"You two, Roberts and Lewis, with me," Gilly called out, waving the flashlight with the cone shaped plastic end. Lewis knew it was used to ground-guide vehicles at night, the red coloration designed not to effect night vision.

Roberts shrugged, folding the metal envelope over the rest of the dehydrated fruit cocktail he'd been eating dry, and started walking toward Gilly. Lewis squeezed the last of her chicken ala king into her mouth and shoved the mostly empty metallicized envelope into her thigh pocket. Both of them stretched and yawned, standing up from the pallet of sandbags they had been carrying to wherever they were ordered to before being told to take a twenty-minute break and get some food and water.

"According to Ant, we've got four Chinooks and six Blackhawks coming in with 'reinforcements' of some type," Gilly grumbled. "They'll be landing at the lower helipad, so we'll take the Gypsy Wagon out there and guide them in."

"What is going on?" Roberts asked, waving at the "encampment" that had been built on the Back-Forty.

Six light sets, eight GP-Medium tents, nine GP smalls, two Conex containers dropped into holes that Roberts had dug with the back-hoe, radiation shielding, camo net covering everything, fuel pods, water buffaloes with potable and non-potable water in them, commo antenna, wiring, even a berm with fighting positions that Roberts had built while using the bulldozer.

Roberts started to grab the tailgate so he could sit in the bed of the Gypsy Wagon when Gilly grabbed his LBE.

"Not back there, champ. I've got orders to make sure that you're sitting on seats," Gilly said, waving at the front of the Gypsy Wagon.

Lewis just climbed in the back with Stewart and Sawmoth. Sawmoth patted the bed next to her and Lewis dropped down, then winced as a little pain flared up in her buttocks.

"Any clue what's going on?" Lewis asked. Sawmoth shrugged, popping her gum.

Roberts slammed the door shut, buckling up out of habit. Gilly got in, turned the key so the glow-plugs would warm up.

"God damn, Atlas is too fucking big," She swore, listening to the buzzer and watching the light on the dash. "It's seven fucking miles from here to the Lower Helipad. It takes a goddamn tank battalion and a full blown mech-infantry battalion to guard this damn place if the pfenning ever drops."

Roberts just nodded as Gilly started the truck, the rumbling diesel cutting off conversation as it clanked and wheezed to life. Roberts leaned forward, craning his neck to look out the windshield. He could see the running lights of the helicopters coming in.

"They're getting close," He said, feeling foolish immediately after.

"They'll hold position till we get there," Gilly shrugged, the truck bumping as it crossed the mobile bridge that had been laid over the blast ditch.

Roberts was silent as Gilly drove to the Lower Helipad, swapping out the batteries on his NVG's. He'd been wearing them all night and he didn't want them to die when he was doing whatever Gilly was taking him to do.

Roberts had to admit that the night had been weird. Because of his light duty profile he'd been relegated to standing around by the sandbags keeping count and handing out the empty sandbags to be filled from the dump truck of sand that had been dropped off. At least after a half hour he'd been driven up to Dinosaur Row. There, Stillwater had taught him how to use the backhoe and the bulldozer, standing on the running board and giving instructions the entire time. It had been fun to learn how to use construction equipment and had made Roberts feel useful despite the fact he was still recovering from his injuries.

Roberts understood now why Stillwater was constantly working even with his leg in that heavy brace. Nothing felt worse that standing around while everyone around you was busting their asses to get things finished.

Gilly pulled up next to one of the OD Green pickup trucks from Dinosaur Row. Roberts could see Stillwater leaning against the fender, smoking a cigarette, talking to Foster. Gilly shut down the truck, Roberts got out and headed over to Stillwater.

"All right. I just opened the sealed orders packet," Stillwater said, sounding slightly disgusted. "We've got an Ordnance unit from Stateside on those helicopters. They're either lazy ass Active used to ASP work or some fucking No-Go unit," He shook his head. "All of this is pre-staging for REFORGER. This is going to be a LOT bigger than the ones from the last few years."

"How big?" Gilly asked, looking at the helicopters.

"Big. Real big. We're going to be hosting the equivalent of a combined arms brigade right here at Atlas," Patch said. He rolled the cherry off his cigarette and pocketed the butt while he used the toed of his boot to crush the coals.

Gilly whistled softly.

"All right, Gilly, you guide them in," He turned to the others as Gilly headed out. "The rest of you, you'll be taking charge of groups of these chuckle-fucks when I call out your name. Stay here, make sure they don't wander off and step on a fucking land mine. I've got trucks coming down to the move them, because my orders specifically forbid me from forcing them to road march to the garrison area because they're probably fat lazy faggots."

There were a couple of sniggers at that.

"Once we're done, and we get these guys to that camp we set up, we'll go back up to the Fort and get some shut-eye. Tomorrow, we've gotta build more of those fucking camps, or at the very least, some pre-staging areas," Patch grunted. "Foster, Roberts, you two are with me."

Roberts followed Patch to the edge of the helipad. It was big enough that a dozen Apaches could land and get rearmed and refueled, maybe even some repair. A Blackhawk was touching down, and Gilly was jogging to the side with a colored cone tipped flashlight in each hand to guide them in.

"Let's hope that their officers aren't fucking retards," Patch growled, putting a cigarette between his lips and lighting it.

"Hope in one hand, shit in the other, see what you can eat from first," Foster said, his voice dead sounding.

It took Roberts a moment to realize that the other man had told a joke. It raised goosebumps on his skin as he put on his NVG's and turned them on.

Men were climbing out of the Blackhawk, looking around.

"THIRTY EIGHTH ORDNANCE, OVER HERE!" Patch bellowed out loud enough for Roberts to wince slightly. The other man was definitely capable of being heard over the roar of the rotors.

Six men headed over from the Blackhawk, stopping in front of Patch.

"Sergeant Stillwater, 2/19th Special Weapons Group, NCOIC of FSTS-317," Patch started out.

"What, you don't salute superior officers in Europe, Sergeant?" One of them, a captain by the rank on the front of his helmet, sneered at Patch.

"Let's get this shit out of the way right now," Patch snarled. He held up his hand to forestall anyone speaking. "This is a live fire zone. The Soviets have a highly skilled sniper out here who will mark down any saluted officers. My people don't salute. That's SOP. You are not in charge here, I am until further notice."

"In the Army, the highest ranking..." the Captain started.

"Can shut the fuck up and follow orders like any mouth breathing knuckle dragging stripper chasing private," Patch snarled. "If you don't like the SOP and the lawful orders this place operates under, get right back on your shitty Crash-hawks or flap your arms, and fly right the fuck back out of here," Patch snarled, stepping up into the Captain's face. "I'm not going to let your stupidity and strak attitude get any of my people killed."

The Captain's mouth was gaped open, the same with the First Sergeant and the lieutenants.

"To date, this fiscal year, eight people have died from not following SOP out here," Patch growled. "Right out there on the 1K Zone are two HiND helicopters we shot down with Stingers a few months back. This is a live fire hazardous duty zone."

"I was told," The Captain started. Roberts heard vehicles pulling up, including Banshee's characteristic screams. When he looked back, he saw that Cromwell's ambulance, Meatwagon, pulling up.

"Whatever you were told doesn't matter. I have my orders, my mission packet, and my sealed orders," Patch said. "I have five years working at this shit hole, and there are exactly three people in Group who have been in our unit longer than I have."

The First Sergeant moved forward. "What's your plan, Sergeant?" he asked, obviously trying to defuse the situation.

"I'm going to load your people up in order they arrived, transport them to the encampment, then give you and your leadership their initial briefing," Patch said, turning slightly to exclude the officers from the conversation. "Anyone with a mask and your chemical protective equipment will be pulled to the side and issued that gear. Tomorrow the site medical NCOIC will examine everyone and then we'll start training your unit up."

Cromwell moved up next to Roberts, gently nudging his left shoulder with her right one.

"Why is that soldier wearing sunglasses at night?" The Captain asked, outrage in his voice again.

"Because I'm allowed to," Cromwell snapped. She turned to Stillwater. "When they went through POM nobody bothered to update their immunizations, some of them need dental work, and half of them are overweight."

"You're National Guard, aren't you?" Stillwater asked to the group.

"What's that matter?" A lieutenant asked.

"Is that going to a be problem?" The Captain asked belligerently.

"It is," Cromwell snapped. "You left The World after your POM without correcting the defects revealed, which drops it all on me."

"Your unit will be taking an APFT," Stillwater shrugged. "It isn't going to be my problem."

The Captain was red faced as Stillwater turned to Cromwell.

"I take it you want a full medical examination on everyone as they come in?" He asked.

Cromwell nodded. "I want to arrange dental care, either a snake eater dentist or maybe Darmstadt or Nuremburg, for anyone who needs it. I need someone going into septic shock from a damaged tooth out here."

"All right. Tomorrow we'll set up a treatment clinic for you at Rearming Point Charlie," Stillwater said.

"We'll start tonight," Cromwell said, turning and walking away. "Baker, lets go."

"Now see here a minute," The Captain tried again as a large gaggle of troops exited a Chinook and started heading over to the group.

"Bitch at me during your briefing. It's work time, not crying time," Stillwater snapped. He waved his hand. "Sawmoth, get a headcount, write down their names, load them on Banshee, take them to Garrison Point Alpha."

"Yes, Sergeant," Sawmoth said, jogging forward, raising her hand and waving it. "Form up on me!" she shouted.

Patch turned to Roberts. "Go grab the fag-bag in Fishhook, the M-3, and the ammo pouches sitting there. You're with me and Foster until further notice."

Roberts nodded and hurried away, heading for the Blazer CUC-V. He'd heard the nickname was from when it hit a mine and it ripped the back quarter-panel up and out like a fishhook. He pulled open the door and saw a nylon satchel with a shoulder strap laying on the seat, next to one of the M3 .45 caliber "grease guns" that had a foldable wire stock. There were four ammunition pouches and a lone magazine next to it.

Roberts put the ammo pouches on his LBE, shifting it around, then picked up the M3, putting the sling over his shoulder and letting it hang down. Then he picked up the nylon "fag bag" and pulled the carrying strap over his shoulder.

The M3 felt heavy on his injured shoulder, but swallowed thickly headed back to where Patch was standing, waving at Lewis as she passed him leading about twenty people toward the vehicles. He could see one of the lieutenants who had been standing in front of Patch was mixed in with the group.

"...place is extremely dangerous, Captain," Patch was growling. "It's been swept repeatedly, but every now and then a rabbit or a deer will set off a mine or some gear shifter licking trucker will step into the weeds to piss and blow his fool legs off."

He waved at Roberts. "My man here just got back off of convalescent leave after getting shot in the chest by the Soviets. Lastly, a over a third of the bunkers at this site contain chemical or nuclear weapons of various type, payloads, and delivery systems."

Patch turned back to Roberts. "You're my helper-monkey now, Roberts. You're with me at all times unless I send you on an errand. Nobody but Cromwell or me can give you any orders, and the only people that can override my orders to you are Chief Henley or Cromwell."

Roberts nodded, swallowing. "Understood, Sergeant."

Stillwater turned back to the Captain, the handful of lieutenants, and the few senior NCO's.

"This is Atlas. Believe me, gentlemen, she will kill you if gets the chance. By the time REFORGER is over, at least three of your men will be dead and Sergeant Cromwell will saved another half-dozen, and for each of them," Patch stared at them.

"I'll tell you: I told you so."