WARNING!
TIME/DATE ERROR!
MEMORY OVERRIDE!
"MAD MINUTE!" Stillwater bellowed out. "MA DEUCE WALTZ!"
Everyone but me started firing, not bothering to conserve ammunition or verify targets, just firing at anything that looked like it might be important. Bomber was on the fifty-cal, and he braced his feet against the tripod, pressing the butterfly trigger down with his thumbs. Gunfire blasted out as everyone on Red Velvet Actual opened fire.
Stillwater kicked my boot, I could tell by the angle, and I scrambled up, running for the pilot who was sprawled out on the ground. He'd been shot in the leg that the helicopter crash had broken, and he was ripping out the rest of his magazine as part of the mad minute.
I'd need to control the bleeding, set the leg, stabalize it, and use the branches around us to splint it. Easy peasy basic stuff.
Three steps in and burning pain filled my right side as bullets hit home with the ugly sound of metal hitting meat.
I stumbled, going down on my hands and knees. I vomited up blood and slumped face down, my vision going dark.
...that's not what happened...
"MAD MINUTE!" Stillwater bellowed out. "MA DEUCE WALTZ!"
Everyone but me started firing, ammo conservation thrown to the side as part of the mad minute, and I jumped up, running toward the injured pilot that had been the first one hit in the ambush.
Two steps before I reached him there was an explosion. Burning pain filled me as I was thrown to the side, skidding across the leaves and rolling bonelessly.
My arm came to rest next to me, my aid bag still tightly held in a hand that was attached to an arm that was no longer attached to me.
Things started going dark as the hand on my severed arm relaxed, letting go of the aid bag.
...no... that's not what happened...
"MAD MINU--!" Stillwater's bellow was cut off by an explosion as the Soviet T-series tank pushed its way through the jungle, the vines and trees blowing away into ash and sand that swirled around me.
"AT-4 OUT!" Groom yelled, bracing herself as Foster whipped the Gypsy Wagon into a tight turn, the back wheels throwing up a plume of sand behind us. She hit the trigger, the backblast washed over the wooden side-board behind her. The missile's motor kicked in just outside of the backblast range. The missile hit the tank with a crack, striking on the side of the cupola.
The old LAW rocket was capable of penetrating 13.25 inches of rolled steel armor. The AT-4 was capable of penetrating 16 inches of rolled steel, six inches of modern hexagon laminate composite armor.
The T-74 had only 10.5 inches of rolled steel on the side of the cupola.
The AT-4 missile struck, the explosion a brief bubble of fire as thee explosively forged penetrator went off. The trigger worked, the explosive behind the inverted copper cone, turning the copper cone into a stream of copper plasma less than a quarter inch thick that speared straight through the armor, exploding the far side of the armor into the crew compartment.
The hatch blew off the top of the tank.
Foster's banking curve, which made the Gypsy Wagon shudder as the wheels bit into the hard packed sand underneath the looser stuff, brought us out of the dust and sand as flames and smoke belched out of the top of the tank.
"ON THE GUN!" Bomber bellowed from the front of the Gypsy Wagon where the mechanics had ripped a hole in the roof of the cab so that a ring mount could be installed.
I looked forward, the goggles making it so I didn't have to squint as the wind whipped around us.
We were heading straight toward a group of Iraqi infantry unassing trucks, obviously hoping to make a stand on this highway that the tankers and the Apaches were turning into nothing more than a massive line of death.
A missile was fired from the Iraqis, streaking forward and slamming into the front end of the Gypsy Wagon.
The hood blew off, the cab exploded, shrapnel whickering across me as the blast lifted me up out of the back of the truck as the EFP (Explosively Forged Penetrator) hit the gas tank behind the bench seat of the Gypsy Wagon.
...NO! That's not what happened!...
The blankets wrapped around me as I sat up, fighting, throwing them to the side, as my brain and body tried to react to two different battles in two different countries years apart from one another.
I'd reached the pilot during the Mad Minute.
The RPG-7 had missed the truck, Bomber's return fire hadn't missed them.
I got my legs free, swinging them off the bed, planting them firmly on the carpet of Misty's bedroom.
Behind me, Misty made a snorting noise and rolled over right before she farted.
I squinched my toes into the carpet, bunching it up. Yeah, yeah, it was a trick from Die Hard, but it worked. I bunched my fists into the blankets, feeling the cloth. Pressing my tongue against the roof of my mouth and breathing slowly through my nose.
The room smelled faintly of strawberries. I could smell Misty, not counting her flatulence, and used the smells to override my brain's insistence that I could smell the desert and the jungle, the blood and the cordite, at the same time. My toes in the carpet reminded me that I was barefoot, wearing a cotton nightgown, not wearing combat boots and in full battle rattle. Bunching up the blanket in my fists reminded me I was in a bedroom and my hands weren't engaged in other things.
I stood up, feeling the nightgown drop down to my knees, and looked around at the room. I could see like it was daylight, no need to turn on a light. I stretched, putting my hands on the low ceiling of the bedroom, and then relaxed.
It took me a few minutes to walk into Misty's frontroom since I stopped to pee. There was plenty of room once I pushed her glass and chrome coffee table against the couch. I took off the night gown, moved to the center of the room.
Katas.
Starting slow with the basic stretching ones.
Unlike what was seen in the movies, these katas weren't flowing, dance-like, and even though they built off of one another, one move leading to the next, they were short, sharp, and ultimately lethal. Block to strike to block to block to strike strike and strike again.
I could feel the tension drain away as I moved through the katas.
I saw, following through with a backhanded spin strike, that Misty was sitting on a chair in the kitchen, watching me. I made sure to repeat several katas to be sure she was there, smiling at her as I went through them.
At one point I could smell Atlas, the sharp, astringent smell, but it went away after a few quick katas.
When I was done, I moved over and picked up my nightgown, shrugging into it and tugging it down over sweaty skin. I always hated that feeling, cotton over sweaty skin, but I didn't think that Misty would appreciate me sitting, naked and sweaty, on her furniture.
I've got a big ass. And the only thing worse than a girl with a big ass sitting on your furniture, is a girl with a big sweaty ass sitting on your chair.
"Pop?" Misty asked me, lifting up a can of soda from where it had been sitting on a coaster on the table.
"Please," I said, taking it from her. I cracked it open, swallowing about a third of it as I sat down.
"Woke me up when you got out of bed," she told me when I sat down.
"Sorry," I said, running the cool can across my forehead. Probably that loud as hell fart she'd ripped as I stood up is what really woke her up, but I figured it would be rude to point that out.
"Nightmare?" she asked.
I just nodded.
She blushed suddenly, and giggled. When I raised my eyebrow she giggled. "It was a little surprising walking into my frontroom to find a naked woman doing karate," she said.
"It's eskrima," I told her, shrugging. "Combined with combatives and a half dozen other martial arts, but it's mainly eskrima."
She frowned, "Your CO had you guys train, or did you draw it out of a hat?"
I shook my head. "No."
She lifted her glass of wine and sipped at it. "Tell me about it."
I just sighed, taking another sip off of the soda. "Why?"
She smiled. "Because it'll explain a few things to me," She said simply.
"Didn't learn enough about me watching me ride that guy?" I smiled. She blushed and giggled. "Don't think I didn't see you laying there watching us," I tapped under my left eye. "I see all."
"I forgot about that," She said. She shook her head. "They glow, you know, in the dark. Your eyes, I mean."
I just nodded. "Yeah," I sipped again. "The salve..."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, expired, field expedient, no professional treatment," She waved the wine glass, "I've heard you say it at least a dozen times." She shook her head. "How long did the Army examine your eyes before they gave you that story?"
I laughed. "Six months, and every time I go in to an optometrist they examine my eyes again. But, if anything, it makes me even more effective. I can perform surgery with only a chemlight as if it's as lit up as an operating theater. Since I'm a Field Warfare Specialist, that makes whatever I might do with my weirdly enhanced night vision far more valuable and long reaching than plucking out my eyes and sending them to DARPA."
She giggled again at that.
"Can I ask you a weird question?" She sipped her wine and blushed again.
"Sure," I stretched.
"Just something I thought was weird," she said quietly, blushing. I raised an eyebrow and she flushed deeper and then giggled. "Umm..."
"Oh, for God's sake, just spit it out, woman," I smiled.
"Why did you choose the... umm... well... umm..." she was dark dark red now.
"Choose what?" I asked, frowning.
"The guys, um..." She giggled nervously.
"Oh!" I laughed. "You mean why did I pick the guy with the smaller dong?"
She just blushed and nodded.
"Two reasons," I told her, grinning. "Sure you want to hear them?" She nodded, giggling. I grinned wider. "Well, first reason is, I'm a big girl, but not a size queen, and I kinda like the smaller ones sometimes," I leaned forward a bit toward her, "And second, I wanted to watch you get cored like an apple, Misty."
She flushed at that.
I frowned, "Although, I have to tell you, you made a recruit mistake, Misty," I told her seriously, setting the drink back and leaning the chair back.
"What?"
"Condoms, Misty, always use condoms," I told her. "You almost didn't till I tossed it at you."
"I've got the shot," She said.
I shook my head. "That shot ain't gonna protect you from something nasty getting squirted up in there or left behind," I stared at her, "That's how you get AIDS. That shit's spreading fast, faster than it did back when it was just GRID."
She flushed.
"Noobie mistake, Misty," I said. I pointed at where my purse was on the counter, "I carry condoms, that's the only reason I carry that stupid thing."
"I don't like how they feel," she tried.
"You'd like herpes even less," I snapped back. "Christ, it's like I'm talking to a hammer-head," I reached out and tapped my forefinger against the back of the hand she had on the table with each syllable for the next part. "Always. Use. A. Condom."
She blushed and giggled, then looked at me. "How is it, that I'm older than you, and you inevitably make me feel like a kid?"
I shrugged, sitting the chair back down and sipping at my soda. "I don't know, Misty."
"Well, can I ask you about that, ice-creama again?"
I sighed. "Fine. Ask."
"Why did you learn it?" She asked.
I sighed. "That edges into classified information, but what the hell," I shrugged. "OK, to understand things, you have to realize that I basically lived under war time conditions. The Soviet troops shot people every couple of months, a sniper harassed us daily, and I had basically replaced the previous medic who'd been gutshot by a sniper who my crew leader killed."
She nodded at that.
"So, my crew leader, a ruthless, driven, empathy-less complete and utter psychopath by the name of Stillwater, mandated we train in anything that he thought would increase our chances of survival or that he just thought was good thing to learn."
"All right, I get that."
I waved her to silence. "Well, we had this big Amazon, Stokes, who was teacher rated in escrima and was belted in a bunch of other stuff. She started teaching all of us. At first, we weren't too thrilled with it, but after a few months, it got really neat."
I tapped the soda can against my teeth for a second. "A couple of times, guys or gals on the crew who were having a serious problem with another member of the crew would fight it out in The Pit while we all watched. Stillwater said it put the bad blood to rest, and he was right. Hell, if anything, it made us closer. I'm a big girl, and seeing Stokes's Amazon ass doing this felt right. I mean, you see any other martial artist, they're all built like you. Escrima is built for people like me." I smiled and curled my arm, bunching up my biceps. "Speed, power, will."
"Have you ever had to use it outside of training?" She asked me. She was going somewhere with it, but I couldn't tell where.
"You mean, outside of fighting in the club, or in the barracks? As in, to the death?" I drained the last of the soda as she nodded. I set the can down. "Yes. Yes, Misty, I've killed men with my bare hands. Hell, escrima teaches you to use knives, even firearms. That's why I like it so much."
She nodded as I sighed and slumped, then went to the fridge and grabbed me another soda, filling up her wine glass.
When she sat down she looked at me. "You know, some people are saying that close quarters combat is a thing of the past."
I shook my head. "Amazingly enough, none of those people have combat experience, ya ever notice that?" She shrugged. "House to house clearing in Kuwait City and Panama City proves that a lie. Urban combat is close quarters combat, Misty. Trust me."
"Then you think that it should have been taught to our men during Basic?"
"Absolutely."
She got a big grin, reaching over to slap my forearm. "Good, then you won't have a problem being listed as the primary trainer and acting as an instructor." She blushed again. "Um, sorry."
I stared at her for a moment, wondering why she was apologizing, then suddenly laughed when the stench hit me.
"You rancid bitch," I laughed. I gagged. "Oh, God, Misty." I waved my hand in front of my face. "What did you stick up your butt?" She giggled.
I lit a cigarette, waving around the lighter for a minute. She giggled again and I cracked open the soda, smiling at her.
"You completely blindsided me on the combatives trainig, but yeah, I'll do it," I laughed. She blushed and farted. Loudly. That just made me laugh harder. "You rancid little bitch." Her embarassed giggles turned into full blown laughter.
"Oh, God, you're killing me," I gagged.
She just laughed harder.