2/19th Special Weapons Group Area
Secure Area, Alfenwehr
West Germany
29 October, 1987
1500 Hours

I'd shed most of the gear I'd taken with me to the ruined Templar fortress. I'd gone back to the cache twice to bring more gear to the Fortress and two other points. One was an old Quonset Hut from before 2/19th had been deployed to Vietnam and wiped out two months into their deployment. We jokingly called it Rally Point Gold, since we'd found putters, golf balls, and astroturf where the guys who had been sent to Vietnam had built themselves a little golf course to pass the time waiting to be sent to The Nam.

The other was the vehicle graveyard. Over the years we'd gotten new vehicles and taken the old pieces of shit we'd been handed off and dropped them to the south of the airfield. Four of the vehicles were the Bradleys that the motorpool guys had picked up from Atlas and brought back, then written off due to the damage. They'd been largely stripped, but the damaged shells remained.

I'd stashed the gear in one, made sure that snowshoes were stashed away, then started planning on what to do.

Now I was laying on an insulated poncho, sweeping one of the scopes back and forth over the snow. I'd seen movement on top of the barracks, but I wasn't ready to go inside the barracks yet. I was worried about the motorpool.

Somewhere under twenty meters of snow was a conex container on a flatbed trailer full of 105mm nuclear weapons that should have been on a ship heading to The World but instead some lazy fucks just dropped it in the motor pool.

Because of those lazy fucks Chief Henley had me on a search and destroy.

I wanted to settle them down, stop the killing, bring back those soldiers from the brink of madness.

Henley wanted me to kill all of them and secure the weapons.

Dammit, there had to be a way to do both.

There had to be something I could do to shift the odds.

I knew that Chief Henley had consulted Kill Shop, had tapped the analyst section, and had, from what he had said, the orders had come from V Corps ChemCorps liason or even worse, he'd gotten his orders from Blackbriar Ridge.

Blackbriar Ridge would look at the records. Look at my murderous rampage against my family. Look at the body count I'd racked up over the years. Blackbriar wouldn't care about the soldiers from the FSB. Blackbriar dealt in absolutes, in facts, and casualty figures were something for history to worry about.

Blackbriar would have ran the numbers in the cold bloodless methods they used and decided that every member of the FSB, and me, were all expendable to secure the weapons. That was the mantra of Special Weapons.

Use. Until. Destruction.

I didn't like it. I didn't want to do what Henley had told me to do.

Weapons free.

I sighed and put down the scope. I'd spotted two of the tunnels in the first ten minutes, spotted the best entrances and exits, and even figured out plans of attacks. The lizard had helped, there was a small bit of protoplasm in his brain that was skilled at tracking tunnels under snow and sand for prey.

He was salivating at the carnage.

I wasn't.

To be honest, I was tired of death.

So tired I had done something. Something that Cromwell knew, Henley knew, but nobody else knew.

Members of Special Weapons were allowed to drop on request from the program, or request one year recuperation duty after completing three years on active Special Weapons duty.

After what had happened the summer I'd gone toe to toe with the Matrons I had expected my request for a year being a normal soldier or at least at a low stress posting to be kicked back.

Maybe it was what happened in the spring that had made it so Blackbriar had approved my request.

In December I was supposed to transfer to Umatilla Chemical Weapons Depot in eastern Oregon for six months after I spent three months undergoing psychiatric and physical evaluation at Blackbriar Ridge.

There wasn't much chance I would pass it.

Sighing, I raised the scope again and swept it over the snow again. No change. The lizard dutifully marked the tunnels for me but I ignored his urgings to head down and start following Henley's orders.

I set aside the scope again and laid my forehand on my padded forearm.

I was tired to death, tired of killing.

The mountain had already come close to taking me. I had been with one foot in the dark and cold before Aine and Cromwell had pulled me out, restored me to a semblance of life.

I could still feel the cold in my shoulder, slivers of ice where the knife stabbed deep into my chest, and I could feel a small part of me that felt like maybe I belonged in the dark and cold.

...dirty nasty filthy boy should have drowned you at birth...

I shuddered as my mother's snarl wound through my brain and the lizard silenced her by firing adrenaline into my bloodstream.

Movement caught my eye and I raised up the scope.

Six people. Cold weather gear, two with M-16's, the other four carrying what looked like boxes of MRE's. Three boxes each. It was a food run, they were coming from the chow-hall to the barracks. I did another sweep with the scope, saw another group, same makeup, heading for the motorpool.

Grabbing the rifle I quickly reattached the scope, bringing the weapon around and sighting back down the scope. The weapon was wrapped and winterized, to prevent anyone from spotting it easily or to keep the weapon from freezing up.

The team heading for the motorpool dropped it about a hundred paces from the buried building, cracking off a flare and turning around. I tracked the second team until the team dropped it about a hundred paces from the barracks, cracked a flare, and backed off again.

I laid there and watched, not moving as the two teams met up and headed back toward the chowhall. I kept an eye out, watching closely.

I made the two teams that exited the tunnels by the barracks and the motorpool. I found it interesting that the team for the barracks went straight back to the tunnels, while the ones for the motorpool headed back and waited until the barracks group vanished before going into another entrance.

So they weren't all feral. How interesting. At least the ones at the chow-hall were not feral, trying to make sure everyone got food. The ones in the motorpool were being careful of the ones in the barracks.

That meant the ones in the barracks were the problem.

The motorpool group was the closest, but the chow hall group controlled the food and was rationing it out.

I briefly wondered if that rationing had led to mutiny and that's what led to the violence. Once the blood started to spill Alfenwehr would take its toll.

...goddamn you, Henley, for using me like this...

I waited until they had all gone back to their respective buildings, watching what tunnels they used, then gave it another fifteen minutes before getting up. I knew they hadn't seen me, I was on a ridge, further up the mountain, and there was no reason to look for anyone up there anyway. Point Charlie was where some of us would go and drink away particularly nice summer days when we were sent back to group. I had to move carefully, the water that ran out of the crack in the cliff face, run down the little glade, to waterfall down the cliff in front of me, had all frozen solid. Climbing cleats, the ice axe, and the rope I'd already set in.

Part of me thought I was being foolish. I should have taken the shots, but I wasn't Little-Bit, no way I could hit twelve targets before they all dug in good enough for me to lose them. Little-Bit could have ran the bolt so goddamn fist that most people would have sworn it was one long continuous shot.

I kept moving down the cliff face, confident that I wouldn't be spotted, then took a break at the bottom of the cliff, taking a few hits off of my O2 bottle.  Once down I relaxed for a bit, let my core temperature drop so I didn't sweat much more. Every drop of sweat was trapped by my clothing and could turn into ice if I hit another cold snap. I took my time to slowly put on my snowshoes, taking one sip of oxygen for every ten breaths.

Satisfied I was as oxygenated as I was going to get I moved on, heading toward the Chow Hall. To be honest, I was surprised nobody was in the clinic. It seemed like the Dispensary would be a priority target for any group looking to control Group Area. It had medical equipment, supplies, places to sleep, its own generators, a positive air system with some kind of fancy crap that increased the oxygen content of the air. Not much, just a few percentage points, enough to keep people from passing out if the pressure dropped too far.

All of it went through my mind as I ghosted between the tree tops. The wind was cutting, and I could see it blowing the snowpack up at the top, where I was, down lower a fraction of an inch at a time. Again, I avoided the trees. They were buried under at least ten meters of snow, probably closer to forty feet than fifty at least.

When I spotted the chow-hall I stopped. Someone was in command enough to force his men to leave the building and keep the top of the high peaked roof clean. They had also dug out around it in a fan, making sure that wind or wet snowfall wouldn't drop it on top of the roof.

That was surprising. Which meant that they hadn't gone totally feral.

I stopped at one of the trees, taking the time to bury some of my equipment and mark the trunk on the north side, opposite the buried rifle and ammunition. I even left my snowshoes hidden, not because I didn't need them, but I didn't want to give a potential enemy anything he could use to take the conflict further than it had already gone.

All I was going to take with me was my knife and the Colt .45's. No ammunition for any other weapons, no grenades, no warfare equipment before a couple canisters of CS and my mask, hidden under my parka.  One of the CS grenades I shifted from my pocket to a carefully prepared spot where I could get at it and deploy it quickly. I could still get to the mask quickly. I mean, not so fast I'd go from bare faced to having my mask on and cleared in less than 9 seconds, but I could get it out of the parka and on my face in under 13 seconds.

Special Weapons standards.

Still, I was careful with what gear I was carrying.

I wanted to appear as least threatening as possible.

That done I headed for the chow-hall. I'd passed their tunnel entrances a hundred yards back.

It was weird, only a half mile from the chow hall to the barracks, two thousand six hundred feet (I'd actually distanced it out a couple times during Wednesday Training), eight hundred sixty seven paces to the rear corner of the barracks. Eighteen hundred feet from the back corner to the front entryway, six hundred paces.

A lifetime in fourteen hundred paces.

For some it had been too much. Hell, for me it had almost proved too much on more than once occasion.

...we've got to get out of the lightning before the mountain slaughters us....

I moved forward, ice crackling on my makeshift leg brace. The whole center of my left thigh felt like it was made of broken glass, grinding together. By the time I reached the edge of the sloped snow I knew they'd spotted me, were watching me.

That fact made me miss Little-Bit, the knowledge that she had my back, that she was keeping an eye on me through the scope of her XM-82 sniper rifle.

Near the back of the chowhall, where the loading dock was, there was an open hole, a slanted walkway, and two men were leaving it. They were blurry, just shapes. I'd lost my glasses somewhere and everything was little more than a blur.

Just another disadvantage. Now worse than trying to do things blind drunk or with a concussion. The former wasn't as often as I'd like and the latter was all too frequent for my personal tastes.

I stopped at the edge, waiting for the two dark blurs to get closer. Both of them were shorter than me, the one on the right shorter this his companion. They moved forward and I could sense their nervousness, the lizard licking his chops at such obvious weakness.

"Who goes there?" One asked. My vision was too blurry to let me see their mouths.

"Sergeant Stillwater, 2/19th Special Weapons Group Rear Detachment laison," I told them. I could feel a tickle in my chest and wondered how much of it was the cold air and how much of it was previous damage.

"Who?" One asked. Not the first one. His tone was full of disbelief and a slight edge of rage.

I repeated what I had said, keeping my hands out to the side and taking several steps toward them, and added; "I'm here to talk to whoever is in charge out here."

"That would be Captain Rebel," the first one answered. Another set of steps, they were coming into focus finally. Field jackets, gloves, cold weather caps. Their faces red with the cold.

"Are we going to stand out here all fucking day, or are you going to take me to see him?" I snarled, rolling my shoulders and stepping forward. Both men swam into focus, one with Specialist rank, the other with PFC.

"Listen, asshole..." the second one, the Specialist started.

"Sergeant," I snapped, using the same tone I'd use out at Atlas talking to som moron that another squad leader had pawned off on me.

"Wha..." he started.

"My rank is Sergeant, I'm not your fucking buddy, I'm not 'asshole', and I'm Active Duty, not National Guard, so you better start remembering to use ranks, you little shitheads," I told them both. "You taking me to Captain Rebel, or should I just hike my ass back down this mountain and leave you assholes to free to death?"

They looked at each other, then shrugged.

"Come on then," The PFC said.

They led me across the roof, to the entrance ramp. They'd packed the snow, which was nice, since I had been floundering in knee deep snow for almost an hour.

No guards on the loading dock doors, and they weren't locked either, the SPC just pulling open the door and waving me in.

The pantry, now that was guarded by two men with M-16A1's, good weapons without cracks in the plastic, worn bluing, or other obvious damage I could make out with blurred vision. I could smell fried ham and bacon.

"This way, Sergeant," the PFC said, opening the door that led to the kitchen. I followed him in, t through the main kitchen, past the frying line, and out into the main dining area. There was a secondary room, two of them, off to the left, and the PFC led me to the first one.

I'd counted about sixty people. Most of them were in their brown T-shirts, grouped up into small groups and talking to one another around lanterns. I saw almost no weapons, just a few knives flashing in the lantern light. The lizard confirmed it was sixty to a man.

Sixty people I didn't want to kill.

The room was lit by a lantern, judging by the smell it was bacon grease, with five women and two men in the room. The whole mess hall smelled of cooked ham.

"Captain Rebel, this guy claims to be part of Rear Detachment," The PFC started.

A woman stood up, "Really?" She said, disdain dripping from her voice.

"Sergeant Stillwater, 2/19th Special Weapons Group, assigned to Rear Detachment liaison," I told her, standing at attention and snapping a salute. She returned it automatically. "I was sent up here because your unit is out of contact and there are secure items up here that have to guarded."

She was silent for a long moment. "You're squinting," She said softly. "You can't see?"

"Snow blindness and a head injury," I told her honestly. I pointed at the bench. "Mind if I sit down? We have a lot to cover."

The woman on the end scooted over slightly as Captain Rebel nodded. I sat down and sighed, my left leg sticking out. I reached down and grabbed my thigh, squeezing it and rubbing it. It was warmer in the chow hall, I'd give it that.

"Care to explain what you're doing here, Sergeant, Stillwater was it?" Captain Rebel asked.

"Yes, ma'am, Sergeant Stillwater," I answered. I reached up and moved the goggles off my eyes and then pulled down the cold weather mask before pushing back my parka hood. I squinted at the Captain, trying to bring her into focus, but the lamp light didn't help and I gave up.

"I'm here on orders, ma'am," I told her, keeping my voice level. I wanted to reach out and strangle her, but settled for just telling her what was going to happen in no uncertain terms. "Your unit was sent of here to guard sensitive items, classified data, and hold a strategic position that is vital to the current stalemate we enjoy with the Soviet Union. The unit was to be prepared to take over the 2/19th mission should hostilities with the USSR worsen."

"We know that," One of the other women snapped at me. "So why the fuck are you here? Is it to coordinate a rescue?"

I ignored her. Time to put on my best Blackbriar face.

"You've been up here less than two months and already you've lost control of the Battalion, lost possession of the secure items and classified data," I kept telling her, pulling off my trigger mittens and inserts, tucking them into my parka pocket. "My team was attacked at the barracks by elements of your unit that you have control of. Full stop."

"That wasn't my fault," the Captain said.

...no, it never is an officer's fault, is it?...

Staring at where I thought her eyes were I just set my hands on the table. "What happened to the Colonel or Lieutenant Colonel in charge of this mess?" I asked.

"She's a casualty," She started to say.

"So you are next in the chain of command," I stated, keeping my words crisp. I knew I was slurring slightly, a legacy of my head injury. "You should have reestablished the chain of command, should have taken control of the situation."

"You don't know what it's like..." one of the men said.

The table shook as I slammed my hand against the table. "Fuck I don't. I have been part of Rear Detachment multiple times, and every time we have safeguarded and secured classified data and material. This was the first year I wasn't part of Rear D, the first year that my unit let another unit handle it, and not only have you lost control of the situation, you lost control of your own people."

I was being unfair and I knew it. But I wasn't here to be fair.

"Now see here, Sergeant," another voice started.

"Shut. Up." I snapped, turning to look at him. Both men were at the far end of the table. "I don't want to hear it," I turned back and stared at the Captain. "I only have one question for you, Captain."

"Which is?" Her voice was tense.

"Where is the rest of the leadership of One-Three-Two?" I asked her.

There was silence for a moment. I leaned forward slightly, shifting my left hand up into the sleeve of my parka.

"I find it hard to believe that the entirety of the upper command structure of 32nd Forward Support Battalion has been completely wiped out, without a single member left over," I said, staring at her.

"Where are they?" I asked.

"When's rescue coming?" One of the women who hadn't spoken yet asked.

"There is no rescue, not unless someone gets control of this shit," I told her, still staring at the Captain. "Where is the rest of Headquarters Company?"

There was silence for a moment.

Someone pressed the cold barrel of a pistol against my neck.

"Shall we show him, Captain?" The person behind me asked, "Since rescue ain't coming, I don't see why we need him."

"I didn't want it to come to this," I told her, still staring at her. "My orders insisted on it, but I was hoping that I could find another way of solving this."

Her face shifted, and I wondered what the expression was since her face was all blurry.

"How are you supposed to report to your CO?" the woman next to me asked, turning toward me. I didn't look at her. "How are you supposed to get evac?"

"I'm not," I told her. The barrel pressed harder against my neck. "This is a one way trip for me."

"Bullshit," the woman next to me snapped, reaching up and grabbing the bandage wrapped around my head. She yanked at me, and I went with it, the barrel of the pistol sliding away, the pressure he was putting on the pistol to push the barrel against my neck translating into the barrel sliding along the side of my face and then pulling away as she kept pulling me toward her, pulling my head around.

She saw my destroyed eye and gasped, letting go.

But it was too late.

The lizard has already slapped the button.

...now...