Black Market Area
Prophet's Square
(Decomissioned Urban Warfare Center)
Jackingtonville, Abanstan
(North Fort Hood, Texas)
Eastern Europe
(CONUS)
18 February, 1992
1300 Hours - Tuesday
Day Two of Operation Copperhead
The day was cold and cloudy with wind. A light rain drizzled down as we drove slowly down the street. If you ignored the fact that the people in civilian clothing were all well fed and in good shape with no children or infants, you could honestly believe this was another country.
Men and women stood around burn barrels, glaring at us as we went by. A few times we saw poorly hidden weapons under ponchos and raincoats. We slowly approached a barricade of plywood and burnt out wrecked cars. The men walking on the platform above the entryway wore orange tape on their arms to simulate which side of the ALF they were on.
The mullahs AKA Orange Team.
There was an M-60 point to our right, the blank adapter fitted, and two of the men were walking around, smoking cigarettes and carrying dummy RPG-7's. One guy was up there, carrying no weapon but a thick paperback book. He wore a large orange X on his poncho to show he was wearing his priesthood gear.
It was really done well.
I noted that all of OP4 was black guys.
Two guys stepped out, holding their hands up, and the vehicle came to a stop. They swaggered over to the windows, tapping on them. Donovan and I rolled the windows down.
"Whore, cover yourself if you wish to enter Prophet's Market," The guy at my window said.
I took the scarf around my neck and pulled it up over my mouth and nose. The guy nodded, stepping back. I looked over in time to see Donovan peel off several five 'dollar' bills from a roll of Monopoly money. The guy snorted and Donovan peeled off a 'twenty' and handed it over. The guy waved us forward and Donovan put it in drive and started forward.
"WAIT!" The black guy with the X on his poncho jumped down, waving his arms. He moved up, grabbed my scarf and pulled it down. He turned to the guy who had been willing to let us go by. "Why is this whore allowed into the Market of the Prophet?"
I saw Donovan slowly shift the vehicle into reverse.
The other guy leaned forward. "Whore, why are you here?"
I didn't avert my eyes from him. "And you are?"
"Mullah... uh...," He checked the card on his lanyard. "Mullah Mohammed, whore!"
"Well, 'Mullah Mohammed," I lifted up my aid bag, staring him right in the eyes. "I'm an American doctor. Mullah Aziz personally requested me to look at him. If you don't want me to go in, I'll just let him know that you decided he didn't need medical assistance."
"Are there no man doctors?" 'Mohammed' barked.
"No. You killed them all last week," I told him coldly. "In clear violation of the Geneva Convention, the same Geneva Convention that you are now calling upon for medical aid."
He shook his head, holding out his hand. "No, that was not us, that was the infidel."
"The Fireant?" I asked sweetly. When he nodded I snorted. "He's a boogeyman. Yeah, he might exist, but have you ever seen him?"
'Mullah Mohammed' shook his head.
"We'll be going in now," I said.
'Mullah Mohammed' waved his arm. "Escort this doctor to Mullah Aziz right away, let him know that I personally cleared her."
The black guy next to him rolled his eyes, but waved us forward.
The Black Market looked good, I'd give it that. There were booths close together, people in civilian clothes that were muddy and torn. Females with headscarves and scarfs over their faces, many of them wearing ponchos. Men walking around with rifles, followed by females. Sometimes two or three. The square was churned up mud, with burn barrels at the side. The whole area was smoky, with a tang of CS to give it a sour smell.
Fort Hood had warehouses full of costume stuff for shit like that. Now that the Cold War was over, those stocks were slated for destruction, just like the Urban Warfare Center had been marked for demolition rather than refit even though it was the largest Urban Warfare Center in CONUS and even could handle M1's and BAFV training.
But no, the Cold War's over, so let's just junk all this shit and have everyone go back to sitting in the barracks while we cut force levels all the way down to pre-World War One levels. We'll just keep the military half-assed, ill-equipped, ill-trained, until someone punches America in the face, then we'll scream at the military for not protecting us.
You fucking morons.
When Donovan stopped it jerked me out of my dark thoughts.
"There," he said. I looked where he was pointing and saw several men clustered up by the entrance of a building. They were waving at us as Donovan threw the vehicle in park.
"Cherry, on the ringmount, Kidman and Donovan and Peel, you're with me," I said, getting out. Cherry slid the hatch back and stood up, dragging the M-60 with him.
I shouldered my aid bag and headed toward the four men at the entrance. While my face was covered and I had sunglasses on, I didn't avert my eyes when I walked up to them.
"Take me to Mullah Aziz," I stated coldly.
"Where is doctor?" One of the 'guards' asked with a really terrible fake accent.
"You killed all of them but me. So he can be treated by a female or not at all," I stated coldly.
"Come, come," The guard said, motioning me forward.
We followed him into the building, and I'd give Range Control and the III Corps graders credit. They had the sounds of babies crying, people coughing, women wailing, men arguing in a foreign language that my brain ID'd as Romanian. There were burn barrels out, bullet holes in the graffiti covered concrete walls.
We moved to the third floor and down a hallway full of guards. Twice someone grabbed my ass, once squeezing hard enough to leave my ass cheek stinging, but I ignored it.
Well, I wrapped my first around my M-3 and the grabbing stopped.
God didn't make men and women equal, Colonel's Smith and Wesson did.
The room with the "mullah" held eight men with weapons, three female soldiers dressed in ragged civilian clothing that could only be spotted as soldiers by their boots and general fitness. There was a III Corps grader standing next to a big black guy with a blue UN beret on and a bandoleer of shotgun shell blanks.
He had a simulated belly wound. I walked the grader through the treatment, handling the problems of a four day old belly wound, 'prescribed' painkillers, and was informed I'd 'saved' my unwilling 'patient' despite the interruptions and problems doing surgery in the field with little to no infrastructure to support me.
We walked out, quiet, and the first thing I noticed is the lack of females in the "Black Market" quad.
"Double-time it, we gotta get out of here," I snapped, quickly breaking into a jog. Everyone followed me and I heard the snap of Peel getting her SAW ready for action.
We'd barely reached the vehicle when an artillery simulator went off, fountaining up mud. Weapon fire broke out at one of the alleys and Orange Team MILES gear started screaming.
"FOR THE GLORY OF ABANSTAN!" A familiar voice yelled in Russian. "KILL THE UN RUNNING DOGS! THE MULLAH IS MINE!"
I spun and looked, my hand on the door of the humvee as everyone piled in.
Stillwater was kneeling down, firing his AK-47 at the guards. Quick, sharp bursts. He was wearing spraypainted red football shoulder pads, a leather jacket with a red hawk spraypainted on the back, and Soviet urban camouflage pants. He had on an honest to God Russian beret, and I could see the Red Star on his eyepatch. Our eyes met as he reloaded and I saw his one good eye narrow.
Shit. He'd made me.
"GO GO GO!" I shouted, hosing a burst out of my M-3 at him right as he ducked. He popped back up, firing the AK at our vehicle.
Even though his MILES gear was booping out near-hits, Cherry was firing his M-60 at anyone wearing a red armband and he cursed as part of the crowd got in his way. A white guy with a red armband tried to yank open the door of humvee Five and I fired the M-3 into his chest on full auto. His MILES went off and he gave me a grin as he jumped back.
Donovan threw the vehicle in reverse, clipping a burn barrel and sending its contents into the mud as he backed out of the gate. Several guys dived out of the way as Donovan drove on the mirrors.
I could hear grenade simulators going off, more gunfire.
"I don't think Aziz is going to make it," Donovan said as he backed around a corner, threw it in drive, and started heading for our base camp.
"I thought you said he got deployed," Peel said, leaning forward.
"He did. He must have come back last week," I said, changing magazines. "Jesus Christ, Colonel Krait just screwed all of us," I took a deep breath and let it out. "Another five minutes and we'd have been caught in the building with good ol' Aziz and his wives."
"I think their timing was off," I said, shaking my head.
"Hey, did anyone notice something odd," Kidman asked as Donovan went around another corner. We had to drive in circles three times, weaving around, to simulate a long haul through a war-torn city where the insurgents could pop up a preset ambush at any time.
I shook my head. "What?"
"Orange Team is all African Americans. Red Team is all white guys," He mused. "Didn't the briefing say something about ethnic cleansing? Hey, the guys that attacked us yesterday morning, weren't they all white guys?"
"Far as I could tell," Donovan said.
"Red Team's uniforms are different than Orange Teams," Peel said.
"Old Soviet uniforms," I said, remembering Stillwater and the guy who tried to pull me out of the truck.
"With UN gear for Orange Team," Donovan mused.
"Dammit," I slapped my hand on the dash. "We've gotta get back. That's vital intel."
"Why?" Peel asked.
"Because it sets the stage. According to our briefings, the only white people in Abanstan are former Soviet military and politicians," I told her. "This means that 'Fireant' and his people are a Russian Federation operation. Moscow must be trying to take back the country for its oil reserves and other natural resources."
"Which complicates everything," Kidman mused.
I nodded. "That means that Red Team is going to be better equipped, have better tactics, and probably numbers far more than 75th MI believes."
"This war sucks," Donovan grunted.
That made me laugh.
We got back to camp and I sent Donovan over to gas up Five. The MI guy and Colonel Krait argued about whether or not my limited observation was really how the OP4 teams were playing out or not. When they weren't paying attention I slipped out, sitting down on the sandbags stacked around the generators and ripping into an MRE. It was Chicken ala King, not a good one, but not a bad one either. With hot sauce and some Mrs. Dash I'd stolen from the chow hall, it wasn't that bad.
The sounds of a heavy diesel engine broke the silence as a heavy vehicle approached. Curious, I stuffed my dead MRE into my thigh pocket and stood up, heading for the line.
I got there just in time to see a big 10K articulated forklift roar into the edge of the cleared area. Several people swore, some cried out, and I heard someone yelling for the Colonel as the forklift cleared the alleyway, stopping a half block from us and idling. Several wrecked up vehicles followed, and I knew they'd pulled them from the graveyard and the Abandoned Privately Owned Vehicle lot.
The vehicles were only part of what was causing the rukus.
The forks were lifted in the air almost fifteen feet up. There was a pair of pallets on the forks for the three people suspended in air to stand on. Poles had been attached to the backstop of the forks, and three people were tied to the poles.
Captain Arthur, Captain Hayes from HHC, and Lieutenant Johnson from Bravo.
Their uniforms were torn up (more than likely pulled from costume stocks), they had bandages on their heads and 'blood' on their faces. Their arms were up over their heads and cargo straps were used to hold them to the poles. All three of them had gags in their mouths. All three had bandoleers crossing their chests and I could tell that they were loaded up with practice grenades carefully taped to make sure any shrapnel from the fuses were thrown away from the 'prisoners.'
Two men climbed up next to the prisoners, waving rifles, making it obvious that they were ready to kill the three prisoners, as well as holding the handles that attached to the vests.
I almost started laughing when a member of Red Team strutted out in front of the forklift.
A coonskin cap, leather vest, tire tread shoulder pads, a chest plate made from a garbage can lid and spraypainted with the Red Star, Soviet urban camouflage pants, heavy gloves, glasses.
CW3 Hennigan from HHC.
He waved his hand in a circle over his head and the vehicles present revved their engines, filling the square with punishing roars. Black smoke blew from the exhausts of the engines.
Hennigan made a chopping noise and all the engines suddenly went silent.
A couple people giggled.
"GREETINGS FROM SUNNY AND FAIR ABANSTAN!" Hennigan shouted out. I almost busted up laughing. "GREETINGS FROM THE OGON MURAVEY!"
Russian for "Fire Ant"
I snickered.
"GREETINGS FROM OGON MURAVEY! THE WARLORD OF ABANSTAN! THE AYATOLLAH OF ROKKAROLLA!"
I busted up laughing.
"WARLORD OGON MURAVEY!" Hennigan yelled, then ran back to the vehicles.
I'll give CW3 Hennigan credit, he'd distracted people from how someone had stood up from behind the fork backstop.
Credit to Stillwater too. He looked two parts menacing to one part comical. He lifted up a microphone to his mouth.
"There has been too much violence. Too much pain. But I have an honorable compromise. Just walk away. Leave my nation and I'll spare your lives. Just walk away and we'll give you a safe passageway to the airfield or port. Just walk away and there will be an end to the horror."
"SEE HOW GENEROUS WARLORD OGON MURAVEY IS! SO GENEROUS!" Hennigan yelled out.
I was surprised. Nobody opened fire. Of course, it could be that, like me, they could see that there was at least six crew served weapons on the buildings across from us. Three windows had been busted out while the vehicles were revving their engines, the sound of shattering glass unnoticed.
"This is not America! There is nothing here but death for you. Do not let your government abandon you here like they abandoned so many of you in Vietnam. The corporations and the bankers don't care about you, about my people, they care about the oil. Just go home. We will let you return to your wives and children," Stillwater bellowed out over the microphone. "I will let you all live."
"HIS GENEROSITY KNOWS NO BOUNDS!" Hennigan shouted.
My side hurt from laughing and I had to cover my mouth.
"I will give you until noon tomorrow to decide!" He finished. He jumped down and headed for the vehicles behind the big 10K forklift. "Keep these. A gift from myself, to you."
"WARLORD OGON MURAVEY SHOWS HIS MERCY!" Hennigan yelled.
The vehicles all started up, driving away, leaving the forklift with the three prisoners on it. As soon as it looked clear, as soon as the vehicle engines stopped and the normal recorded background came up, I ran for the forklift, my aid bag bouncing on my hip.
"Nobody touch them," I called out. "I know him, this is some kind of trap."
I climbed up in the cab and tried to start the vehicle. No power. Stillwater must have disabled it. Years of working with one just like it out at Atlas had made it so he'd be able to disable it in seconds. I grabbed the control and slowly lowered the forks by letting off the pressure. I could see, from the cab, that they had wires running over their shoulders to the grenade harnesses.
Once it was down I jumped down, running around to the three men.
"DON'T TOUCH THEM!" I yelled. I stopped, looking at them, holding out my hand.
Someone stopped behind me as I stepped carefully up onto the pallet. Captain Arthur was in the middle, and unlike the others, his BDU top was open and he was missing his brown shirt. He also had writing on his chest.
I used the barrel of my M-3 to push aside his shirt.
"THINK FAST!" was written on his chest in red sharpie. Underneath was written: "BIOREPARAT-114A21"
My mask had somehow jumped onto my face, my sunglasses dropped on the pallet. I waved everyone back.
"Get back," I said. "They're infected with weaponized measles."
Goddammit, Stillwater, you fucking maniac.