"My name is called Disturbance. I shout and scream, and kill a king, and rail at all his servants"
We were expecting to pass a town called Casat, but the road kept on and we never saw it. The square mile it was said to have occupied was littered with garbage and charred remnants. There were holes in the ground, some big enough to sink an F-16 in, others as small as bullet holes. The place was dead, ugly, and completely quiet. We were looking for a place to pull up and dismount when my sat phone started chiming. It was Washington, wanting a quick word.
Afterwards I sent Kruck and Hutchinson for forward recon. That left twenty men for security at 75 yards and 360 degrees. I grabbed Sgt. Mason, told him what they'd just told me:
Division says we are "go" for Arc drones. There's an old firebase two miles from here. Intel says these guys are there, waiting us out. Take two men, and come back with details. He turned to go but I grabbed his, pulled him close:
Find these people quick Mr. Mason. The old man wants erasure.
***
Sargent Mason's sortie took only 40 minutes to find Casat's prodigals. Minutes after his return I lead a six -man detachment up to the humvees, leaving orders for a secure watch until my return. We split two for each of three Humvees. Mase and I in the middle car and the Terp bringing it up with Gildge.
The right side windshield in my Humvee morphed and flashed as we went, a multicolored swirl of numbers and files trying to find the quickest most efficient way to murder 600 people. I watched colors and numbers dance across the screens as a computer modeled scenarios, checking and adjusting for air and weather and random happenstance. After a few minutes there was rhythmic electronic note, like a morse code dot, as the windshield monitors bullet-pointed the three recommended mission packages.
Preference Mase?...Preference Mase?...Preference Mase?...
The words crawled along the bottom of the screens. He opened his mouth, started to answer, then pointed straight ahead:
This is where they are chief.
He Pulled off about 50 yards, doused the lights.
I clicked the Ex-Count machine and now Mason began waving his fingers in the air, scanning through screens, checking and double checking.
The refugee camp lay northeast. There was an mini barracks out there leftover from desert storm. Six rotting Quonset huts and a stair head shack had received the refugees waiting out the horror at Cassatt. Six quonset huts for 700-1000 starving, terrified "enemy combatants" Our erasure mission seemed almost humanitarian.
***
Working fast, I pushed the joystick onto mission pack #1 and gave my security I.d. to ok the sortie.
There were three loud beeps like semi in reverse, and the rear of our humvee split open along its midline. The two sections slid away to clear the Drone's launch. Silently, without bumping each other or anything else, three ARC - 56 drones floated noiselessly up from the hold like vampires rising for a midnight hunt. Once clear of the vehicle, the three flat black triangles broke from the stack formation and floated - no hum, no prop noise, no sound of any kind - over the rear of the Humvee.
Mason would pilot the sortie. Gaines and his men would cover him, and I took the 'Terp forward with me to observe. Ten minutes later we were parked, running, behind a mile long berm flanking the western edge of the hut-camp. Five minutes after that the Terp and I were in position. He spoke:
Gildge is a problem. We should get out in front of it before...
I cut him off, trying to stay focused, but knowing he was right:
He's fine, we'll talk later.
Adding, pathetically:
I'll keep an eye. Here it comes:
Monday, January 14, 2013
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Frye Redux
"if you go down in the woods today you're sure of a big surprise! Every bear that ever was will gather there for certain, because today's the day the teddy bears have their picnic..."
~Traditional
-1-
Jeff and Crowe were walking very very slowly, partly because it was getting dark and they were lost in the woods, but mostly because they'd each eaten most of a 1/4 oz of hideously powerful mushrooms. After the inevitable 45 minutes of puking, Crowe had suggested a slow race. They'd been at it almost an hour before Crowe gave succinct voice to the navigation shortfalls:
Crowe: We're fucking lost...Hey!! you're not moving buttfuck! It's a slow race not a fucking "stop" race
Jeff: eat shit dicklick - no such thing.
Crowe: there is cause you made it up, right now.
Jeff: fuck I think we're lost.
Crowe: ya think? Ha! Think! Thonk! Thank! Think think...
And they both laughed for almost 15 minutes. Crowe stopped first because the hilarity was causing eye malfunction. He was picking nettles out of his jeans when a familiar figure came trooping through the underbrush.
•••
Frye sightings were common enough in the woods around EG. There were no homeless people in town, but Frye - shacked up for years in a decrepit Airstream at the base of an abandoned landfill - represented the local lunatic fringe with aplomb. Word was he'd been in a bad car accident years before, and downward spiraled to eventual dump-life in the ensuing decades.
On this day, although the boys hadn't realized it, the old bum had seen them gobbling the 'shrooms at trail side, and followed them up into the woods to beg some. He'd lost the scent and given up, only to have the boy's long, laughter put him back on task. He'd come forth from the trail, arms high in triumph, about to announce his intention, when a gigantic black bear broke from the brush behind him and tackled him to the ground.
-2-
Neither Jeff or Crowe had climbed a tree in a long, long time. Even so, they were both twenty feet up in an old evergreen before Frye had a chance to scream:
F: what the fick what the fuck what the fuggin fuck!!! Fuck! Frye! Fuck!
J: what what I can't see. Is he... What are they doing?
C: fuck fuck fuck!
J: damn is that?...is he?...I can't...
C: Play dead play dead, that's what you do!
J: play dead! Yes!
C & J: frye! Play dead!
•••
It was just about dusk now, and shadows had claimed the woods. After the initial shock the beast had slacked off a bit, stepping back from It's prey, it walked a slow circle, scratching itself as it went. It stank like hell, filling the whole area with a musky, eye-watering cloud.
Just then Frye - moving ten times faster than jeff or Crowe had ever seen him move - seized his moment, gimping quick towards their evergreen and freedom. Unfortunately for Frye, he became confused in his flight because of the "play dead" command from the trees. Frye was mere steps from safety when Crowe and Jeff had started in. He abruptly crouched and lay down on his belly in a pathetic imitation of death, abandoning an almost surefire bid for safety in favor of a half-assed suggestion from the tripping idiots in the tree. The poor old hobo dropped to the ground, and the stinky bear was upon him once again
-3-
The sounds were the worst part. It was almost full dark by now. Flat grey light and mushroom hallucinations were making it hard for Jeff and Crowe to gauge what was happening down below. The sounds, however, - grtistle pops and squishy grunts - weren't painting any kind of positive picture.
The bear had taken a giant bite out of Frye's ass and the reaction was instant: a low, raspy wail that went on for almost a full minute. For the boys watching from the safety tree, the sound touched nerves:
J: fuck is that?
C: the bear farted...
J: shut the fuck up it's getting louder. Is that frye? Frye!
C: sounds like Grover...
***
He was right, the sounds Frye was making were muppet-like, although not by intention. The bear was standing on his legs and munching on parts of his back and shoulders and the pain was driving the degenerate insane.
To Crowe, Frye seemed to be screaming actual words, but in a foreign language. French, he was guessing.
Eventually, the bear consumed enough of Frye's spinal cord to relieve the pain. The feeding, however, went on for hours. Eventually Crowe drifted off to sleep hugging the evergreen, like a new monkey dangling on the teat, leaving Jeff to keep watch over the spontaneous forest buffet that was once the hobo called Frye.
-4-
The bear stayed around for almost two hours. The moon was half and low and the hallucinating Jeff was able to watch the whole affair like HDTV.
After Frye's spine had been partially consumed, the beast moved to his shoulders, arms (left then right), and legs. After this the animal appeared sated. Jeff actually thought the ordeal might be finished when the beast reared back away from the carcass of Frye. Instead of leaving, however, the bear gave a roar, lumbered forward, and took a giant shit on Frye's back. The smell wafted up to Jeff like a chemical weapon, and he almost fell from the tree.
The bear did eventually move on, but - following immediately after - a team of squirrels fell on the remains of Frye. They seemed primarily concerned with Frye's neck and scalp area. As they ate, jeff could hear their tiny jaws snapping and smacking over the fresh meat.
The Squirrels dashed almost 45 minutes later, then came the raccoons. After the raccoons, snakes and bugs, after that there were possums, dogs, cats, and what looked to Jeff like a miniature elephant. All night they pulled up and back from this new meat oasis, and all night Jeff was there bearing witness. He felt the weight of history upon him and proclaimed to the darkness:
Oh Frye! It's all because of you. Frye...why did you play dead. Why did you listen to Crowe. Crowe killed you! You hear me? Crowe! Crowe! Cro...
Fuck you asshole it was your fault.
Jeff was too shocked and too hallucinating to realize Crowe was awake and fucking with him, impersonating Frye (badly) while pretending to sleep. Just the opposite, Jeff had suspected Frye might still have been alive all during the feast, and - thus - bit hard on the idea when Crowe spoke up. He jumped, startled, straight up on his branch, and in doing so shook Crowe from his. The old hippie hit the ground with a wet thud, coming to rest ten feet below in the stinky flesh-pudding that had once been Frye.
New and Unrelated.
"This is a blackout. Don't let it go to waste"
Foo Fighters
He lunged and missed and knew he was finished. The only thing that saved him was the shitty roofing, probably mis-laid by some drunk in the late 1950's, forgotten by everybody until this very moment now, when Gerry King tripped on it. He'd lunged too hard, and now he was going over the side, off of the roof of his father's apt complex. It was of seven Ger might have inherited someday if it wasn't for the fact it looked like he was going to die.
And then he wasn't. He tripped on that sticky shingle, and Instead of flying clear of the roof, hit the three-foot brick escarpment at his midsection. For an instant he rejoiced in his mind, thinking the physics of the event had fallen in his favor...
He was wrong.
He'd bounced forward, off the rail like a heavy stone off tumbling of a jetty. He was going to fall.
***
Mort Coolidge hated Gerry King. Hated him meanly and actively. Had hated him for a very long time. Today though, the hatred had passed into something else. A new phase with a new method had been enacted. Coolidge would inform Gerry King of this in person, just before shooting him in the face. He grabbed his keys, and the pearl- gripped Colt Anaconda his partner had given him for his fortieth birthday. He left his cell, his badge, and his service Smith and Wesson on his kitchen table. He and Gerry King would be on the roof less than ten minutes later with the Colt left behind downstairs next to a half full bottle of Johnny walker blue and two glasses.
***
It was just seconds before the pain loosed King's grip. His wiry frame flew the wall at 170 pounds. Then he'd managed to grab and find purchase at the edge of the roof. Gravity countered by bringing centrifugal force to bear, crushing Gerry's forearm just above the elbow, applying massive sudden force on a fulcrum where there was no joint. King barely had time to feature his new circumstance before reflex opened his clutch and sent him totally, finally, over the edge.
**
Coolidge wheeled aside at just the last second, but he hadn't noticed the wall. He turned quick to face the next charge and instead found only empty space where his enemy should have been. Empty space, and a very low wall.
***
He was Alive. What's more, he never lost consciousness.
He'd whipsawed over as his desperate grab snagged the inside coping of the wall. When his body-weight came to rest, it threatened to snap his arm above the wrist. Before that happened, Gerry King had let go. Instinct from the pain. He never remembered the fall.
***
It had been - he would tell people later- like sleeping without dreaming. An unnatural feeling of losing the sense of time, and just not being, until - boom - you are again.
There's no way to tell how long or what the fuck. He was like a drunk, sleeping off a king- shit bender in a standpipe. Gerry woke up not remembering the act of having gone to sleep. It was a blink. A blip. A spec of time marked only by the act of closing his eyes and opening them up again. In that blip, universes had been realized and gone extinct. Seasons had passed and passed again. Markets had collapsed and languished and restarted again. The world had lived, and continued, and adjusted in all it's gratuitous motion. A billion things had been and become and ceased to be. When Gerry King closed his eyes after falling from the roof of his own building at 415 Windmill Ct., it had been December, 1998. When he opened them again it was January 2013 and everything he'd known had changed.
Foo Fighters
He lunged and missed and knew he was finished. The only thing that saved him was the shitty roofing, probably mis-laid by some drunk in the late 1950's, forgotten by everybody until this very moment now, when Gerry King tripped on it. He'd lunged too hard, and now he was going over the side, off of the roof of his father's apt complex. It was of seven Ger might have inherited someday if it wasn't for the fact it looked like he was going to die.
And then he wasn't. He tripped on that sticky shingle, and Instead of flying clear of the roof, hit the three-foot brick escarpment at his midsection. For an instant he rejoiced in his mind, thinking the physics of the event had fallen in his favor...
He was wrong.
He'd bounced forward, off the rail like a heavy stone off tumbling of a jetty. He was going to fall.
***
Mort Coolidge hated Gerry King. Hated him meanly and actively. Had hated him for a very long time. Today though, the hatred had passed into something else. A new phase with a new method had been enacted. Coolidge would inform Gerry King of this in person, just before shooting him in the face. He grabbed his keys, and the pearl- gripped Colt Anaconda his partner had given him for his fortieth birthday. He left his cell, his badge, and his service Smith and Wesson on his kitchen table. He and Gerry King would be on the roof less than ten minutes later with the Colt left behind downstairs next to a half full bottle of Johnny walker blue and two glasses.
***
It was just seconds before the pain loosed King's grip. His wiry frame flew the wall at 170 pounds. Then he'd managed to grab and find purchase at the edge of the roof. Gravity countered by bringing centrifugal force to bear, crushing Gerry's forearm just above the elbow, applying massive sudden force on a fulcrum where there was no joint. King barely had time to feature his new circumstance before reflex opened his clutch and sent him totally, finally, over the edge.
**
Coolidge wheeled aside at just the last second, but he hadn't noticed the wall. He turned quick to face the next charge and instead found only empty space where his enemy should have been. Empty space, and a very low wall.
***
He was Alive. What's more, he never lost consciousness.
He'd whipsawed over as his desperate grab snagged the inside coping of the wall. When his body-weight came to rest, it threatened to snap his arm above the wrist. Before that happened, Gerry King had let go. Instinct from the pain. He never remembered the fall.
***
It had been - he would tell people later- like sleeping without dreaming. An unnatural feeling of losing the sense of time, and just not being, until - boom - you are again.
There's no way to tell how long or what the fuck. He was like a drunk, sleeping off a king- shit bender in a standpipe. Gerry woke up not remembering the act of having gone to sleep. It was a blink. A blip. A spec of time marked only by the act of closing his eyes and opening them up again. In that blip, universes had been realized and gone extinct. Seasons had passed and passed again. Markets had collapsed and languished and restarted again. The world had lived, and continued, and adjusted in all it's gratuitous motion. A billion things had been and become and ceased to be. When Gerry King closed his eyes after falling from the roof of his own building at 415 Windmill Ct., it had been December, 1998. When he opened them again it was January 2013 and everything he'd known had changed.
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Interpreter #8
"Went down to the levy, but the devil caught me there. 'Took my twenty dollar bill and vanished in the air"
~Grateful Dead
Hooah!...
Gildge said it, clearly wasn't feeling it. By this point, though, every snivel and whine is making my job a little easier. I let the deadpan delivery pass in service of a greater victory.
The Interpreter was to his left, i sat facing him from the next rack. There was a battered footlocker between us. I leaned in. I looked him in the eyes:
Specialist, I have concerns. This unit's never lost a man to discipline, and you will not - I cannot ALLOW - you to become the first. Are we clear?
Sir, yes Sir...
Way too quiet. We were not clear. I flashed a look at the Terp and he cleared out, leaving me and the kid in a dark tent. I leaned in:
Speak freely. This is the only chance I'll give you.
***
So that's how i got this job...
They drove through the frigid Kazmir night at speeds that felt very dangerous to private Gildge. The interpreter talked the entire time, but with the rush of air over the chassis, and the rocks and dust crunching between bigger road noises, Spec 1st Gildge was getting every tenth word and understanding none if it. After almost an hour on high desert hardscrabble, the road got at least semi-passable and the Terp's narrative came into focus:
...Fuck I'd been offered shit like this gig my whole life since I had no dick-hair, yo. The el tee, though, he's the first white man could meet my price. Six languages, six dialects or more in most of em, I know the high roads and the low roads. You gotta have self worth right? Dollahdollabill y'all right?
Gildge said nothing.
Going back ain't a thing to be ashamed of mang. I've seen it before too. Shit many times bro! I hear about these guys, Americans, big tough guys right? Hard. They be killin themselves faster than the tags can get 'em. I'm sayin "fuck bro...where these guys been workin? " Cause I know the aint seein' what I see, and they still eatin voluntary lead? What the fuck, right? Last week we napalmed a school after barricading the doors. Ain't a guy with us killed anything but a ragheads. Shit you saw the bus. That's our thing dude. Fuckin hellish. Death squad motherfuckers. We hard. You gotta be!
Terp's mention of the bus made Gildge all loopy again. He tried to stem the flood of disgust and confusion, tried to keep the awful images from his mind's eye. It was no use. What the fuck happened to that bus? Those people...
Specialist Gildge realized he'd spoke it inadvertently as he thought it and studied the interpreter for reaction. He was relieved to see none, then felt silly for all his worrying. All the noise, he could hardly make out the sound of his own voice much less an...
Glad you asked dude. The El Tee had a feeling you would so I got orders to make us a detour.
He jacked the brakes and the un-belted Gildge went head up against the windshield.
~Grateful Dead
Hooah!...
Gildge said it, clearly wasn't feeling it. By this point, though, every snivel and whine is making my job a little easier. I let the deadpan delivery pass in service of a greater victory.
The Interpreter was to his left, i sat facing him from the next rack. There was a battered footlocker between us. I leaned in. I looked him in the eyes:
Specialist, I have concerns. This unit's never lost a man to discipline, and you will not - I cannot ALLOW - you to become the first. Are we clear?
Sir, yes Sir...
Way too quiet. We were not clear. I flashed a look at the Terp and he cleared out, leaving me and the kid in a dark tent. I leaned in:
Speak freely. This is the only chance I'll give you.
***
So that's how i got this job...
They drove through the frigid Kazmir night at speeds that felt very dangerous to private Gildge. The interpreter talked the entire time, but with the rush of air over the chassis, and the rocks and dust crunching between bigger road noises, Spec 1st Gildge was getting every tenth word and understanding none if it. After almost an hour on high desert hardscrabble, the road got at least semi-passable and the Terp's narrative came into focus:
...Fuck I'd been offered shit like this gig my whole life since I had no dick-hair, yo. The el tee, though, he's the first white man could meet my price. Six languages, six dialects or more in most of em, I know the high roads and the low roads. You gotta have self worth right? Dollahdollabill y'all right?
Gildge said nothing.
Going back ain't a thing to be ashamed of mang. I've seen it before too. Shit many times bro! I hear about these guys, Americans, big tough guys right? Hard. They be killin themselves faster than the tags can get 'em. I'm sayin "fuck bro...where these guys been workin? " Cause I know the aint seein' what I see, and they still eatin voluntary lead? What the fuck, right? Last week we napalmed a school after barricading the doors. Ain't a guy with us killed anything but a ragheads. Shit you saw the bus. That's our thing dude. Fuckin hellish. Death squad motherfuckers. We hard. You gotta be!
Terp's mention of the bus made Gildge all loopy again. He tried to stem the flood of disgust and confusion, tried to keep the awful images from his mind's eye. It was no use. What the fuck happened to that bus? Those people...
Specialist Gildge realized he'd spoke it inadvertently as he thought it and studied the interpreter for reaction. He was relieved to see none, then felt silly for all his worrying. All the noise, he could hardly make out the sound of his own voice much less an...
Glad you asked dude. The El Tee had a feeling you would so I got orders to make us a detour.
He jacked the brakes and the un-belted Gildge went head up against the windshield.
Interpreter #7
"Use all your well-learned politesse, or I'll lay your soul to waste"
Later I took a small group to observe the scene and establish body count. Specialist Gildge accompanied, as did the Interpreter, two more medical officers, and sgt. Mason. We'd been on the ground for approximately 45 minutes before private Gildge became physically ill.
This occurred just after we scoped the wreckage for the body-count. It was high. We found 19 people - 15 adults and four kids - burned and butchered near the top of the high rise. We found whole families of people crammed into shitty, 1940's elevators burned alive and fused with the metal and wiring of the melted cars. We'd counted almost 50 enemy dead inside the primary target.
Out in the streets we had cooked six cars plus the old Laidlaw schoolbus. It was to these impact zones that I sent Specialist Gildge to scan for body count and assess the security component. I found him there 35 minutes later, no body count, no report. Gildge was hardly conscious, shaking, covered in his own filth. He tried to speak but could produce only convulsive grunts and dry heaves.
I sent him to the rear that night. By then word was getting around about Ris. Our orders mere to maintain position and assume a security posture while division tried to untwist the collective nutsack. With no spare parts and a soldier who's presence had become a danger to anybody around him, my choices had dwindled. The interpreter rode out with Gildge at 11:00.
Later I took a small group to observe the scene and establish body count. Specialist Gildge accompanied, as did the Interpreter, two more medical officers, and sgt. Mason. We'd been on the ground for approximately 45 minutes before private Gildge became physically ill.
This occurred just after we scoped the wreckage for the body-count. It was high. We found 19 people - 15 adults and four kids - burned and butchered near the top of the high rise. We found whole families of people crammed into shitty, 1940's elevators burned alive and fused with the metal and wiring of the melted cars. We'd counted almost 50 enemy dead inside the primary target.
Out in the streets we had cooked six cars plus the old Laidlaw schoolbus. It was to these impact zones that I sent Specialist Gildge to scan for body count and assess the security component. I found him there 35 minutes later, no body count, no report. Gildge was hardly conscious, shaking, covered in his own filth. He tried to speak but could produce only convulsive grunts and dry heaves.
I sent him to the rear that night. By then word was getting around about Ris. Our orders mere to maintain position and assume a security posture while division tried to untwist the collective nutsack. With no spare parts and a soldier who's presence had become a danger to anybody around him, my choices had dwindled. The interpreter rode out with Gildge at 11:00.
Friday, December 28, 2012
Interpreter #6
"My Shangri-La beneath the summer moon...I will return again."
~Led Zeppelin
We were southwest of the Kasmir border, moving on a small city called Tatet. I took a position on a high embankment and scattered the rest of the Mech down both sides of the hill facing the pathetic, burned out skyline.
The Interpreter was speaking into my right ear. He wasn't talking to me - I knew exactly what was about to happen. He was talking to the new guy Gildge, our replacement medic of almost one whole week. Specialist Gildge was about to witness Tarantula Hawk for the first time, and the interpreter was talking him
through it.
Sgt. Mason Dawes came up with the 'Hawk crew and began setting up while the 'Terp babbled out his lesson:
Fuck. Don't talk about this shit dude, right? Not even here. Fuck. Especially not here. See the bus?
I could see the bus: an ancient American model, no tires, no windows, parked down the block facing us at about 300 meters. Across the street was Tatet's only block of buildings. The highest one was seven stories, a burned out hi-rise poking like a dandelion from the rotted slums at it's base.
The interpreter ran a detailed play by play as Mase's crew prepared the rocket. He said:
The rag heads are gonna break for it They'll hear the strike and then run out the bottom. They gonna go out the back and up from the basement. Bad guys will run with they women, children, whatever the fuck, thinkin' we wont shoot. Gaines 'gonna put one on top and you watch...
Mase shouted "fire in the hole!!!" and there was a huge "whoosh!". We watched as the rocket cleared the quarter of a mile to the target in a split second. In movies, rockets are slow, with a billowy contrail to follow. A real rocket is like a giant, exploding bullet, clearing range in an instant rush of noise and impact and lingering aftershocks. The top of the hi rise burst like a salute, the ground shook beneath us, and the 'Terp spoke up again:
Here they come. Watch the fire escape, the doors...
Within seconds the street outside was full of people. We saw a few men, one or two with weapons. Mostly we saw women and kids, mostly running, some carried. There was a confusion, short lived, about who was going where. Within a few minutes the street was clear again. Silence on the hillside until I heard Gildge:
So that's it? Why'd..
The interpreter ignored him:
The fuckers think we're gonna shoot out some walls and move out. We blew the building to get 'em in cars.
Now fire teams on both sides of the hill begin an enfilade down the streets on both sides of the building. Short bursts punctuated the Terp's dramatic whispering, adding drama to his usual sense of the moment. As he spoke Sarnt. Mason brought up another detail: four men carrying two large black canvas bags. They worked without speaking in a miniature swarm of urgent movement. In seconds they were ready. Two simple black tubes on braced, four-point mounts now stood beside us on the hill-top, their long graphite appendages anchored deep in the ground. Mase turned on the juice as the last refugees made the bus. An odd sound came up, like a television running white noise. It seemed to come from everywhere, filling the air around us.
I watched the crews run their system checks and fall back, and I backed up a few yards myself, more out of habit than any realistic sense of danger. I heard Mase give the orders to hang fire, and the Hawks began to wind out. The TV noise in the air morphed into a din, like a fleet of prop-bombers over- revving on a runway. It rose in volume and octave to a haunted, mad wail, and a brilliant flash of red and orange light brightening the distance between our position and the targets in the street. Then it was over.
~Led Zeppelin
We were southwest of the Kasmir border, moving on a small city called Tatet. I took a position on a high embankment and scattered the rest of the Mech down both sides of the hill facing the pathetic, burned out skyline.
The Interpreter was speaking into my right ear. He wasn't talking to me - I knew exactly what was about to happen. He was talking to the new guy Gildge, our replacement medic of almost one whole week. Specialist Gildge was about to witness Tarantula Hawk for the first time, and the interpreter was talking him
through it.
Sgt. Mason Dawes came up with the 'Hawk crew and began setting up while the 'Terp babbled out his lesson:
Fuck. Don't talk about this shit dude, right? Not even here. Fuck. Especially not here. See the bus?
I could see the bus: an ancient American model, no tires, no windows, parked down the block facing us at about 300 meters. Across the street was Tatet's only block of buildings. The highest one was seven stories, a burned out hi-rise poking like a dandelion from the rotted slums at it's base.
The interpreter ran a detailed play by play as Mase's crew prepared the rocket. He said:
The rag heads are gonna break for it They'll hear the strike and then run out the bottom. They gonna go out the back and up from the basement. Bad guys will run with they women, children, whatever the fuck, thinkin' we wont shoot. Gaines 'gonna put one on top and you watch...
Mase shouted "fire in the hole!!!" and there was a huge "whoosh!". We watched as the rocket cleared the quarter of a mile to the target in a split second. In movies, rockets are slow, with a billowy contrail to follow. A real rocket is like a giant, exploding bullet, clearing range in an instant rush of noise and impact and lingering aftershocks. The top of the hi rise burst like a salute, the ground shook beneath us, and the 'Terp spoke up again:
Here they come. Watch the fire escape, the doors...
Within seconds the street outside was full of people. We saw a few men, one or two with weapons. Mostly we saw women and kids, mostly running, some carried. There was a confusion, short lived, about who was going where. Within a few minutes the street was clear again. Silence on the hillside until I heard Gildge:
So that's it? Why'd..
The interpreter ignored him:
The fuckers think we're gonna shoot out some walls and move out. We blew the building to get 'em in cars.
Now fire teams on both sides of the hill begin an enfilade down the streets on both sides of the building. Short bursts punctuated the Terp's dramatic whispering, adding drama to his usual sense of the moment. As he spoke Sarnt. Mason brought up another detail: four men carrying two large black canvas bags. They worked without speaking in a miniature swarm of urgent movement. In seconds they were ready. Two simple black tubes on braced, four-point mounts now stood beside us on the hill-top, their long graphite appendages anchored deep in the ground. Mase turned on the juice as the last refugees made the bus. An odd sound came up, like a television running white noise. It seemed to come from everywhere, filling the air around us.
I watched the crews run their system checks and fall back, and I backed up a few yards myself, more out of habit than any realistic sense of danger. I heard Mase give the orders to hang fire, and the Hawks began to wind out. The TV noise in the air morphed into a din, like a fleet of prop-bombers over- revving on a runway. It rose in volume and octave to a haunted, mad wail, and a brilliant flash of red and orange light brightening the distance between our position and the targets in the street. Then it was over.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
Frye
Frye was beginning to get sick. The plan: drop off daughter - drive fast as fuck to get dope - drive fast as fuck back to retrieve daughter in time and none-the-wiser.
Frye dropped the girl at her party and the clock in his head began ticking. 1:30 minutes he had, with the place he needed to be about 40 minutes away. It would be close. He galloped back to the car after a rushed hug and brief pleasantries, bolted like hell for downtown.
It ended up taking 34 minutes to get to the spot and Frye was definitely sick: all farty and with fluctuating body temp. Along the way he'd fired off a confirming text:
Fifteen mins. Good?
Flying in his Yaris through the tiny narco-hood streets with thoughts stacking like jets in a holding pattern, Frye was having trouble. He could feel his eyes twitching in his skull...Dude wasn't getting back...One thing to be late picking up the girl...another whole thing to retreat empty...Frye was definitely getting sick.
A generic-sounding beep sequence announced a reply as Frye was pulling up. He read as he un-belted and turned off the car. It was a shitty, druggy, low-everything neighborhood but it was freezing, and just three days after a giant blizzard. Somehow that made him feel safer. Frye thought about weather or not people got robbed in freezing weather, decided probably not. The reply was:
Make it 20. I'm across town.
Disaster, possibly. "20" might mean "50", "100", "1000". His guy had no respect for time. The party-clock was still ticking off in his head and faster than before. Frye was sick. He opened the car door and dry-heaved stuff that looked like egg yolk for five munutes. Then he closed the door, prepared $50, waited.
He'd left the party 40 minutes ago. Frye wiped muddy sweat from his brow and thought about the social graces at stake as regards lateness to children's functions. He sat for 27 minutes, each second of which seemed both interminably long and amazingly brief.
Finally the guy showed, served, and disappeared back into the house. Frye, mega-late, and realizing the guy'd forgotten to take his $50, stabbed the throttle in reverse. By that time he'd been away from the party for one hour and thirteen minutes. Best case for pickup was 20 minutes late. "fuck" he thought, unable to think of a follow up. As it happened, that was the last thought Frye would have for a while.
The car that hit his car was going way too fast for the tiny street. It was also much bigger and heavier than the Yaris. Poor Frye had come blasting out of the driveway, reaching across his body with his right arm, for the seatbelt. At impact his car spun violently through 720 degrees and the centrifugal jolt send him ricocheting off the dash board and out the driver's side window. He landed in a snowball across the street, woke up seconds later in blinding, screaming pain from the ancient rebar once piled on the sidewalk, now forced through his back, out from his chest like a spear.
A few minutes later, an ambulance-and-cop siren symphony getting loud quick, Frye's guy comes out once again, runs over, frisks Frye's pockets (working efficiently around the rebar), tosses Frye's Yaris. There's cash - two 20's, two 5's - scattered around the driver's side. Before sprinting back to beat the first-response, the guy reaches over the rebar once more, this time to grab Frye's wallet, sticking neatly from the center console like a labeled tab on a file folder. He hadn't planned on that at first, but looking at him now, the guy knew Frye was dead, and, as such, would not miss the cash.
Frye dropped the girl at her party and the clock in his head began ticking. 1:30 minutes he had, with the place he needed to be about 40 minutes away. It would be close. He galloped back to the car after a rushed hug and brief pleasantries, bolted like hell for downtown.
It ended up taking 34 minutes to get to the spot and Frye was definitely sick: all farty and with fluctuating body temp. Along the way he'd fired off a confirming text:
Fifteen mins. Good?
Flying in his Yaris through the tiny narco-hood streets with thoughts stacking like jets in a holding pattern, Frye was having trouble. He could feel his eyes twitching in his skull...Dude wasn't getting back...One thing to be late picking up the girl...another whole thing to retreat empty...Frye was definitely getting sick.
A generic-sounding beep sequence announced a reply as Frye was pulling up. He read as he un-belted and turned off the car. It was a shitty, druggy, low-everything neighborhood but it was freezing, and just three days after a giant blizzard. Somehow that made him feel safer. Frye thought about weather or not people got robbed in freezing weather, decided probably not. The reply was:
Make it 20. I'm across town.
Disaster, possibly. "20" might mean "50", "100", "1000". His guy had no respect for time. The party-clock was still ticking off in his head and faster than before. Frye was sick. He opened the car door and dry-heaved stuff that looked like egg yolk for five munutes. Then he closed the door, prepared $50, waited.
He'd left the party 40 minutes ago. Frye wiped muddy sweat from his brow and thought about the social graces at stake as regards lateness to children's functions. He sat for 27 minutes, each second of which seemed both interminably long and amazingly brief.
Finally the guy showed, served, and disappeared back into the house. Frye, mega-late, and realizing the guy'd forgotten to take his $50, stabbed the throttle in reverse. By that time he'd been away from the party for one hour and thirteen minutes. Best case for pickup was 20 minutes late. "fuck" he thought, unable to think of a follow up. As it happened, that was the last thought Frye would have for a while.
The car that hit his car was going way too fast for the tiny street. It was also much bigger and heavier than the Yaris. Poor Frye had come blasting out of the driveway, reaching across his body with his right arm, for the seatbelt. At impact his car spun violently through 720 degrees and the centrifugal jolt send him ricocheting off the dash board and out the driver's side window. He landed in a snowball across the street, woke up seconds later in blinding, screaming pain from the ancient rebar once piled on the sidewalk, now forced through his back, out from his chest like a spear.
A few minutes later, an ambulance-and-cop siren symphony getting loud quick, Frye's guy comes out once again, runs over, frisks Frye's pockets (working efficiently around the rebar), tosses Frye's Yaris. There's cash - two 20's, two 5's - scattered around the driver's side. Before sprinting back to beat the first-response, the guy reaches over the rebar once more, this time to grab Frye's wallet, sticking neatly from the center console like a labeled tab on a file folder. He hadn't planned on that at first, but looking at him now, the guy knew Frye was dead, and, as such, would not miss the cash.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Interpreter #5
After I finished with the dude, Mink came up. I said : "that's the extent of it" gesturing at the prisoner with dramatic hands, like a magician presenting the rabbit-hat. Mink set his pack down, brought out the book, opened it up and began to read in a slow, raspy growl while the Interpreter did his thing:
"Cave Wave". Common name for the anti - bunker incendiary DC 190. Cave Wave was developed at Los Almos labs in 1987 and designed by Emmit Oslen at the instruction of Team Leader Scott George. It was tested in Los Almos in summer of '89 and commissioned in January of 1990. First stock was deployed in march of '90 during operation Desert Shield.
The guy's eyes were still bored. I kept watching, Mink kept reading:
"...Designed to strike at targets deep in the earth, or protected by reinforced earth. Cave Wave's explosive charge is equal to about two tons of TNT and its effectiveness is enhanced by a load of molten iron that deploys seconds before the explosive charge, spraying with force onto anything within a 20 yard radius. Dropped from an "invisible" height of 37,O00 feet, Cave Wave can burrow and penetrate to 100 yards depth, inundate the entire target depth with hot metal, and explode with enough heat and force to displace the earth in two hundred yard circumference.
The Interpreter motor-mouthing in Farsi the whole time, and now the guy's face is changing. The 'Terp finally stops so it's complete silence as we sat and regarded one another. I flash Mink a glance and he goes on.
"Cave Wave has a special second stage to its attack which makes timely retaliation in kind a virtual impossibility. Seconds after the initial detonation, another charge sets off what's known as a "Jacob's ladder" effect. A parcel of white phosphorous is blown into the impact zone from the remaining length of projectile, just after this ignition a third, smaller explosion blasts nano-thermite powder into the breach, setting every cubic centimeter of impact zone on fire for up to 24 hours.
The guy's face has gone shock white. His lips dissolve into an unbelieving rictus. He begins to speak but he can't find words. I turn to Mink, point at the guy:
Tell him ten minutes.
The Interpreter turned to him as well, said something, then another thing. None of it sounded like "ten minutes" but the guy started singing pretty quick.
Later on we watched the strike. I had the guy brought back. Left his family doing whatever in the village. Yes, that's some tough shit. this is a story that begins with me doing some tough shit.
Something that never comes across when you see fighting on tv: the noise. War is loud as fuck. Louder - probably - then anything most people are going to be exposed to during the course of sleep>work>fuck, unless they happen to work in demolitions. Even then, there's nothing like the sounds of armed, industrialized combat.
We took a position at the high point of an arroyo overlooking the village, and for a few minutes we looked down on them. There were kids playing. Goats. A group of women were gathered on the far side, tending to what looked like a stage coach from the old west.
I had them bring the guy up to watch. They cooperate, and they think that's it. They think they're going free. They need to be taught. The guy looked puzzled, but he was smiling. The interpreter wasn't around.
"Cave Wave". Common name for the anti - bunker incendiary DC 190. Cave Wave was developed at Los Almos labs in 1987 and designed by Emmit Oslen at the instruction of Team Leader Scott George. It was tested in Los Almos in summer of '89 and commissioned in January of 1990. First stock was deployed in march of '90 during operation Desert Shield.
The guy's eyes were still bored. I kept watching, Mink kept reading:
"...Designed to strike at targets deep in the earth, or protected by reinforced earth. Cave Wave's explosive charge is equal to about two tons of TNT and its effectiveness is enhanced by a load of molten iron that deploys seconds before the explosive charge, spraying with force onto anything within a 20 yard radius. Dropped from an "invisible" height of 37,O00 feet, Cave Wave can burrow and penetrate to 100 yards depth, inundate the entire target depth with hot metal, and explode with enough heat and force to displace the earth in two hundred yard circumference.
The Interpreter motor-mouthing in Farsi the whole time, and now the guy's face is changing. The 'Terp finally stops so it's complete silence as we sat and regarded one another. I flash Mink a glance and he goes on.
"Cave Wave has a special second stage to its attack which makes timely retaliation in kind a virtual impossibility. Seconds after the initial detonation, another charge sets off what's known as a "Jacob's ladder" effect. A parcel of white phosphorous is blown into the impact zone from the remaining length of projectile, just after this ignition a third, smaller explosion blasts nano-thermite powder into the breach, setting every cubic centimeter of impact zone on fire for up to 24 hours.
The guy's face has gone shock white. His lips dissolve into an unbelieving rictus. He begins to speak but he can't find words. I turn to Mink, point at the guy:
Tell him ten minutes.
The Interpreter turned to him as well, said something, then another thing. None of it sounded like "ten minutes" but the guy started singing pretty quick.
Later on we watched the strike. I had the guy brought back. Left his family doing whatever in the village. Yes, that's some tough shit. this is a story that begins with me doing some tough shit.
Something that never comes across when you see fighting on tv: the noise. War is loud as fuck. Louder - probably - then anything most people are going to be exposed to during the course of sleep>work>fuck, unless they happen to work in demolitions. Even then, there's nothing like the sounds of armed, industrialized combat.
We took a position at the high point of an arroyo overlooking the village, and for a few minutes we looked down on them. There were kids playing. Goats. A group of women were gathered on the far side, tending to what looked like a stage coach from the old west.
I had them bring the guy up to watch. They cooperate, and they think that's it. They think they're going free. They need to be taught. The guy looked puzzled, but he was smiling. The interpreter wasn't around.
Interpreter #4
"A man six foot tall, you could fit 30 billion of them into the earth. That's how big the fucker is: 30 billion dudes, big.
The interpreter - bringing up the rear, walking behind two prisoners - was speaking English. Loudly. He always spoke very loudly, like he wanted everybody around to get what he was saying:
"That's a thing they don't show on the news. On the news, the earth? Fuckin too small. 30 billion? Fuck no. 7 billion and shit is crowded - dudes fighting over gas and food. The news tells us that shit! why these guys over here fuckin whichoo! 7 billion. Ain't enough, no room right?
The interpreter's chosen method of thought completion was usually some variant of abbreviated rhetorical confirmation.
"So they bring me along, an I gotta talk to these guys...they ain't learning, they don't wana know. Easier they get a guy. Guy talks, says shit they want, the way they want, right? So Awright.
I was following behind by a few yards, alone. Listening.
"...but the news ain't tell you shit these guys don't want you to know. The news is all "them" not "us". Part of my job...Bring a little "us" to these Marines, Right? Look at this guy:
I knew without turning he was talking about me, and I knew what was coming. Daily occurrences since Quat: the interpreter running me down to prisoners / townspeople / other assorted ragheads, then laughing about it - loudly and with great purpose - with same ragheads. I didn't even turn around. He went on for a while and then he and both prisoners were laughing so hard they were almost silent.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Interpreter #2
I've spent my entire life doing the same thing over and over again, and I bet you have too. Let's run down the list:
First: we get up from having slept. I'm only 23 years old, and so a lot of my "having slept" meant "having slept more than anybody needs to sleep".
We eat. Some more than others, most more than we should.
We get a dumb fucking job. I only ever had one - my dad owns a car lot and I worked only there.
After work I usually call my friend Beece, and go out to a place where I'd a) eat dinner b) watch sports and c) drink beer and other alcohol Until a) somebody wants to fight me (or me, they) b) somebody wants to fuck me (rare), or c) I puke in the bathroom and go home to smoke weed. It seems like a pretty good list of options, I'll admit, until you run through the menu a few hundred times.
That's what sparked all this. If you pan back a bit, isn't that what everybody does down here? The lucky ones anyway: We sleep, get up, work, come home. Lather, rinse, repeat. It's the best we can do. Throw in an occasional vacation, a wedding or whatever - we get plenty of holidays - but for the vast majority of our time on planet earth, the best we'll ever do is a variation on that theme.
"The earth only ever spins one way" is how my own father put it. inspiring guy, my father.
We'll get into him later. For now, the important part is simply this: I joined the United States Marine Corps, got sent to the desert, saw and did really fucked up shit...and did it all because my world only ever spins one way, and I wondered if that way was the only way. I didn't think it was and - as it turns out - I was right.
First: we get up from having slept. I'm only 23 years old, and so a lot of my "having slept" meant "having slept more than anybody needs to sleep".
We eat. Some more than others, most more than we should.
We get a dumb fucking job. I only ever had one - my dad owns a car lot and I worked only there.
After work I usually call my friend Beece, and go out to a place where I'd a) eat dinner b) watch sports and c) drink beer and other alcohol Until a) somebody wants to fight me (or me, they) b) somebody wants to fuck me (rare), or c) I puke in the bathroom and go home to smoke weed. It seems like a pretty good list of options, I'll admit, until you run through the menu a few hundred times.
That's what sparked all this. If you pan back a bit, isn't that what everybody does down here? The lucky ones anyway: We sleep, get up, work, come home. Lather, rinse, repeat. It's the best we can do. Throw in an occasional vacation, a wedding or whatever - we get plenty of holidays - but for the vast majority of our time on planet earth, the best we'll ever do is a variation on that theme.
"The earth only ever spins one way" is how my own father put it. inspiring guy, my father.
We'll get into him later. For now, the important part is simply this: I joined the United States Marine Corps, got sent to the desert, saw and did really fucked up shit...and did it all because my world only ever spins one way, and I wondered if that way was the only way. I didn't think it was and - as it turns out - I was right.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)