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."
I nodded at that. "All right. What's your opinion on them?"
Red sighed, rubbing his face with his hands, holding his cigarette between his teeth. "Christ, Ant, if you'd asked me this before last winter I'd have told you that anything you REMFs could handle the guys from 3rd Ranger could handle."
I uncorked the Wild Turkey bottle, took a swig, and handed it to him. He took a long pull off of it and sighed.
"Do they have to go to Alfenwehr?" he asked me.
"According to this provisional METL," I nodded, tapping my notebook. "They're supposed to live up at the airfield and be ready to be inbound to Atlas in less than fifteen minutes. Running double shifts, helicopters warmed up. Pilots are part of Tempest-Nine."
He sighed again and I knew he was thinking of the Long Night and what we'd gone through together during the cold and dark.
"Fifteen minutes is probably going to translate to thirty minutes before their airborne, forty-five minutes in the air, ten minutes to pick an LZ, five minutes to unass the slicks," he mused. "We're looking at an hour from the minute Foster gets a hold on them."
"Which means their useless," I told him. "Using the previous Soviet assaults as a guideline, by the thirty minute mark it's over and we're stacking bodies, taking photos, and securing prisoners."
He nodded at that. "They've stopped the harassment in the last month," he said. "Bomber says they've got too much metal to risk us throwing a Davey Crockett in their face."
"Yeah. I ordered two of them assembled and put on standby before I left," I told him. "But what's your take on Tempest-Nine. Your personal judgement."
He sighed. "Only one guy's got his ticket punched from The Nam and I don't know him," he told me.
Red was the oldest of all of us, early thirties, had been drafted to Vietnam and spent a couple years killing gooks for Uncle Sugar before insulting a Congresswoman had landed him here.
"All right, what else?" I asked. I'd jotted down 'unblooded' on my pad.
"None of them took part in Grenada," he confided. I noted that down. "None of them are LRRPs, all but their platoon daddy are baby snakes, three or four years only, nothing from The Nam. Two of them have serious attitudes and another tried riding my ass on dropping from Group."
"Sounds like they're going to be a problem," I mused.
"I talked to them once or twice about Atlas, they don't think this shit is serious," He told me.
"All right," I said. I sighed, pulling out a form from Packet-Two. I signed the bottom and slid it across to him.
"This is orders transferring Tempest-Nine to my control. Take whichever deuce or 5-ton Groom will sign you out on up to Alfenwehr. Make copies of this. Give one to Operations, another to Shaft in the Orderly Room, another to whoever is in charge of the Mags. Go to the airfield, give a copy of this to whoever is in charge of them, tell them to load out for extended operations. I'll provide ammunition loadouts beyond basic issue along with weapon issue for any gear their missing. Have them draw weapons and rations. Tell them to load speedballs for a full rotation. We'll have their Black Hawks drop the speedballs on the Lower Helipad and then land up at the Upper Helipad, they'll dig in on the Back Forty," I said.
"They ain't gonna like that. The fact they fall under some Corporal's authority especially," he said. "These guys are tabbed and scrolled Rangers, they ain't gonna like being put under some REMF's authority."
"You send the guy in charge to me," I told him. I moved a piece of paperwork to reveal a set of worn brass knuckles. "I'll explain it to him in language he'll understand that I'm in charge and if I have to I'll decimate them like they're one of the old Roman Legions so the survivors get it."
"You're stressed," Red narrowed his eyes. "What's going on, Ant?"
I sighed and flipped over the packet, letting Red see all the stamps. I tapped the SIGMA ID stamp.
"That's where we are," I said softly.
"Oh," was all he said. "Lord on high. Omaha."
"Omaha," I nodded. "Get them out here. All their gear, dug in for extended combat operations against the Soviet Union. You speak their language. From here on out I'm tasking you with being my liaison."
He sighed. "It's not just Tempest-Nine, is it?"
I shook my head. "I've got a mixed joint services group heading this way. Marine Recon, some SEALS, a pair of Air Force commandos and some Para-Rescue dudes, along with some Special Forces and some Rangers."
"Jesus," he pointed at the packet. "How bad?"
I stared at him for a long moment, weighing how much to tell him.
"We're staring World War Three in the face and they're about to completely reload Atlas with new ammunition," I told him. "We've got a company from one-six-eight Armor coming in for heavy armor security, two companies of mech-infantry with Bradleys, an element of 227 Hawk, something called a Patriot Element, something else called an M270 Multiple Launch Rocket System heading my way."
Red whistled. "The Grid Square Removal System is being deployed?" I frowned and he grinned. "That's what they were calling the M270 system during testing. Those things load 2 Hotel-104 pods per vehicle and can fire them off in a single salvo."
I nodded. "Makes sense. This is seriously escalating."
I pointed at the map of Atlas I'd folded in half.
"I've got another unspecified element of infantry coming in too," I told him. "Some guys out of Parris Island too, along with something I don't want to talk about. We're getting serious backup."
"Copper Window sized?" Red asked. He'd heard the stories about Operation Copper Window from the others who'd been there when it had gone down.
I shook my head. "Bigger. Worse."
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he said softly. "With all that Soviet hardware right across the street?"
I nodded. "We can take them. Hell, we could take them right now if I wanted to and they know it."
"All right. I better get to it then. If I run into flak should I tap Chief Henley?" He asked, standing up.
"Henley's on his way out here," I said. "Ring me up." I tapped the tablet. "Dismissed."
"Roger that," he said. He headed for the tent and I waited until he was almost through before I called his name.
"Yes, Corporal?" He asked.
"Stop trying to steal one of those Soviet nukes. Tensions are too high," I told him.
He nodded. "Yes, Corporal," he grinned.
"Carry on," I said. He laughed and left.
Right afterwards Foster pushed his way into the tent. He nodded to me and went over to the radio, plugging his headset back in.
Aine poked her head in. "A Miss Smith, Miss Smith, and Miss Smith are here to see you, Corporal," she said sweetly.
"Send them in," I told her, feeling my guts clench and my balls tighten up to try to retract into my abdomen.
Three identical looking women came into the tent. Short, black hair, blue eyes, lean and deadly looking in their black suits cut to accommodate a shoulder holster. Each had a ChemCorp Regimental Crest pin on their left lapel. All three held identical manila folders sealed with red tape in their left hands. They moved up in front of the table and stopped.
Blackbriar Bitches.
"I am Miss Smith-5128," the middle one said. She gestured at the one on her left. "This is Miss Smith-8649," she motioned at the one on her right. "This is Miss Smith-0373."
"Be seated," I told them. I waited for them to sit down. They set down their manila folders, popping the tape with their thumbnail, and opened them. They moved in unison, like three bodies controlled by a single mind. I watched as they reached into their tops. We all ignored the sound of Foster switching his weapon from safe to semi to auto. They withdrew green notebooks and a pen, placing the notebooks to the right of the folders and setting down the pens.
I opened Packet-Two and removed the manila folder that covered my Blackbriar orders.
"Shall we get started, ladies?" I asked.
They nodded, opening their folders to identical pages.
I opened mine to reveal the same page.
"Let's start with Operation Tundra Flower," I said gravely.
They nodded.
And we got to work.