by Mark Rounds
“I was able to hit a target the size of a car at eleven hundred meters,” said Connor.
“What kind of optics were you using?” asked Harold.
“Just the standard aperture sight,” said Connor.
“I’ve heard a few sea stories before, son,” said Harold smiling, “and if you had told me that you had used some sort of fancy scope, I might have half believed you, but no one can make that kind of shot with an M-1 over open sights”
“Go ask Major Tippet if you don't believe me,” said Connor, who was getting a bit tired of this.
“You mean Major David Tippet,” asked Harold, somewhat incredulously, “the ranking active Marine around here who was a Force Recon company commander and an enlisted shooter before that?”
“Right,” said Connor starting to get up. “I was spotting for him a while back fighting the Infected on the Vantage Bridge.
“Hold on, son,” said Harold, “if this is true, we are wasting you as a grunt and I owe you an apology.”
“It's OK,” said Connor. “I didn't hit the guy I was aiming at. I just got close enough to distract him so the guy on the ground could take him out.”
“That settles it,” said Harold. “I need to talk to Borden about this.”
“I wish you wouldn't,” said Connor who cased his rifle, “I am hurting some and would just like to go home and get something to eat.”
And with that, Connor walked out the door, rifle slung over his shoulder. Harold had always been observant and so spotted the blood that was just starting to leak through his shirt low on his back.
As soon as Connor walked out the door, Harold made a beeline for Sergeant Borden's office. He found the good sergeant up to his elbows in paperwork.
“Sergeant Borden!” said Harold in his best parade ground voice as he snapped to attention two paces inside of Borden's office. “Private Gibson requests permission to speak!”
“I appreciate this parade ground talk in front of the new soldiers, Gibson,” said Borden shaking his head. “But you can relax a little when they’re gone. Call it sergeant's privilege. I'd offer you coffee, but I haven't had any in a week. What can I do for you?”
“Sergeant,” said Gibson taking a slightly less rigid posture, “are you aware of Private Strickland's claimed marksmanship skills?”
“Better than that,” said Borden, “I had a chat with his 'Uncle Dave' who is more formally known as Major Tippet. He is deadly with that big rifle he carries. The good Major said he was hitting within a six foot circle at close to twelve hundred meters. At that range, the 30-06 bullet is on the verge of tumbling.”
“The kid only claimed eleven hundred,” said Gibson thoughtfully. “Did you also know he was bleeding from the lower back when he left?”
“Yep, I saw it myself,” said Borden. “That's why training ended so early. He was shot in the back and the leg a couple of weeks ago.”
“OK, it's none of my business,” said Gibson, “but you should be training him to be a sniper and he probably shouldn't be drilling at all if he is still recovering.”
“I will do my damnedest to make a sniper out of him, but he needs a little time,” said Borden emphatically. “Did you ever see that big Indian that hangs around the dorm and works with the Intel Detachment? I think his name is Sayla.”
“I watched him fight with that big knife of his when they had that student riot,” answered Gibson, “He is one scary SOB. What does he have to do with it?”
“Sayla scares me,” said Borden with a smile, “Sayla is also the one who shot young Strickland. Sayla says, and I quote, 'He has warrior in him, like his father.' It is the longest sentence anyone has ever heard him say.
“Strickland is fine raw material for the militia. I bet he'll be an officer before I retire, but right now, he needs a little space. He needs to heal and he needs to believe he can live up to the press that people give him. You can be part of that process. Tell some war stories, throw in a few whoppers, draw him out, sneak him a beer, get him to talk. He’s only seventeen, but he has been in half a dozen firefights and he killed a man with a baseball bat. Strickland is clearly suffering from PTSD but won't admit it. He should be in treatment now but the sad truth is, we need him.
“Most of the militiamen we have in training have maybe, possibly, shot at some infected people who were pretty far gone. Any of the troops here with real combat experience got it in the Middle East and they are miles and years away from it in their head-space. They're mainly the senior NCOs and officers. You can be the right combination of grandfatherly mentor and battle buddy that I think he needs to pull out of it.
“I have seen enough today to know you are a first-class NCO. I would give you a squad tomorrow if it weren't for Strickland. I need you to work with him. I won't give you the stripes or anything you deserve quite yet, but you still have it. Effective immediately, you are Strickland's trainer.
“The same goes for Pederson. He is all screwed up over the mess he saw on the road. He is probably in worse mental shape than Strickland. He is on your list because he has killed more than a few Infected with that shotgun of his. I have permission from the Captain to train the three of you together, only I am not training you, you're training them.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” said Gibson relaxing slightly. “Since we are off the clock and relying a bit on that sergeant's privilege you mentioned earlier, I have a flask with some fine Kentucky sippin' whiskey in my kit that I would be honored to share with you.”
“Sergeant,” said Borden with a smile, “you know that alcohol is expressly forbidden on all American military establishments except in designated areas with permission of the commander. But since we are off the clock, I have some real glass tumblers in my desk that are mostly clean.”
“You Army guys have it soft,” said Gibson as he pulled out his flask.
July 8th, Wednesday, 7:10 pm PDT
Officers Club, Fairchild Air Force Base, WA
Capt Stutesman sat alone at the casual bar. She was still in her ABU's after coming in from patrol. She looked down and saw that her scotch was empty.
“Bartender,” said Jen with a bit of a slur, “I'll have another.”
“Sorry, ma'am,” said the bartender, “but everybody is limited to two drinks a night, Commander's orders.”
“Damn it!” said Jen as she pounded the bar, “I haven't had a drink since this stupid rationing began. Aren't I entitled to some of my drinks for those days!?”
“I am sorry, ma'am,” said the bartender, “I don't make the rules, I just try to follow them.”
“Well, bring me some ice water then,” said Jen, retreating back to her funk.
“Sorry, ma’am,” said the bartender solicitously, “we are out of ice too.”
Col Phillips, who had been witnessing the event from across the room in the dining area, nodded to his wife and walked over to the bar and ordered two scotches.
“Have one on me, Captain,” said Col Phillips.
“Sorry, sir,” said Jen backpedaling, “I really don't need one.”
“Then it's OK if you have one,” said the Colonel, handing her the scotch. “We really aren't that short of booze you know. I just wanted to reduce binge drinking when the facts of the Plague settled in.
“So you had a rough day?” asked Phillips benignly. “From what I read, your mission was a smashing success. You saved the lives of over fifty uninfected civilians, secured enough grain and beans to get us through the winter, and brought most of your patrol home. Then you went right back out with a much larger task force and got all the grain and beans back to the base in less than two days with only light casualties.”
“Tell that to Airman Turkel,” said Jen who was holding back a sob. “Christ, I didn't even know his name until Finkbiner told me. He just put a bullet in his own head while I was watching. I could have stopped him. I just ...”
“It's OK,” said Col Phillips interrupting before she got truly maudlin. “You made all the right calls at the right
time. I read up on Turkel's history. The kid had guts. He fought his way out of a crack house in Chicago into the service, and was working his way towards being a fine Airman. But he hated drugs and everything it did to people. He was not going down that path and you know what, I don't blame him.
“I go over to the Gym just about every day, to visit all the Infected that we have on base, and try and keep their spirits up. They have little to do and mostly, they just lay there. Some read. Some play desultorily at games, but they are all just waiting for their next fix. The suicide rate is very high, even though they don't have much in the way of weapons. I might just shoot myself too, if I knew that was all that was waiting for me. Turkel made his own choice. It wasn't your call.
“You know,” he added, “Sergeant Finkbiner, who is a good man, is over at the Chaplain in counseling right now. You could take advantage of that, too.”
“No, sir,” said Jen. “I realize those services are available, but I can handle this.”
“Well then, Captain,” said Phillips. “Finish that drink and go home. Report to my office at 0730. We need to discuss your new assignment.”
“New assignment?” asked Jen with a fresh worry in her eyes. “So am I to be court martialed for Turkel's death?”
“No,” said Phillips. “You showed some damned good small unit leadership out there. We have lots of officers, but most are fliers and technicians. They are doing their best, but most of them are not naturals. Finkbiner thinks you are. I was going to give your public health gig to the hospital. They have more resources to handle it anyway. You will still be primary animal care for the working dogs we have left, but you are getting a flight of Security Police. You do well with them and you will be a squadron commander in a year.”
“I don't have any training in security work,” said Jen, truly stunned at what the Colonel was proposing.
“That's why you will get a good NCO,” said Phillips. “Staff Sergeant Finkbiner is requesting to be assigned to your unit. Apparently, you impressed him. He would be a fine Flight Sergeant. You will get forty technicians, pencil pushers, and bureaucrats, and between you and Finkbiner, you will turn them into an infantry unit.
“Now I want you to go home, get some sleep and show up tomorrow so we can talk about the details of turning over the Public Health Officer duties to one of my out-of-work aviators who has a Pharmacy degree.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jen, “and thank you, sir.”
“I suspect you won't be thanking me much before this is through,” said Phillips more to himself than to Capt Stutesman.
July 9th, Thursday, 7:26 am PDT
Security Squadron Operations Building, Fairchild Air Force Base, WA
Staff Sergeant John Finkbiner was nervous. He had been called in to meet with the First Sergeant of his Security Squadron and the Squadron Commander. That usually meant he had fucked something up and he was pretty sure he knew what it was. He should have been able to stop Turkel. He knew it in his heart. His talk with the Chaplin had eased his mind enough so he could sleep, but he still felt guilty.
“Attention!” shouted Chief Master Sergeant Pffremer, whose voice only had two volume settings: loud and earsplitting. Nobody really knew how old the Chief was. His gray hair was thinning on top but he wore the same uniform he did when he made Staff Sergeant. He was built like a fireplug and more than one new NCO thought he could take the Chief. The last one was back on duty, but still walked with a limp.
John snapped to attention, a reflex that had been burned into his memory at Lackland Air Force Base in Basic Training.
“Sergeant,” said Pffremer at his lower volume setting, so John’s ears only rang a little bit, “Do you know why you are here?”
“Yes, Chief,” said John with a swallow, “I accept full responsibility for Airmen First Class Turkel's death. If I had moved faster I might have ...”
“Enough sergeant, we went through that last night,” said Pffremer. “God couldn't have stopped him and in his shoes, I might have done the same thing. No, what you are here for is infinitely worse. We are standing up another Security Flight, and, at the recommendation of Captain Stutesman, you are going to be the Flight Sergeant.”
“Um, ah ...” fumbled John.
“Shut your trap, son, the flies will get in,” said Pffremer. “Don't thank me yet. Most of the guys with any training or experience were gathered up in the first round when we expanded the Squadron to eight flights instead of the normal two. We are now in the process of calving off a second squadron as eight flights are just too big. You will be getting a bunch of word-processor jockeys, aircraft mechanics, and specialists with no more airplanes to work on, and half a dozen troublemakers who were in detention.”
“What do I have in the way of NCOs and experienced airman, Chief?” asked John, who was still struggling with the fact that he was not going to get a board of inquiry for Turkel's death.
“You will keep your old fire team and the rest of the patrol you went out with,” said Major Beadle, the Squadron Commander.
“The Chief says your two gunners will make decent squad leaders and one of the retreads I am sending your way is a Staff Sergeant too, though you have date of rank on him. You'll have to figure out which one of the rest of them will make your fourth squad leader.”
“I understand we are short of equipment,” said John. “What will I have in the way of arms?”
“You will keep your team's personal-issue weapons,” said the Commander, “and the M249. You will also be issued a single Remington 870 pump shotgun for training.”
“They all have privately owned weapons then?” asked John fearing the answer he already knew.
“There are a half a dozen pistols of various calibers,” said the Chief, “and one guy is a hunter so he brought his Savage Axis Rifle in .270. The rifle has a pretty good scope from what I hear. He only has about fifty rounds of ammo but I hear he can shoot pretty good. You might make him your designated marksman, though as Flight Sergeant, that is your recommendation to make to your commander.”
“Who is the Commander?” asked John.
“Stutesman,” said the Chief, who suddenly gave him the evil eye. “You have a problem with her being a woman or any nonsense like that?”
“Not at all,” said John. “She is a straight-shooter. But I am worried about arms for … my troops. I'll train them with all the weapons at our disposal, but I don't want to take them out in the field if all they will do is yell 'Bang!' at the Infected in front of them.”
“Good,” said the Chief. “She will be coming to meet with the troops after lunch; it's up to you to civilize them before they meet their commander. I don't want anyone popping off because the Vet is the CO or that they are too good to do the honest and honorable work of a security airman.”
“This next is classified, but we have a shipment coming in from McChord, Sergeant,” said Major Beadle. “They have taken over a tool and die company in Tacoma and they are turning out fair copies of the Remington 870. I suppose we will have to pay them royalties after this is all over, but when the plane gets here, and that can be any day, you will be sent to unload it and likely arm yourselves from the cargo with more than an even chance it will be under fire. Get them up to speed with the shotgun, Sergeant. Do it yesterday.”
“Yes, sir,” said John. “When will I meet my flight?”
“They are in the big meeting room right now, Sergeant,” said Chief Pffremer. “Let's go get acquainted.”
July 9th, Thursday, 9:32 am PDT
Fairchild Medical Clinic, Fairchild Air Force Base, WA
“Look!” said an exasperated Capt Stutesman, “Colonel Phillips himself said I was supposed to pass the public health portion of my job off to you and I was to get it done yesterday. What's so hard about this?”
“The issue,” said an equally exasperated Dr. Pearson, “is that before the Plague, as you well know, we weren't a hospital. We were a clinic with four contract doctors, two physician's assistants, two pharmacis
ts, one pharmacy assistant, various assorted lab tech's, nurses, and clerical staff. We work in a hospital building, but all the emergency room equipment, all the surgical equipment, and most of the beds were moved out years ago in a cost-cutting measure.
“We have had to staff a pretty serious hospital here handling hundreds of beds with some tragic cases. We did gather a few retirees and other civilians who were volunteers, but we are way understaffed.”
“I was told,” said Stutesman, “that there was a navigator with a Pharmacy Degree and no plane to fly who was going to take the job over.”
“That would be Lieutenant Belter,” said Pearson. “He is working twelve hour shifts in our Pharmacy now. Just precisely when is he supposed find time to be the Public Health Officer?
Why don't you run along and tell your boyfriend Col Phillips that we are military contractors, and as such, are not in his chain of command. We are doing our damnedest to care for the sick, but nowhere in our contract does it say we have to handle public health just because you got tired of it.”
Jen was speechless for a moment. Then she went over to a slow boil that stopped just short of violence.
“You have,” said Jen in a quiet but tightly controlled voice that was barely above a whisper, “exactly one chance to reel that one back in. My recollection is that you just said that you thought I arranged to hand off the Public Health Officer duties because I was having an inappropriate relationship with my commander. Is that correct?”
“Look,” said Pearson, also beginning to boil, “I don't care how you got him to agree to this, it's not happening. Period, end of story. I don't have any more time to give this. Run along and take care of your doggies, little girl.”
“I am leaving this office,” said Jen as she stood up, “but I am not headed to the kennel. My next stop is the IG to file a sexual harassment incident report. Given the nature of such a report, it will land on Colonel Phillips’ desk before I get back to the Security Police building where I will be taking command of a new flight of security police, the proximate cause of the Wing Commander's requirement that I relinquish control of public health duties to your staff. You think you don't have time enough to talk to me about legitimate tasking? You will be spending many hours filling out depositions, responding to letters of inquiry, and probably in conference with your own attorney if you can find one. Since you are, as you so sanctimoniously reminded me, a civilian contractor, you do not get the benefit of legal support from the JAG office.”