Atlas Reloaded - Book Five of the Damned of the 2/19th

OMAHA

I closed the packet, staring at my yellow legal pad. I'd made notes the whole way through, highlighting certain aspects that weren't highly confindental. The whole thing was nothing but a cluster fuck through and through.

I'd known that Grenada had led to some serious changes, but seeing the full amount left me shaking my head and wondering just how I was going to accomplish all of the objectives with what little I had.

Stokes had come in while I was still going over packet-one and I'd told her to work up a PT program for everyone. She had completed the Master Fitness Trainer course the year before and probably knew more about keeping people in shape than anyone I knew. She listened to what I wanted, nodded, and left.

Pv2 Hannah Lane was standing outside my TOC in full gear, packing a loaded rifle, acting as guard and my aide. I'd had her run out and grab a few things here and there. Foster was talking quietly to someone further up the chain at 60th Ordnance Battalion level on the things I needed. Everyone else was huppin' and steppin' to get done what I'd ordered.

The fucking bitch Beach had ripped the guts out of Bomber and left him with fucked up self-esteem and self-confidence. The fact he was in Stop-Loss limbo, past his ETS date but without a reenlistment, that he'd been busted up so hard and then left in charge of Atlas while I was at school, and been without backup while Henley was at Blackbriar and Wright was put out on a Medical, had all combined with a chief medical that had been abusive. He'd been left with nowhere to turn, nobody to back him up, and everyone else just as strung out and adrift as he was.

If I had my druthers I'd take the bitch outside the camo nets, out by the 5Kw generator, and shoot her in the fucking head.

The tent flap opened and Hannah Lane AKA Aine McCullen stuck her head in.

"PFC Carmichael here to see you, Corporal," she said.

"Send him in. Thank you, Private Lane," I answered. I scanned the table to make sure there wasn't anything confidential left out. I flipped the legal pad to a blank page and set my Skilkraft pen on top.

Aine winked and ducked back out. Right afterwards a large man in BDU's pushed his way in. He was wearing a 101st Airborne combat patch on his right shoulder, the interlocked triangles inside a circle of III CosCom on his left shoulder. He had the chevron and rocker of Private First Class rank on his lapels, Airborne tab underneath an Air Assault tab that had a combat star on it, and a Pathfinder tag on his pocket flap. His nametag read Carmichael on it. He had his red hair in a high and tight haircut and completely white eyes, was clean shaven, had a chin you could use to break polar ice with, and a slightly crooked nose.

"Corporal, you wanted to see me?" He said, stopping in front of my table. Despite the fact that last winter had turned his blue eyes white he could still see perfectly.

Unlike Lancer.

"Have a seat, Red. Smoke 'em if ya got 'em," I told him.

He nodded, pulling out a pack of menthols. I reached over and tapped Foster, who pulled his headset off.

"Go get some coffee for us," I told him.

The dead eyed man nodded, unplugging his headphones and standing up. I waited for him to leave, lighting a cigarette of my own. When he left I looked Red in the eye.

"Tempest-Nine," I opened up with.

He nodded. "Ranger team detached from 3rd Ranger Battalion. Stationed at Benning. These guys are mostly combat arms," he told me. "Got two chemical and a single nuke guy."

"How's the commo guy?" I asked him.

"Compared to Foster?" he snorted. "Their commo guy is unpatched and unblooded, but it isn't fair to compare a fucking human to Foster."