child who smiled a lot and told jokes when we visited her father.

It felt weird, like the LT James in the hospital wasn't the same man who was with us on the mountain.

Dobbs was having breast surgery. She had a lot of steel embedded in her chest, but they were only removing some of it. Her face? Well, they weren't going to do anything about her face.

Like mine, it kept the front of her skull covered, so it was good enough for government work.

We were all banged up. We'd all carry scars from it. Nothing new

We weren't getting off the mountain alive anyway.

Bomber was getting X-rayed again, like me he'd gotten pneumonia, and they were worried about his lungs. I'd bounced back pretty fast but Bomber was having trouble with it.

Which is why I was smoking cigarettes and he was getting X-rayed.

I probably shouldn't have been smoking on the tail end of walking pneumonia, but I really didn't care. I was sick of jello. I was sick of smiling nurses. I was sick of people asking me questions.

I wanted my crew. I wanted to go back to Atlas.

I just wanted to get away from everything.

But, at least the doctor had told me we'd pretty much be guaranteed to get at least 30 days of convalescent leave. Some of us planned on taking the cash we'd saved up, getting a flight back to the States, renting a car, and just driving.

Nancy wanted to see the Grand Canyon. Bomber wanted to race me to the top of the Empire State Building. I just wanted to get behind the wheel of a car and just drive.

The door to the smoking room opened and one of my doctors came in, looking serious. No, closer to angry, and he practically flung himself into the chair across from me, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring.

I just sat there silently and waited. Silence was fine by me. Being separated from my crew meant I'd lapsed into barely speaking again.

"I've got news for you, Corporal Stillwater." He broke the silence. I just waited for him, and after a few seconds he went on. "You and the others weren't going to be released for several days yet, and then you were supposed to go on convalescent leave."

"It ain't happening." I grunted, the lizard marking up that I'd won my private bet with him. The doctor stared at me and I laughed. "Mission essential, baby."

He shook his head. "I hate this kind of bullshit, but it was overridden by the hospital commander."

"How long?" I asked. I didn't really care, but it would be a little nice to go take a hot shower before the ass fucking.

"Eighteen hundred hours for you. Your unit will be picking you up." He told me. He looked embarrassed as he got to his feet, but I just put out my cigarette and lit another. "You shouldn't smoke, those will kill you."

"Ain't getting out of Germany alive." I answered.

It was fifteen hundred hours. Time enough for a shower.

It wasn't anything I didn't deserve.

Grafenwehr Army Post

2/19th Field Exercise AO

West Germany

11 February 1986

The wind was pretty heavy as I limped from the GP Medium where I'd been laying on my cot for the last two days. Every time someone wanted me to do something I just waved my profile, where the doctor had written "Try not to die" in the 'additional instructions' section. My hip had been hurting since the War Fighter tunnels, and I was still having shooting pains through that leg, along with periodic numbness and tingling in the rest of my limbs. Stokes had urged me to go to sick-call, then told Nancy she'd seen me limping, and the two of them had tried bullying me, but I just stared at the roof of the tent and ignored them.

I'd been doing that a lot. Just keeping my big fucking mouth shut and laying on the cot. My section sergeant had heard I'd skipped my meals the day before and had sat and watched me eat my hot breakfast. It had tasted like cardboard.

Not much really held interest to me.

Pushing past the overlapping canvas that made up the door I walked into the tent, the warmth enveloping me, and stopped just inside. Our new Group CO, LT COL Gonzalez, was waiting for me with the XO, First Sergeant, my Platoon Leader, and my Platoon Sergeant.

"Corporal Stillwater." The new CO greeted me. He didn't invite me to have a seat, didn't invite me to do anything but stand in front of him at parade rest.

"Corporal Stillwater, reporting as ordered." I stated. My voice sounded flat, even to my ears, but if anyone noticed they obviously didn't give a shit, same as me.

I should have been on convalescent leave, not on light duty out at Graf, running errands and having to constantly remind people I was on a profile. Not one of us had gotten leave, they even had fucking Lancer sitting on his cot with a bandage over his eyes. He'd lost one, the other was permanently damaged. Dobbs was always hovering around him, the black eyepatch that covered where her eye had been giving her an evil look. We had thought shrapnel had taken the eye, but the missing chunk of bone on the outside of the orbit had led the doctors to tell her that a bullet had done the damage.

Rumors were all over the unit, but everyone involved just stared at whoever was dumb enough to ask questions. We'd put up with several rounds of questioning, telling them what happened, but having already agreed when we were sitting around the War Fighter Tunnels to gloss over certain things or just plain omit them.

We'd found out yesterday that at this time JAG was not going to press charges, but was leaving the option open if they deemed it necessary.

"The engineers have finished their survey of the barracks." The CO said.

...so? Who fucking cares...

"The structure is stable and undamaged, and they have given me a list of repairs that have to be done on the barracks." The CO smiled. "They have determined that the majority of the barracks in habitable."

...aw fuck...

"Military intelligence and CID are sending a team up to photograph everything while you work, so you will also be responsible for the safety of those personnel as well as making any accommodations necessary for them to do their job." The XO added.

...they won't last a week...

"With that assurance, I've decided to send a repair crew up to the barracks. As of this morning the roads are clear all the way to the barracks. You'll be escorting two flatbed semi-trailers full of furniture and equipment to replace what you damaged." He smiled.

...hooray, it's the big green Army dick...

"I expect you to have the barracks up to standards within the next two weeks." He smiled. "I'm sending Lieutenant Wright with you to oversee the repairs to ensure the timetable I've constructed," he patted a camo folder next to him, "is followed."

"In order to speed the construction, we'll be sending those of you who were with the last crew up to assist." The CO smiled.

...fucking figures...

He handed me a list of names, and I noticed that all the names of the surviving members of the last repair crew were on it. Even Sergeant Butcher and Sergeant White were on there. That part made the lizard purr in pleasure.

"Do you have anything you wish to add, Corporal Stillwater?" The CO asked, still smiling.

"No, sir." I answered.

"Inform the personnel on that list, Corporal. Dismissed." He said. I saluted, the CO gave me a few seconds to reinforce that he was in charge before returning it, and I did an about face.

I left the warmth of the tent for the cold of outside.

None of us were getting out of here alive.

2/19th Special Weapons Group Barracks

Restricted Area, Alfenwehr West Germany

Late Winter- February, 1986

Day 1 of Repairs

Day 1 of the Third Incident

Morning

The sky was cloudy, but no snow was blowing down on us. I stood in the sanded street, staring at the barracks. There was smoke damage to the right hand area, where the Mag Offices were, on the front of the building. The glass doors that led inside were intact. A lot of the windows had been replaced, but mostly up on the third floor, plenty of Titty Territory, and Near Hammerhead Hall. That left about 2/3 of the mountainside windows left to do.

Not to mention all the damage our little rampage had caused.

The building was mostly hidden by the snow that the blizzard and then just winter had dumped on the top of the mountain. It was piled up to about halfway above the second floor windows, but the engineers had dug out a path to airlock. It made it look serene, and I wondered if the bodies were still in the snow or if Tandy had feasted in the darkness.

To my left was semi-trucks, loaded with furniture, boxed weapons and TA-50, and other crap we needed. A 5-ton was behind me from the company, 5-Ton 35, affectionately known as Growler, was behind me, idling in the cold. In the lead was CUC-V 22, where Sergeant Butcher and Sergeant White were still sitting inside, both of them looking less than thrilled to be sitting there.

"Aaaand, we're back in the barracks." Bomber said from beside me, his hand going to his new rifle and rubbing the forward handgrip.

"It's like a nightmare I can't wake up from." Stokes said from behind me, lighting a cigarette.

"Home sweet home." Nancy said, hitching up her new aid bag.

"Someone wanna help my blind ass out of the truck?" Lancer yelled from the back of the Growler.

"I'll help you, keep your eyes in." William answered, moving past me.

"Har dee fucking har har, ya one eyed bastard." Lancer answered.

"It's pretty up here." Aine said from where she was standing on the running board of the Growler, holding onto the mirror and swinging back and forth like a little monkey.

"The building is bigger than my briefing made it sound." Innie told me, moving up next to me.

"We really aren't getting off this mountain alive, are we?" Dobbs asked, scratching her ass and then farting.

"Finish the fight." I said, my voice full of sarcasm.

"The barracks isn't going to repair itself, so you might as well quit standing around slacking off." 2LT Wright said from behind us. "I'm not putting up with any shamming while I'm in charge, so I hope you're all ready to work." He paused for a moment. "And you might as well forget about riding your profiles, you'll do what I decide you'll do." He snorted, his version of a laugh. "There ain't no JAG up here."

Snowflakes started drifting down.

...the ants go marching one by one...