"Crew's in the two GP mediums. You and me are in the GP small, Foster and Perez's in the other one running commo from it as our TOC. Support Squad's on the left, Mag on the right," Bomber said as we headed toward a lump of connected camo nets covering shit. I could hear the steady roaring of a 5Kw generator.
"How's Foster doing?" I asked, snapping closed my helmet's chin strap. Foster had been disemboweled by a Soviet bayonet last winter. Split open from hip to hip.
"Says he's fine. Passed a PT test back in March," Bomber said, carrying my duffle bag. I had my rucksack over one shoulder, my battle rattle closed up, and my rifle's sling over my right shoulder.
"Good," I said.
The lizard took stock real quick, mostly by weight. Four 30-round magazines in each of my four magazine pouches, twenty-round magazine in my back pocket and another held onto the right side of my helmet by my helmet band, twelve 40mm grenades, my NBC gear spread across my pockets and my LBE, compass, map of Atlas and another one of the Fulda Gap in my pocket, gas mask in the carrier on my left hip, three field dressing pouches, and my Gerber Mark II fighting knife on my LBE.
Racked, stacked, and packed.
I ducked under the camo net and saw Specialist Nancy Nagle sitting out front of the tent, braiding Pv2 Lane's hair. Nagle was smoking a cigarette while Aine McCullen AKA Hannah Lane sat on her gas mask with her knees pulled up under her chin and a smile on her heart shaped face. I could see the single chevron on her lapels.
"Well well well, look who got their mosquito wings," I said.
"Yeah. Valor and shit after last winter," Bomber shrugged. "Awards came down while you were at PLDC," he said.
"Yeah, I fucking noticed, considering the Commandant made a big deal over handing me my awards in fucking formation," I snarled at him.
"Cause problems?" He asked.
"Yeah. Gave the fucking line slime dick heads a terminal case of ass rash," I answered.
"Oh shit, I'll bet," John laughed.
I could hear the arguing coming from the left hand GP Medium as soon as John's laughter stopped. Two female voices, both yelling.
"They're at it again," Nagle said.
"Welcome home, Aodan," Lane said, her soprano voice holding a slight Irish lilt.
"Thanks, Lane," I said. I had given up on telling her not to call me by my birth name.
"What about this time?" John asked.
"Who the fuck knows. Cromwell probably inhaled too loudly and Beach's probably on the rag," Nagle said, tapping her ashes in the butt can before tucking her cigarette back between her lips and going back to weaving Lane's long naturally curly red hair.
"The safe in our TOC?" I asked Bomber.
"Yeah," he said.
"All right. I'm gonna handle this shit right now," I said, dropping my ruck off my left shoulder so it landed in front of Lane.
I walked over to the GP Medium tent, standing there and staring at the doorway, which was covered by two overlapping pieces of canvas. There was an MRE box cover hanging from the tent rope that someone had written "SUPPORT SQUAD" onto with a black permanent marker.
"...care what your rank is, don't rummage through my gear for no reason while I'm on patrol," one voice was saying. Female. Young. Slight West Coast accent, probably NorCal.
"Don't you raise your voice to me, you little slut," a different female yelled.
I pushed through the two flaps, stopping and standing inside the tent.
YOU ARE READING
Atlas Reloaded - Book Five of the Damned of the 2/19th
Historical FictionSummer, 1985. New weapons and munitions have come out of the experimental phase and are now being issued across the United States military as the Cold War heats up and the Soviet Union has moved eight armored divisions into Western Europe. The work...
