The two 5-ton cargo trucks were idling on the other side of the fence. The sight of the signs stating that beyond the fence and gate was a restricted area were almost a welcome back to the fucked up place I called home.
I got out of the sedan slowly, my thigh and back muscles screaming after having been uncomfortably twisted for hours. Sixteen hours of flight total, most of it over Soviet airspace. Then two days of debriefings by room after room of men in black suits, tables, and uncomfortable chairs. Sleeping in cells, like I had been sent to Leavenworth. At meals we had been handcuffed, with Stillwater, Bomber, and Stokes having been chained.
The DIA agents were more interested in my reports than the CIA had been. I had paid close attention to what bands were in use by who, how the Soviet commo tech had measured up to ours, their commo procedures, and what I'd picked up paying close attention. I'd even waited until nobody was looking to snap the grounding on one of their radios. The guy watching over me was afraid to tell his supervisor that it wasn't working, and I'd offered to help him fix it. He was grateful that we wouldn't tell his supervisor as I'd cracked the radio open, memorizing the circuitry.
To uneducated eyes a radio is a radio.
The US military had trained me to repair the radio, even after an EMP blast, even after combat damage. The Soviet radio, which the commo operator had assured me was very very new, only he was trained on it, was goddamn junk even compared to the 20 year old PRC-77 I usually carried on my back.
I'd "fixed" it, and he'd been very very grateful.
The fact that most of the commo specialists I'd worked with during the two weeks in Pripyat had taught me a few things here and there to help me work with them. The translator they had assigned to me had been a women, beautiful in the stereotypical Russian way. Leggy, blonde, large breasts, accent that was 'cute', and trying to spend extra time with her.
But that singing emptiness inside of me made me impervious to any of her flirting, any of her attempts to bring any emotion out of me. Her touch made my stomach twist, and when she had slid into my bed in the middle of the night, reaching down to grab my penis, by body had not reacted. She had tried with her mouth and hand, getting no results, and then left.
When a male sexually propositioned me, I told him flatly I wasn't interested.
My thoughts were interrupted as Aine took my hand and the warmth from her small hand pushed back that emptiness and the memories.
Her touch was the only thing that pushed those things back.
"Are you nervous, Paul Foster?" she asked me. I just nodded. "This dark cold place is our home, no matter what we tell ourselves," she squeezed my hand, "Even I am yearning to return to my small room," she gave a sharp, almost bitter, laugh. "Part of me yearns to return to that place of poison. I feel it calling me; I miss the whispering of the ferns and the grass, the murmuring of the trees and the bushes, and the singing of the rabbits."
"We'll be sent back soon enough," I told her. I jerked a thumb toward the 5-tons. "We better get a move on before the guys they sent have a stroke."
The 5-ton with the gear we'd taken to Ukraine and back went by, the automatic transmission whining at a high pitch as it tried to take the incline right after the gate stretch. It had the armored J-suits, my commo gear, the weapons, everything else we'd taken with us, begged or stolen, and returned with, that the Alphabet Boys hadn't confiscated.
"You two all right?" Stillwater growled from behind us.
When I turned around he was trying to smile, trying to look friendly.
He didn't.
"We're fine, Anthony," Aine smiled. She'd stopped calling him Aodan after the blast, after Atlas had exploded.
This place killed my Aodan, Paul Foster, and Anthony, the Ant, walked out of the fire and death of the blast that killed so many of our beloved friends, Aine's words in the dark.
"I'm glad," He said. Not that his voice or face showed it. The words were more robotic, empty, like something he knew he should say, but didn't understand why. Pripyat had hardened him further, but also made him seemingly unable to process somethings. It was a strange echo of inside me, and for a moment I felt bad for him. He smiled that cold dead smile again, and I resisted the urge to flinch back from him. "Mount up."
I just nodded and he turned away, walking with us to the 5-ton truck. He knelt down, next to the back end, giving us all a boost up one at a time.
There were four men I didn't recognize in the back of the 5-ton, with an officer, a Captain, sitting on the camo bags strapped to the spare tire up by the cab. They all had M-16's, locked and loaded with 20-round magazinese, and all of them were staring at us.
"Move past, sit up by Captain Melvins," one of them said. An E-5 with the nametag of Scarsworth that I'd never seen.
Aine tugged me after her, and we moved up to sit down.
One by one the rest of the crew climbed in, until just Stillwater was the only one outside. He slammed the tailgate and then I watched as Stillwater just climbed up the tailgate like a big monkey. He froze when he saw the others.
"Move up by the rest of your men, Corporal," the Sergeant said, grabbing Stillwater's arm and yanking him.
Stillwater yanked his arm free, squatting down so they were eye to eye. He stared at the Sergeant. "And if I don't?" he growled.
Sergeant Scarsworth stared at the younger man, and I wondered if he understood just how close he was to Stillwater yanking his guts out. I wondered, briefly, if I should say something, try to defuse the situation.
The concern fell into the emptiness and was gone. I stopped caring.
The guy next to me aimed his M-16 at Aine and me. "Just sit."
"I'll make you sit..." Sergeant Scarsworth started, grabbing Stillwater's wrist.
Stillwater moved, twisting his wrist, grabbing the NCO's wrist in return, and wrenching the arm around, pushing hard on the straightened elbow. The NCO cried out in pain, and the one holding his weapon and me and Aine looked over.
I snatched his weapon out of his hand, flipping it around, pointing it at him, and flicking the safety over to semi in one smooth motion.
Stokes's training.
Bomber didn't waste time with anything fancy, he just lunged forward and punched the guy across from him in the face hard enough that the guy's head snapped back against the wooden rib with a crack, slumping down bonelessly as Bomber grabbed his weapon. Stokes just held her hand out, staring at the guy, motioning with her other hand toward Little-Bit. The short stocky sniper had a straight-razor in her hand, turning it so that it caught the daylight. The last guy handed over his weapon without a fight as Stillwater pulled the NCO off the bench and onto his knees.
"You touch me again, I'll rip your goddamn arm off and beat you to death it, you fucking understand me?" Stillwater snarled. He put more pressure on the elbow, bending it slightly the wrong way, forcing the other man to let out a cry of pain. "Don't you ever fucking touch me, not now, not fucking ever, you fucking understand me?"
I looked at the Captain, who was slowly moving his hand away from the pistol on his LBE. Nagle had a straight-razor in her own hand, having pulled it from the same place all the female soldiers of Atlas carried it. Between her breasts.
Stillwater released the NCO's arm and kneed the Sergeant in the face, knocking him back. "You and your monkey fucking retards can have your weapons back when we get back."
"Ease down, Ant," Cromwell said, patting the bench next to her. "There's no need for further violence and crude language."
Stillwater grunted and sat next to her.
Aine squeezed my thigh as I set the M-16 across my lap.
"Am I to assume that you are objecting to the Commanding Officer's decision to," he started.
"My crew and I have put up with all the goddamn confinement and restriction we can take," Stillwater growled.
The 5-ton jerked as it started moving.
"Like or not, Captain, we have rights under the UCMJ, and I intend on making sure my goddamn animal's rights are respected," He said, "You don't like it, take it up with Chief Henley," He kicked the rifle under the bench seat that the Sergeant was getting back onto. "Or we can just have that shit out now."
The rest of the trip was silent.
The truck engine shut off and everyone was silent as we jumped out, landing with a crunch on the gravel on the parking side of the street, opposite of the barracks. The Sergeant got out and Stillwater stepped into him, slamming his chest into the NCO's.
"In case you're thinking of getting froggy," Stillwater growled. "I'll be watching you, and I'm not going to forget you've got a bad case of grabby hands."
The NCO backed away from Stillwater.
Smart move, I thought, he'll tear your goddamn throat out with his teeth if you so much as look at him funny.
We walked into the barracks, Stillwater moving ahead of everyone, Bomber only a few steps behind. I noticed we spread out, five steps between us all. Stokes and Nagle at the sides, Little-Bit pulling drag, Cromwell and Aine on either side of me.
I felt naked without my radio. Even not having my rifle wasn't as difficult as not having a PRC-77 strapped to my back and the constant chatter of other people's conversations. The barracks loomed over us, the shitty beige paint job making it seem even more unwelcoming.
...PUSH 'EM INTO THE SNOW...
Aine squeezed my hand, stopping the memory from completely forming.
We pushed through the airlock doors and into the CQ Area. The ChemCorps and 2/19th insignias were in full color on the floor, a thick coat of wax making them shine. The trophies in the trophy case gleamed, the brass hand rubbed till it shone.
There was a full Colonel by the name of Ross was standing in the CQ Area, along with a Sergeant Major wearing the nametag Simmons.
Sergeant Butcher was standing in front of them, his smile going sickly as Stillwater walked up and tossed the M-16 onto the counter that separated the CQ Area from the entry room.
Beside Sergeant Butcher was Major Lenning, Group S-2 OIC, who was standing next to SSG Deerborne, the S-2 NCOIC. Next to them was a pair of privates holding files marked with PRP tabs. Our secure files, containing everything from our pictures to our fingerprints to our vital statistics. Everything about us. There were two high ranking MP's and a guy I recognized as the CID representative for Group.
"Members of Atlas, stand by the CQ desk and we'll go over your file to ensure that you are who you say you are. We'll check your files against your person, and if you pass this inspection, you'll be returned to duty," Major Lenning said.
Sergeant Butcher turned and looked at Major Lenning. "I thought you said," he started.
"That they'd undergo a security check," The Major said. He smiled, waving Stillwater forward. "You first, Corporal Stillwater."
Stillwater stepped forward and the MP's and the CID guy checked out his fingerprints, identifying marks and scars, did a quick set of questions, then waved him away.
"It's him," Major Lenning said. "Next."
One after another we moved up. I was last, my habit of hanging back bringing me up last. I noticed that Stillwater was leaning against the trophy case, watching everything with cold dead eyes.
Fingerprints. Scar check. A quick set of questions.
"It's Foster," Lenning said. He turned to the Colonel. "It's them."
"Go ahead and go to your rooms," The Colonel said. "You are not under confinement and Chief Henley is insisting that you return to work on Monday morning."
I shrugged, heading for the stairwell.
It didn't matter what any of the people in the CQ Area said. Henley would put us to work no matter what. I could have been replaced by a Soviet agent and Henley would still send me to work.
There was no escape.
And I was probably going to die here.
The emptiness was a singing cold in my chest as I walked slowly to my room.