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ASSMUNCH
No rest for the weary, as Grandma would say. Well, someone's Grandma would say that, not mine. My Grandma would probably be overjoyed at being stuck in some rustic locale surrounded by dangerous, serious fit men. Grandma was probably what they used to call a `wild woman'. I snorted. These were the sorts of things that popped into my head for no reason, mostly during The Suck.
"Focus, Private."
Yeah yeah. 38 hours without sleep. Which usually wasn't a problem, except there was no physical activity to keep me alert. My brain was skittering off in any direction it wanted. See, that was the danger, and the challenge of life in the Infantry. The first dive back into The Suck meant you had to remind yourself of all the lessons all over again. Eventually it would become second nature, but for now I had to reinforce my intent, sharpen my focus, and smack down any stray thought that wasn't primary. The Suck, the monotonous drag of 20 hours of patrol for days at a time, encampment, perimeter and sentry shifts, a maximum of two hours of sleep if you were lucky, drills, 15 minute meal breaks, squat or maybe flop breaks if you were, again, lucky. Your mental and physical condition deteriorated by the hour until you were just a stumbling zombie with one thought - forward. Followed by the second thought - ambush. You wanted to rest, but knew it wouldn't be long enough or deep enough to make a difference, and would only make you want to cry when you realized you'd just have to climb back on your feet for another march.
Objective. Target. 3rd thought, but rare. Honestly, you stopped caring and knew hoping for it just forced it further away. If you reached your Objective, found your target that was all well and good. But that wasn't your GOAL. No. Deep in The Suck, your only goal was staying on your feet, and forward. And don't get deaded. Yeah, deaded isn't a word, but it's a fun way to say shot, blown up, bled out, fucked up, erased, cancelled and about fifty other words we liked to use for going home in a bag. See? Infantry can be fun. It's a fucking laugh a minute.
"Private! Focus! You goon out on me and we'll go another 40 hours."
Which made me laugh. "Fuck. Sorry." I said. I really was. This was unprofessional. Private Goon needed to fucking pull it together. "Where were we?" I asked politely. I tried to flex my numb arms for the 20th time since being tied to the chair. Mission Fail. No flex. I repeat, No Flex.
"Your men. You were providing me with a list of their skills, abilities, weaknesses." the man in the shadows said.
"I was?" I said, puzzled. "I thought I was in the middle of telling you about the night I fucked your mom in every hole." I looked down. "Maybe that was the other guy. You all look alike." I took a moment to think. "No, it was your sister, that's right."
I knew it was coming. It didn't help. I bounced off the concrete after his boot slammed into my chest. Trapped by the ropes and the chair I had no control over my momentum. I had a brief, proud moment that I kept my head from bouncing. Protect the ole helmet, grunt. I made a mental double tap against my skull with imaginary knuckles. That made me laugh, while gasping against my deflated lungs. I was seriously a hilarious grunt. Oh, The Suck has at least one benefit, and that was you just don't have the energy for pain. Yeah, that's right, you get tired enough and you get hurt, your brain just shrugs. And let me tell you, if you're paying attention, you recognize that pain can be ignored. Oh it's still there, but it's far away, doesn't matter, and you can even make it not exist at all. And right now I just couldn't give a fuck. It wasn't the first time I'd been treated like a soccer ball in the last couple hours. Or six. Hell, it could have been days. Nah, I wasn't that far gone yet. Just hours. Maybe.
He let me giggle like an idiot for a minute before yanking me and the chair up to vertical once again. Then he went to the door and knocked. The door opened and another man came in carrying a bowl of something and a large pitcher of some liquid.
Oh yeah, meal time. God, it smelled so good. And seeing the pitcher I realized how thirsty I was.
"I know what you're thinking, Private." He said conversationally. "You're thinking I can't actually kill you, or injure you, or torture you to get the info I need." He took the bowl and pitcher from the other guy and put it on the table before dragging it across the concrete in front of me. The horrible squeal of the metal legs echoed in the small room and it was downright rude and jarring. The sound surged my brain into focus. Shit. Everything hurt. Focus was a mistake.
"But see, I don't have to actually hurt you at all. The mind is an awful thing. True torture isn't about leaving physical scars. It's the mental scars that break you." He continued. I watched him lean over and take a deep breath of whatever was in the bowl. "Mmmmmmm. You know, Nancy makes the best stew. The rest of that buck your giant brought in was just perfect. It's the spices, and the gravy. Damn, I'm hungry. Are you hungry?"
Private Goon was hungry. I was so hungry, they hadn't fed me from the moment they took me away from the Bravos. A day? No, two, it had to be two days since I climbed off the transport. "I hate stew." I lied. I loved stew, especially hot, delicious home made stew with big chunks of meat and vegetables swimming in a thick, savory gravy steeped for hours over a low flame on a cold winter day. The scent was worming its way through the air. I could taste it.
He took a bite and savored it. He chewed slowly, staring me in the eye. "Well, you're missing out." He said around the mouthful. A small drip of whatever delicious sauce it sat in trailed down his chin. "Fuck, Nancy can cook. More for me, I guess. For every lie, every evasion, every non-answer I take a bite, leaving less for you." He smiled. "I'm not trying to be the bad guy here. I want to feed you. I really do. But I need intel. It's a fair trade."
I steeled my resolve and smiled back. "Like I fed your sister my dick? She was hungry too." Which made me laugh again. Cackled like a crazy loon. And that thought cracked me up even more. Man, I was fuck - ing - high -lareeous.
He shook his head and took another bite then poured himself a cup of water before chugging it down. "Fuck, sorry but I just can't stop chowing." And he spooned another large portion into his mouth. "Stop me anytime you're ready."
I couldn't keep my eyes from following the spoon from the bowl to his mouth. It wasn't a big bowl. Another few bites and there wouldn't be any stew left.
"It's up to you. You have all the power here." He explained with reasonable, even tones, holding out a heaped spoonful near my face. So close. "Just one piece of intel. That's all I need. It doesn't even have to be anything important or critical."
I could give him something stupid, right? Like Dumbo didn't like the dark, or Zeus wouldn't act on his own. There was no real useful information in that. Just something that would get me a bite of food, and once I had that bite I could use the relief from hunger to shore up the fortress. My mind snapped back. No. That was the game. Once the door was cracked, it was over. I would have compromised myself and he would use that to push me further. The only way through this, my training told me, was to always refuse. You NEVER trusted your captor to live up to whatever bargain they made. If they gave you what they promised you, then your brain was convinced cooperation would save you. It was a lie. Even if it wasn't a lie and it bought you better treatment or even release - a critical part of your capability to resist was destroyed. You could never trust yourself again. You'd stepped on the road to cooperating with the enemy. You became a traitor.
Civilians might believe there was a difference between mock operations and an actual battlefield. There wasn't. What you do in one, you'd do in the other. Once you accepted a course of action that bred weakness, you could never trust yourself when it truly mattered. Doubt seeped in. And this guy was right, even if I understood at a foundational level that he couldn't actually hurt me physically, he couldn't kill me, or maim me, he could still make my life extremely difficult and uncomfortable. While it doesn't take much to kill someone, that also meant it was easy to keep them just a couple steps from death in a state where they wanted to die but couldn't. A single bite of food a week is all that was necessary to live. A small cup of water every two days. Your body would eat itself eventually, but that took weeks, sometimes months. And one good meal, a soft bed and a good night's rest, and they could start all over again with more weeks of deprivation. They didn't have to lift a finger or exert themselves at all. If I wasn't prepared to maintain resistance when there weren't any actual stakes, when I knew they didn't have the time to push me to that threshold, I was unsuitable in every way for real combat situations. And Sarge would say refusing to take the opportunity to test yourself was the most dumbshit fucking decision in the history of dumbshit Grunt decisions in the entire Kingdom of Dumbshit Grunts. Battle and war were all about making the hard decisions, taking a path that was the most difficult. There were no easy paths when the lives of your men, your brothers, were in the balance.
That's the part that sent a golden glow of strength through me. My brothers. For them, I'd die. I'd suffer a thousand cuts, a hundred crippling wounds, if I could keep them safe by doing it and give them the best chance of success. The minute I gave the enemy intel I would reduce their chances of survival. If I could die to give them the chance to get home alive, I would do it gladly. I wouldn't betray them for a fucking bite of stew.
"Fuck you." I grinned before closing my eyes. Ah, it was good to rest, to let it go. Whatever was going to happen, I didn't need to stick around for it. With a single deep breath I was gone, inside. No more me. No more hunger, or thirst. No more aching body. Yeah, I was giving up my trump card, but it wasn't something they could use against me. I resolved to stay under for the duration. It would no doubt create a small crisis for them, and that thought comforted me just before all thoughts bled away like a morning fog.
The shock of ice cold water drenching and choking me brought me out of the emptiness. I gasped and hacked trying to clear my throat and lungs.
"Aw, shit. There goes your water." He said in a dry but contrite defeat.
"Ggggnnnnnhhhh" I groaned. Coming out of the depths, I didn't get to pick and choose what to pay attention to, and I felt every ache and pain in my body as well as a swollen soreness in my jaw. "You hit me?" I opened and closed my mouth. "I thought we weren't doing that."
He squinched his face up in a cringe. "Thought you passed out, tried to bring you around."
I didn't buy it. "So that was your first move, the water only occurred to you after that?"
He shrugged. "Yeah. Sorry. I really am. I'm not used to Interrogation Lite' in my line of work." he actually made air quotes with his hands. "There IS a rule book, believe it or not. The thing is, the list of don't do this' is the actual playbook. Not at your level, of course. They will roast your nuts in a military tribunal if you do any of that shit. Me though? Don't do this is my bread and butter." He was talking like he was having a dinner conversation.
"God, you're an asshole." I grumbled. Oh, the adrenaline had me sharp and aware now. It wouldn't last, but in spite of the awareness of the pain I was in, I welcomed it. "And that's not in `air quotes' " I even held the pause.
That made him laugh. "I like your style, kid. You're fun. I can tell, we're going to be good friends." He walked back to his chair behind the table. "Oh, I ate the rest of your stew too. It was so good I let you catch a couple zz's while I finished. Now, " He suddenly became serious. The switch was creepy in its swift perfection. "who the fuck are you? You and these other children we're babysitting?"
Gloves are off, I guess. My jaw was proof of that. Was his little speech about `don't do this' a warning? Up to this point things had been civil. Trust me, getting kicked in the chest while tied to a chair was playtime in these situations, a gentle introduction. I was a pretend prisoner undergoing pretend interrogation. Yeah, I know what I said before about there being no difference. Turns out I lied. Don't feel bad, I lied to myself first so who's the bigger chump here? You can't help but try to do the math in your head during this shit. Hmm, a Chump AND a Goon. I'm really sailing through this shit like a fuckin pro! I chuckled at that.
"Something funny, Private?" My Inquisitor asked. He didn't let me answer. "I'm going to level with you, because I realize this has all be set up as some game and you were told it was training. Which I admit, was what we signed up for. That was the plan. Right up until two of your men went rogue. So, did Collins send you here to get intel? Does he want to stick his nose into our business? You should know, that crosses a line."
This was all news to me, and I told him so. "How the fuck should I know? I haven't been with my men since this all started, thanks to you and your circus apes. We're just stupid infantry grunts trying to get through the suck."
"Yeah, just simple grunts without a Command, unassigned. YOU. DON'T. EXIST. You expect me to believe you don't know that? I had my men snoop around. All of you disappeared ten months ago as far as the Army is concerned. And that - ". He pointed an oddly long index finger at me, "sends off every fucking alarm bell I got. And then we got Collins playing all nice, which isn't his usual modus operandi. So, do yourself a favor, kid. Whatever you're mixed up in, just spill it. We don't want to kill you, but there are stakes here that are way above your pay grade. The circles I operate in, that Collins operates in are world shaking. You're a monkey in a zoo, and Collins and I...we're the zoo keepers. More accurately I'm the guy who captures or kills the wild animals and manages the ecosystem so that the predators don't outnumber the prey. And now it seems Collins is raising his own pack of wild wolves and that's not his job. So you may not know all the details, but you know something. And that's your only ticket to staying above the dirt."
He got up out of his chair and knocked on the door. Before he left, he turned around. "I really am sorry kid. I know you didn't ask for this. None of this makes me happy, but you should know I'll sleep just fine whether you live or die and I'll put a bullet through your skull without a single regret. Do the smart thing. Right now we can agree you aren't too far in and I'm good with turning you over to Collins without a scratch. But you gotta give me something."
He turned to the guy who opened the door. "Get him some food, and let him sleep."
I don't know whether it was the tone of voice he used, or the words he chose to speak so casually, or the end of interrogation protocol by allowing me to eat and sleep, but I believed him. Still, not even the promise of food and sleep could shake the cold knot of fear from worming its way inside my gut. I especially didn't like how the Bravos didn't officially exist.
And if the words didn't do the job, the beating I then got from the ape at the door certainly drove reality home. I did get to eat, which was nice. Did you know chewing is optional when eating? Yeah, chewing is impossible when your jaw barely works. I could barely get my swollen tongue to push the food into my throat, whole. Not like I wasn't hungry enough to just pour it down my throat without chewing anyway. The delicate logistics of delivering a small enough morsel to get through my ruined mouth was its own torture when all I wanted was to shovel it in. There was also a small comfort in the recognition that getting a beat down from an ape is not too different from foreplay with your ass kicking boyfriend. I was just missing the brutal ass fucking that went along with it. That was always the best part.
Thoughts of Kevin lulled me to sleep. If my punished mouth could have smiled, I would have. I needed a clear head to think my way through this, and only sleep would give me that. I wasn't Kevin, who could add all this up in a few seconds and see the bigger picture from all the puzzle pieces. No, Private Chump Goon needed a clear head. Preferably one that didn't feel like a sledgehammer was bashing it.
Pain is what we eat for Breakfast. Huah!
BOOTLICKER
The knife at his neck only provided a minimum of additional motivation because he was inclined to go with this sneaky asshole anyway. He was bored with the lessons from his instructor, bored of the cold empty woods, bored with Demon's stupid questions, the delays, this whole fucking day. Bootlicker would have followed the man threatening him if he'd only asked. Admittedly, the knife at his neck did make it more appealing. Whatever this guy wanted, the knife meant it was bound to be more interesting than level 1 fieldcraft from the instructor.
He'd stepped away from his group to drop a deuce and was embarrassed to be caught mid-shit with a hand over his mouth and a knife pressing into his soft neck. Never even heard the guy.
"Make a sound and I slit your throat." The guy whispered in his ear. A little creepy, that. The guy could have whispered from a foot away, he didn't have to press his lips to his actual ear. And then, when he spoke, the warm moist breath that came with the words slathered inside his ear canal, across his cheek. It was like a lover's caress. Weirdo. He filed that assessment away for potential future exploitation.
Bootlicker raised his hands to show he wasn't going to resist. "You mind if I finish?" He whispered back. "Gotta wipe at least."
"Make it fast." The weirdo replied.
Bootlicker paused for a second but the weirdo didn't move his face away from his ear, or the knife from his neck. Yeah, definite sicko here. Maybe he liked watching guys take a shit. Bootlicker had read about that type, but hadn't run across any up until now. Yeah, this was way more interesting than a lecture about tracking through terrain. Weirdos weren't much of a challenge usually, you just dangled in front of their face whatever their favorite creepy thing was and they were happy to do whatever you wanted. Sometimes a challenge was fun, the whole figuring out what it would take to get someone to do what you needed. But with weirdos, it was a different kind of fun. They got so excited. Like a puppy when you held a treat up for them to see. Maybe this weirdo wanted him to shit on his chest while he watched.
Bootlicker finished up with a shrug and a couple handfuls of leaves. It was a shame though, he felt like he was finally going to be able to push out a good, long shit. They didn't call MRE's Meals Refusing to Exit without good reason. You get backed up in the field, and when a good rumbler finally decides to breach you want to make the most of it. At least there wasn't the never ending wipe of a chow hall dump. It was small consolation. There was no telling when the next urge would come. It could be a week and then all he'd have to look forward to was seeing how big of a turd he could push out, and if it broke a Platoon record.
Once he'd tightened his belt, the weirdo grabbed his coat by the scruff of the neck and yanked him around to move away from where Demon and Troll were still listening to the droning instruction of their guide.
He remained docile while the man pushed him forward every few steps with a rough shove. By doing that he was making it impossible for Bootlicker to step quietly. This guy didn't seem like the careless type which meant there was a purpose to enforcing Bootlicker's clumsiness. He divided his attention between choosing his steps and thinking about this change in scenario.
The Bravos had already been separated into small groups. Standard for either training development or small unit operations. It was possible that this guy was tasked with peeling off various soldiers for one training purpose or another. Bootlicker didn't think so. The silent attack coupled with leading him away from his group indicated the Bravos and their instructor weren't supposed to know. An idea popped into his head - the man's rough treatment ensured a trail the others could follow, and they were just talking about tracking through terrain. Was he now the target?
That seemed off, and inaccurate. Why make it easy on them like the man was doing by refusing to let Bootlicker place his feet carefully? Anyone could track a messy trail, especially in winter through leaf fall and dead growth. And what did this guy even need Bootlicker for? He could do this himself. It almost felt like the man didn't care about leaving a trail, that he knew they wouldn't follow them. Everything felt off from the knife to his neck, to being attacked when the others were distracted and HE was distracted, now this clumsy travel.
"I can actually be way more careful in leaving a trail, you know." He told the guy.
"Doesn't matter." The man said in a loud whisper, giving him another shove.
"You aren't going to tie my hands?" Bootlicker asked.
Another shove. "Doesn't matter."
"What if I call out? Someone will come running." Bootlicker tried a third time.
A harder shove this time, forcing him to stumble. "Doesn't matter. Shut the fuck up."
When Bootlicker regained his balance, he felt a sharp sting on his ear. His hand came away bloody. The fucker had cut him. The sharp tang of coppery blood invaded his nose. Definitely a puzzling development. Bootlicker tried to fit that information into the profile he was building of the man. If he was going to manipulate this guy, he needed a motivation.
The knife seemed important. He hadn't sheathed it and kept twirling it in his hand as they walked, flipping it, tossing it over the back of his hand to grab the handle again from the other side, changing the blade's direction in his fist over and over again. That was another clue. Bootlicker didn't get a sense of agitation from the guy, so it wasn't a nervous tic. Practice? Habit? Showing off a skill to intimidate Bootlicker? The man's head and eyes constantly scanned the woods around them, never looking at the knife while it moved. There was something hypnotic in the confident moves, a pattern. Bootlicker began to memorize the various movements as they walked.
It wasn't long, maybe a half hour, before they approached a small rise. The man circled around to the right and with a move that looked like an optical illusion or a magic trick he let go of the knife with his right hand and with a lazy and casual motion reached out to grab Bootlicker's upper arm with his right while catching the knife with his left. The weird part was that the knife just seemed to hang there until it was gripped once again. Bootlicker tried to figure out if it defied gravity for as long as it seemed it had.
Around to the right a hole sat at the base of a rocky cliff that was about 11 feet high. The hole looked natural, maybe from erosion, and it was barely wide enough to fit a grown man. He received a kick to the back of his knees and he collapsed. The man didn't let him fall, and instead lowered him with firm control until his knees were on the ground.
"Feet first." The man commanded. Bootlicker thought the rough whispering was overly dramatic like Michael Keaton in the movie Batman Returns. Maybe someone else would be intimidated. Bootlicker saw it for the silliness it was.
"Can't you talk normal?" He said, scooting on his butt into the hole. He saw a flash out of the corner of his eye and felt another sting on his ear. A cringe was all he would allow himself. He didn't waste the opportunity to learn. That knife skill enticed him more than the Airborne course, more than survival training, more than range training and qualification. It should be easy to master. After all, he hadn't neglected his hand tricks while in the Army. If anything he'd climbed up a few skill levels by palming anything he wanted, fooling the Bravos with card tricks, lock picking and picking pockets. Before the Bravos had left Germany he had keys for 80% of the motor pool. He never used them, but you never knew when or if it would come in handy. For practice before they left, he snuck into the NATO ally section at Graf and left the keys on the desk of the NATO allied commander with a note. After duty hours, of course. He wasn't yet at the level of a daytime duty raid. Knife handling, control and skill seemed like it was a necessary for his path. Aside from the brief time in Basic when there was no avoiding being treated like a diseased worm, being railroaded into the Army was the best thing that ever happened to him. Almost infinite resources, toys, access, danger and adrenaline, skills and training in EVERYTHING.
The hole was dark and he had no idea where his feet needed to be as he scooted inside. It didn't take a genius to anticipate the small crevice would have to open up. There was no purpose to forcing a grown man into a hole that didn't, and if the weirdo was joining him there would have to be more room. He wasn't surprised when he felt his feet hit air, then his knees, thighs. He hoped the ground didn't fall away too far but at least it all felt wide. Scooting six inches at a time while blind was not enjoyable.
Once his stomach hung over the edge, his feet contacted solid ground. He realized he would have to move away from the entrance because no doubt the weirdo would be coming in at any time. Without his body blocking the tight tunnel, a slight bit of light filtered in, allowing him to see minimal features of the hideout. It would take his eyes a minute or so to adjust completely but he could make out enough room overhead that he didn't have to squat. He looked around. The space wasn't large, maybe seven feet long by five feet wide, sort of an oval. The odor of wild animal was everywhere, that sharp musky scent so overwhelming nothing else could compete. A small lumpy pile sat nearby.
While he was contemplating what the pile might be, a hard boot jammed into his back and sent him sprawling against the wall. He should have anticipated that. The weirdo was smart. Bootlicker could have been waiting to attack while the weirdo was vulnerable and stuck in the tunnel. In the time it took Bootlicker to regain his feet and turn around, the man was standing in the den with knife flipping across his knuckles, back and forth.
"Make yourself comfortable." The coarse, gravelly voice didn't echo, but still sounded too loud for the small enclosed space.
Bootlicker moved over to the pile intending to sit.
"Not there." The weirdo growled.
He pushed down the frustration. "Here?" Bootlicker pointed to a spot 2 feet away.
"Fine."
As he sat, Bootlicker thought he might break the ice. "Yo-"
"Shut the fuck up." The man interrupted. "Fucking babies." Bootlicker watched him search through the pile.
Bootlicker's reflexes caught something thrown at him. His eyes were almost completely adjusted now and rather than just shadows he saw features resolve.
"Eat that. Drink your own fucking water."
"Than-"
"Shut the fuck up."
Interesting. This was going to be fun. He'd never had to get inside someone this combative. In most cases of opposition, recognition of authority lowered resistance. Well placed subservience smoothed and defined a relationship they felt comfortable with. This guy didn't care. Bootlicker knew there was a way past the man's gruff and irritated frustration, he only had to wait for the man to give him a clue. There was always a clue. The weirdo didn't pull him away for his sparkling personality, unless this was some kinky thing. He wasn't getting that read. People who wanted something like THAT from you usually didn't treat you like shit. With those people it was all about being overly nice. This had a purpose, a purpose the weirdo felt was either beneath him or he felt wouldn't pay off. He didn't want Bootlicker here, that was clear as day. Orders? Was he just some unfortunate slave to someone else?
He took a bite of whatever it was that was wrapped in the foil package. It was too dark to see. The weirdo would reveal everything he expected soon, Bootlicker guessed. The weirdo was definitely not the patient type. As Bootlicker chewed, he felt the clotted blood pull at his skin with every movement of his jaw. `This is exactly the adventure I needed.' He thought with a grin.
"Name." The man coughed out. His voice sounded like he was choking on a wad of steel wool. Seriously, it was so ridiculous.
Bootlicker opened his eyes from his short nap. By mutual unspoken agreement they'd both leaned back against their respective walls and closed their eyes after eating.
"Bootlicker." He answered.
A knife flew at Bootlicker. He almost didn't dodge in time. It thudded off the dirt wall where his chest used to be.
"Name."
"Evans."
Bootlicker sighed. It was right there on his uniform. Like always. Which meant a game of follow the leader. He hated this game, it was the ultimate in boring. `Prove you know how to listen. Prove you know how to follow the rules. Prove you're smart. Prove you're willing. But most of all - Prove obedience.' For fuck's sake, he didn't get the name Bootlicker because he had a shoe fetish.
"Can't we just skip this?" He said softly.
Another knife. He didn't bother to dodge this time because he was expecting it. He just knocked it aside. It was just timing. They weren't thrown with deadly force.
He shouldn't have come. This was going to be no different than the usual slow, painful drip of information he always had to endure. Skills and information were always taught at a rate that the dumbest idiot could grasp. And Bootlicker was a rabbit among turtles. No. A cheetah. He didn't need a slow feed, didn't need repetition, multiple examples or explanation. Practice was what he needed if it was a skill. Additional pieces was what he needed if it were information. Everything was a puzzle.
He darted his eyes to the man who was now easy to see with his complete adjustment to the dark. He was picking his fingernails with another knife. Bootlicker didn't bother retrieving either of the knives the man had thrown.
"Which direction did we travel to get here?" The raspy voice asked.
He pointed to the wall on his right. "Southwest. Heading 194. Approximately."
The man's eyebrows twitched.
"Close enough." He said taking his eyes off his fingernail project to stare at Bootlicker. "How far did we travel?"
"Two and a half clicks. Approximately."
"Fine. Elevation?"
Bootlicker smirked. Showing off was one of his favorite things to do. "Specific, I don't know. This area of Georgia doesn't exceed 360 meters. Floor is 280. We're somewhere between 310 and 330 meters. And delta from origin is..." he paused. "12 meters. Approximately. Maximum deviation of this grid is 40 meters."
"The compound?"
Bootlicker referenced the three dimensional sketch of the area he'd already built in his head. "Heading 72 degrees, four clicks, elevation delta minus 23 meters."
"Who gave you a map?"
Another smirk. "Ft. Benning. The board outside the Cadre building." He just had a feeling the man had seen the 6 foot by 4 foot display behind plexiglass that posted information about Airborne command, Ft. Benning, the state of Georgia with both a general terrain map and a detailed map of the base, the town of Columbus, state parks. He didn't think the man would believe that most of the information came from when he completed AIT here. Over a year and a half ago, his core navigation module provided all the information he needed and he exceeded the boundaries of the requirements because like usual he was bored after internalizing the course demands. While the rest of his AIT class struggled to learn how to use a compass, grid building, resection, identifying terrain features, he began figuring out the rest of the state and then the region. With every detail the picture in his head resolved in finer, smaller segments until he was satisfied he could walk on foot through the countryside from Pensacola to Nashville without following a single road.
The look on the man's face was droll disbelief. "How far is the border of Alabama?" The man's voice scratched.
Yeah, now came the expected proof and confirmation. Just once it would be nice to be taken at face value. These mundane plodding human livestock could never conceive he operated efficiently. "Approximately 20 clicks."
"You know exactly where you are." It wasn't a question. "In your head." The man wasn't looking at him, but bobbed his head while looking at his knife as if trying to come to a decision.
"Scud attack on the barracks." The man rasped. "Didn't even make it out of Saudi Arabia, never set foot in either Kuwait or Iraq. Never fired a single round. Missed my jugular by a fingernail. Was told I was lucky they could save this much of my voice. Normal is whatever you decide it is."
Bootlicker approved of the lack of anger, lack of self pity in the man's ravaged voice. The man went back to flipping and twirling a knife through his fingers, across his knuckles, through his palms.
"Observations." He continued as if he hadn't just exposed the most painful regret of his entire life. Something in the refusal of emotion resonated with Bootlicker.
He took a breath. Somehow, he felt it would be worth it to take a leap of faith. After his talk with Gary, his cellmate in jail, he kept his unusual personality carefully hidden. Gary was right - it was creepy to the human livestock and made them suspicious, even frightened. So he perfected the charming, engaging, helpful nerd persona for general interaction. If he needed a different one for a specific situation, like the firm control he exercised with Wanker, that was easy enough. Wanker believed he was the only one chosen to see a different side of Bootlicker, and that served to ensure Wanker's loyalty and dedication. Wanker believed they were a team.
"All of it?" Bootlicker asked.
The direct and intense stare he received sent a thrill through Bootlicker.
"At least three forces, multiple objectives." He started. "We're pawns, the Bravos. Ultimate objective is a new policy directive straight from the Pentagon. This is a testing ground for us, but there's a battle behind the show. We aren't fully welcome here. We weren't at Airborne. We won't be in the Ranger course. Our success won't be measured by training metrics. The training is only a method to evaluate whether a change in policy can be implemented."
"You're sure you'll be sent to the Ranger course?" The man asked.
"I saw the file myself. The compound is a pit stop. Unscheduled. Major Collins exercised some of his broad discretion to get us here."
"What do you know about Collins?" The man asked.
Bootlicker let the slight grin play across his lips. So much information. The man referred to Collins by name, without the rank of Major. That signified familiarity and dispensed with the respect. A personal relationship of some sort, known, no chain of command. The detail of how the man lost his voice indicated a medical separation from the military. His clandestine retrieval by the man indicated he wasn't affiliated with the men from the compound. But that wasn't confirmed.
"Major Collins is running the program we're in. He's working for the Pentagon in this. He reports directly to a General, skipping over the usual intermediaries. That alone makes whoever he is very important."
"Why?"
It was a question intended to confirm that Bootlicker grasped the subtleties of military politics, so he answered. "It means he's protected. It gives him authority beyond his rank. It means he works outside the usual limited environments a Major would be allowed. He has few restrictions, wide discretion, deep funding and the ability to commandeer resources like a NATO training base in Germany and enough slots in the Ranger course for an entire Infantry platoon."
"Is this a specific career objective for your Platoon?" The man asked.
"Speculating? Yes, but only because Major Collins won't waste highly trained, specifically targeted troops after he gets his answer from the program. Those of us who make it will likely end up SOF. All this would be a colossal waste of time, personnel, and money if he didn't use us further. That seems unlikely."
The man snorted, which with his broken vocal ability only sounded like he was choking on rocks. "You haven't spent enough time in if you think the Pentagon doesn't throw away all three of those things every day."
It was Bootlicker's turn to snort. "Then that tells me you haven't exchanged a single word with Major Collins, and probably have never laid eyes on him."
The man gave him an unimpressed slow blink. Confirmation.
The back and forth revealed further information to Bootlicker. The man was receiving information he didn't know before, including that the Bravos knew their purpose and their pipeline. Bootlicker let him have the assumption that the knowledge was a given fact among the Bravos even though it wasn't. There wasn't yet a reason to reveal that Bootlicker was the one who discovered the information and held it closely so far. He might be impressed to know just how Bootlicker came to know these things. But it wasn't time to reveal that. That would create an imbalance in this negotiation. The man wasn't livestock in his mind anymore but he also wasn't an equal yet. The signs were good that he might be but Bootlicker wouldn't let himself hope yet.
In the silence, Bootlicker picked up one of the knives the man had thrown at him and began trying to figure out how to manipulate it across his hand. He focused on moving it in one direction, working out the method to flip the handle out of his grasp so that the blade contacted his knuckles. The man glanced briefly at his actions, then went back to his unfocused stare.
"What were you told before being dropped off?"
Up until then, he'd managed to catch the knife every time he dropped it. He would be clumsy until he found the rhythm. The question distracted him and he felt the knife bounce off his thigh. He picked it up and resumed. "Nothing. Pack out and load up. That's it. We don't know what we're supposed to learn here, but given what we've been doing the last 36 hours, it's a crucible. Our baseline capability was measured. The instructors who selected us in small units are teaching us scouting, recon, field skills and tonight is a mock attack on the compound using modified battle drills. We're supposed to plan an infiltration or frontal assault. We're meant to lose."
"They won't let your units penetrate beyond the outer buildings." The man observed.
"Zeus will have something to say about that." Bootlicker returned. He didn't give anyone else a snowball's chance in hell now that he'd been take off the game board. He would have maximized the talents of Demon and Troll to get further than that, but without him dictating the strategy neither of those two had the brainpower to modify the plan on the fly. "But yes, the other group will have secondary defenses. They will make sure they have overlapping coverage for their initial defense. And without Assmunch we won't have an overall multi layer assault plan. Our small units will be acting independently. It'll be a slaughter."
"Yup. Gonna get your asses kicked. We can watch from a distance position if you want, but we'll be enjoying each other's company for the foreseeable future." The voice was grating less and less on Bootlicker's nerves.
"I'd rather work with you on the reason you're here." Bootlicker replied. He didn't want to watch the grunts flounder and lose to the Charlies. It would only bore him.
"Oh? And what would you know about that?" The careful disinterest spoke volumes.
Instead of a direct answer, Bootlicker made a show of looking around their small cave. "We only got here yesterday morning. You, however, have been using this hideout for a least a few days longer than that." He let the rest, the natural conclusion of that information, hang unspoken.
The split second hesitation in the man's constant knife flipping glared louder than anything he could have said.
"Looks like the little guy was right." The man said. "That little fucker was trickier and faster than he had any right to be. `Bootlicker would know' he said."
That could only mean Weeble. An unexpected laugh came out of his mouth, surprising him. Genuine humor was rare for Bootlicker. "Just think of him as a cornered feral cat if he doesn't like whatever you did to him."
A grunt was the man's response. Then a pause before "You're awful cooperative for someone who has no idea what he's involved in."
"Involved?" Bootlicker mused. "We're just here. Pawns aren't involved, they occupy spaces to force other...." He stopped suddenly.
"Took you long enough." The man actually managed to insert a snide tone into the crushed gravel of his words.
Bootlicker ignored the verbal arrow. Multiple game pieces of different levels of power appeared in his mind. The very nature of the compound itself, the instructors he'd seen, the rough military discipline without actual military presence, Major Collins and his ability to get them here, and the last piece was this man and his comfortable hideout that spoke of long term recon.
"Put it together. I'll clear up any incorrect assumptions or conclusions." The man said, his tone of voice, such as it was, drastically different.
"Major Collins has additional objectives he hopes to gain by our presence here." Bootlicker began, speaking as soon as the thoughts came. "You don't know what they are, which means you aren't associated with the Major and not part of his plan. But you also aren't surprised that Major Collins is directing this. That indicates you have objectives as well that differ from his. There's something about the compound, or the organization here you both want to know, I think. You yourself aren't active duty any more, probably a medical discharge just before Desert Storm, or during it because your fitness wouldn't be determined until you rehabbed and could be evaluated by the board. When doesn't matter. Your questions... our arrival forced you to figure out what part the Bravos had to play, you weren't expecting us. And you chose a grunt Private, well two of us if I include Weeble, to provide you intel and that means you are desperate."
The man stopped him with a hand. "Not desperate. Trying to avoid collateral damage to the pawns."
Fair enough. There was still something missing and it immediately came to mind as he recognized the hole in the strategic moves. It made no sense for the man to reveal himself to Weeble and Bootlicker. Clandestine surveillance wasn't an overnight operation. While he couldn't know of any immediate or critical timeline that would make a breach of operating procedure that necessary it was beyond foolish to seek the minimal information any Bravo could provide. No one at higher levels would ever think Infantry Privates had valuable intel. It didn't add up. He kept that to himself. There was another game here. One he was now determined to figure out. And finding out things he wasn't supposed to find out was his specialty.
Sergeant Walters or Horvath were better targets. Hmmm, except if the play was to target soldiers younger and easier to manipulate and control. How interesting would it be if a pawn could be seized and converted to play for your side? Or did different sides even exist?
His only path ahead was cooperation, but that suited him just fine. There was quite a bit he needed to learn from this man and it didn't matter which faction he played for.