The alarm on the little brass windup clock woke Roberts up. He groaned and half-rolled over, hoping to ignore it for a few minutes. The digital clock wasn't used for alarms, so there wasn't any snooze on that brass clock. Roberts sat up, throwing back the blanket, and was shocked to see Patch standing by the dresser. He was standing in the dim light of the night-light, already dressed in his uniform.

"Training day, Roberts," Patch growled. "Get up."

Roberts got up, frowning. Patch was still on bed rest if he remembered right, but there he was standing there with his leg brace, eye patch, and staring as Roberts got up.

"Toddler Time is over," Patch growled. "You fuck up again, you try to throw someone under the bus for your own fuckup again, Roberts, and it won't be some bullshit that Chief Henley thinks up. You understand?"

Roberts nodded, flushing. Roberts grabbed his clothing out of his locker as Patch put on his gear and left.

Roberts was glad for that. He still wanted out of the room, and after that "Toddler Time" bullshit, he wanted out of the squad too.

Roberts went in, showered, grateful he didn't have someone telling him how to shower and then inspecting him to make sure he showered. He brushed his teeth, put his kit away, and got dressed in his uniform.

He'd just sat down when Patch came back into the room.

"Full kit, Roberts," Patch grunted, moving into the room. He opened the fridge, pulled out a bottle of whiskey, and took a long pull off of it. He staggered over to the wall lockers and unlocked his gear locker. He'd take a pull off the bottle, strap on gear, until he was in his full gear.

That was something Roberts hated and frowned on. It was a duty day and Patch was drinking straight from the bottle. It seemed like everyone was an alcoholic in this place.

"Hurry up, be in the Ready Room in ten minutes to draw the rest of your kit," Patch said, heading for the door. He'd left the bottle in the wall locker that he'd pulled his gear out of, locking it before he headed for the door.

Roberts pulled his body armor on, then grabbed his mask and strapped it to his left thigh. He knew his gear, those two women had been making him put it on and inspect it over and over. After the mask he put on his LBE over his body armor, then grabbed his helmet and his rucksack and helmet.

The two Marines were walking down the hallway toward Roberts, heading for the other hallway and the stairwell that led down to the Ready Room.

"Know what we're doing?" The Marine that had qualified on the sniper rifle asked. Roberts was still pissed he hadn't been given the chance to try to qualify on the sniper rifle.

"Don't know. Stillwater came by, said to load it all up, head to the Ready Room," The other Marine said, shrugging. "Thought he wasn't supposed to be up and running around."

"He's not," Roberts said, shaking his head. "He's supposed to be on bed rest." Roberts pushed through the double doors, heading down the next hallway. Other men were leaving their rooms, some in full gear, others just in normal duty uniform.

"'Sup, Jar-head?" One of the men, a big burly man grinned.

"Training, grease-monkey," one of the Marines said, socking the big man on the shoulder. "Gonna do more than just play with sockets."

"You guys heading for your site?" Another guy asked.

"Stillwater said pull our full gear and head to the Ready Room," The other Marine said.

"Wait, Stillwater's up and running around with that leg of his?" Another guy asked.

"Yeah," Roberts said, shaking his head.

"Huh," Another guy shrugged.

They headed down the stairwell and headed into the Ready Room. Stillwater was leaning against the wall next to the Arms Room cage window. The Armorer was handing out weapons.

"Marines, Roberts, get over here. Draw your primary and secondary, if you have them, and double battle load. Extra ammo goes in your ruck or wherever else you want to put it," Stillwater growled. "Get new mask filters, your NVG's, and any NBC gear you're qualified on."

Roberts waited in line till he got to the cage. He turned in his weapon's card and was given his M-16A1 in return. The Armorer slapped down four stacks of four thirty round magazines, put two twenty-round magazines on top, then started stacking up small cardboard boxes of 5.56mm NATO rounds.

Roberts stared at them for a moment.

"Will you get your shit and get out of my fucking face," The Armorer yawned. "Just scoop it into your helmet."

Roberts put it all in his helmet, overflowing it, and moved over to the next window. He juggled his gear and handed over his NVG card, getting his nightvision goggles back. Then over to the NBC Room where that massive NCO was standing.

"Oh, it's you," The big man's disdain was obvious in his voice. "Cruz, take this one."

Roberts just stared as the big man turned away and a shorter Mexican came over. "What's his problem?" Roberts asked.

"You fucking suck," The Mexican said. He slapped down boxed filters and replacement parts. "There. Get the fuck out of here, dickhead."

Roberts wondered what the hell he'd done wrong as he moved over to the big sternum high tables, opening the cardboard boxes and using the stripper clips to load his magazines.

Lewis moved up to the table, setting down four boxes of 7.62mm NATO rounds. She opened each box, pulling out the two-hundred round belts and looking them over before layering the belts back into the boxes. Lewis still had a black eye and a brownish bruise on the side of her face.

"You can fit four magazines in each pouch, that's why you have so many," One of the guys next to Roberts said.

"They only fit three," Roberts corrected, sliding a full magazine into one of his two ammo pouches.

"You want an extra pouch or two?" One of the other guys asked. "I can grab some..."

"No," Roberts said, grabbing another stripper clip and sliding ten rounds into the magazine.

"Whatever," The guy turned away. "Asshole."

Roberts just loaded up the magazines, putting the extra ones in his rucksack. He only had two ammo pouches, so the other thirteen magazines went in his rucksack. He wondered why the hell he had been given 20-round magazines.

"One goes on the right side of your helmet, under your helmet band," Lewis said. When Roberts looked up she had one just as she'd said.

It looked stupid to Roberts. He could also see that she had "O-NEG/NO A" written on the left hand side of her helmet in big block letters.

"Sergeant Cromwell," Lewis called out.

The big fat medic half-waddled over, leaning on the table. "Whatcha need, Lewis?" She asked.

"Roberts needs his blood type put on his helmet," Lewis pointed out.

"What's your blood type?" Cromwell asked.

"It's on my dog-tags," Roberts protested.

"Blood type, Private, now," Cromwell snarled, putting her hand on top of Roberts's helmet.

"O-Positive," Roberts said.  Cromwell started writing on his helmet cover.

"Any allergies, troop?" Cromwell asked.

"No," Roberts asked. Cromwell wrote something else and moved on.

Roberts finished putting all the ammo into the magazines, stuffing the last of them into his rucksack. After that he followed Lewis's example and switched out the filters in his gas mask.

"Atlas Crew, trucks are out front. I want everyone in the vehicle in fifteen minutes. We pull out in twenty. You get left behind, it's on you," Patch yelled, lurching for the door.

Roberts felt foolish as he pulled his rucksack. Lewis was in front of him, which at least gave him a little bit of a view of a nice ass as he went up the stairs. They went out the CQ Area and then out into the street.

A 5-ton, a deuce-and-a-half, and a battered pickup were in front of the barracks.

"Danson, you're gunner on the Mule, lock your sixty! Marks, you're TC on Growler," Patch was calling out. "Johnson, you're gunner on Growler, lock the fifty, Thompson, you're TC. Lewis, you and Putter are on the Gypsy Wagon. Everyone else, load up," Patch finished.

"SERGEANT STILLWATER!" The shout came from the building.

Roberts watched as Patch turned toward the building. The tall black woman was moving down the steps, her dark face angry.

"Roberts, get in the fucking truck," the big Amazon yelled, moving over and grabbing Roberts's LBE and yanking him along. "That's none of your goddamn business."

"You're on goddamn profile," Sergeant Battle snapped.

"Profile's last day was yesterday," Patch said, pulling it out of his pocket.

"You're fucking kidding me," Battle said, grabbing the profile and looking at it. "Oh, what the fuck? Your profile expired yesterday?" Sergeant Battle turned slightly. "CROMWELL!"

Roberts climbed in the back of the truck. He moved to the front, putting his back against the cab side of the bed after he dropped his rucksack in the back. As he watched the big Amazon dropped a stack of MRE cases into the back of the truck. Right afterwards someone else threw boxes of ammunition in the back.

Roberts sat there as people got on. The big Specialist Putter got in, carrying the M-60 light machinegun, sitting against the side of the bed in the middle.

"Sit across from me, Lewis," He said. Roberts watched Lewis sit down. She had two cans of ammo on her ruck, and was carrying the heavy bag full of stuff for the M-60.

The argument between Sergeant Battle, Sergeant Stokes, Sergeant Cromwell on one side and just Sergeant Stillwater on the other. Finally Sergeant Cromwell threw her hands up in the air, stomping off. Sergeant Battle shook her head and went back into the building. Stokes shook her head, patted Patch on the left shoulder, and headed for the big 5-ton.

Patch climbed into the back of the truck, clumsily, and sat against the tailgate after he counted how many people were in the back of the truck. The trucks fired up and pulled out in the morning darkness.

"Where are we going?" Roberts asked the woman next to him, a short stocky woman with black hair.

"Atlas," Was all she said. She lit a cigarette, huddling up in her field jacket and Kevlar vest.

Roberts sat there, everyone silent as the truck first left the secure area, then off post. Pulling out his ID at both points so that the guards could log who had left. Once they were off post, the truck rolled through the pre-dawn darkness. Roberts sat in the back of the truck, watching as almost everyone went to sleep, huddled up in their gear or wrapping up in insulated ponchos so they could go to sleep. Roberts was freezing, shivering, as the truck headed down the mountain and then headed out on the highway.

During the ride Roberts noticed that Stillwater just sat at the back of the bed, one arm outside of the truck, smoking cigarettes as the truck drove through the darkness. At one point he pulled a bottle out of his ruck, taking a drink of it and holding it out. One of the Marines accepted the bottle, took a drink, handed it to the other Marine.

When it got to him, Roberts passed on the bottle, watching with surprise as Lewis took a drink off of the bottle and passed it on. Each time the sleeping person was nudged, if they didn't wake up it was passed to the next person. Some people that Roberts thought were asleep held their hand out for the bottle, took a drink without opening their eyes, and passed it on.

The rampant alcohol abuse disgusted Roberts. He knew Lewis wasn't old enough to drink, but she took two different drinks off the bottle.

The bottle was tucked away and Patch went back to staring at the road.

Finally the truck slowed down, turning off the road onto a wide, one-lane road, moving slowly. Roberts saw the two big cargo trucks turn onto the road behind them. It had warmed up, the sun just over the horizon. The truck stopped and Roberts heard a gate being pulled open.

The trucks pulled in, stopping in front of a squat square building. Patch yawned and stretched, then stood up so he could sling his leg over the tailgate. He climbed down awkwardly, limping toward the heavy looking building.

"Let's go, crew," Patch called out, waving toward the building.

Roberts wrinkled his nose at the smell of the place. It had a harsh, astringent scent, like a hospital room that had been scrubbed with disinfectant, with the smell of scorched metal and something that Roberts couldn't put his finger on. He followed everyone into the building, stopping and looked around.

The main room had posters on the walls that showed profiles and face on silhouettes of Soviet tanks and armored vehicles, common Soviet equipment, lists of how to call for air support and artillery, decon procedures, and more. There were also posts of naked men and women that were obviously taken out of pornographic magazines.

"This is the main room. It's the male sleeping area," Patch said, leaning back against the wall. He pointed at a heavy door with a "SECURE AREA" sign on it. "That's the commo room. Stay out of it unless you're Foster, Brubaker, or me unless you're explicitly told to enter," Patch pointed at another door. "That's the female room, it doubles as our emergency medical bay. Most female members of the crew sleep with everyone else, but if you need privacy for whatever reason, you can stay there."

Patch turned and pointed at another door. "That's the bathroom. Co-ed. Deal with it," He thumped his fist against a plexiglass half-circle next to him. "This is the decon shower. It actually has hot water. Use it to wash your nasty ass."

He turned and pointed at another door. "That used to be the male sleeping area, it's been retasked as the armory but we don't use it for that."

"What do we use it for, Sergeant?" Someone asked.

"Haven't decided yet," Patch grunted. "It'll shake out organically," He turned and pointed at the last door. "That's my office. Stay the fuck out unless you knock."

He turned and staggered to the middle of the room. "Drop your rucks over there. If you took the time to swap out your mask filters, wait outside. If you didn't, you're on my shit list. Use the table to switch them out then join us outside."

With that he staggered outside, pushing open the heavy door and into the morning sunlight.

Roberts was glad that he had switched his mask filters already. He went outside, standing in the sunlight, hoping to warm up a little. Only a couple of people hadn't fixed their masks but it only took a few minutes for everyone to move out there.

Roberts counted. Twenty-fix people total. Six of them were from the group that Roberts had been part of at the airport.

"All right, newbies," Patch said, lighting a cigarette. "Welcome to Eff-Ess-Tee-Ess-Three-Seventeen, known as Atlas to most of us. We're a Forward Storage and Transportation Site, specifically we handle the full munitions complement for 8th Infantry and 3rd Armor Divisions. From initial warfare loadout to every single round they'd need to fight the Soviet Union for the first 72 Hours of a Red Steamroller scenario that assumes worst case scenarios of three times known enemy forces."

He began limping forward, waving at everyone to follow him. He pointed at a concrete slab full of satellite dishes and several radio aerials. "That's the Commo Slab. It's the second one. The first one was damaged in last year's explosion. Don't fuck with that shit."

He kept limping forward, pointing at an open air vehicle area that only had a roof held up by massive wooden beams. Under the cover was old 50's style semi-tractors, old trucks and jeeps.

"That's Sadness Row. Don't fuck with them unless you're told to," Patch said.

"What are they for?" One of the women asked.

"They're to replace any vehicle our two supported divisions lose making their way here, or to replace some of the vehicles destroyed during the first 72 hours of high intensity kinetic combat against the Soviet Union," The stocky black haired woman said.

"According to command those vehicles will be replaced with part of 8th ID and 3rd AD's force modernization this year," Patch said. He pointed at another stocky building. "That's the forklift shed. Those are the standard ones we use," Patch kept staggering, pointing at the first of three Quonset huts.

"That's 8th ID's War Stocks. Everything they need to be reloaded if they showed up naked," Patch called out. "Stay out of there unless you have been tasks with inspection or stock rotation. Sometimes in the next ninety days or so we'll be doing stock rotation."

Roberts followed everyone as they kept moving forward. Patch pointed at the middle Quonset Hut.

"That's an ongoing project. Right now Support Squad has moved an MKT into it and is building showers. The intent is to give us more work space and better living conditions," Patch said. "And before you ask, yes, command knows what we're doing. We're using stocks that would be rotated out for surplus sale or destruction anyway."

The next overhanging area was full of rough terrain forklifts, including four massive ones that bent in the middle, as well as bulldozers, backhoes, cranes. At the end of the lot, near where the road started climbing a short hill, there were four armored vehicles.

"That's Dinosaur Row. You will all be trained on all the vehicles, from driving to maintenance," Patch called out. He pointed at the Quonset Hut at the end. "That's 3rd AD's War Stocks. Again, we'll be rotating it out."

After that were flat asphalt areas with fuel pumps that Patch told everyone were refueling points Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie. After that he went halfway up the hill, leading everyone behind him, before he finally stopped.

"Beyond this point is a live-fire area. There are four rules that everyone abides by," Patch said, raising his voice. "They are simple. One: Any enemy fire that hits a living person results in FSTS-317 becoming a live combat zone where the enemy is terminated with maximum prejudice."

Patch lit a cigarette. "Two: Any enemy fire that hits the munitions, see rule one. Three: Any Soviet intrusion of the 1K Zone is to be ignored until they hit our side, at which case, see Rule One."

He sighed and took a deep breath. "Four: If hostilities commence, we give the Soviet soldiers on the other side one chance to surrender. If they refuse, see Rule One."

Patch shook his head. "Lock and load one thirty round magazine. Weapons on safe. Heavy weapons crew members, prepare your weapons."

Roberts could feel everyone's nervousness as they followed instructions. Privately Roberts wondered if the order was even legal as he pulled one of his magazines out of the pouches and slotted it into his weapon.

Patch turned and faced everyone. "There's another set of rules. I'll go over them now. One: Do not go into the grassy area unless it's been marked as safe.  There is still unexploded munitions out there. Anti-personnel bomblets from Hotel-104 MRLS APERS rockets as well as submunitions from eight inch FASCAM APERS artillery shells."

He tapped his ashes onto the ground. "Two: Do not remove your Kevlar vest or helmet. Your mask and weapon stay with you at all times. As I've said, this is a live fire zone."

Roberts felt a chill down his spine as he looked around.

"Three: Two man rule at all times. That means driver and ground-guide, or two man work crews, or just two of you doing a perimeter check," Patch said. "Lastly: My authority out here is complete. I answer to Chief Warrant Officer Three Henley, Sergeant Battle, Lieutenant Dawson, and that's it."

Patch rolled the cherry off his cigarette, toeing it out with his boot. "Lastly, Sergeant Cromwell and her medical assistants hold medical authority out here. They evaluate as well as issue site profiles. As far as medical decisions on this site go, Sergeant Cromwell has total authority."

He tucked the cigarette butt in his pocket. "Are there any questions?"

Roberts stayed silent as everyone just shuffled. The Marine raised his hand.

"Yes?" Patch asked.

"What's my role?" The Marine asked.

Patch nodded. "After I give you guys the three dollar tour, I'll give you Little-Bit's notes and you can go over them with me. We'll determine where her sniper nests are, set you up a pattern, make your supply drops, and you can start crawling around."

"Ayut," The Marine said, nodding.

"Beyond this is the live fire area. It's over fifteen miles of chemical and radiation soaked terrain, covered in APERS munitions. There are four roads, each with a set of bunkers on the west side. At the far side of the site is the Lower Helipad," He pointed at the sole hill to the west. "That's the Upper Helipad. Both have been recently rebuilt. Each row contains twenty-five to thirty Type-IV bunkers of conventional, nuclear, or chemical munitions. From short range ballistic missiles like the Tomahawk to the new MRLS eleven inch six-pack rocket pods to standard five point five six full metal jacket."

Patch started walking again, cresting the hill and stopping at the chainlink fence. "Once we cross the fence, it all gets ugly," He said. He undid the heavy lock, unthreaded the chain, and locked the lock again before pulling the gate away.

Roberts followed, up over the hill, which Roberts realized was a hundred foot tall berm, not a natural hill, and down the other side.

RESTRICTED AREA
HAZARDOUS ZONE
NO UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY
LETHAL FORCE IS AUTHORIZED
RADIATION HAZARD
CHEMICAL HAZARD
UNEXPLODED MUNITIONS HAZARD
LIVE SNIPER AREA

Roberts felt a chill down his spine as he read the sign hanging on the chainlink fence. He followed Patch down the hill, toward an intersection that led left. On the right Roberts could see a double-fence, both fences topped with spools of razor wire and concertina wire, with roughly twenty-feet between them. A concrete lined ditch was on the right, roughly five feet of dirt separating the road from the ditch, and fifty feet between the east side of the ditch and the first fence. To Roberts the ditch was strange looking. A steep angle on the road side and a roughly forty-five degree angle on the opposite side.

"That's the blast ditch. If something goes bad, get to the blast ditch. It actually works. When the site exploded last year a half dozen of us were saved by diving into the blast ditches," Putter said.

"Get ready," Groom muttered.

Roberts looked at her, frowning, when he heard it.

 A sharp, spiteful ZWEEEEP! that went right by. Right afterwards there was a loud KA-RACK! There was amplified laughter, and when Roberts looked over he saw a man standing up with a long rifle, walking toward where there was several other men waving in the distance.

"YOU KNOW THE RULES, ASSHOLE!" Patch bellowed, shaking his fist at the other men.

The only answer he got was mocking laughter from one of the men who had a megaphone.

"Welcome to Atlas," The fat medic said, snapping her gum.

This place sucks too, Roberts sighed to himself.