Texas Nights - Book 13 of the Damned of the 2/19th

A New Actual

Charlie Company, 2/38 Rangers Area
Fort Hood, Texas
CONUS
27 September, 1991
0410

We walked up, seeing the Rangers milling around. I wanted to start yelling, but remembered they were snake-eaters and probably looking in the carefully manicured grass for a snack. I moved up to the first one.

"Where's your operations?" I snarled at him.

"Who wants to," he started.

"Special Weapons NBC Operations OIC," I snapped at him. "Your operations area, now." My voice went cold and I stared at him. He was a Captain, but I didn't care.

He was a snake eater, you had to handle them firmly. Remind them that they were sledge hammers, weapons, and you don't treat a weapon like anything but a weapon.

Just like me.

He glanced me over, noting I didn't have any patches at all, just the Special Weapons scroll on my right shoulder, my CFMB, Air Assault, and Airborne badges over my US Army stripe. His eyebrows raised, but at least he knew better than to challenge the authenticy of my awards.

"Fine, follow me," he said.

"Actual, stay here," I snapped, pointing at the soda machines, "Smoke 'em if you got them, speak to nobody. Donovan, with me."

"Yes, Chief," Donovan snapped off. He waved at the others, "Be back in a few."

I followed the surly Captain, acting as if he wasn't there. Donovan stayed a step behind me and on my left. His gear clicked and I reminded myself to get rubberbands and secure everyone's gear.

Cool. Dispassionate. Remote. Seize the initiative, do not let non-Special Weapons trained personnel take control of the mission. Rangers are little more than mobile weapon platforms. Cool, dispassionate, remote.

...still cold Alfenwehr ice...

He pulled open the door and I swept past him into the operations center. There were six men looking at a sat-scan with a time/date stamp of only an hour ago that was on a one of four sat-scans on the upright cork board. There were nearly a dozen around a table, with one of them talking on a handset.

"...try again. There has to be some communication," A Major was saying.

"Your men are dead or disabled," I snapped, walking up, "Stop transmitting over an open channel like a PAC clerk with a head wound."

They all stared at me.

Two went white.

SFC Vickerly, O-Pos, Born 11 June 1966 in Santa Monica, CA, allergic to avocados, closeted homosexual bottom, member of Ranger Team Golf-Three-Niner, team replaced for cause by Chief Warrant Officer Two Henley; Captain Shearman, O-Neg, Born 22 Feb 1968 in Madigan Army Medical Center, Fort Lewis Washington, sexual attraction to midgets; the data went through my brain, classifying that I'd seen Shearman in Desert Storm and Vickerly since he was an E-5.

"Chief Cromwell, Special Weapons Field Warfare Liaison," I snapped, opening my plastic billfold and showing them my ID, "You have a Real World Incident and you're wondering why your first rescue team that you sent in before I got here hasn't reported in."

"Short answer, you killed them," I moved up to the map board and tapped the two Chinooks that were side by side. The second was new, but I knew what had happened. "The pilots of both the NEST and your rescue team landed within the ionizing range, his batteries went bad within 15 minutes. The same thing happened to Soviet HiND helicopters at Chernobyl. This is a non-hardened version that certain Pentagon morons are replacing the old shielded units with," I turned to stare at them, "You're 'kindler, gentler, cheaper Army' just killed an entire NEST and its rescue team."