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Rebbeca Schulke
The whole room smelled of brewing coffee, which was nice and soothing on my nerves. I was feeling a little frazzled after the last four days of interviews, reports, and being screamed at. 144th was nice enough to let us stay even though we'd brought a whole bunch of heat down on us after the incident at Atlas, which was pretty cool of them all things considered. Captain Ward, their CO, had enough on his hands after what was being termed as a 'race riot' had torn through the lower part of the barracks, so I guess that meant we were small potatoes. 144th had given my crew five rooms up on the third floor at the far end and installed a pair of wall lockers in the room I used for our secure and sensitive items. Our deal was pretty simple: They give us a place to hang out when we weren't at Atlas; we get access to their motorpool to work on our PoS Chevy pickup truck; we get to use their chowhall; we don't show up to their formations, alerts, or training days; we don't tear up their barracks or get the MP's called on us; we leave their soldiers the fuck alone, and everyone's happy. It worked, in the weird cludgy way the 80's Army worked. Everyone left us alone, which suited us just fucking fine.
Which meant that we went to Wildflicken when we weren't at Atlas since it was easier to get to than fuck-off Alfenwehr from FSTS-317 AKA Atlas AKA Shithole Germany. Nobody in their right mind wanted to risk Dead Man's Curve in the dark, much less Indy's Instant Cliff, so it was a hell of a lot safer and easier to just hit up 144th for our TDY rooms than to go home. Of course, Chief Warrant Officer TWO (For best effect play the Stars and Stripes Forever at maximum volume over a stadium loudspeaker when reading the two in order to understand just how important it was) Henley was always lurking about the 2/19th barracks and he'd appear in a puff of brimstone and kimchi farts if we so much as stepped into the CQ Area and I'd gotten to the point of being ready to stab his fat ass if I saw him over the last summer. Another good reason to hang out with hammerheads of 144th rather than head back to our shitty barracks and the glacier at the top of the Alfenwehr that hung over our heads like the Sword of Damocles.
Which brought us back to the cozy little room where Bomber was sitting on the lower bunk bed, his head held in his hands, dressed in full BDU's with his battle rattle on the floor in front of him. He had a monster hangover, which served him right for trying to drink every goddamn bottle of booze in the Top of the Rock NCO Club. He kept flinching at the music, since I'd been a dick and threw in an Abba tape to amuse myself at his expense. Foster was sitting in the chair in front of the desk, looking over the dispatch for CUC-V 15 and shaking his head in between taking sips off of his cup of coffee. He was one of those masochistic psychos who drank his coffee black, which I didn't really get. I mean, why not just chew on the fucking coffee grounds?
I was kicked back on the top bunk, my boots resting on the footboard of the shitty bedframe that was probably made in 1938, reading a Hustler that Bomber had probably shoplifted from the Wildflicken Bookstore or snatched from poor sucker assigned to 144th. None of us really cared, we were supposed to have been at Atlas before dawn but the day before the 144th mechanics had noticed that we'd blown the front something or other in the Gypsy Wagon which meant we were grinding metal in there. They were busy pulling it apart and fixing it. Well, that or drinking beer and jerking off, it was a tossup either way.
Dancing Queen came on, prompting Bomber to make a noise to tell me I was a sadistic asshole, but before I could mock his hangover someone started pounding at the door. Foster looked at me curiously, like I was going to get down from my comfortable bunk and answer the fucking door or something useful. I grinned at him, tapped my rank, and he rolled his eyes and muttered something that was probably insulting to me as he heaved himself up. I went back to my Hustler, figuring it was probably one of the rest of my crew wondering why we were still hanging out.
Foster came back with some guy who looked pretty confused. Most of 144th knew that the far end of the 3rd floor were used for TDY personnel, but didn't know too many details. I saw him glance at the open wall locker where my crew had thrown in over a dozen rifles, two M-60's, and that dumbass anti-material rifle they made us lug around and look confused. He probably wondered why we didn't put it in the arms room, but their armorer had not-so-politely told me where to jam the idea of having him woken up every time my group of 'wandering half-wits' showed up and needed to store our weapons. So wall locker it was.
I sighed loudly and theatrically and closed the Hustler. Goddamn Chief Henley could ruin anything at any distance. Somewhere a Private was trying to enjoy leave and be balls-deep in a cheerleader in the back of his Chevette and Chief Henley was somehow standing outside his car knocking on the window and asking him if he finished some dumbass report on the color of the cheerleader's panties that nobody gave a fuck about but his anal retentive ass. If he was enlisted the Army would have thrown his fat ass out, but rank hath its priveledges, and being a fat fucking douchebag was apparently one of them. Asshole hadn't been on a company run since I could remember and I hadn't seen him at PT unless he was at the back wearing his Class-A uniform and making snide remarks on everyone else's performance with his fat hands folded over his belly, which looked like either he was six months pregnant or stealing a fucking Foster Farms turkey.
"Ummm, I told him you hadn't left yet." The messenger, probably their CQ, said, managing to look offended at the thought we'd lie to an officer. Fuck it, we'd been lied to since we signed up, why should he be shocked we'd be willing to lie to a worthless fucking lifer like Henley?
"Fuck it, I'll handle it." I told Bomber, setting aside the porn mag and jumping down off the bunk. "Did he say what he wanted or did he just ask you come up here and take turns fucking us each in the ass?" I asked him while I pulled on my boots. They were shined, which was better than Foster and Bomber, but I suppose I had to look good, being the squad leader and all. Lead by example or some shit.
That got an instant response. Bomber looked up, his eyes bloodshot, nodded at me and began pulling on his Kevlar and LBE. Foster drained his coffee and got up, grabbing the dispatches for the Growler and the Gypsy Wagon. I finished tying my boots and blousing my BDU pant legs then walked over to the locker and grabbed my XM-16E1. Unlike 144th our weapons had been pulled from 'should have been thrown in the dump' stocks and most of my squad packed weapons from Vietnam that had been test-bed weapons. Bomber's weapon had a forward assist while mine didn't, Bomber and I both had a chrome coated bolt while Foster's had a normal colored bolt but a shorter buttstock.
"Get everyone up, Bomber. Load up 'em up with a full combat load. Foster, see if the mechanics have started. If they haven't, pull the Gypsy Wagon, if they have, lean on them to hurry it up." I snapped, throwing my weapon's sling over my head to settle my weapon in what was referred to as a 'body sling'.
"Tell Murch to make sure the detection equipment is ready." I told Bomber. He nodded, then winced. I grabbed the ammo-can full of keys, keycards, inventory listings, and my code-book, then turned to the messenger. "Let's go."
We headed into the barracks hallway. It reminded me a lot of the 2/19th area, just about 1/2 the size. The floorplan was basically the same, the tile was the same, the paint scheme was the same. It was kind of comfortable to be honest.
"Might wanna see the optometrist about that." I told him, grinning. My favorite sport, needling my fellow service members. What can I say, I'm kind of a dick. "Sorry, but V Corps said we're in 144th and work up at ASP 3, take it up with them."
"I don't think your line of bullshit is funny." He sounded pissed. How fucking thick was this guy? Even those dumbass Rangers from 108th MI figured shit out about the second time we repeated it to them. Well, as long as we went nice and slow and used small words. Anything more than three syllables caused Rangers to shoot sparks out their ears and wander around in circles buzzing 'does not compute, error, error, error' or at least the equivalent. Christ, 144th had their own semi-covert operations going on with their own FSTS sites, why was this hammerhead busting my chops over the same thing?
Oh, yeah, the Cold War. We might be Spetznas out to steal their... ummm... shit, I don't know, but we might be dangerous Russian soldiers out to destabilize democracy in Western Europe by pretending to be in another unit.
"Look, Sergeant, take it up with Captain Ward, V Corps, or the MP's. We're with 144th, we work at ASP 3, and that's all you're going to get out of me." I told him. We went into the stairwell and the expected screaming of damned souls I was used to didn't make an appearance. Goddamn, 144th had nice barracks. Not for the first time, or the last, I wished I actually was stationed with 144th rather than the shithole that they made 2/19th live in.
"So why don't you wear nametags if you aren't SOG?" He asked me, referring to Special Operations Group. I'd heard it had some new hot shit name probably dreamed up by a Wall Street ad agency, but who gave a shit what they called each other?
"OPSEC." Was all I said. He nodded, satisfied, which surprised me. When we'd gone to chow last night to have dinner we'd been accosted by some strak asshole of a Colonel who'd actually threatened to call the MP's on us and have us arrested for some shit that only existed in his own brain because we weren't wearing nametags or unit patches and refused to tell him what unit we were in after some dipshit in the chow line told him that we weren't actually in 144th. Again.
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