"The Las Vegas Hilton"

Wyatt Nathan had known what he wanted to do with his life since he was a freshman in high school. That was when he'd started cutting his hair short, wearing combat boots every day, and working out. Ask anyone from Central High School in Omaha, and they'd tell you -- Wyatt was a Marine long before he'd joined the Corps.

From the moment he decided, everything became about the Marines to him. JROTC, daily physical training, drill team, mixed martial arts. On graduation day, he had full-ride scholarship offers from all five service academies, but it was never a question -- he was going to go Marine. After four years at the Naval academy, the powers that be gave him a choice -- Marine aviator or Special Operations. Again, there was no question -- Special Operations all the way.

He'd always been the best at everything -- first in his class, first in Ranger school, first in combatives competitions. When his unit had shipped into Firebase Zulu from Magadan, Colonel Ross of the JSOC had asked for a volunteer for a high-risk mission -- Wyatt had been first there, too. He and his unit had rolled into North Korea in two stealth Razors and commandeered an office building without firing a shot. They'd then waited. And waited. And waited.

And some fucking convict unit had gone into Pyongyang, accomplished the mission, and gotten all the fucking glory. And Wyatt and his team stayed at the office building, waiting for orders.

"No worries, boss," his second-in-command, Gunnery Sergeant Mendel told him after 47 Echo had pulled off the mission. "We won't be here long. They're not gonna waste highly trained Devil Dogs sitting on a listening post."

"Hoo-rah," Wyatt said, smirking.

Three days later, another stealth Razor showed up, driven and crewed by four convict Deltas. Rather than a relief crew, it was filled with MREs and bottled water, as well as orders from Colonel Ross -- hold down the building, and keep eyes on the North Korean frontier.

"Well, shit," Wyatt sighed as he had his men move the supplies to their makeshift barracks on the second floor. "Looks like we're gonna be at the Vegas Hilton for a while, after all."

"What're our orders?" Gunny Mendel asked.

"Listening post. Daily reports -- I expect North Korean tanks to come rolling our way any day now. If that happens, we're to report, then stop 'em if we can."

"Oh, and we can. Day watch/night watch?"

"Sixteen hour shifts. I'll take day, you take night?"

"Roger that, sir."

North Korean tanks didn't roll across the border in a matter of days -- or even a matter of weeks. Two months after the destruction of the lab in Pyongyang, Wyatt and his detachment of the 2nd MSOB were still sitting in that abandoned office building, watching the frontier, and waiting. They hadn't seen another soul since the Deltas got back in their Razor and headed for Firebase Zulu.

In fact, they hadn't seen anything move on their scopes except for the wind.

Wyatt hoped that after nine weeks of the same report (sent from a Razor running under full steath in the parking complex under the building), a report of no movement, that Colonel Ross would pull his unit out and put them somewhere where they'd see some action. But every day, the same response came back: "Acknowledged. Carry on."

From 0800 to 1200, both the Day and Night watches were up, and he and Gunny Mendel had breakfast together and went over Mendel's report from night watch. From 2000 to 0000, they were both up again, and Wyatt would fill Mendel in on what happened during the day. After the first four weeks, their exchanges went exactly the same.

"You see anything?" Wyatt would ask in the morning.

"Nope."

"Didn't think so."

The same exchange would repeat twelve hours later, with Gunny Mendel asking the question and Wyatt answering. Boredom set in quickly. The men were all Marines, and all elite -- they weren't meant to be running guard duty on a dead post. They were meant to be out there, on the front lines. They were meant to get some.

Keeping his men sharp was tough. There was no room to run drills, and they had to stay away from windows. A few weeks in, Wyatt and Mendel decided to institute twice-daily Razor patrols under full stealth -- the solar collectors kept the Razors topped off, so they didn't use any solid fuel driving ten miles from the Vegas Hilton in every direction. After seven weeks, Wyatt was bored enough to join the patrols himself. Still, they never saw another soul moving.

At the beginning of the tenth week, Wyatt had just filed his report before sacking out for the night. He'd decided to give it one more week before he took the next step, a step that was almost unthinkable -- requesting that Colonel Ross pull him and his men out. It was tatamount to questioning the orders of a superior officer, behavior that years of training had hardwired him against, but he felt he had no choice. He and his men were wasted here -- and worse, they were getting dull.

"Sackin' out, boss?" Gunny Mendel asked as Wyatt stepped out of the Razor.

"That's the plan. You see anything at all, come get me."

"Shit, boss. If I see anything at all, I'm declaring it a national fucking holiday," Mendel said, grinning.

Wyatt went up to the second floor, to the office that had been converted to his quarters, and set his M4 by his bed. He stretched out on his cot and was asleep five minutes later.

"Boss!" he heard, and jolted awake. Gunny Mendel was at the door, lit only by the chemical glowstick he held in his left hand. The power had been off in the building since they arrived -- if they got raided, Wyatt had left orders to switch the power on.

"What's up, Gunny?"

"Movement, boss. Got it on the scopes up on four."

"On my way," Wyatt said, slinging his M4 over his shoulder and grabbing his body armor and helmet as he stood. He and Mendel took the stairs to the fourth floor two at a time, then crept up to the windows where Private First Class Walker had his scopes set up.

"What do we have, Walker?"

"Vehicles, sir. A lot of 'em. Headed right this way."

"Let me take a look," Wyatt said, and Walker moved away from the scope.

As he looked through the optics, Wyatt saw lights -- red and white running lights -- crawling over the hill a few miles away. He swept the scope around and took a quick count -- thirty vehicles, at least.

"That look to you what it looks like to me, Gunny?" Wyatt said, moving away from the scope.

"Yes, sir," Mendel said, squinting as he looked around. "Chinese Death Machines. I'd estimate 35 to 45 of 'em."

"CDMs? Just one of those things wiped out the entire Alpha Stryker Company," Walker said.

"Yeah. And it looks like they're rolling for our boys on the front lines. Gunny Mendel -- I want you to rouse the Day watch, then take your boys and load up in a Razor. Get going for Zulu and let them know what's up. We'll follow behind in a few minutes and cover your ass."

"Roger that, sir."

"Mendel was off and running down the stairs seconds later.

"Go with the Gunny and load up, Walker. I'll keep an eye on those CDMs until my day watch gets up here."

"Yes, sir."

Wyatt kept his eyes glued to the scopes, even as he heard his day watch assemble behind him. The CDMs didn't seem to be in any particular hurry.

"I'll take over the scopes, sir," he heard Lance Corporal Lewis say softly next to him.

"Good man. We estimate upwards of 35 CDMs. Keep eyes on 'em and let me know what they're doing," Wyatt said, clearing the scope and turning to face his men.

"What's up, boss?" Corporal Parker asked.

"CDMs inbound. A fuckton of 'em. They don't seem to be heading for us, specifically, but they are headed this way. I've ordered Gunny Mendel to take the night watch and one of the Razors and flat-out for Zulu."

"Why not just radio 'em?" Parker asked.

Ah, Parker. Good kid, but not too bright.

"Channel 1-9 Victor is secure, but it's low-power. To further confuse our Asian and Russian friends, we've been bouncing our reports off a bunch of satellites and relay stations all over the world. The Razor can get into direct radio range faster," Wyatt said. "Now, here's the fun part. Day watch is taking the other Razor to follow behind and cover their escape. That's us, gentlemen."

"Hoo-rah, sir," Parker nodded.

"Can't risk a Nighthawk. It's small, but they might pick it up," Lewis said from the scopes.

Wyatt nodded. The tiny, flexible UAV was designed to be launched from the Razor's rear cannon.

"We'll have to do this without overflight. Cameras and night-vision optics in the Razor will have to do," Wyatt said.

"Request permission to stay behind on the scopes, sir. I can give you an overwatch until they get a mile or so on the other side of the Hilton, here," Lewis said.

"Negative, Lance Corporal. A mile either way won't make a hell of a lot of difference. I'll need you on cameras in the Razor. Appreciate the willingness, though. Load up. We roll in zero five minutes."

His men scattered and headed back down the stairs -- all except for Lewis.

"You too, Lance Corporal."

"Sir. I can stay up here while you load up. Keep an eye on the CDMs. I can be down in the Razor in 45 seconds when you're ready to leave."

"Good man. You don't come down when I tell you, though, and I'm coming up to get you. You don't want that, clear?"

"Hoo-rah."

As Wyatt headed for the stairway, Mendel's voice crackled in his headset.

"Rolling out now, sir. See you back at Zulu."

"Roger that. Good luck, Gunny. Pedal to the metal, yeah?"

"Copy."

Wyatt shrugged into his body armor and helmet as he ran down the stairs to the parking level. When he got there, he found his men loading the last of their equipment into the Razor.
Wyatt helped Parker load in the last crate of 5.56 ammo, then strapped himself into the passenger seat next to First Sergeant Sikes.

"Ready to road-trip, Sikes?"

"Ready, sir."

"Right. Power up, full stealth, gentlemen," Wyatt yelled, bringing up the missile station on the screen in front of him. His radio crackled on.

"Lieutenant! CDMs are increasing speed! Think they made us!" Lewis radioed.

"Roger that, Lewis. We're out the door -- get down here."

"Coming down n --" Lewis' voice cut off in mid sentence as the building shook and rattled. Concrete started to fall down around them.

"Lewis! Lewis!" Wyatt yelled into the radio, but all he got back was static.

"Gotta go now, sir! Whole place is coming down!" Sikes yelled.

"Floor it, Sergeant."

The Razor zoomed out of the parking structure, narrowly avoiding a large slab of concrete that fell from the ceiling as the building shook again. They zoomed out into the night -- rockets and 25mm gatling rounds slammed into the ground and buildings around them.

"Sir! Something on the rear feed!" Parker yelled.

"What do you have, Corporal?" Wyatt said, jumping out of his seat to join Parker at the camera station. He saw a lone marine -- Lewis -- on his feet and running from the rapidly collapsing Vegas Hilton.

"Shit. Sikes, all stop!"

The Razor stopped dead, and Wyatt grabbed an M4 and headed for the back hatch.

"Put it in reverse and zigzag back towards my locator as soon as I clear the vehicle," Sikes. We're coming in through the passenger door, then we're all getting the fuck out of here."

"Sir, I don't --" Sikes started, but Wyatt cut him off.

"You don't get to have an opinion, Sergeant. Follow your orders, Marine."

"Hoo-rah, sir."

Wyatt took one last look at the monitors -- Lewis was still up and running towards them, even with bullets chewing up the street on all sides of him. Wyatt held his breath, opened the back hatch, and jumped out -- he heard it close behind him, but he was already running. He could see Lewis -- the young Marine was only a hundred yards away. Lewis saw his commanding officer and started running towards him when a CDM's rocket exploded right in front of him.

Wyatt kept running, slamming the side of his helmet to activate his night-vision visor. He saw Lewis' form on the ground, twitching. When he got to the fallen Marine, he could see that the young man's right leg was gone below the knee.

"Lewis? You conscious?" Wyatt yelled.

"Barely, sir."

"Give me your hand. We're getting out of here."

Lewis reached up his right hand, and Wyatt took it, turned around, and ran as hard as he could. He saw a quick white light flash just in front of him, then saw a door open out of nowhere -- the Razor. [P]"Pull him in!" Wyatt yelled, lifting Lewis' twitching body up to the door. Parker and Private Richards grabbed his arms and pulled the young Marine into the vehicle, then Wyatt climbed in after him.

"See what you can do for him!" Wyatt yelled as he strapped himself in.

"Pedal to the metal, sir?" Sikes asked.

"Fuck yes. Richards, Cohane, get on the 50s and throw as many bullets behind us as you can!" Wyatt yelled as Sikes zoomed the Razor towards Zulu.

"What do you think our chances are, sir?" Sikes asked.

"You don't want to know," Wyatt said, grinning as he brought up the missile targeting system and looked for a CDM to shoot.

[END]

"Lights, Vehicle, Action, Part 2"

The police chopper overhead has onboard news cameras. They share fuel and maintenance expenses and the footage from the cameras goes out with a 3 second delay to anyone who subscribes to The Chase Channel at home, online, or via mobile. The broadcasts are monitored by two police tech teams ready to cut the feeds at any moment in case something questionable starts to go down. The regular battery is draining as it assists the engine with the small caps kicking in at computer derived optimum timing. At this rate, I'll be buggered in minutes.

The turbos spool up to a demonic whine for that beautiful unleashing of horsepower and torque. Electric assist has me up to 120 and 140 and climbing, but I'm forced to slow down as I almost clip a minivan that hadn't received its GTFO alert. Fantastic, I'm even outrunning the freeway police notification system.

A distant speck in the rearview feed slowly grows into a sleek black Camaro, a Pursuit Special. It's firing off its negative strobes as it catches up behind me. I squeeze my eyes shut and make a blind stab to opaque the rear plasti-glass and disable the cameras before I puke or become completely disoriented and crash.

Now I can't see any of what they're doing. Pucking Ferpect-o.

I juke right, because now that the traffic's been cleared by the freeway monitors, I have some room to play.

POW-CHUNK-LANG!!!

I hear a sickening crunch from the rear of the car. Shit! I've been 'pooned! Ever see the old trashy car movie 2Fast2Furious? Yeah, the harpoon lets police transmit a burst of electricity to fry a vehicle's electrical system. Looks like I'm at the end of my run.

WhoooIIIIIIINNNE – ZZZZzzzzZZZZAAAAPPP – ca-rackle

"FUCKING CUNT-RAG MOTHERFUCKING SON OF A CHINK-BITCH-WHORE! SHIT-SHIT-SHIT!"

The dash displays flickering psychedelic colors at me, the interior LEDs all sizzle and fry. But somehow I'm still running! Maybe they somehow hit the charging line, or the solar clear coat channeled the charge to the system! I'm still running, and-- the capacitors are showing some charge now, like they had an hours' snack time on my mega-high-voltage home charging system.

Brilliant! Plus I know those high-speed pursuit specials can only pack ONE charge; I did an article on them.

I need an idea of what's going on, so I stab the clear button, but the back window only clears enough for me to make out vague shapes behind me as I'm thrown forward hard into my harness. My tires screech and I start swerving back and forth, fighting for control! The prick still has me hooked, and he is panic braking behind me trying to slow me down or wreck me! I thumb the pad again and pray the transfer works. I slow down a lot as the engine takes all the strain of trying to keep me moving forward. I keep moving but the straps are cutting into me each time that prick stands on the stop pedal. Large Caps are ready for one more go, and I have one last idea.

Surging from his panic stops, once, and then twice, and-- NOW! Large Caps cut in right on cue with what seems like all the torque in the world, just after his last panic stop attempt broke his traction. My tires bite as resistors modulate the immense voltage being dumped to the faithful motors. I swerve right and left, and left and right and whip him into a wide arc behind me, and...

He catches the water barrels broadside at the Los Angeles Street Exit, exploding them spectacularly and surely caving in the entire passenger side of his million-dollar plus high-speed pursuit vehicle.

Oh, I'm going to catch a hell of a beating for that.

The harpoon unit pulled out of its mounting and is skipping down the lanes behind me, throwing sparks. I can see it in the side-view dumb mirror, thankful for the design redundancy this time.

The party ends shortly. I can see the blockade just around the bend, and a half-dozen more Interceptor units have joined the chase behind me. Time for one final, tasteless "fuck you."

I cue up Bad Religion and put it on repeat.

Slamming on the brakes and tapping the auto down button for the windows, I skid to a halt sideways in front of the row of police cars and commandeered heavy equipment blocking the freeway. The Interceptors screech to a halt behind me, blocking off the way I'd come.

I double tap for "Max Volume."

I reach down and turn the car off slowly, removing the keys, and very carefully hold them up in a non-threatening manner. I drop the keys past my legs onto the floor. Then I place my wrists on the wheel, palms on the dash and close my eyes.

"Los Angeles is Burning" plays at full volume until I'm yanked from the car and a pissed off officer puts three bullets into the entertainment stack.

I'm sure they've cut the news feed by now, I thought, as the first blows began to land.

*****Earlier*****

"The Senator will see you now." she said as she pertly swiveled around, accentuating the turn with a swish of her hips, and led me into the man's office.

"There's no need to waste those hips on me, sugar." I whispered as I walked past her, further into the room and she followed to stand by his desk in case he needed anything.

"SENATOR!" I bellowed, "How's your favorite Son-In-Law?.... I'm great! Thanks for asking!" I said jovially as his scowl deepened.

"You may go, Vanessa. We will not be require refreshments, and please be certain to interrupt us with anything that comes up, no matter how trivial it might seem."

She strutted all the way back though the door giving her rear an extra waggle before closing the door behind her.

"New secretary," he stated.

"You say that like she's a new car you just can't wait to show off," I said.

"Well, brunettes are in this season, you know," he quipped nonchalantly. "Enough small talk,"

He tried to stare me down, but this was old-hat. I rolled my eyes.

"Fine. I want you to make me a Convict."

He raised his eyebrow at me, and I continued.

"You have the connections and the clout to make this happen. To get me placed in a Conscript unit."

"Why?"

"Because we can't afford yet another war. North Korea, China, The Russian Civil War, AND the War for Public Opinion? No one disputes the L.A. attack started this chain of events, but I'm as much a student of history as you are. The longer a conflict continues, the more organized and supported the opposition to it grows."

"Why not just enlist?" he said gruffly. "Or approach one of the Branches to become an embedded reporter?"

"I've never much liked the taste of bullshit, Sir," I said sarcastically, "Embedding is a joke, has been since the first Gulf Conflict. If I wanted to report merely the stories I was told to the way I was ordered, I would be working for FAIR News. I want the truth, the real story of the war, and the mechos are that story. Ones that haven't been pre-screened or notified of my press affiliation. Some of the mechos may be coming back alive, and they deserve a chance at real reintegration, that is, if the Government holds up their end of the bargain."

"And you want to be the one to tell their stories, eh?"

"You thought it was presumptuous of me to ask for your daughter's hand at the time as well. No, I don't want simple stories, I want to make a difference, to do something that matters."

"You still have fire, boy. I'll do it, and with no conditions."

"What? No catches even?"

"Only the one catch, boy, and that's Catch-22. You came to me without my daughter accompanying you. Which means she doesn't know squat about this cockamamie plan of yours, nor would she approve. You set this in motion, without asking your wife's permission, and THAT damned-fool decision may cost you your marriage, even if you don't manage to come back dead."

"..."

"I believe the words you are looking for are 'Oh,' and 'Shit.'"

******Later*******

"Honey, you feel the same way I do about the Conscription Act! Why would you object to my doing something that has a chance of changing it!?"

She looked me in the eyes, then looked away. I could barely make out what she said next.

"You can't ask me to give you up. I won't even be able to reach you." She raised her voice, "I won't know if you're dead or alive."

"Hon', I'll have a cell phone with spare power cells to last six months. It's data only, with a voice to text program. It won't accept texts, but I will be able to email! I will be in contact, but there's no way of knowing how often.

She crossed her arms, clearly not accepting any of my proffered arguments.

"Think of all the innocent people who may have been sent over to fight against their will. How hard must that be on their families? Hell, you could almost argue that Judges are giving more severe sentences just to provide the Army more conscripted soldiers! Our courts weren't quite a shining beacon of integrity and justice before the Act."

"If you go," she said, arms dropping to her sides, "how soon will it be?" she whispered.

"I don't know," I said, taking a step forward, and another, wrapping her in my arms, "but I can promise you this: I will hold you in my arms this tightly every night before I go, and every night I can after I come home." [END]

----------------

© 2010 Nicholas Cincinat (@SexCPotatoes)

"Lights, Vehicle, Action, Part 1"

"This is reporting that's worth being done, honey! Can't you see that?!? I know you're scared--I'm scared too, but this is a chance to get the truth about what the war is like for the Mechos out to the people! The kind of journalism they tried to train out of us after college when we hired in to our shiny media jobs!"

"I don't want you to go!" she fired back.

"Well, your father does," I tried on a smirk as she looked away, "he sees it as his chance to get rid of me." I let it drop as she whirled back.

"You and my father... you can both go to HELL!"

"Look, I have no idea when they are going to take me. This could very well be the last chance we have to be together for a long time... do you really want this fight to be how we leave things?"

"You have no training, no experience, and you'll be out of contact for who knows how long; maybe even dead! You can't just drop this on me and expect me to be okay with it. I know you want to make a difference, that's part of what made me fall madly in love with you, but this is too much!"

"Of course it's big, maybe the biggest story of my career. But the conscripts don't have any training or experience either. There are rumors that they are seriously ill-equipped as well! These people have been drafted, no matter what illusions of voluntary service the State produces.

******Now*******

On the way home from work. Take a detour through the ghost town south of Downtown.

38.79% of LA's population (at last count) moved away after the attack. Whole swaths of the city abandoned due to dangerous levels of fallout, or collapsed buildings. They just recently got the streets all cleared of debris.

This is where I do my heavy thinking. On the street, cruising where almost no one but the most deranged squatters will live. Thank the gods for free anti-rad supplements.

*Ring*

...*Ring*

"Yello"

"Your car has been tagged as 'stolen.'" said the voice on the other end of my cell.

"Is that why the helicopter seems to be following me?"

"Put on a show. You're a multiple murderer already 'scripted into the Mechos. Escaped three days ago during a transfer. Your name is Stephen Patrick Conley; and don't let the cameras get a clear view of your face."

*click*

Well, I never expected to use this on monitored streets.

I reach under the dash and flip the hidden toggle switch, an old-school touch I'd insisted on. Sometimes a button just doesn't do it for you, know what I mean? The car started her unrestricted growl. A few things can unlock a newer car for performance. Being a licensed member of the SCCA, an amateur and professional racing league, I have legal access to gear that black market Tunerz get busted for every year. From weekend track-days and autocrossing events, to rally or drag races, these are the few sanctioned events that remain for gear-heads and speed freaks to get their thrills these days.

I stopped short of the full 'White Box' replacement ECU, as those are strictly regulated and legal for dedicated race vehicles only. Plus they are impossible to mask or explain away when the Bureau of Motor vehicles does their random yearly tech inspection. The best way to unlock your vehicle's potential is expensive, but well worth every penny. No replaced ECU for my car, but I have some custom boxes that allow some driving excitement. No more banging on the GPS rev-limiter. Your vehicle's Global Position is cross referenced these days with local speed limit databases, and your electrical motor output and combustion engine RPMs as well as your available gear selections are electronically limited to prevent speeding or dangerous maneuvers. About the only places you can legally hoon it up anymore is on the unmonitored roads (no longer listed on maps, privately or maintained, for profit, or abandoned). The only exception is the entire Great Free State of Montana.

For those of us who want some vehicular freedom on everyday roads, we choose our colors.

The easiest setup to get is a "Blue Box." Buy yourself an off-service, former law enforcement vehicle, and get the proper hacked activation software, and a damned good masking program. Voila, full power and capabilities whenever you need an asphalt freedom fix.

Ambulances and Fire Department vehicles (including volunteers) have "Red Boxes," which are useful, but only for point-to-point unlocking.

Mine is a "Green Box," the most sophisticated you can run, one step below the "White Box." This one unlocks the limits by constantly swapping in false GPS input data at random intervals to fool your car's stock ECU into believing you actually are on a race track or at some legally sanctioned event.

None of the boxes are worth a damn without a companion "Brown Box." This is the one that helps CYA by routing the real GPS data to your car's Event Data Recorder, or "Black Box," as it is generally called.

These are ordinary software mods that anyone can get, if they know the right lawbreakers. But the cherry on this hot-car-sundae is that my Hybrid systems have been upgraded and customized. A full solar-web clear coat was the second most expensive aftermarket option to have installed, the first: next-gen tri-mode miniature electric motors.

These babies can run off the battery packs in the car exactly like the old electrics did, but they can also run off the circular banks of capacitors that are arrayed around the motor, taking up all the space saved by the miniaturization of the in-wheel motors. In my case, I chose a system involving two sizes of caps. The large Caps store 1.5x the power of the conventional battery storage, and the smalls have a combined rating of 3x the capacity of the battery. What's more, the Cap charges can be transferred up and down the line, so if energy expensive maneuvers are required, empty large Caps can take the energy needed from the small, or you can transfer the large charge down to the smaller ones. The small caps even have the ability to transfer their charge to the vehicle's stock battery system over time. An elegant system using the newest tech hardly anyone has seen, yet.

Suddenly the sirens of two Interceptors shake me from my technological reverie. Tires screeching, sirens blaring, the cars come out sideways from East 15th, a block behind me. I know I'm sure to regret this, but I'm grinning like an idiot. The only thing I'd need to complete that mental picture is some drool.

I take an immediate right on Olympic from South Santa Fe Ave, using all 4 lanes, going into a slight power-slide. I thumb the pad on the steering wheel which quickly accepts my print and vein signature, enabling the large Caps. Take the pedal to peg-town and my stomach protests as someone sits on my chest, growing the distance between the Interceptors and I.

*Thup*Thup*Thup*Thup*

Chopper rotors sound above me, back and to the left. As if to smugly remind me that I'm not going to be getting away that easily.

I pull my hat down lower, let go of the wheel, and flip them the double-bird for a half second.

I'm almost to the LA River when Reds and Blues appear from around a corner across the bridge. Three more cruisers, coming across the River. The Big Caps are spent, I'm not going to make it past before they can block me off. There's no way I can take or give a hit at this speed, especially from a heavy beast like the Interceptor. So I key in the rear-view feed in the dash, and almost double-take at the space they're leaving me.

This may not be my smartest move, but I yank the E-brake anyway, and convince the steering components that yes, I really do want to go *that* direction now; and at this speed. The tires howl in protest and I stripe the pavement as smoke begins pouring from my wheel-wells as motors fight momentum and I execute the classic J-turn (or "bootlegger's turn," if you prefer). All that practice paid off, but I'm forced to use the thoughtfully provided sidewalk to avoid the two units trailing me, and traction control spits and fights the double hop of the curbs.

Back up Olympic to hang a fast right on Matteo, then all the way up to a right on East 8th, one last right and then I'm climbing the ramp to the 10. Screw the cliché, Freeway it is then. Let's burn some complex hydrocarbons, fellas.

I hope I'm not getting the viewers at home too hopeful.

[TO BE CONTINUED]

------------------------

© 2010 Nicholas Cincinat (@SexCPotatoes)

"X-Ray Alpha"

By now, we all know how the war started. North Korean extremists, masterminded by the son of a public official, set off a nuclear device in downtown Los Angeles. America sent in the big boys with the big guns, but they fucked up and got caught. North Korea attacked Inchon Air Base with Chinese Air support. Complacency to war in about a month and a half. Nice and neat, wasn't it?

Except this -- where was the evidence against the North Korean terror cell? You ever see any? Or did you just do like every other American I know, and start blaming 'em as soon as President Crozier said "It was the North Koreans."

And this -- why'd the Chinese get involved? Sure, they're Communist, and North Korea's Communist, but why'd that Chinese fighter wing help destroy Inchon and overrun South Korea? What did they have to gain from that?

I know I'm not the only one to have these kinds of questions. I think a lot of Americans do. Unlike a lot of Americans, though, I have several of the answers.

This is the point where I tell you my name, right, and explain everything to you? Yeah. About that. . .

Name. Don't really have one of those, not anymore. I could tell you the name my momma gave me, the name I was born under -- and if you searched it, you'd find an 83-year-old Vietnam War vet in Coral Gables, Florida (not me) and a race car driver in Canada (also not me). I wasn't born in the U.S., but I was born an American citizen. I say "was" because I don't really consider myself a citizen of anywhere anymore.

It's really easy to "accidentally" misfile a birth certificate if you're the government. Still, I suppose you have to call me something. My radio code if I'm in a hot zone and need bailing out is X-Ray Alpha 661. The letters and the numbers don't mean anything, but if the military enters them, they get a hit for a covert foreign operative in the CIA (also not me). I guess X-Ray Alpha 661 is as good a name as any.

Explanation. I do have those, plenty of 'em, but I can't give them directly to you. I joined the Army at 19. By 22, I was working for an organization that didn't -- and still doesn't -- even have a name. I'm not with the organization now -- at least, I don't think I am -- but though I'm off the grid, I'm sure they can find me, so I'll have to be a little vague with the info I give out. Sorry about that, but you're a smart bunch. You'll figure it out.

So, let's go back in time a bit -- a big bit, actually. 1997. I'd been working for my employer for just over a year, and was posted to Hong Kong. Myself and another worker -- a Navy SEAL named Morrow -- were there to extract a Chinese national with intelligence data after Hong Kong went back into Chinese hands. Morrow was a big white guy, and I'm black, so we didn't exactly pass for locals, but we didn't have to -- there were plenty of tourists and expatriate Brits around. I was there because I knew the intelligence asset, and Morrow was there in case anything went pear-shaped -- he was a Death Dealer, and as a bonus, he spoke perfect Chinese. He told me his wife was from Hong Kong, and he'd learned it while they were dating.

"You ever been to Hong Kong before, man?" Morrow asked. We were sitting at an outdoor cafe having tea.

"Nope," I lied. I'd been there four times before the changeover and once since.

"We wrap this shit up early, I know a place with good German beer and passable barbecue," Morrow said, sipping his tea.

"Love to, man. But I'm on a direct flight after the job."

"Shit. They got me flying commercial, then space-A back to Los Angeles. Pays to work for the shadow people, I guess."

The job went pear-shaped -- badly so. The Chinese found out who the defector was, grabbed him and pulled him out of Hong Kong. We went after him -- I don't want to say "we killed our way through mainland China," but me not wanting to say it doesn't mean it's not accurate. We racked up four bodies, but we got the asset and both Morrow and I went home. Never saw him again -- hear of his kid from time to time.

That was strike one against China. I wish I could say it was the only one, but in my career, let's just say I struck out several innings. They had plenty of reason to be pissed at us, not just the trillion or so dollars we borrowed and never gave back. That should shed some light on one of the questions I asked earlier.

Now, the other one, the North Korean thing. I'm sure you remember the incident a couple of years back at the American Embassy in South Korea. You know, the one where North Korean snipers opened fire? And the Marine, Master Sergeant what's-her-name, cute chick who got thrown in jail because of it? After Iraq and Afghanistan, they issued a lot of the Marines nonlethal weapons, but she broke into the old-school stuff in the embassy basement -- M-16s and M-79 grenade launchers. I agree with her call, there -- not like the snipers were using nonlethal ammo. Anyway, the government likes to point to that as the flashpoint for the North Korean terrorist movement.

What if I told you it was all bullshit? That MSgt Chica wasn't arrested for pulling out the real guns?

See, that's what they fed the public, and you guys all bought it. Hell, if I didn't know any better -- if I hadn't been there -- I would've bought it too. It made sense. She disobeyed a direct order and got court-martialed. Seven years in Leavenworth and a dishonorable discharge.

A year later, you wouldn't find her at Leavenworth, and it's not because of the convict conscript act. . . but I digress. She got grabbed and locked down because she and her right-hand man went out and found the snipers' bodies, and they were about as Asian as I am. One of 'em was from Roanoke Rapids, North Carolina, and drew a paycheck from your taxes. He hadn't gone rogue, either.

Then we get to the bomb in Los Angeles. That was, originally, a terrorist plot -- that my agency stopped. Couple of guys from Montana managed to put a bomb together, they had some effed-up white-power agenda. Stupid. Their bomb probably wouldn't have even detonated, but someone who also pulled his paychecks from taxpayer cash fixed it right up. Enough evidence was left around for the LAPD, FBI, and DHS to suspect a North Korean splinter group, and boom -- SEALs, Delta, and Rangers roll into North Korea and start a war that was 20-some years in the making.

So why frame up North Korea? Sorry, that's one I can't tell you. I've said too much already -- my lifespan is probably measurable in hours now, anyway. But there's a point where you see what's happened -- a lot of it because of your own actions -- and you just have to set the record straight. You realize you've spent the bulk of your career making the American public look one way while you did some nasty shit in the other direction, and it sickens you. So much that you move to an unstable Central African nation and start typing up your thoughts to send to a reporter at the New York Times Network you met ten years ago. I'm at that point now, I guess.

Time to burn this computer, start moving, and try to confuse the shadow people one more time. If I get a chance, I'll contact you again.

Want me to really break your brain? Next time, I'll tell you how the Russians got convinced to tear their country apart.

[Note: Received by New York Times Editor Jacen Gray on 27 December 2022. No substantiation found -- filed away as conspiracy theory -- never published.]

[END]

"PTSD"

To: "Jason Davidson" [jdavidson@xmail.com]
From: "Jennifer Foley" [jfoley@xmail.com]
Subject: Dealing with Post Traumatic Stress
Sent: 24 August 2029, 11:43 a.m.

Dear Jason:

Captain Keller asked me to write to you, as your wife is due to return from the War later this week, and he's diagnosed her with severe Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. My husband Roger went through the same thing when he came back a few months ago, and apparently (at least in Captain Keller's mind), I did a good job of helping him readjust. We've never met, if you were wondering, but both of our spouses were in the Fourth Infantry (though Roger was on Team Striker, and I understand your wife was part of Team Warhorse).

Just to get this out of the way up front -- I'm probably not the best person in the world to talk to you about this kind of thing. I don't like to operate in the world of heavy emotions. I mostly find them distasteful, so it's kind of up in the air if anything I can say will help you and your wife Kylie. Yeah, I know that's kind of messed up, but I've never been much of a people person. I think my general lack of attachment to strong emotion has probably helped out in the situation with me and Roger.

I'm not sure any of the methods I've used to help Roger readjust will be of any use to you, but if there's the chance that something I say here can help, I suppose it's worth a shot.

First of all, be ready to not exist for a while. Or, sure, you'll be there physically, and your spouse will acknowledge you -- but you're not really there. Or, I guess, more accurately, your spouse won't be there. She'll still be back in the war most of the time, back in The Incident.

And let's be clear about this -- there is The Incident. No matter what kind of shit Kylie saw over there, there's going to be one thing -- one day, one event, one attack -- that's going to be on her mind more than others. The thing is, you can't ever ask about the incident, can't force her to tell you what happened. And even though you won't know what The Incident is for a long time, every conversation you have will probably work its way back to The Incident for quite a whole.

It'll be frustrating, talking about something when you have no clue what it is you're talking about. More frustrating still as anything you say will be the wrong thing. Nothing you say will seem to help, but you've gotta say it anyway. Even when you do find out what The Incident was -- and you will, sooner or later -- anything you say won't help. You'll try to be logical about what happened, but logic won't fix anything. Logic does very little to penetrate that kind of emotional barrier.

And your problems? The shit you've been going through while she's been gone, much less the stress of dealing with a wife who's physically around but mentally still fighting a war 10,000 miles away? You'll have to keep that to yourself for quite a while. It's not that Kylie doesn't care, it's just that it doesn't enter her mind that other people have problems, too. Her issues -- The Incident and all that it entails -- are going to take up all of her waking thoughts and even her dreams for quite some time. The only advice I have here is just hang in there, and deal as best you can. You've already been dealing for quite some time without her to lean on -- you're just going to have to do it a little longer.

Don't try to force Kylie back into the same patterns, the same activities the two of you used to have before the war. If she wants to go out, sure. But don't expect it to be much fun. Don't be surprised when you're in the middle of a conversation and she drifts off and stops talking.

Dealing with a spouse with PTSD is a little like fighting a war must be. You'll make progress -- little gains here and there that can be destroyed in an instant for no discernible reason. Advance, drop back. Attack, retreat. Do what you can to keep an even keel, and just keep listening.

She'll probably be resistant to seeing the Army psychiatrist, but suggest that she go anyway. Note I said suggest -- don't try to make her go. No ultimatums, no "do this for me"s. Just try to influence her to go, but support her decision no matter what.

I don't know if the two of you have kids, but that can be a whole other mess. We don't have them, so I'm afraid I'm not much help in that area -- I've been told you really want to keep an eye on your spouse around your children, and I can see that. Make sure you''re around when your wife is with your kids -- I'm not saying she'll do anything to them, but she'll be distracted, as I said above. You're going to have to keep an eye on them just like you did while she was away.

Oh, and get a dog if you don't already have one. Black Labs are good, as they tend to be affectionate as all hell and love unconditionally. That kind of positive energy is good to have around, and chances are it won't be coming from you or your wife for a while.

That's about it, I think. Just keep in mind that while it's going to be tough, eventually it will get better. You might never get things back to the way they were, but you and Kylie can live a pretty normal life again.

Feel free to keep in touch, and ask if you need anything.

Sincerely,

Jennifer Foley
Army Wife, Team Striker, 4th Infantry Division

"Война"

Greetings to you, my American friends. My name is Sergei Odoshevny, and despite the boyish good looks you see before you, I assure you I am 41 years old. Hard to believe, I know, but it is the truth.

If I look familiar to you, it is probably because you saw me on your TV last year, when I stood behind my boss, Russian Federation Ambassador Aleksandr Chadov, as he asked your President Crozier for aid with the civil unrest in the south of our country.

I wasn't always in politics, though. In fact, I'd only been working for the Ambassador for a few days when I appeared with him on television. I spent some time in your wonderful country -- in 1995, I came over as an exchange student and did my senior year of high school in the state of Nebraska. I didn't speak much English when I arrived, but I was almost fluent when I left -- fluent enough to go to college in England, then to go to work for Boeing as the liaison with the American home office.

After 18 years with Boeing, my nation called on me to serve Mother Russia. I was asked to work with our military, with a Colonel Pavel Ivanov, in an exchange and cooperation program with the U.S. Special Forces. A lot of Ivanov's men didn't speak English very well, and my job was to again act as a liaison with the Americans. My work in the defense industry and twenty-three year fluency with the language made me a natural fit, and the pay was good, so I accepted the position.

I enjoyed my job -- talking with Army Green Berets, Spetsnaz, and units on both sides that didn't have names. There was a great feeling of cooperation and mutual respect that never would have happened when I was a child, back when America and the Soviet Union despised and feared each other. Our military learned plenty from the Americans, and I like to think that we taught them a thing or two.

The program was wrapping up, and I was about to be out of a job within days when we got the news that the North Koreans had attacked Inchon Air Base in South Korea. Hundreds of American Servicemen were killed, and the soldiers at our base were understandably shaken. And by "shaken," I mean "filled with murderous rage."

"It's gonna be war for sure," a young Army Ranger named Aaron Carson said as we watched the news. He was cracking his knuckles and eyeing Lieutenant Dyuzhev's cigarettes on the table in front of us. Dyuzhev nodded and slid the pack towards him.

"Help yourself, Sergeant," Dyuzhev said in his heavily accented English. I'd been teaching him, but he wasn't fluent yet.

"Thanks, sir."

"You may call me Vasily."

Sergeant Carson nodded and grabbed a cigarette from the pack. He lit it, inhaled, and coughed out.

"I expect you're correct, Sergeant," I said, declining the pack Dyuzhev tipped toward me, "Though I hope it doesn't come to that."

"The intelligence reports are saying that the North Koreans were backed with Chinese Air Support," Dyuzhev said, reading from his netbook.

"How reliable is that Intel?" Carson asked.

"Very. We have many agents in China. This is a first-hand report."

"Shit. That's all kinds of not good. Just North Korea, we'd beat 'em down easy. China's a whole different story."

I didn't expect my country to be pulled into the war, as well -- but it happened before the U.S. declared war on China two weeks later.

The Chinese hacked several of our Web sites, including several government and military ones, implanting messages that we should join them in their impending struggle against the Americans. Laughable, I thought. It was like when the German Luftwaffe dropped leaflets on American soldiers in World War II urging them to turn against their own nation. Did they really expect that to work? A little propaganda to make a man turn against his country, his brothers in arms?

It turned out I was wrong. I, myself, loved living in capitalist Russia. I remembered the days of Communism, of the Cold War. I had been a child at the time, but it seemed as though we never had enough food, enough heat, enough money. Once the Soviet Union broke up, things changed -- slowly, but they changed. They got worse for a little while, but as we found more and more oil money, my country gradually became a nice place to live. International corporations set up shop, and most everyone I knew was solidly middle-class or better.

It seemed a fair amount of my countrymen disagreed with me -- and a large number of those were in the Army. Just four days after the attack on Inchon (and the day after my American Military friends had been called home), Chinese tanks and planes roared across the border at the Manzhouli Sino-Russian Inter-Trade Tourist Area, but they were not alone. They were met, then escorted, by three armored divisions formerly of the Russian Ground Forces.

Some of our Army stayed loyal, and moved to repel the invasion -- but we were outnumbered and outgunned. The force we sent to stop the incursion didn't last long. In the midst of all of this, I received a call on my personal cell line directly from Ambassador Chadov, asking me to join him as he requested aid from the Americans. We left that night.

All told, roughly 45% of our armed forces decided to join the Communist Chinese invasion. America declared war just one day after we requested military aid -- the bombing of Los Angeles, the attack on Inchon, and finally the invasion of Russia had convinced them there was no other choice. China had to be stopped. President Grachev pledged all of our remaining military to assist the Americans not only in stabilizing our own nation, but in fighting the Chinese back into their own borders.

I never saw my American Military friends again, though I did hear that Dyuzhev -- now a Captain -- joined the US Army Ranger Unit Sergeant Carson had been reassigned to after both units sustained heavy losses in battle. He became second-in-command of that unit, though I have no doubt he still allowed Sergeant Carson to call him by his first name.

Such a thing -- a combined Ranger/Spetsnaz fighting force -- would have been unimaginable to me when I was a child, or even when I was a mid-level liaison at Boeing after college. We had been raised to hate and fear the Americans, and to love the Communist Ideal of the CCCP -- which, I suppose, is why so many of my countrymen joined the Chinese and North Korean forces. When an ideal is programmed into a person at such a young age, sometimes it is hard to rise above that programming.

These days, I still work as a liaison for the Russian military. I live in Tampa, Florida, and coordinate between the commanders on the ground in Russia -- what's left of it -- and the American forces run out of CENTCOM. The statisticians say we have no chance of winning, but I disagree -- the British finally joined us after the fall of New York last month, and more nations are sure to follow.

I have no doubt we will take back our homeland, but I only hope it will happen while I am still young enough to retire and enjoy it. From the way things have gone so far, we may be in this war for a long, long time -- and I am not as young as I used to be.

[END]

"Carnage"

Tommy Harrigan had a mission, and it was one he'd volunteered for. They'd finished a mission not two hours before, pushing a Chinese unit back further into southeastern Russia. When he'd reported back in, he was informed that one member of his unit -- 2nd Battalion, 5th Marines, 15th Marine Expeditionary Unit -- was unaccounted for. Not KIA, not wounded; just missing.

Tommy was the leader of his squad, and one of the few uninjured. The missing soldier -- Lance Corporal Elizabeth Vargas -- was a member of his squad, so Tommy was the first to step forward to go find her. There were others, of course, mostly from Tommy's squad, but they were all injured and tired. Tommy figured he'd be better on his own -- though they'd won the battle, there were still bound to be Chinese elements still wandering around out there, and they would certainly be angry.

"You sure you don't want me to tag along, Gunnery Sergeant?" Corporal Davis Rogers asked, scratching at the bandage on his upper arm. "Corpsman says I'm good to go. Bullet passed right through."

"No, D. You stay here. Keep an eye on the unit. It's going to be a long night, and you know the Chinese are going to try to take back the ground we grabbed tonight."

"You think she's still alive out there?" Davis asked.

"Probably not. But we need to know one way or another, don't we?"

Davis nodded grimly and cracked his knuckles.

"I'll keep an ear on 1-9 Victor. You get in a corner, Gunny, we'll be ready to roll a Cougar out to you at a second's notice."

"Appreciate it. I'll keep you apprised as much as I can," Tommy said, slinging an M4 over his body armor and strapping his helmet on tightly.

He left his squad's tent and headed out towards the just-erected front gate -- if they could hold onto this territory, they'd need to give it a name soon enough, but for now it was called Grid-118 South. Tommy suspected it had been farmland before the war, but now it was nothing but a Marine encampment and several hundred acres of scorched earth.

As he neared the front gates, he saw the remnants of the ten Convict Charlie units from the operation putting up their own tents. Charlie had taken some heavy losses -- Tommy wondered if they'd be able to even make five full units now. One of them, a lean young black man, nodded and smirked at Tommy as he passed. Tommy nodded back.

"Gunny. Can't say I envy you going back out there," one of the MPs said as he opened the front gate.

"Gotta be done," Tommy sighed.

"Try to come back alive, yeah, Gunny? We've lost enough people tonight," the other MP said, waving Tommy through.

He'd made the decision to move on foot, carrying only his weapon, some extra ammo, and a medical kit so as not to draw any attention he didn't have to. Vargas couldn't have gotten too far, if she was alive -- the battle had been fought for two straight days, but in an area less than three square miles. With the night-vision visor on his helmet and data from an Aero UAV overflight, he should be able to cover the entire battlefield up to the Chinese lines a mile and a half away before the sun came up.

Tommy thought he heard the Aero pass over him, but it was most likely running on stealth mode, so he couldn't be sure. Still, its data started coming through on the left side of his visor as he walked away from 118 South, letting him know of a heat signature about a kilometer to the West. He headed in that direction, his head on a swivel for any movement, his M4 up and in front of him.

"Who thought volunteering to walk around a hot zone in the dark would be a good idea, anyway?" Tommy mumbled under his breath. "Oh, right. Same idiot who thought it'd be a good idea to enlist in the Marines during wartime."

As he walked, he noticed a flare in the visor's night-vision display -- a fire, he guessed. That had probably been the heat signature the Aero had picked up. Tommy headed for the flare -- it was a cold night already, and if Vargas was still alive, she might have lit a fire to keep warm. If it was just some ordinance that was still burning, Tommy figured he wouldn't lose anything by checking it out. The visor estimated the range at just over a thousand meters -- Tommy moved quickly and quietly and covered the distance in a few minutes.

He found Vargas. She was sitting crosslegged in front of the fire, stripped down to her BDU pants and T-shirt. She was covered in blood, but Tommy couldn't tell how much of it was hers and how much of it belonged to the several corpses around her. He could see that she held a Ka-bar knife in each hand.

Tommy thought he was moving silently, but apparently he wasn't. Vargas sprang to her feet and spun, both knives up and at the ready.

"Marine!" Tommy hissed.

"Yeah? What unit?" she growled.

"Yours. It's Gunny Harrigan, Lance Corporal."

"Gunny. You out here lookin' for me?"

"I am. How are you hurt, Vargas?"

"Oh, I'm not, Gunny. I'm five by five."

"You're soaked in blood, Vargas."

"Ain't mine. It's theirs," she shrugged, pointing one blood-smeared blade at the pile of corpses around the fire. "I been burning 'em as fast as I can, but there sure are a lot of the bastards."

Tommy raised the visor on his helmet and looked into the fire. What he had thought was logs or scrap wood was actually the bodies of three Chinese soldiers.

"You killed them all?" Tommy asked, lowering his M4.

"Fuckin' A right I did, Gunny. They all huddled here when the fighting started. Cowered here is more like it. They never saw me coming, Gunny."

"Where's your weapon, Vargas?"

"Don't know, sir. Didn't need it," Vargas replied calmly, picking at her teeth with the point of one of her Ka-bars.

"They didn't fire on you?"

"Didn't give 'em the chance, Gunny."

Tommy looked closer at the bodies stacked next to the fire -- there were five of them, plus the three burning. He noticed the insignia on their sleeves -- all of them were medics.

"They were medics, Corporal. They didn't fire because they didn't expect to be attacked."

"They were Chinese is all I know, Gunny."

"Come on. Let's get you back to base. We can sort it out there," Tommy said, trying not to watch as the Chinese medics burned.

"Nothing to sort out, Gunny. They were hostiles, and I eliminate hostiles."

"Sure. Sure. Come on, Vargas. Let's get back and get some rest, yeah? I'm sure we have plenty to do in the morning."

"Hold up a second, Gunny. How do I know you're not a hostile? Never saw you fire a shot out here tonight, and we all know the Chinks have brainwashing methods," Vargas said, staring hard at Tommy, her grip on her knives tightening.

"I fired my fair share of rounds tonight, Vargas. Believe that. Now lock yourself down and come with me back to base. That's an order, Lance Corporal."

"Not a scratch on you, Gunny. But that makes sense. Chinks wouldn't want to hurt one of their own agents, now, would they?"

"Lance Corporal, stand down now," Tommy growled, raising his M4 as Vargas stalked towards him.

"I don't take orders from the enemy, Gunny," Vargas hissed, lunging at him with one of her knives.

Tommy stepped back, and the knife sliced only the air in front of his face. Quickly, he swung the butt of his rifle, catching Vargas in the side of her head. She dropped, and Tommy kicked the knives away from her.

He activated the radio in his helmet.

"1-5 MEU to 118-South."

"We copy, Gunny."

"D, roll out with that Cougar now. And bring restraints."

* * *

Blood. The bodies burning on the bonfire. Vargas absentmindedly picking her teeth with the blood-smeared Ka-bar. The look in her eyes when she lunged.

These were the images that popped into Tommy's head every time he closed his eyes for the next three nights. They managed to hold the Grid and push the Chinese forces back another couple of miles, but Tommy was feeling his lack of sleep. He hadn't caught but a few hours here and there since the night he'd found Vargas out in the dark.

When the stimulants stopped working, Tommy figured he'd better talk to a medic. See if they could prescribe him something to keep him up or to help him sleep. The medical tent was just a few over from his squad's, so, during a five-hour break when his men were sleeping, Tommy walked over and poked his head in.

"Hey, Gunny. What can I do for you?" a young Air Force officer said. He was a Captain, though he was probably only 26 or 27 years old. That meant he was an actual doctor, Tommy guessed.

"Oh, hi, sir. I was just having some trouble sleeping. Nothing to bother you with," Tommy muttered, turning to leave.

"No bother, Gunny. Come on in. Sit down a minute."

So Tommy walked into the tent and sat down. He and the Captain -- Dr. Eckmann, as he introduced himself -- talked for the better part of an hour. Tommy told him about what he'd seen, the sleeping problem he'd been having. Eckmann was a good listener, and nodded along as Tommy spoke. At the end of the conversation, Eckmann stood and grabbed a vial from his medicine cabinet.

"I'm going to give you something to knock you out for a bit, Gunny. Now, it's no substitute for natural sleep, but you need some sort of rest. I'll keep you here for the night and keep an eye on you, and we'll figure out a way to get you to sleep normally in the morning, OK?"

Tommy just nodded, and Eckmann gave him an injection. Tommy laid down on a cot and his eyes closed. Thankfully, he didn't see blood, fire, or Vargas immediately.

He could still hear, though. He was sure he heard Eckmann talking with Major Barnes, 15th MEU's commanding officer.

"He's in bad shape, sir. He's seen shit that'll require a lot of therapy to fix," he heard Eckmann say.

"Looks like he's sleeping now," Barnes said.

"Well, he's unconscious, anyway. But he needs to get out of combat, sir. He needs to go home."

"Go home? What do you think this is, Captain? Day camp? No one gets to go home."

"He's a medical risk, sir. If his situation gets any worse, he's going to be a liability on the battlefield."

"How long can you keep him going with the drugs?"

"A week. Maybe two at the outside. But I'd prefer not to do that, sir."

"We all get to do a lot of things we'd rather not out here, Captain. Gunny Harrigan is an experienced squad leader, and we need him. Patch him up as best you can, but get him combat effective immediately."

"I don't know if I can do that, Major."

"You're going to have to. It's either that, or he fucks up on the battlefield and gets himself and his squad killed. Do what you can."

Tommy wasn't sure if he'd actually heard the conversation or dreamt it, but the next morning when he woke up, Eckmann didn't look happy.

"Hey, Gunny. Get some rest?"

"I think so, sir. Feeling a little better, anyway."

"Well, that's good. Look, here's what we're going to do -- I want you to report back here at the end of your duty shift every day. We're going to see what we can do to get you to sleep, but I'm afraid I can't get you pulled out and sent back to Justice or anything like that."

"I understand, sir."

"In the meantime, take it easy on the amphetamines, all right? They're just going to make my job harder."

"Understood, sir."

As Tommy walked out of the medical tent, he heard Eckmann sigh and swear under his breath.