Dust of Retreat Pt2. (Narrative)

My hair prickled and crawled as the unnatural air washed into the room. The slight rumbling of the atmosphere units sent vibrations down my rib cage, and pain through my abdomen. My knuckles turning white at the side of the sink, I raised my eyes from the drain. The cheap mirror sat propped against the teal walls, a large crack running down the right side. My reflection, distorted and enlarged, stared back. The large red scar still blistering over sang across my nose, and bleached shrapnel markings dotted my cheek and forehead. I reached for the razor, my beard was turning a slight salt color. It would look bad in the death reports. A shadow loomed over me, blocking the light from the door. Her hair was too light of a brown . And her left eye, still blue, was a prosthetic. I had given her the bed to sleep on, but no service. She was close, but didn’t remind me enough of her. I met her eyes and offered half of a smile. She returned it, her eye clicking and focusing as it followed the razor across my face

The boots were worn in, finally. My toes slid into the perfect indentations at the toe cap. A piece of shrapnel stuck out of the right side. Brand new. With a sigh I tugged it out and tossed it across the room.

“A little close for the comfort?” Her accent was thick, Russian. Nothing like...hers. I looked up, she was kneeling now watching me intently. I roped the laces around my heel, twice, then tugged hard and tied them, tucking them into the top. “You have the money, why continue?” I stopped again. My eyes resting on the steel diamond pattern floor.

With an audible click, the intercom system powered on.

“And if you don’t love me now, then you’ll never love me again!”. Guitar and other instruments echoed throughout the facility. The system was outdated, but the speakers were new. The prostitute looked up, startled.

“Wake up, wake up, it is 0530 and we have a job ta do boys, and gals”. Smiths voice drawled through the speakers in the room, and the next, and the next. The music continued in the background, quieter than before. I continued staring at the floor, focusing on the announcement.

“Our tags are still active, so local forces think we’re them. But, we’re much uglier than them. Our uh, manager has a new task he’d like of us. Meetup is at 0630, main ballroom. Have your gear ready, and your dick in hand by then. More info then, out.” The system and music clicked off all at once. I let out the breath I had unconsciously been holding in.

Her lips were warm on my now bare cheek.

“Hey...” Her voice was a whisper now.

I raised my head and faced her.

“I have to go.” I stood up, leaving her down below. Pulling my wallet open, I slipped several hundred credits to her.

“I wish you luck.” I turned on my heel, the plating sliding easily on the soles of my combat boots, and began walking towards the door. The morning light was slipping into the rooms bent blinds now. Sending orange beams slashing across the interior. Her reflection in the glass of the door followed me as I gripped the handle and camly slid out of the room.

The door was already propped open, a large 350mm artillery round held it in place. I walked past the unique door stop, bringing my hips in slightly to avoid catching my holster on the door.

I was met with the gaze of Fatima, the Africans leader. She was out of uniform for the first time, her light brown skin shone through a tank top that tucked into her camouflage pants. An older pattern, desert digital camouflage, US origin. Blue tattoos mixed into scarification, running waves through her arms and chest. Her blue hair tied into a 6 inch top knot. A large pistol sat on her hip. My eyes reached her scowling purple lips, pierced through dozens of times. And finally her almond shaped eyes. I let a smirk reach my own lips as a sign of good will. Next to her was Mansur, an anomaly of a man. His braided black hair fell onto his shoulders, silhouetting a horrific site of scarification and wounds. His lips ended at the middle, turning into a spider web of stitched and glued together flesh. Word was he had eaten a suicide vest during the neo Palestinian conflict as a hired gun. His swollen arms displayed an alarming number of injection marks and veins that even his large blue tattoos and studs couldn’t hide.

“Oi, nice of you to join us here-oh!” My eyes shot to Dingos rat like features. His thin nose crooked and broken hundreds of times from being in the wrong place, at the wrong time, while touching the wrong girls ass. I could smell his liquor breath from where I was, his toothless methamphetamine mouth gaping open in a twisted smile. Kill marks tattooed across his chest, each a pin and needle piece he had done himself. Sitting next to the small skulls were multiple names of lovers, some crossed out, others given more detail. His withered small chest and puny arms were outmatched by the enormous gold belt buckle barely holding up his blue and white naval camouflage pants. “Royal Navy mate, the best in the sphere.” he hadn’t washed them since I had met him.

I snapped to attention and presented arms to him. My hand expertly forming a knife, fingers and thumb extended and joined rose to my forehead. I snapped my hand away from my head towards him, quickly extending just the middle finger. His disgusting mouth managed to smile even larger than before, exposing rotten gums and two black teeth.

“Mac! That makes every team lead puh-resent!”

Smiths Texan voice boomed throughout the room. His enormous figure dwarfed everyone in the room, and his shock of blonde hair and curled mustache had a life of their own. He was standing at the head of a plastic picnic table, half a card game present under the large grid map spread on top of it. A compass and protractor sat on top of the map, with multiple colors of dry erase marker, and their markations spread across it. Flanking his left was Jessica our Wardriver. Her blonde hair framing her pierced face and enormous looped earlobes. Her cyber warfare pack was jacked into her neck connections, and ran down her corset. A large data pad was in her hand, and a digi-pen in the other. On Smith’s right sat Abayomi and Blackie, our gear pilot and hired thug boss. Abayomis diminutive frame leaned on the plastic chair Blackie sat in. Her bright pink hair was done up in a messy bun, and she was wearing a large grey sweatshirt, and what looked like nothing else. Blackie’s face was criss crossed with white scars, contrasting his sub saharan skin. His head freshly shaved from the surgery. His face was as bright and eager as ever.

“This right here!” shouted Smith.

An enormous finger slammed onto an area of the map circled multiple times in red and black, and outlined with exclamation points.

“We have a force of 0-12 light cavalry operating in this area. Close to the frontlines, but more of a peacekeeping role. The catch: they’re a Chinese unit, no mixed country here. And they’re up to no darn good. Our informant, an ex wife of a friend, but I’ll tell you more about that later, has intel that they’re command team has two high profiles on board. These high profiles are working for Quin-Xyon, that tech company operating in orbit. Quin-Xyon is responsible for that accidental gas leak last year that none of you heard about. Not because you don’t care, which you don’t. But because it was a cover up. That’s unimportant to you right now. Our plan is to initiate operations in the order under our National Guard tags. And be so obnoxious we have a “Blue on Blue” situation with these Chinamen. During this chaos, we’re going to snag these high profiles. I have unfinished business with them, and they have some codes we need.”

“OI, so the chinks are batt’ ready aye?” A collective sigh went out as Dingos body leaned over the map.

“Yes, they’re operating on war foot, but we’ll have the eleme-”

“Mate, thats a whole platoon’ mate yer fucked.”

“They’re reduced strength, peacekeeping. The recent assaults from the aliens have really dented the few front line units in the area. Plus they are simple line soldiers with minimal support.

“Fahk mate, the monkeys are there too!? You say no fookin aliens mate, fuck tha.”

“No aliens, they’ve been contained by the standing forces to the north. The nearest alien is over a hundred kilometers from our insertion, and it’s probably a dead alien. The Panoceanic forces have gotten really good at killing the bastards.”

“There support elements are extremely limited, and I’ll be able to shut their comms down permanently.” Jessica’s slight accent crept into the now smokey room.

“They are using outdated field equipment, you know how cheap those bastards are. It’ll be a breeze, once their IFF is scrambled they’ll be shooting each other in no time.”

“Fahk, only if I’ ridin’ with her mate” Dingos grinning face turned towards Jessica. She sighed and continued looking at the map.

“Priest and his operator are already inserted here.” Ignoring Dingo, Smith traced his fingers around a small set of ridgelines.

“They’re communications are broadcasting us as a larger force than we are, just to add to the confusion.”

“We will be inserting here, and heading south into the rear of the Chinese patrol base.” Smiths finger slid to a depression on the map, it’s outer edges folded into a spur leading downwards.

“Our time of insertion will be 0330, and expected contact will be 0645. We’re night operations and noise and light discipline until contact is made. Observation will be made until force assumption is correct. Our bravo point is here.” Smith’s finger slid from the insertion point downwards, then at an angle to the north of the patrol base on the map.

“We will set an ambush here for the lead element, while our capture element will look for the high profiles. Movement for Bravo point will be a step off of 2 hours after force assumption, or if they move out before us.”

With a large clank Dingo slammed an object on the table.

“What the fu-!” Everyone took a step back, Fatima rising quickly and fingering her holster.

“Aye I fookin love these mate! Get them gooks good and dead mate!” With a light plastic tinking noise Dingo held up the detonator for the claymore now firmly planted into the plastic table.

“I appreciate your motivation” Smith said as he gently pulled the claymore out of the plastic, everyone clenching their teeth and taking a step back as he wiggled and jimmied the explosive.

“Once contact is made, we will go to battle comms for the rest of the plan” Smith finally pulled the explosive out of the table.

“Our exfil will be on call, with a 45 minute timer on it. So once it’s called it’s called. Our main issues will be if the chinese can get their vehicles crewed appropriately. And if this force decides to investigate.” Smith once more pointed at the map, where a large skull and crossbones was marked.

“Fahk man, you got more baddies ey”? Blackie chimed in this time.

“It’s not as bad as our artist rendered it. It’s a patrol from the Panoceanians in the area. They’re looking for a missing civilian from the nearby habitats apparently. A teen ran off, so they sent some soldiers. Typical Pano bullshit.” “Aye, could use one of their rifle mate, heard it tells you the time and all.” Blackies gold tooth shone in the cold lighting above.

My abdomen ached, the gauze and bandages had begun to bleed through and my green overshirt had sweat marks despite the cool 60 degree interior. “You cut yourself.” I looked up, Jessica was the only one in the room now.

“You look good without the beard, younger.” I nodded as she walked past, entering the door frame.

“Stay frosty out there, don’t want to cut your cube out in the jungle.” She had stopped, turning her head towards me in the doorway.

I smiled.

The fire started at my teeth and followed deep into my lungs and body. Coughing and wheezing my abdominals seized up, cramping and shaking. I spit onto the drop ship floor, laughter echoing in my ears.

“Hoi mate that hooch not acid!” Dingo laughed and threw back a mouthful of moonshine, swishing it like a mouthwash. His face lit yellow in the amber interior dome lights of the drop ship. I sucked hard on my water sources feed, trying to wash the horrible liquor out of my mouth.

We were close now, the flight had been over 6 hours long. Blackie sat next to me snapping together the last few pieces of his rifle, his gear sprawled across the floor of the ship. Those who had thought ahead had packed their gear appropriately and were catching sleep. Others seemed to not need it. The Africans sat calmly, the three of them totally silent the entire time. Other than an adjustment to Mansurs heavy machine guns servo arm, they hadn’t seemed to move. Their helmets, a similar design to mine glowed blue. Their heavy semi assisted armor seemed to breath on its own under the weight of the plating. Their units were entirely self contained, atmospheric conditioning units and communication packs built into their helmets kept them cool and in contact. Their webbing and gear was numerous, each member carried a box of ammunition for Mansurs heavy machine gun, and a battery for Fatimas hacking device. The team had been together for years, and lived and breathed as one. The third African was heavier equipped than the the rest, a large grenade launcher rested between her legs, a necklace of lions teeth attached to the handle. A belt of grenades wrapped around her chest. We never caught her name, but had seen her work. Both with machete and grenade. A small shoulder mounted rocket launcher rested next to her. It’s warheads painted bright orange, a last resort.

“We’re 15 minutes out, final gear check”. Our pilots voice sounded over the interior, a slight hesitation permeated her usually calm demeanor.

“Ey doll, something wrong?” Dingo echoed towards the cockpit. No reply met him.

I began my usual ritual. Hands gliding over my webbing, and equipment. 6 magazines, check. I pulled one out and weighed it in my hands, turning it over. Heavy. 20 high velocity fragmentation rounds, 7.62 millimeter. I slid it back into its pouch and continued my ritual. Four hand grenades, 3 fragmentation, one with a proximity detonator for a surprise. My side arm was already checked over one hundred times since I had woken. It’s ivory handle engraved with my unit badge, it’s grooves worn down from hundreds of hours of use. My pack weighed heavy, 2 claymores, 3 extra bladders of water for the heat, a canvas roll, and 4 flares with trip wires.

My plating was front and rear, with side protection. Late development mark 3 helmet. Panoceanic design, used on their Bagh Mari units, it’s multiple eye slits had thermoptics, night vision, and shades built in. It’s tribal markings painted on by the Africans to mirror their own in case of friend or foe identification. My hand moved down my calf to the large knife placed there, it’s leather cracked and worn but sturdy. Always reliable, always there. My check ended at my medical bag. I hoped I wouldn’t have to use it, but it was a necessity. My only addition to it was the multiple pairs of handcuffs for the high values. I slid my hands across my rifle, US built Scar-h7A. It’s optics were linked to my helmet cameras, gps aided and built into a laser sight. It’s front grip was molded to my hand, a perfect fit. My designation still sat spray painted across the side of the receiver. Chipped and imperfect, the feeling of nostalgia was great.

Turbulence rocked the craft, and I felt Dingos eyes meet the back of my head. He hated flying.

“2 minutes, lock your gear, rear hatch access initiated”. Her voice seemed strained again.

With a whoosh the hatch began to crack open. The early morning sun creeping in, bathing us in orange.

“Oi, ye better run through that jungle.” Dingo was smiling nervously as the hatch descended further. A skyline slowly revealing itself.

I heard a commotion and looked over. The Africans had all stood, hands clamped onto the hanging handles above the seats. Blackie was frantically packing the last bits of his bag, I noticed an abundance of hand grenades, and poker chips. With a shrug I stood as well, undoing my seat belt. My gloves flexed and creaked as I gripped the ring above my seat, rocking slightly to keep balance against the crafts movement.

“Alpha team update your IFF, you’re close to insertion A.” Priests voice read in my headset loud and clear. His calm demeanor never wavering.

“I’ll see you boys soon, I’m 200 mikes northwest of your infil.” Smiths voice boomed through my headset. I noticed Fatima shaking her helmet almost in disagreement.

The jungle rushed up to meet us.