"I was just over 18 when I arrived at Alfenwehr. I looked

young, and was as bright as a new penny.

Alfenwehr tainted me, tarnished me, and left

me an old man within a year. I was lucky; I survived."

108th Military Intelligence HQ Building

Wildflicken, West Germany

0930 Hours 12 July, 1985

The room was mostly dark in front of me as I stepped up to the lectern and set down my note cards. In the shadowed chairs in front of me were a few dozen men, all in BDU's, with two men with the bearing of military men in charge standing at parade rest at the back of the room. I picked up the remote to the slide projector and thumbed it to life, putting the ChemCorps logo on the screen to the right of me, on their left.

"Good day," I started. "I am Mr. Anthony, and I'll be your instructor." I paused, but dead silence greeted me. I was wearing just BDU's with US ARMY over my heart - no rank, no unit patches, no name, just the US Army strip and nothing else to distinguish me from tens of thousands of soldiers in EUSERA. The same reason I was using my first name instead of Stillwater, my last name. Same reason I was standing in front of a completely silent "class" with lights shining on me to keep me from seeing those seated.

No biggee. This wasn't a normal class. I'd been grabbed from my unit and sent to the Top of the Rock to instruct "assets" in the realities of certain chemical weapons and chemical weapon production facilities, something that was kind of my specialty.

Not everyone in NBC Warfare had a specialty, but I'd found a certain skill and talent for chemical weapons and learned everything I could about them, even crossing services and nationality lines. I knew about Navy and Air Force weapons, NATO weapons, Warsaw Pact weapons, and even the individual nations' weapons. I could tell you the difference between French and British VX depending on manufacturing site, and could even recognize where they had been manufactured based on a quick examination of the round.

And now I was passing on my information to a group of snake eating head-stompers I wasn't supposed to get a good look at. Months of in-depth and hands on study. In three hours.

In other words: More Cold War Bullshit.

"I will be instructing you on a chemical weapons production facility in Czechoslovakia and its personnel, as well as the kind of weaponry they produce at that facility," I told them. "You will want to take notes, as this is a lot of information that was not available in the recent synopsis and précis of the site. If there are any questions, please raise your hands."

More silence.

Fuck 'em. Stupid, snake-eating bastards.

I launched into my lecture, showing slides of the facility, the rounds, key Soviet personnel, everything anyone would want to know about the site and then some. I was giving them everything they would need to know about the chemicals produced there, what kinds of hazards they could face, and how to identify key components as well as precursor chemicals and the finished product. I hadn't been asked to put together my views on the site itself, or give an analysis on the site itself, and I knew that normally it would be covered by their other briefings.

But nobody had asked me shit, and I'd been spent over a month working with Kill Shop and the MI dwonks doing analysis of the site since we'd spotted it. Hell, I'd seen reports on it that had never left the MI unit or the intel gathering teams.

Not once did any of them ask questions. I paused several times, even prompted for questions, and none of them asked a single question. Not even when I launched into the chemical breakdown of the VX they produced at the site or the fact that the site produced T-2 mycotoxin for use in Yellow Rain biological/chemical agent.

At the end of my lecture I paused again, asking one last time if there were any questions at all regarding anything my three hour lecture had covered.

Not one of them even mumbled. They just sat there, staring at me in what felt like slack jawed incomprehension, like I'd asked them to spell their own names without looking at their nametag.

Idiots.

"No questions involving the currently infra-red scans of the site and what possible production lines may be involved, whether or not there have been any large scale vehicle movements, or if there is any HUMINT on the ground that could assist you?" I asked.

Still silence.

I ground my teeth and gripped the side of the top of the podium with both hands.

"Please raise your hands if you ever worked with live chemical agents outside of a training site," I ordered between gritted teeth.

Not one hand raised.

"And none of you have any questions?" I asked. When silence answered me, I shook my head. I felt anger, my constant companion, well up inside of me. The lizard, a mental construct that lived in the back of my head, woke up and hissed at their arrogance.

"Look, you snake-eater morons, this isn't like whatever training you went through at Black Briar Ridge, Redstone or Lost In the Woods that makes you think you're high speed NBC warriors. This is real shit, nasty shit, and you won't have all the precautions designed to save your retarded asses this time," I snarled. Some of them moved uncomfortably and I laughed. "What, you think you're high speed because you survived a two hours class? We designed that course so that a chimpanzee could pass it!" I laughed mockingly again. "You think being part of S.O.G. is going to save you?" I shook my head. "This shit will rip the life right out of you in less than thirty seconds even at one part per ten thousand, and you'll be move into a manufacturing facility where the thickened and concentrated versions are being processed. The people who work in these facilities are suited up in full suits at all times while on the factory floor, and if your dumb asses break the wrong seal you'll kill everyone for miles."

I glared out at them. One of the suits was walking toward me, holding out his hand.

"Since it's obvious that you idiots don't even know what questions to ask, I'm going to add in the 'chemical weapon facilities for assholes' chapter of my briefing." I sneered, then turned my attention to Mr. Walk With His Hand Out. "Sit your ass down, you alphabet soup moron. You brought me here for a briefing on this site, and so far every one of your goddamn head stomping apes has either slept through my goddamn briefing or just ignored me. None of the questions that would be painfully obviously to a goddamn toddler were asked."

The guy in the suit stopped and stared at me. I knew he was shocked, not only by my words, but by the tone I was using. I knew that nobody had talked to him in that way for a long time, not since he'd joined whatever intelligence agency he was part of at least.

"So all of you probably figured that I wouldn't have shit to say about this site, because anyone who would know anything just has to be one of you snake-eating idiots, right?" I snarled. "Yet I've been asked to do a clinical and forensic brief for this very site to the Pentagon, as well as had sections of my work given to the Joint Chiefs and the Secretary of Defense. But do any of you dipshits know that, or even give me the common courtesy and pay attention? No."

I tensed my hands on the podium, which I knew made my shoulders bunch.

"Whoever has given you a briefing has not tapped my synopsis or intelligence extract about that site. I know, because the whole reason I was available for this briefing is I was writing an addendum on it and checked the distribution of it this morning in order to make sure the addendum was properly routed," I told them. "The distro list had no new names or even classified access on it in over three weeks, despite the fact that I've added three addendums and two appendixes. Which means none of you know jack or shit about who works there, which Soviet scientists are there, or even what it means that less than twenty-four hours ago two convoys have arrived, one containing five vehicles of troops that had left from a nearby Soviet Union chemical warfare unit. Not a local Chech or dumbass conscript unit, but honest to God Soviet NBC Warfare career troops. Don't think they're REMF's, either, you snake-eating retards. These guys train hard and train often, with many of them having experience in Afghanistan as well as Iran during the Iran-Iraq War." I glared at them. "I'm not a fucking idiot, I know what you are planning to do. If you go in there with the kind of intel you've probably been given, with the typical snake-eater attitude... You. Will. All. Die."

I paused for a moment. "Now, if you think this is just going to waste your fucking time, then there's the goddamn door and don't let hit you in the ass on your way out. As for the rest of you, sit tight, and I'll give you a fucking briefing that you would have if you'd listened to me and asked a single goddamn question."

"And before you start doubting my credentials, you goddamn halfwits, I advised Iraq during the Iran/Iraq War with regards to targeting and NBC use, examined battlefields with live chemical agents still active on the dead. I've taken part in multiple operations in live chemical environments as well as high radiation threat environments." I shook my head. "Every single one of you would have died choking on blood. I would not have. I would have accomplished the mission because I know my shit. So pay attention, or I'll be briefing your replacements in a week's time."

I waited a second. "I'll give all of you ten minutes to hit the latrine, then I start the briefing. If you're late, tough shit, I'll start without you and I'll sleep just fine knowing your probably choked to death on your own lungs." I dug into my pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. I stared as they got up, lighting the cigarette, giving them the same look I gave stupid privates who thought they could survive Alfenwehr Mountain because they passed Basic Training and it made them high speed.

At the ten-minute mark most of the seats were filled again. Only one of the suits remained, but I didn't care about him. Dropping my cigarette into my empty soda can, I nodded at them and launched into the briefing, clicking to the first slide in the reloaded slide carriage. It showed a basic chemical weapon round, a photo of a VX series nerve agent 8" artillery shell I'd taken at Atlas. Without waiting, I launched into my second prepared lecture.

"First of all, a chemical weapon is a type of poison, created through means of mixing multiple chemicals with three different and sometimes overlapping objectives," I started. I saw one or two staring at me angrily and smiled. "Yeah, baby's first briefing time, dumbasses. Sit down, shut up, take notes, and I should test you snake-eating idiots on this stuff if I could be sure you wouldn't shove the pencils up your noses or choke on the paper."

First rule I'd learned about dealing with Special Operations soldiers from living with my Father: they assume they know everything and are dumber than a bag of hair. Sometimes they have to be reminded that other people in the military know their shit.

At least they asked questions, even if the questions were perfectly obvious to someone like me, who was training around live chemical agents quite a bit. Still, I was just glad they weren't sucking on their thumbs or choking on their own tongues.

Four hours later caught me walking down the hallway with John Bomber, who had driven me out to give the briefing. He had launched into a story regarding himself, two cow-girls, and a haystack near Austin, and I was only half-paying attention to his story.

Up ahead, two men were leaning against the wall by the doors out, neither one of them wearing any rank, insignia, or even nametags. As we approached, one of them put his leg out and put his foot against the far wall, stopping Bomber and me from going any further. He didn't move it when I got within an inch of his outstretched leg.

"Yes?" I asked, raising one eyebrow. They had about ten seconds before my bad mood at being woken up from a sound sleep and made to prepare a lecture with a hangover for a bunch of brainless snake-eating morons manifested.

I'd start with breaking smart-ass's leg.

"Good lecture, Mister Anthony," he said, dropping his leg after looking around quickly to make sure we were alone. "I'd like to ask a question though."

"Shoot," I told him.

"You said that toxin might be weaponized, and there'd been reports of it being used in Vietnam, but you didn't go into detail on its effects and instead concentrated on how it might be manufactured or stored," he said. "Why?"

"It's unconfirmed. I gave you the best information I could, but right now it looked like just allegations," I told him. "I figured that was what your objective was: to get samples, not blow the place up." I shrugged.

He nodded. "Can I ask you a question?"

"GA," I said, pulling out my cigarettes. Bomber took them from me and got himself one before handing them back while the snake-eater asked his question.

"You seem a little younger than I thought you'd be when we were told they bringing in an expert on chemical weapons and Eastern European chemical facilities," he said. "When I saw you, I didn't expect that deep of a briefing."

I nodded, offered them the cigarettes. The speaker took one. "Yeah, life's weird like that." I shrugged. "I'm good at abstracts. I prefer nukes, but they don't move around much beyond the short and intermediate range weapons, and even then the manufacture facilities, storage facilities, and launch facilities don't really move around much or shift much like the chemical weapons, so I've been focusing on the shifts in chemical weapons and chemical warfare that have been going on in the last couple of years."

Both nodded.

"He's a fucking genius," Bomber said, grinning. They both looked at him and he thumped me in the shoulder with a closed fist. "My boy here was the golden boy in AIT. A few of the instructors tried to convince him to jump ship from Active Duty to do research with DARPA."

Both looked dutifully impressed. The one with the cigarette gave me an odd look.

"What the hell are you doing an enlisted man out here in Europe," he asked. "Shouldn't you be an officer or at least a warrant?"

"It's just what I do." I shrugged. "I'm not officer material."

He looked at the other guy, who nodded slowly, then held out his hand.

"Thanks, Corporal Stillwater," he said.

"How'd you know my name?" I asked him, startled.

He smiled slow, reached into his pocket and pulled out a brass coin, a kind that I'd seen before.

"Three," was all he said when he showed me the coin. "We'll tell The Sergeant Major you're doing well."

He didn't need to say anything else, even Bomber understood. Well, maybe not the last part. Still, it made me feel good to hear the guy was going to tell my Father he'd seen me.

"Be careful out there, gentlemen," I said. They just nodded, staying against the wall as we left the building. We headed to the Gypsy Wagon where I pulled a bottle of Wild Turkey out of the glove box and took a long pull off of it before handing it to Bomber. He put on his seatbelt, then took a pull off of the bottle himself, handing it back before firing up the pickup.

"The Colonel wants you to report back to Group," he told me as he threw it into reverse and backed out. I cracked the window and flicked my ashes.

"Great. Any idea why?" I asked. The Colonel had only gotten to the unit the week before and already we'd all been pulled back from our sites, gone through numerous inspections in Class-A's that we never wore for anything else, had to go over all of the equipment, and rumor had it that he wanted a round of security clearance investigations. We'd already been notified he'd be coming out to all of the sites and inspecting them, have to all requalify with our weapons and PT tests despite the fact we'd just done that the month before he'd showed up. From what I had been told on the phone from Nancy Nagle, one of my work crew, he was pissed off already that I'd been working with 108th MI for the past two days instead of doing the bullshit inspections he was holding.

"The investigation about that incident last month is finished," he told me. I felt my mouth go dry as I waited for him to pull into traffic and continue.

"Well?" I asked, the tension killing me.

"I heard him telling SFC Messington that they've determined that we were acting in self-defense, but labeled those assholes who hit us as unrelated terrorists and not Soviet troops," he told me.

I let out a breath that I wasn't aware I'd been holding. That could have gotten sticky. We'd spent 3 hours in a move and fire combat with three times our numbers in armed invaders out at Atlas, killing almost fifty "terrorists" in the time it took our Ranger backup to get off their asses and get out there.

Hell, we'd stacked the bodies after taking pictures, collected up their weapons, and rendered first aid to our wounded and theirs before those assholes showed up, bitched about the fact they didn't have anything to do, and more than one of them had made comments about the fact that they'd even had to come out and "save our asses" at all.

I'd put in a request to get a new Ranger team assigned, quoting "unacceptable delays in mobilization", "unacceptable performance", "non-professional attitudes" in the paperwork, and flat out telling our V Corps Chem Corps security liaison if I saw any of those snake-eating bastards out at Atlas again, my crew and I would beat the ever-loving shit out of them, if I didn't flat out murder them.

"What about Ranger Team Saber-Nine?" I asked.

"They're gone. Investigation revealed that they waited almost two hours to even draw weapons after we'd called in a real world event and having wounded, and someone on the Chinook crew heard their team leader saying we'd probably be all dead by that time and they'd clean that shit up. From what the Colonel said, 75th Ranger dropped most of the team back to their non-SOG units."

I nodded. "Good. That's the second time Saber-Nine dropped the goddamn ball on us," I reminded him. He grunted, his left hand moving to his leg where a Russian sniper who'd crawled out into the 1K Zone and started plinking shots at us had shot him. That time Saber-Nine hadn't even bothered showing up, claiming that the reports didn't warrant them heading out to Atlas.

"The Colonel's also flipping his shit about Nancy again," Bomber warned me.

I shook my head. Nancy was openly bisexual, predatory as hell, had a seriously bad attitude, but her work ethic was nothing short of stellar. I'd take her over three quarters of the male soldiers in Group. "What's his problem with her?"

He pulled the vehicle into the parking spot in front of Class VI, the military on-base liquor store, threw the truck in park, and killed the engine. We got out, grabbing our weapons, and headed in.

"She broke Kellman's jaw this morning," he told me. I groaned as we headed in the door, shaking my head. He went on without any prompting. "This morning at chow she was standing in line and when Kellman tried to cut in front of her she told him to get to the back of the line. He called her a stupid spic whore and pimp slapped her."

I shrugged. "Then I've got her back. That all he's spazzing about?" We grabbed a basket and started tossing bottles of tequila, whiskey, and bourbon into the basket, loading up for the week out at Atlas.

"Nope," he said, trying to decide between a half-gallon or a liter of Wild Turkey. He went for the half-gallon. I made a motion for him to continue and grabbed a bottle of Jose Quervo as he continued. "He must have read her Smith File, and told me that he wants S-2 to do a security clearance review of her, digging into the fact she killed four men a few months before she got to the unit."

"Christ. She wasn't even formally charged, they sent her here instead. What's his beef with her?"

He shrugged, and we went on buying the liquor we'd need for another week at Atlas. Once the carts were full, we set what was in them on the counter and went back for more. It took us almost six trips for us to gather what we figured would be a week's worth of the booze. We paid, loaded the booze into the CUC-V, and headed back to Group.

When we got there, I found out I didn't need to bother going in to see Colonel Adelson.

He'd been hauled off by the MP's while I was giving my briefing.

Apparently, while he was in Frankfurt after arriving in Germany, before he'd headed up to the unit, he'd raped a 19-year-old Airman. He'd kept her tied to his bed in the Bachelor Officers Quarters for two days, burned her with cigarettes, and apparently thought he'd get away with it after threatening her. She'd had the guts to go to the Air Force MP's, and they'd gotten ahold of the Army, who sent MP's up to get Colonel Adelson.

Good fucking riddance.

Since I didn't have any meeting with the Group Commander, my platoon sergeant, SFC Messington, told me to get my squad, gear up, and head back to Atlas.

Another day in Special Weapons.

Another day in Hell.