Interpreter #13

"War was always here. Before man was, war waited for him. The ultimate trade awaiting its ultimate practitioner."



Tits are are awesome, but tits are weird, bro. Fuckinnnn...Why we get so torqued about a little saggy fat with a nipple? Seriously yo. Boobies...

Our Interpreter had been boozing and smoking and was now in search of conversation. I'd put the boys on the wire at ten yard intervals, all of em out there, locked and loaded, so I was the only one around to talk to. I didn't feel like answering back, and so his stabs at conversation had turned to weedy monologues with
Intercollating bouts of dead silence.

We weren't supposed to be there. The unit wasn't commissioned for the recon, and everyone was crabby for the repurposing. I told my people we were the only ones around, that we'd be relieved in time by line infantry and air support. The reality behind the fib was another matter.

Fire base Rango had been as remote an OP as you'd find in this AO. It had no running water, no shower, no barracks. It was in top of a mountain, propped up on the edge of a hanging valley called Ris. The men stationed there never left, never seemed to wire for supplies, never used the fucking radio. After a while the rumors had kicked up good:

Ris is the CIA

Rango is Navy Intel working on another mission completely.

Ris was manned by special forces operators and a secret even from the good guys.

Like most battlefield rumors, the word on Ris was at least half true. Their mission wasn't the same kind of secret as ours, but it was more than they'd have been able to admit in letters home. the spooks had set up Rango years before the war here had begun. It was a listening post. Wired into a satellite net that could read newsprint from eight miles up.

Division intel lost contact with the op, lost contact with a patrol en route to the op, and lost contact with the eye in the sky. Last local word was that one of the mountain tribes stumbled on the base and overran the wire.

The rags shut down the antennae after securing the post and - officially - that's why we were on the scene.. Infinitely more important - and completely secret - was the immense and potent cache of arms buried in the valley floor a thousand vertical feet below FB Rango.

The spooks had been instigating a war, and they meant to give their boys in the field (which am us) the upper hand, even in the enemy's home turf. Buried under the remote op was an underground chamber full of state -of-the-art, deep-black weaponry. No standard ordinance, a stratospheric security clearance was necescary to get within a hundred mile radius of the armaments at Ris. That's where the mech came in.

Division was ok losing the base, slightly erect about losing the antenna, and shaved-cunt crazy over the lost sci-fi gear. Five hours after the last mayday from the FB, we'd been pulled off the our own mission - over a hundred miles south - to recover and secure the cache.
I'd instructed Mason to double the perimeter guard and start counter-directive patrols. The Column dug in just off a highway almost 3 wooded clicks from the target, hidden and dig in deep, ready to rain 100 different kinds of hell on the Ragman.

I had 20 private operators and 10 spec. force guys hidden at intervals around Rango, waiting for words and - in the Terp's case - abusing intoxicants and talkin shit. I'd heard the 'Changers liked to party on mission but the Terp was - as usual - overstating the point. I'd watched him bury two thickly rolled blunts of extreme smelling keff, all the while bombing slugs of brown liquor from a fat silver flask. Once the entire Mech was reasonably well occupied Mase was to come back, with only his team, inventory the cache and help with the re-fit. The Mech had taken it's position, and all the was left was the giving of the word.