Typically, they ended with passive interest and jokes regarding the implications “overdeveloped” might have for an imaginary attractive woman and how the men would love nothing more than to “cluster her atoms,” but Bradich occasionally succeeded in provoking deep discussion among his soldiers. I rarely offered more than an exaggerated roll of my eyes to either the imaginary women or the deep discussions. Neither piqued my interests at that age, nor as I grew older for that matter. The thought of guarding Donovan, however, piqued my younger version's interest by quite a gracious margin.
“So it is an escort mission for Donovan?” My younger self barely contained her excitement. Her allies around the crackling fire immediately saw through her attempts to maintain a gruff mercenary's tone. A chorus of laughter bombarded the mercenary encampment. Though the blurred censor over my younger self's face concealed the emotional creases, I distinctly recalled the overwhelming flame that rosied my cheeks during my comrades' guffawing.
I had known my ruse proved futile as much as they had known of my unbridled excitement. Even I released soft laughter at my younger self's obvious embarrassment, and as the cool night air tossed about our clothes and kissed our skin, I glanced at the faces of each member of our family. Starting from my younger version's left and moving in a wide circle, I recalled the tight knit mercenary group: the Bald Eagles.
Shandi, the only other female in our squadron, served as our communications master during missions. No one assembled information on holocomputers or in their head as efficiently as she. Watching her curly red hair and freckled face illuminated by a blue screen was a treat my job rarely afforded me, but once in a while, Bradich assigned me to set up my kill zone over our forward operations base. And our forward operations base always housed the beautiful Shandi.
During those times, I often caught sight of the glint of streaming data as it raced down the holo screen and reflected off Shandi's rich brown eyes. When it came to processing and reassembling the data for surveillance and tactical prompts, our comms master's fingers moved like liquid tendrils and her voice donned the precision of a surgeon. Bradich credited Shandi with the success of our operations and safe return of our squad more than once. Each time, with a proud flip of her crimson curls, she lavished the praise.
With an ample bust, slender waist, and womanly swell to her hips, the auburn-haired southern belle was the object of desire for the company's male majority. Shandi, despite constant vies for her affection, remained steadfast to a single claim: “Sorry, sug', I already got my sights on someone else. You're a might sweet to think of me, though.”
The man who struck Shandi's fancy was none other than our leader. Anyone in the company for more than a week heard the line, and anyone that survived more than a month quickly pieced the puzzle together and learned of Shandi's undying affection for Bradich. The only person painfully unaware of her unwavering love and devotion was Bradich himself. For whatever reason, Shandi never mustered the courage to actually profess her love. At least I thought a lack of courage stopped her at the time. Only later would I learn how grossly mistaken I had been. Despite never professing her feelings for Bradich, however, Shandi's love for him never once faltered. Not even unto her dying breath.
To her left sat Jace, a rough cut ex-soldier who styled his hair in a typical brown crew cut and kept his facial hair trimmed to a manly stubble. A man almost as full of complaints as vices, Jace constantly grumbled about the direction in which Bradich took our company, but only when he took a break from gambling, drinking, chewing tobacco, or paying for a night with a town girl to join us around a camp fire. The occurrence was marked with rarity. No job paid well enough, and every job was too dangerous. Like a self-appointed big brother, however, anyone besides him that spoke ill of our commander received a sturdy right hook and hateful, tobacco-scented threats.
Jace's quiet, croaking voice reflected his constant chewing habit interrupted only by the occasional spit. More often than not, he sported a black leather vest and a pair of camouflaged cargo pants tucked into a pair of thick green boots. His weapon of choice, an automatic assault rifle outfitted with enough flashy lights and high tech upgrades to power a small city, remained at his side at all times. As one of our support guns, Jace accompanied front line operations.
Further down, I watched Downy laugh nervously as he drew pictures in the dirt with a stick. Downy remained an enigma to most of us. His coke-bottle eyeglasses, as best as we could guess, corrected his lackluster vision. It seemed senseless to wear glasses with the existence of vision nanites that could enhance normal eyesight to the pinnacle of human limitations, and that did not even cover the various telescopic, or “super vision,” nanites on the market for relatively cheap prices. Around his head, Downy wore a red bandana that kept unruly black hair messily feathered back against his head. His long nose offset his slender face, and I swore I never saw a single strand of facial hair touch his lip or chin. As the squad's tech engineer, if one needed a computer hacked or a security door blown, Downy was the man for the job.
Bit sat alone on his own log; this was largely because Bit's massive body nearly consumed the space of an entire log. The enormous man rarely spoke during most of our friendly exchanges. His hair, braided in tight cornrows, raced back along his dark head. His black skin bulged with giant muscles that coated his entire body like a suit of armor. Of course, carrying around a one hundred and fifty pound Vulcan minigun like a satchel tended to require gratuitous strength. Scars covered the giant's midnight skin as a testimony to his constant battle experience; more often than not, Bit led our charges and covered our retreats.
On the opposite side of our makeshift circle directly to Bradich's right and left sat the twins, Flint and Steele, respectively. Their hair swept back across their scalps like golden fields of wheat, and their bright green eyes flitted about their surroundings with passive interest. We knew as much about them as we knew about Downy. Flint and Steele were neither their real names nor their given names; they were nicknames Bradich branded on them in light of their special talents, namely their tendency to burn things down or blow them to pieces with remarkable efficiency. As our demolitions experts, Flint and Steele's expertise ranged from well-placed C-4 charges to masterful grenade throws and handheld nuclear detonations. In addition to their fantastic knowledge of explosives, they possessed the cliche, creepy, silent-twin-communication thing. Thankfully, I never heard them finish one another's sentences.
Gunther, Welsch, and Loxley completed our core group. Those three were inseparable. As former battle buddies in the military, their competitions tended to escalate quickly. Often they competed with a basic kill count during our hairier operations, but their lust for a definitive “better man” extended even to daily routines. They competed to see whose stream of urine arched the highest and landed the farthest away, whose charm might win him the heart of a naive bar patron, and even who could flirt with Shandi the longest before she slapped the shit out of him.
Gunther, with his jet black hair, piercing green eyes and Persian features, stood as the most handsome of the three. However, his uncouth nature often betrayed his sterling looks. Loxley's blond hair and blue eyes framed an unremarkable face that belied a charismatic and manipulative personality. Despite Gunther's stellar facade and exotic allure, it was often Loxley who won the competitions for the fair, drunken maidens during their courtship games. Most of the men joked that his silver tongue could wrest the panties from a nun. Welsch, a run-of-the-mill brunette with blue eyes and a strong jaw, always seemed caught in the middle of Gunther and Loxley. In fact, Welsch seldom seriously participated in the competitive games among the three. I often wondered what the result might have been had he exerted any effort.
When the troubling trio set aside their testosterone contests, they served as the crew's fill-in foot soldiers. If Flint and Steele needed an armed escort, they provided it. If Bit and Jace needed extra guns to spearhead an assault
, they provided it. If our forward command base required heavy guard for Shandi's sake, they provided it. Whatever Bradich told them to do, they took care of it.
With myself as the company sniper included among the lot and our fearless leader standing stalwart at the helm of command, it meant eleven total Eagles soaring from one dangerous nest to the next seeking fortune and excitement wherever it was to be found. During larger operations, Bradich often employed temporary freelance mercenaries to add beef to our ranks, but the eleven of us comprised the core of the Bald Eagles. Aside from the death of Larz a year before the Titan Crisis, that number remained unchanged in all the years of my service under Bradich Lesfort… until that day.
“We leave for Cairo tomorrow. We stay until Doctor Lesfort no longer requires our assistance, until we return to America together or, obviously, until we die. A small militia is stationed throughout the city with a heavy concentration of manpower on the nanite facility. It's not much, as the city is nearly in ruins, but the militia will provide backup in case of an emergency. As Ihlia pointed out, there are attacks on the city and facility almost daily, from ground assaults to air raids, so this is not going to be pretty. The pay, however, is substantial, and the cause is acceptable,” Bradich spoke with a commanding air after the boisterous laughter brought on by my former self's girlish embarrassment died down.
“Acceptable cause… you mean just cause it's your brother, we gotta go above and beyond our normal call,” Jace grumbled from his position in front of the flickering orange and red campfire.
“Oh, shut up, Jace,” Gunther annoyedly cried toward the tobacco chewing ex-soldier.
“What'd you say, pretty boy? I'll hop this fire and make your face look like Bit's left ass cheek,” Jace stood and shot a wad of spit from his mouth into the hissing flames.
“Enough,” Bit snapped at the two. After considering his girth, they both sealed their lips and hastily dropped their rears onto their respective logs.
“I won't lie, Jace, that did seal the deal. But it's not just because he's my brother; it just so happens my brother is also one of the most renowned nanite researchers and surgeons in the field. His current theories and experiments are secretly sanctioned by the U.S. government. If we aid in a major nanite breakthrough, it could be big. We could be rich and famous beyond our wildest dreams,” Bradich replied, glancing toward the starry heavens with ambitious tenacity.
“Sug', if the government is so interested in this here little project of his, how come they don't send their armies to back him up?” Shandi cocked her head to one side as she posed our leader a valid inquiry, to which the rest of us nodded our heads.
"Good point, it's because they don't want to draw more attention to it than necessary. Donovan might be onto something big, we don't know, but the big wigs don't want to hang a flashing neon sign out that points to the lab and says 'Hey, over here,' so it's being treated as a private investigation. That's where we come in,” Bradich gestured to our group.
“Privateers hire mercenary companies all the time. The Nanite Research Dome in Cairo may be controlled by the Free Alliance, but it rests in a hot zone constantly assaulted by the Union and the French. Thus far the Free Alliance military and the Cairo militia have worked together to keep the borders safe and the territory in our hands, but if we advertise a breakthrough in neurotech, they're likely to turn up the heat. Even if we succeed in holding The Nanite Research Dome for the Free Alliance, precious tools and research data may be lost or corrupted because of a heated skirmish,” Bradich finished and leaned back against one of our nearby jeeps.
The Free Alliance referred to the United States of America and any of the countries that fought under her banner. Japan, England, the Soviets, South America, and much of Africa, including Egypt, joined the Free Alliance at various stages of the Global Conflict. Their poster-boy motto was “Free nanite information and distribution to the world, fight terror, and secure prosperity for the peoples of the free world.” Most people knew their real goal was to police nanite distribution and keep as many combat nanites out of the black market as possible. Still, their motto sounded nice. Historically speaking, it always did.
The Union consisted of the “great evils” of the world; Spain, China, Korea, Vietnam, most of the European nations, and the parts of Africa that refused to join the Free Alliance made up their strongest military forces. If they possessed a motto, it probably involved killing as many of America's soldiers as possible. While their goals were probably similar to the Free Alliance's true agenda, they failed to wrap it up in a pretty public relations slogan. A part of me respected them for their honesty. That respect did not stay my trigger finger when a Union soldier threatened one of my comrades, but respect surely counted for something, right?
As for the rest of the world, most of them adopted a “we're not joining, but if you bother us you can bet your ass we'll fight,” mentality. The French were the only exception. As the world's dominant military force with super soldiers far outclassing any other country's and military nanites years ahead of their competition's, the French remained their own force throughout the entire conflict.
Their only brothers-in-arms, Canada, provided them with support; logistics; forward bases of operations against the United States; and the occasional military unit. Despite the foothold against America they gained from Canada, France attacked other countries of the Free Alliance, the Union, and neutral territories almost indiscriminately. Most people never truly grasped their goals in the Global Conflict, and they never released an official statement for their unbiased aggression. Perhaps they simply grew tired of ancient mythological cracks and jokes regarding their alleged cowardice in a bygone age?
“So keep it tight, keep it clean,” Bit nodded and folded his arms across his massive barrel chest.
“And blow the fuck out of anyone that tries to mess with the doc,” laughed the twins.
“Exactly. So party hard tonight, gentlemen. Tomorrow we put our game faces on,” Bradich stated with stern affirmation.
The night's merriment in preparation for the operation's start kicked off with sludge and Bradich's disappearance into the simple tent he set up on the outskirts of our camp. To my former self's left, Shandi trained her dreamy gaze on the commander's retreating backside. My younger version leaned over and gripped her sleeve; after offering it a firm tug, the younger Ihlia whispered up toward the ginger belle fiercely, “Pst, Shandi. Can I talk to you?”
It took a few moments to receive recognition, but the red haired beauty eventually shook her head and glanced down toward my young self, “Hm, Sug'? Did you say somethin'?”
The young Ihlia leapt from her log and tugged Shandi off into the night far from the crackling fire, the blustering laughter, and the eavesdropping ears of the Eagles. When she was confident the other squad members partied far out of ear shot, Ihlia began pacing nervously across the squeaky, moist grass. Every few trips in front of the busty belle, Ihlia halted and turned with mouth agape as though to utter something, only to release a frustrated sigh and return to pacing.
Shandi quirked a brow, “Darlin', what has got you more nervous than a cow at a slaughterhouse? Calm down, Sug', you know you can talk to me.” Shandi gripped Ihlia's shoulders when she passed by again and turned the teenager toward her. Shandi replaced my mother, in a way, during my long years as a mercenary. As a fellow woman, the crimson haired comms master refused to allow me to grow up without a strong influence of femininity. In addition, she helped me through some of the messier, more confusing years of puberty. The young Ihlia sighed softly to calm her nerves.
“How do I get Donovan's attention this time? What do I say to him? It's been almost a year since I saw him, and we were still so messed up after Larz died that we barely had anything to say. Should I be aggressive? Or maybe I should try to stay nonchalant. I don't want him to think I'm some prattling school girl, but I want him to know I'm here, and i
n front of him. I mean…” Ihlia stammered.
I felt an embarrassed heat creep up my neck; even if it was my dream sequence or hellish afterlife, recalling the nervous explosion I dumped on Shandi shamed me so bad that I slapped my opened palm atop my face just watching it. I split apart my first and second finger to watch my stammering younger self from between the slit.
“Whoa, Sug'! Honey, you need to calm down. You're squealin' like a stuck pig, and I can't make heads or tails of what you're sayin'.” Shandi cupped the young Ihlia's cheeks and brushed both thumbs beneath her eyes in an attempt to soothe her.
“Oh no, you're right! I'm acting like a baby!” Ihlia groaned and sank to her derriere on the grass, simultaneously covering her face with her open palms. Her whine escaped her like the troubled teenager she was, “I'll never get him to see me as a woman no matter how old I get! Why'd I have to be born so late?! Just a few years earlier! Why not just a few years?!”
I watched Shandi smile at the downtrodden version of my former self. As she sat her well-endowed curvatures next to the young Ihlia's, she placed an arm around the young girl's shoulders and tugged her into a soft embrace. She cooed her words like a reassuring mother hen calming her chick, “Now baby, that's just nonsense. Look at you. Why, when we first found you I remember you standin' in the rain cryin' your precious little eyeballs out. You were a pretty little thing that could barely fill a child's nightgown. Now look at you! A beautiful, buxom, shinin' jewel of a young lady that any man would be a fool to overlook!” Shandi puffed up the ample swell of her chest as though she felt proud that her guidance and presence helped mold me.
“You deserve to feel proud…” I whispered in the echoing voice my dream-like state afforded me. I knelt down and threw my intangible arms around the southern belle; as I expected, they drifted through her body like a ghost's. I did not care.
NANO Archive 01: The City of Fire Page 27