Tag: platoon

Oscar Mike – Chapter Five

humvee_gunner1

Insanity in individuals is something rare – but in groups, parties, nations and epochs, it is the rule.

-Friedrich Nietzsche

The vehicle began to rumble as Whitman slowed their speed to a cautious crawl. Dezba’s eyes were trained on his sector, spying the junction up ahead through his Starlight. The filter was down and all he could see at the moment was a small circle of morning haze with a target dot in the middle. Behind him, Morris was doing the same with his M16 while Batista monitored from their roof with the .50 cal.

On their nav screen, the junction was marked with a bet, red line. As the first turn on their selected route, it would take them to the gates of Sombrillo, and their First Objective. As the lead element of First Platoon, they were the first to have eyes on the target. Any Whiskeys that popped up would be theirs to kill first.

Behind them, the rest of Bravo Company followed, every platoon arranged two by two – an army of Humvees and fighting vehicles with the armored fist of the Brigade Combat Team holding up the rear. This made the going tense and the anticipation palatable, knowing that they were the spear point on a long, fighting column.

And yet, Dezba felt strangely at ease. He and his squad had done this enough times now to feel composed and natural about it. But given what he had been going through a little over an hour beforehand, it seemed odd. How was it that writing or talking about that night was impossible for him, but something like this came easily? In what world did that make sense?

This one, he reminded himself. Such crap was natural in this world. The only way to make sense of it was to accept that it didn’t make sense, and never would…

“Contact!” yelled Batista. Dezba’s snapped his attention back to the road and began scanning with his scope. He spotted what something about one-hundred meters from the intersection and roaming about. They were just visible in the morning haze, but through his scope, he could discern the telltale signs of rotted flesh and milky-white eyes.

“I got eyes on six – no, eight – Whiskeys at two o’clock,” he said.

“That’s them, Sarge! No other contacts from up here,” replied Batista.

Dezba scanned around the small mass of lurking bodies. Beyond them, the burned out building of the DreamCatcher loomed. To the far right, he could see the walls that encircled the town, apparently still intact and with the gates closed. There were no signs of anyone waving flags of flailing their arms from either. For all intents and purposes, their newfound friends were alone and standing in the clear.

Grabbing the handset from the radio, Dezba keyed the mike and called it in. “Viper One Actual,” he paused after saying it, fighting the influx of bad feelings the designation produced. He could tell the others in the vehicle noticed, and quickly tried to push past it. Now was simply not the time to be lamenting. “This is Viper One-One. We got eyes on eight Tangos outside the objective area.”

Rollins came back a second later. “Roger that, One-One. Do you have eyes on the town, over?”

“Affirmative, One Actual. No sign of civilians. Walls appear to be intact, front door shut and locked.”
Batista called from the roof. “I got a perfect shot, sir. Do I engage?”

Dezba waited for the reply. The Lieutenant was taking his time, no doubt afraid to give the all clear unless he was able to confirm the sighting for himself. A rookie tendency, he knew, and a pain in the ass to deal with. Dezba began to tap his finger against the side of the handset impatiently. Once again, he became aware of how the others might perceive this. Now was not the time to be displaying doubts about their new CO’s competence either.

“Roger that, One-One. Engage.”

Dezba hung up the handset and slapped the side of his door, yelling to Batista. “Light em up!”

He barely got the words out before Batista opened up with the vehicles .50 cal. The gun began popping off, sending empty casings against the roof and a loud thrum through the vehicle. In the distance, the hot, red tracers found purchase in the morning mist. On the receiving end, the roaming Whiskeys were turned into chunked meat, limbs flying, bodies ripped apart, and the haze turning to a maroon-colored mist.

Bastista quickly terminated his fire to conserve round, but it had been enough. What was left of the Whiskeys were spread out on the ground, and only one or two appeared to be moving at all. Dezba and Morris squeezed off a few precision shots when they got closer, taking out the heads of the one’s that remained active. Only single shots, but they made them count. When it came time to make the turn off the highway, none were left moving.

The junction was now upon them and the nav console showed them intersecting with the crooked red line. Dezba grabbed the handset and keyed the mike. “Viper One-One to Viper Actual. All targets are dispatched. Making the first turn now.”

“Roger that, One-One,” replied Rollins.

Whitman brought them about quickly and rolled onto the connecting road. The remains of the eight Whiskeys were now directly ahead of them, arranged in a wide pile of meat, bones and viscera. Whitman gave the vehicle a bit more gas and aimed their wheels directly at the mess. Dezba saw what he was doing and yelled out.

“Private, don’t – !” Too late. They hit the first bump and everyone in the cabin was tossed around. They hit a few more as they mashed the last of the remains that were still large enough to pass under the wheels and complaints followed. As soon as they were clear, Dezba yelled out at their driver. “PRIVATE! What the fuck?! They’re dead already!”

“Just making sure, boss,” he said happily.

“Fucking redneck…” Dezba breathed, though he couldn’t fault him too much for it. Over-zealousness was not a bad thing, not at the moment. Given the alternative, it was downright preferable.

Up ahead, the morning haze was beginning to dissipate and they could clearly see the closed gate standing before them. They were less than 100 meters away now, and still there were no sign of people waving or trying to get their attention. When they finally came to within a stone’s throw, Whitman slowed the vehicle down and brought them to a halting stop.

Dezba waved to Whitman to kill the engine, and something approaching total quiet followed. Carefully, he opened his door and popped his head out the side. Behind them, the vehicles of the 1st Platoon drove up behind them and came to a stop, forming up in a straight line. The near-silence continued, for several interminable long seconds…

“What gives, man? They must have heard the gunshots.”

It was Morris saying this from the backseat. Majorca quickly replied. “Wouldn’t matter. They were radioed, told to man the walls and signal for help. And even if they didn’t get the message, everyone knows the drill by now.”

“Only one explanation,” said Whitman, though he did not say it. There was really no need.

Dezba felt like he should say something, express some optimism. But the outward signs didn’t look so good. Stepping from the vehicle, he got out on onto the road and shut the door.

“Hold tight,” he said. “I’m heading back to talk to the LT.”

Slinging his weapon over his shoulder, he began walking back towards 4th squad’s vehicle. There was no sense radioing it in. At this point, everyone could see for themselves. All that remained was the order to get inside and confirm it.

He got to 4th’s vehicle just as Rollins and Grayson were emerging.

“No signs, huh, Sergeant?” said the former.

“Negative, sir. They’ve had every chance. Even if their wireless was broken, they should have heard us on approach. Not unless they’re all hiding and have got sound-proofed basements and panic rooms.”

Rollins let out a deep sigh and nodded. He looked over his shoulder to the highway, where the balance of Bravo Company and 2nd Battalion was now coming to a stop. The Abrams’ and Bradley’s of the Brigade Combat Team were there too, parking amongst them and looking like a bunch of hungry predators just waiting for the chance to pounce.

Once again, Dezba could sense Rollins’ indecision. He knew the signs of it, a new and untested officer, distressed about not being in control of all the particulars and worrying about making a mistake. He tried to remember that this was the man’s first op and kept his mouth shut. He was sure Grayson would nudge him in the right direction if and when the time came.

Luckily, that didn’t prove necessary.

“Alright, Sergeant,” he said finally. “Take your squad up and find a way over the wall. Once you’re inside, secure the entrance and open the doorway. We’ll move in and secure it for the BCT.”

“Yes, sir,” said Dezba and turned to head back to his vehicle. Behind him, Rollins jumped on his own radio and began calling it in. He could hear the strain in his voice. Not at all sure, but at least he was playing it by the book. On the balance sheet, he was doing okay… so far.

Dezba was back to his vehicle within seconds, his weapon in hand and his feet suddenly itchy. Whatever else might be happening, they had a mission now, and he was feeling eager to get to it. And everyone else was looking eager too, or perhaps they were just anxious to get moving. Either way, it would work in their favor.

“What’s the word, Sarge?” asked Majorca, his SAW raised and ready.

“Word is, get on your fucking feet. We got a wall to scale!”

“Ah crap,” said Batista, squirming within his ringmount and crawling out onto the roof. The others muttered various complaints too. Apparently, they weren’t sharing his adventurous spirit right now. Reaching to his side, Dezba touched his M9 in its sheath and felt another surge of excitement. The thought of piercing some Whiskey heads with his trusty face fucker had a way of doing that to him.

“And remember your bayonets,” he said. “We’ll probably be looking at some close quarters combat once we get inside!”

Oscar Mike – Chapter Four

zombie_briefing

Success depends upon previous preparation, and without such preparation there is sure to be failure.

-Confucius

In the distance, the thunderous roar of jet engines could be heard. Their loud shrieks announced that they were flying into the morning sky, soon to descend on their target area and begin softening it up. While they waited for the noise to die down and the briefing to begin, Dezba looked around at all the familiar faces of 1st Platoon. This included Rickson of 2nd Squad, Tate of 3rd, and Saunders standing in for 5th.

Dezba looked to her last and nodded, receiving a smile in turn. Enough time had passed that he knew how to read her expressions. And at that moment, he could tell they were both feeling the same about their current situation. Once more unto the breach, their platoon leading Bravo Company’s charge. But without their CO to lead them.

He also Grayson standing behind Rollins, still the NCO of 4th and still the one making sure that the man who wore the silver bars had everything he needed to get the job done. A good platoon sergeant he was, at no point showing the slightest sign that he was pissed or worried over the shuffle that had taken place.

Perhaps he had the right of it. Dezba knew that whatever misgivings he had right now, there really was nothing that could be done about it. The new Lieutenant was about to be tested, that was certain. But he also knew the rest of them were going to be closely scrutinized as well. Haynes was never one to forget or forgive so easily. And from the top down, just about everyone in the platoon had pissed him off at this point.

Nothing left to do now but do their jobs and hope it all worked out. Maybe they’d get lucky and stay under the radar for this op.

Rollins waited for the noise of the the jets to die down a little more and quickly got to talking.

“Alright, people, listen up because we only got enough time to go over this once. Last night, aerial reconnaissance did another fly over the communities that sit to the south-east of town. Word is, they didn’t notice any sign of civilians, and we know for a fact that they haven’t been using their mobile transmitters for about a week. Command now believes they’ve been compromised, and we’re to proceed accordingly.”

Tate raised his fist. “Sir, does that mean we’re knocking over Sombrillo before hitting Espanola?”

“Negative, Sergeant. Our orders remain the same, confirm the presence of Whiskeys in or around the compound, then clear the front door. The Brigade Combat Team will still be rolling through to sanitize the place once we’ve determined the status of the community. A reminder, those heavy tanks that will be leading the charge will be shooting M1028 canister rounds almost exclusively. Those things can turn an entire horde into pulp, but aren’t exactly known for precision shooting. So we better be sure about the status of those houses. We roll in, we check it out, then we let the heavies do their thing.”

He looked around to see if anyone had any more questions so far. Satisfied, he moved on. “In terms of air support, the 150th is sending a few Spectres our way. They’ll be on station just as soon as we find our way into the town proper. Any spots not currently painted as hostile territory will still be intact, which means we will have the option of blasting them. But I don’t think I need to tell anyone that at that point, confirming the presence of civilians will once again be our priority. Captain Garcia and everyone above him were clear about not wanting any civilians dead. Not by our hands.”

Everyone assembled nodded and grunted an affirmative. Rollins looked around for any more questions. Dezba raised his arm.

“Sir, is the ammo provision still in effect for small arms?”

Rollins looked the slightest bit uncomfortable and cleared his throat before answering. “Yes, Sergeant. The Captain stressed that all grunts are to make sure their bayonets are fixed before we go in. If we can avoid wasting bullets on the undead if and when they get in close, so much the better. And the same holds true for air and heavy tank support. As the current ROE goes, if it is believed that we can take an objective without covering fire, we are to do so.”

“And who’s call is that, sir?” asked Saunders. Rollins looked at her, his discomfort giving way to visible annoyance.

“Mine, Sergeant. And I’ll be with you all every step of the way. So if you’re not sure, you run it by me first.”

Dezba looked to Saunders, noted the same look of annoyance forming on her face. He wanted to say something, intervene with some sound advice of how she shouldn’t be poking the bear. But it just wasn’t possible to get the shit back in the horse at this point. He chose instead to distract Rollins with another question.

“Sir, just how many survivors are we expecting to find inside the town?”

Rollins looked back to him and didn’t seem too surprised by the question. “Well, that’s the good news, Sergeant. The same aerial reconnaissance that declared Sombrillo and the other settlements dead claimed they saw signs of people being dug in on the east and west banks. Which means the horde didn’t get em all.”

Dezba nodded. “That is good news, sir.”

Rollins smiled mildly. “If there’s nothing else, then…” he nodded to Grayson, who immediately started barking orders.

“Alright, get to your Victors and ready your squads. We are wheels up in ten mikes!”

They immediately dispersed, each squad leader heading off to their vehicle. Dezba was sure to stall long enough to get behind Saunders and follow her a few steps. He waited til Rollins and Grayson were out of earshot too, and sidled up next to her.

“Sergeant,” he said, announcing himself.

“Sneaky,” she said, with a roll of the eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to be reporting to your Victor?”

“Yeah, but… I kind of wanted to ask you something before we shipped off.”

“Oh yeah, what’s that?”

He stopped her and turned to face her head on. He could instantly tell from the look in her eyes that she wasn’t too happy to be talking right now, and any discussion on the subject he had in mind wouldn’t go too well. But it wasn’t something he could let slide. Another chance might not come…

“Is your… head in this? I mean, are you looking to end your career in this man’s army or what?”

Saunders looked away and unslung her weapon, cocked it once to check the chamber. “I don’t have time for this. We’re pushing out.”

“Andrea, I miss him too. And we all know it was a shit move, the way he got canned. But we gotta press on, right?”

Saunders avoided his eyes. Even though they weren’t turning red or getting moist at the moment, he could tell she was holding back quite a bit. He couldn’t blame her, he knew what was going through her mind at exactly that point.

“And it’s not your fault, so don’t even go there. Whatever issues Haynes had with Braun go way further back than anything that happened in the past few months. The guy’s pretty much had a hard on for him since the Mage first put him in charge of 2nd Battalion. We’ve all had to deal with him at one point or another, so don’t think this is about you here.”

Saunders began shaking her head. Her face was softening a little, but she was still nowhere near convinced. And naturally, she raised a perfectly valid counter point.

“The guys a hardliners and an asshole, and you’re telling me you don’t have any qualms about following him into battle?”
Dezba sighed. “Yeah, I do… But who amongst us hasn’t had an asshole commander at one time or another? We’ve been lucky, having guys like Braun and the Mage in charge for so long. Maybe we got soft.”

She finally looked up to meet his eyes, reslung her weapon and took a deep breath. “Guess it’s time to get hard again, huh?”

“Maybe,” Dezba said, with a shrug. “You sure you’re up for this?”

Saunders made an irate sigh. “I’m fine, okay. The doc cleared me for duty and the headaches haven’t been coming back.”

“Not what I was referring to, Sergeant.” He looked her straight in the eye and lowered his voice a few decibels. “How are you doing otherwise?”

To that, she emitted a low sigh and looked at the ground. She gave the dirt a few gentle kicks with the toe of her boot.

“I’m sad and I’m pissed. I miss Mill and Jones, and I miss my CO. But what can we do? We have to move on and set our sights on the next thing. Not like there’s anything that can be done about it now, right?”

Dezba nodded. “I’m sure it’ll all work out in the end.”

“Right…” she said, looking resolute at last. “Now let’s go kill some ugly fuckers!”

“Leave none undead,” Dezba replied.

Oscar Mike – Chapter One

zombie_kid

Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

-Albert Einstein

His hand trembled as soon as the pen touched the paper. He had noticed the tremors as soon as he awoke, but somehow, committing to the act seemed to make it worse. He took a deep breath and pressed the pen’s tip to the paper harder, hoping the added pressure would steady it. But it still found enough room to wiggle on him, creating a small, indented scribble on the page. Removing it, he dropped the pen in his lap and began scratching at the skin on his left arm. At moments like this, the itching and phantom sensations became worse, and the sight of the prosthetic mounted at the end of it didn’t help.

He grunted as he scratched, trying to vent the frustration. How unacceptable was it that he couldn’t even start this simplest of tasks? Of all the things he had witnessed in recent years, all the things he had been forced to endure, was he really going to be defeated by the simple act of keeping a journal? It seemed stupid to keep one as it was, but somehow, he felt he owed it to Andrews to record the many things he could not convey to him directly anymore.

Grabbing the pen again, he put it to the pad and quickly began writing…

Andrews said I should keep a log, so I’m starting now…

That seemed about as good a place as any to begin, a simple admission of what he was doing. A statement of purpose, which required very little thought or planning. Writing the next line proved equally difficult though. Once he had stated the obvious, it was hard to know what to say next. Looking around him, he chose something equally obvious – the days itinerary:

Sitting in formation, outside Espanola, waiting on the command to move out. We’re clearing the town at last. Plenty of talk about the Whiskeys that still remain there. Some people think we might even find some enemy survivors, the leftovers from when those bastards attacked us. Hoping to find some of our own too. People got left behind when we pulled out, wasn’t good. But we were in a mess after that firefight with our own troops. It was fucked. Looking forward to getting some answers on that soon…

He took a deep breath. The words had begun to flow, but he felt as though he were getting the slightest bit off topic. And his fingers were shaking again. The purpose of this journal was to catalog what he and Andrews used to talk about, not to document their units maneuvers. If he had wanted to do that, he would apply for officer training.

Grinding his teeth, he put the pen back to the pad and did his best to get the words out.

Dreamed about Amanda and Iina again. They were alive. We were out about town, the sun was shining. was carrying her in that chest pouch she had. She was smiling at me, they both were. Laughing too. I can remember what it sounds like when I sleep. Too hard to remember when I’m awake. It was wonderful.

He paused again. His fingers were no longer trembling so much, but he felt a terrible sensation welling up inside him. He was poised on the edge of it now, and it felt like the act might overwhelm and crush him. But he had to finish the entry. He owed Andrews that much, and if he couldn’t write it out, he could at least sum it up succinctly:

Didn’t end well. Never does.

He clicked the pen shut and tossed it against the dashboard. He heard a small rustling in the back too, the sound of Majorca shifting in his sleeping bag. Caught between anger and fear of waking his people up, he sighed heavily and just sat there. Once more, it seemed, he had the hit the wall and couldn’t get past it. Every time he tried, it proved to be too much and he had to pull back, leaving him with the sense that he had failed horribly.

In truth, the entire exercise seemed quite pointless and stupid. What good was it to write about these things, the pictures in his head that kept him up at night and haunted the little sleep he did managed to get? The dreams were always the same. The reality was always the same. They were dead and it was his fault. No amount of talking about it had shaken that conclusion, and being told otherwise never seemed to change it. So why bother with it?

In the end, the only thing that ever seemed to work was to just wait for it to pass. Wait for morning to come, the sun to rise, and the darkness to retreat back inside. Clench his fist until the tremors subsided, and get on with the day. Granted, he knew that next night would be the same, that no amount of exhaustion, liquor or drugs would make it any different.

And sooner or later, he knew he’d be joining them, and that’s what mattered. Eventually, the exhaustion would end, the pain would stop. He would no longer be able to keep moving and would surrender to the darkness. And on the other side of that… who knew? Maybe he would see Amanda and Iina again, maybe not.

That thought always gave him pause. Was it bad that he was thinking that death might prove to be a release? Did that mean that he was somehow hoping for it, or even willing to make it happen?

Can’t be, he thought, shaking his head. He had had enough brushes with death of late to know that it was the last thing he wanted. No matter how hard being awake proved to be, there really seemed to be no part of him that wanted to lay down and die. Not now. Not anytime soon.

Drawing what little comfort he could from that, Dezba looked to the far horizon and noted how the sun was beginning to break there. With his plans to spend some time writing thwarted, he made up to his mind to get out and go for a walk. In no time at all, the entire Battalion would be awake, and he would be forced to contend with another day. Might as well enjoy the cool morning while it was still there.

Grabbing hold of his M4, he checked the chamber and made sure the safety was on. He then carefully opened the cabin door and slid out, putting his boots to the ground and stretching his back. Turning around, he carefully closed the door and stepped back to take a look at his squad’s temporary quarters.

In the back seat, Majorca was still lying against the seat and in his sleeping bag, snoring quietly. Underneath, Whitman had the choice position, sleeping next to a soft, cool patch of earth, his bag enveloping him and keeping him warm. That left Morris and Batista leaning up against the passenger side wheels. Their bags were done up especially tight but were open at the top, keeping out the night-time chills but leaving their faces cool and exposed.

He smiled as he watched them, their faces looking perfectly at peace. Their weapons were where they could get at them in a hurry, if need be. But they really didn’t look too worried about that at the moment. Wherever they were right now, nothing was pursuing them. Nothing was menacing the ones they loved, turning them into monsters, and forcing them to deal with it.

He looked next to the surrounding field, which was slowly being lit up by the advance of daylight. Arranged in a semi-circular fashion, the other vehicles of 1st Platoon sat and waited. In each, or arranged around them at each wheel, their men and women in uniform slept and waited. Here and there, others walked the line and maintained watch, keeping an eye while the others slept. These were the unlucky bastards who had drawn sentry duty for the early morning, the loneliest time of all…

Beyond their platoon, several more vehicular formations were arranged in the same fashion, their crews still asleep until their NCOs and officers roused them. He knew that if he were to get on top of his squad’s Humvee to get a better vantage point, the formations would stretch on for some distance. On high, all the bodies, all the Humvees, and all the armored vehicles and tanks – hell, the entire strength of 2nd Battalion – would be visible to him.

And yet, it was enough to know they were all there. Being in front wasn’t so bad when you knew you had so many behind you. Even if their numbers had thinned since the last time they had assembled like this, even if they were short several important souls, he still drew some relief knowing that what remained of them was all here. It was such that his nerves began to feel calm for a change, and he even considered slipping back into the cabin to get in a few more winks.

“Hmm… Sarge?”

Dezba turned suddenly to the source of the noise and saw Majorca looking at him from the back seat. He noted the look of sudden fear and the way his hands were slowly going up.

“What is it, Corporal?”

“Just… saw you… standing there, sir,” he said, hesitantly. “Why are you pointing that at me?”

Dezba looked down at his M4, which was currently trained on the back door of the Humvee. He quickly slung it behind his back and raised his hand contritely.

“Sorry… you kind of spooked me there.”

“Alright…” Majorca nodded and slowly lowered his hands. “Hope the safety was on.”

“Yeah!” Dezba said, quickly and with a small chuckle.

Slowly, Majorca began to sit up and unzip himself from the bag. Beneath his window, Morris was beginning to come alive too, their conversation having clearly disturbed him. The reaction was spreading to the others as well, with Whitman poking his head out from under the vehicle and Batista rolling over on the ground.

“Shit, what time is it?” asked Whitman.

Dezba checked his watch. “Just shy of oh-four-thirty, Private,” he said. “We should pack up and get ready. We move at oh-five-hundred. The Lieutenant’s likely to be coming around soon.”

Whitman groaned, as did Morris and Majorca. Batista resisting complaining, but was making noises the moment he got to his feet. Slowly, they went about the very tired process of getting their weapons and loading up the Humvee. It wasn’t long before the obvious complaints began to flow.

“Gonna be nice sleeping on a real bed soon. Can’t tell you how sick I am of sleeping in this shit can.”
Whitman scoffed at Morris’ comment. “Yeah, bitch some more, replacement. I was sleeping in this ‘shit can’ when you guys were still a bunch of pussy-whipped civies.”

“What are you trying to say, Billy? That it’s my fault this piece of shit doesn’t have a fold out cot or reclining chairs?”
Majorca was just finished packing his bag up and intervened. “I believe what the Private is trying to say is that this vehicle is his pride and joy. One learns to love this thing and find comfort where one can.”

“‘One’ sounds like he’s full of shit…” replied Morris. Finished with their bags, Majorca and Morris tossed them into the back of the vehicle while Whitman made his way to the driver’s seat. On top, Batista was already busying himself with the .50 cal, applying the lube to the gears and cocking it a few times over to make sure it was running smoothly.

Dezba felt another wave of relief pass over him. Seeing his grunts at work, making such an easy go of their pre-combat prep… Somehow, this made him feel at ease too, which was strange. If he were to stop and think about it for a moment, he might have considered how that expertise had been earned: through countless hours of chaotic engagement.

And now, they were about to get into yet another one. And if they all came out alive, he could assume that this expertise would be enhanced ever further. Dezba surely would have found such thoughts depressing, had he taken the time to think about it. Luckily, he didn’t.

The noise of approaching footsteps caught his attention and he turned to see Rollins approaching them. Clearly, he and his squad weren’t the only ones making an early morning of things. Snapping his heels together automatically, he called to the rest of them to let them know.

“Look alive, grunts. Lieutenant Rollins on approach!”

Everyone ceased what they doing and came about, standing erect and bringing their boots together snapping out salutes. Dezba slung his weapon to his side again and snapped out one as well, receiving one back as soon as she was within spitting distance.

“At ease, squad. Just wanted to see how you boys are doing on this beautiful morning.”

“Alive and well, ma’am,” said Dezba. “Just getting suited up.”

“Well, don’t be in too much of a hurry. Officers have morning brief in five mikes, which means you can expect a platoon brief in about twenty.”

Dezba frowned. “Ah, we expecting changes to the ROE, sir?”

Rollins shrugged. “Not sure. Word is the General got some new intel on the town. Could be big, could be nothing. Won’t know until they tell us.”

Dezba nodded and tried not to think about the implications. Any changes to their plan of attack at this point likely meant that Command wasn’t too confident about finding survivors inside the town. There were few other reasons to hold a briefing at this point, short of the entire op being scrapped.

In the end, Rollins smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to pass on whatever they tell me. In the meantime, smoke em if you got em.”

Dezba nodded and snapped out a parting salute. Rollins returned it and turned to leave without another word. Meanwhile, Dezba went back to watching over his squad while they finished their prep.

“I don’t get it,” said Batista, still working on the guns gears.

“Don’t get what?” asked Majorca.

“Well, we all know Braun was railroaded because he disobeyed orders, right? But why the hell do we get that jagoff?”

“Yeah,” agreed Morris. “Why the hell couldn’t Haynes just promote from within? This platoon’s got plenty of non-coms with more combat experience than that guy.”

“It’s because those same people disobeyed orders with him,” said Majorca. “They all signed off on the LT’s decision. We all did, and getting stuck with a green officer is our penance.”

“Stow it, squad,” said Dezba. “Who’s in charge is not our call.”

“C’mon, Sarge. You telling me you’re not bitter you didn’t get the top spot?”

Dezba glared at Whitman angrily and pointed to the Humvee. Whitman nodded and climbed back inside, checking the radio and navigation console. While he did that, Morris and Marjoca began checking their supplies of ammunition, grenades, and flash bangs, packing some in their pouches and distributing them to Batista and Whitman.

“One other thing I don’t get,” said Morris. “How come Saunders didn’t get the axe too?”

“What are you talking about?” asked Majorca.

“I mean, half the reason the LT got booted was because he was fucking her right? How come Haynes didn’t kill her carreer when he had the chance?”

The words were barely out of Morris’s mouth before the sound of a door slamming caught his attention. Next thing he knew, he was spun around and standing face to face with a particularly pissed off Whitman.

“That woman saved the fucking LT’s life, you prick, not to mention the Sarge’s here and just about everybody else in this fucking squad.”

Morris looked about ready to say something defensive, but Majorca was quickly spun him the other way and began adding his own thoughts to the discussion.

“And in case you haven’t noticed, Private, we don’t exactly have a surplus of combat veterans around here. Case in point, we got fucks like you stepping in when we lose our own. So why don’t you keep your goddamned opinions to yourself?”

Morris quickly nodded and dropped his gaze to his boots. He might have said something equally harsh too, had the others not beaten him too it. But he had an obligation as their NCO to step in at this point.

“Gents, calm your asses down. We got a job to do and we don’t need to fighting over rumors and personal issues right now.”

“Yes, sir,” said Majorca. Whitman echoed the words.

“Private?” he said to Morris, who nodded again and muttered out an affirmative. Quickly, they all went back to getting themselves and their vehicle ready and did not say a further word. This left Dezba alone to contemplate the things he could not speak about, but was nonetheless wondering.

Like just how fucked it was that Braun was no longer leading their platoon. Or how much it really did affect him, knowing that the man he had known and trusted for so long wasn’t be with them on this next offensive. But such thoughts had a way of breeding doubt, and doubts led to hesitation. None of which could be permitted right now.

Such things would have to wait until after they had retaken Espanola, and confirmed that at least of the townspeople they had left to their fate many weeks ago were still alive somewhere. At that point, assuming they weren’t in the thick of yet another fight, there would be plenty of time to bemoan and talk about all the things that had befallen them since that fateful day. The day they had gone from fighting the undead hordes and began fighting their own as well…

Checking his watch again, Dezba turned to head off. Majorca noticed and called to him.

“Sarge? Where are you off to?”

“Piss call, gentlemen. Recommend you do the same. We’re not likely to get another chance anytime soon.”