by Mich Moore
the old equipment was kept in place because it served as perfect camouflage for their unit's equipment and vehicles should anyone go poking around with an X-ray camera.
He found the two-legged Timberwolves in the armory performing the systems-go check on the weapons that they would carry during REFLA. Right on cue, the muscles along the nape of his neck tensed.
Captain Marty Flemish looked up from polishing his rifle. "Look what the rat's drug in."
Flemish, DAT Colleen's dad, was the squad's sniper. Whenever he stopped huffing from the bucket of Jesus he always carried around, Palladino found him almost tolerable.
Palladino plucked a clipboard thick with documents hanging from a nail in the wall and scanned it. "Anybody check on the horses yet?"
Captain August Smith was picking his teeth with a loose grenade pin. "Looks like it drug in your bad mood, too."
Flemish snapped his rifle back into the gun rack. "How can you tell?"
Captain Elliot Bosely chimed in. "'Cause Gene's only happy when he's got a can of hooch on him. Oh, hold up. What's that in his back pocket?"
"Your dear 'ole ma," Palladino snarled.
Bosely, the unit's senior medic, hooted. "And look, she's holding up a six pack!"
Smith interjected. "Well, isn't that the pot calling the kettle black?"
Bosely pointed his index finger at Smith's center of mass. "Hey! I only imbibe when—
"You're awake," Flemish finished for him.
"Shut up," Palladino snapped. He glared around the room. "Now, have the horses been checked out?"
"The colonel is with them," Flemish answered.
"How long's he been here?"
Flemish shrugged. "I think he got in last night. He was here when I got in this morning."
Captain Joe Mackey chuckled. "Hey, Marty. Were you in here begging God to save our asses tomorrow?"
"I was. And I asked him to forgive your whore mongering, too. You're welcome."
Mackey's jaw dropped. "Hey, stop putting my business in the streets."
Mark Clayton, the newly-promoted DAT field specialist, snorted loudly. "I'm thinking He's already got the 4-1-1 on that one."
Smith groaned. "Here we go again. Flem, if Mackey is getting as much twang as you think he is, then the Almighty ain't mad; He's jealous!"
Joe Mackey fixed his steel blue eyes on his brother-in-arms. "Marty, if some all-powerful being is sitting around stressing about my petty stuff, then I'd say He's got too much time on His hands."
"Blasphemy," Bosely intoned.
Mackey settled down.
Flemish couldn't resist getting in one more jab. "Just get your house in order. You're bringing down morale."
Mackey grew air fangs. "All right, you are way out of line!"
"I agree," Palladino said as he re-hung the clipboard. "When's Pop coming in? Obviously the sooner the better."
"He's out back with the colonel," Flemish said.
Palladino left the grumbling behind and headed out of the armory and back towards the rear of the factory. He punched in his security code at the steel rollup gate and was soon standing in the crisp sunshine and fresh air of the equine team's paddock. 'Fresh' was relative; smells of stinky manure and urine-soaked hay filled the air. Trash flies buzzed his ears. The place was a mild mess, but the overarching essence was of raw goodness. Earthy. The knot of muscles gnawing at the base of his neck uncoiled by a fraction.
Higgins and Pop were standing beside Vic, a hulking Clydesdale who, in his opinion, was the sharpest tack amongst the four combat horses. Vic took orders like a K-9 and rarely shied from mission intensity. However, at the moment, the large animal was looking like anything but a wonder horse. There was pain in his features, and it made him look a little vulnerable. The colonel and Pop were bending way over to examine his left leg. Even from three meters away, Palladino could make out the swelling around the knee joint.
"Hey!" Palladino called out. Vic whinnied.
Higgins looked up. "Gene, come look at this."
Palladino came up beside the horse and looked the leg over. There was definitely inflammation but it looked more like a joint problem than a bacterial one. Palladino examined Vic's eyes. They were clear and inquisitive.
"I don't see any sign of infection. How's he eating?"
"Like a horse," Pop replied.
The colonel began to gently knead Vic's glossy neck. "That's good news. It could be his arthritis acting up. It does that from time to time, 'specially when the weather changes up." He felt the bum leg again. "Let's keep an ice pack on it and get him in a partial harness. He might check out by tomorrow night."
Palladino kept his eyes moving. The horse was definitely keeping his weight off the leg. Palladino cursed again. If his point animal was out of action, then that meant that the other horses were going to be next to useless, nervous, and spooked at every turn. And that would leave the DATs with spotty coverage at best; his men couldn't keep eyes on the AIs and any pop-up HCs or AS, too. The mission might be over before it even began. Or worse: delayed.
Why did I even bother to get out of bed this morning?
The torque from the knot in his neck cranked up with a vengeance. Palladino longed to be back at the beach.
Higgins handed Vic off to a stable hand. "Your team assembled?" he asked Palladino.
"Yes, sir."
Pop wiped his hands on his coveralls. "Let's go then." The aligner led the way back to the armory. The Timberwolves jumped to attention as soon as the trio entered the room, and the casual camaraderie fled.
Higgins and Palladino moved off to the side while Pop kept his entire two-meter frame between the others and the door. No pleasantries were expected or exchanged.
"Gentlemen," he started gruffly, "the day after tomorrow is an important date in your life. You and the Army's most sophisticated weapon in fifty years will walk hand-in-hand into history. And you won't be alone. You'll have cutthroat scum and committed Advance South personnel with you every step of the way. Tell me, are y'all ready?"
"Hell yes, sir!" the Timberwolves barked confidently.
Pop's mouth bent in what was now interpreted by many as a smile. "Is that so?" He advanced on the men by two steps. "Because that's not what I've been hearing."
Team confidence instantly began to flag.
Pop continued. "It's been said that right before an Advance South soldier goes to bed at night he kisses his Bible, his wife and his gun. Does that make him a better man than you?"
"Hell no, sir!" the Timberwolves answered in unison.
"Yeah? Well, we've got intelligence from Homeland Security telling us that the foot soldiers for the Cabo cartel are being trained by Mossad. A Cabo infantryman can shoot the eye out of sparrow from three hundred yards. I've seen it! Does that make them better warriors than you?"
"Hell no, sir!"
Pop's massive chest heaved. "Well, then why did the governor of New Jersey recently hold a news conference telling his people not to worry about our special forces knocking on their front door because in his estimation we couldn't fight our way into a wet paper bag?"
No one said anything.
"This no-good fucker pees on us in public and y'all just stand around happy as sissies."
Pop directed his withering stare at Palladino. "Why does the Army of the legitimate government of these United States inspire more laughter than fear in St. Louis? ... or Miami? ... or Atlanta?"
The colonel stuck out his chest. "In my opinion, this Army is still an effective force in re-establishing true democracy in America."
"And in my opinion, you are full of shit." He swung his eyes around the room. "You all are. The Timberwolves have been given the opportunity of a lifetime: to actually put a boot print on the AS's backside. And you a-holes piss it off." He began a savage mimicry in a high, girlish voice. "'I'm sick of the war. I want to go home. When are we getting our Canadian package?' Well, sons-of-bitches, WE ARE ALL SICK OF THE WAR AND WE ALL WANT TO GO HOME!" He removed his shirt. "None of you is w
orth the uniform you pretend to wear."
"That's not true. You lie!" Clayton shouted angrily. The other men registered shock at the tech's audacity. Clayton had fought the Advance South alongside Palladino in Kentucky and everyone knew that his timing— both mental and physical—had been slightly off ever since. But such a breach of conduct was still almost unheard of. And with Pop? Sheer insanity.
Pop spun around with catlike speed and swung on the captain. His right hand immediately connected with Clayton's lower lip, splitting it open.
Pop raised his arms and roared at the air. "Guddamn, it IS true!" He wiped the specialist's blood from his fist. "Clayton, you couldn't hit the side of a barn if I held a gun to your head, and you think this has bothered you enough to get back on the firing range. HELL NO! This man's Army is full of ineptitude, corruption, and a-moral conduct. You're no more ready to fully engage the enemy than a blind mule. And every no-good bastard from Alaska to Florida knows it."
There was a tense silence suffused with rising panic.
The belt slid out from the loops in his pants like a python. "Pay attention to me. This is as much a war of comportment as it is brains. You nimrods seem to lose sight of that whenever booze, broads or an empty chair enters your crosshairs." He cracked his belt, and it whistled purposely through the air. Pop's voice bristled with menace. "It stops tonight."
The Timberwolves broke position and fled to the four corners of the armory. It was a feckless maneuver. Pop cornered Bosely first and got busy pummeling the cowering man with both belt and fist. And when he had driven the man to the point of tapping out against the