Chapter One
Shit List
“The old bastard’s going to put us on detail.” Tucker’s voice broke the silence.
A voice from behind him asked, “What can they make us do?”
“They’ll think of something. They always do.”
“There’s no grass,” the voice said. Bodies swayed as the van the men sat in swerved. “Do you see any grass? There aren’t any weeds to chop down.”
“Dude! We’ll be painting rocks all weekend.”
“You’re kidding me.” Large blue eyes peeked over the seat cushion, staring at Tucker.
“Dude,” Tucker spoke. “If we’re not painting rocks we’ll be painting the barracks? The only reason those old relics are still standing out here is that termites can’t survive in hell. They don’t even have a/c in ‘em.”
“No a/c?” The eyes disappeared as the speaker plopped against his seat. “How long are we staying here?”
“Six months.”
“Six months of hell.”
“Tell me about it,” Tucker said. He snorted at the thought. The time would be a lot more agonizing if he had to put up with this dude’s whining.
“Who volunteered us for this?”
“We volunteered when we signed the dotted line and swore I do.”
“Damned recruiter.” Blue eyes peered over the seat once more. “I really getting to hate that son of a bitch. That guy promised just one weekend a month and two weeks a year and I could get cash for school.”
“Live, learn, and die.” Tucker smiled, callous and uncaring.
“And suffer every moment you’re on the ride.”
“Well at least you didn’t get sent to Iraq.”
“Will you two clam it?” The voice came from the front.
The ring of authority behind it struck a wrong cord with Tucker. “Who said that?”
“I did.” Dark hard eyes stared back at Tucker from the shotgun seat. His flat bristled haircut, confirmed US Army no bullshit would be accepted. The chevrons on his collars backed up that thought.
“Sorry, Sarge.” Tucker swallowed. He wished could hide under the seat.
“Quit worrying. Sergeant Major is a reasonable man. Not our fault the plane was delayed.” The sergeant’s smile held as much reassurance as a rattlesnake.
“Easy for you to say.” Tucker said, “Worse thing that’ll happen to you is babysitting all us peons with paintbrushes.”
“Beg your pardon.” Those black eyes narrowed, completely fixated on Tucker.
“Nuthin’ Sarge. Thinking out loud.”
“Is that what you call that? We got us a frickin’ L-T wannabe. Thinking my ass.” The sergeant turned back around, glaring at the long empty road.
Tucker took a deep breath and blew it out quietly. Someone nudged his back. He looked behind him and saw the soldier sitting next to blue eyes. Another private, looked to be Chinese or maybe Vietnamese. His nametag read Leung.
He looked at Tucker, smiled, and mouthed the words, “Dumb ass.”
Tucker smirked and mouthed back, “Fuck you very much.”
With that Tucker resolved to be quiet. They were getting closer to their destination. He could tell by the big mountain rising in the distance. Trepidation Rock. The camp had been built in its shadow during World War II. The rock had inspired the base’s name, Camp Trepidation, New Mexico.
The oversized van’s engine coughed and sputtered. Eight sets of eyes opened and looked about and then stared at the driver. Another reason they were late, was this pipsqueak got lost. And now it sounded like the van ran on fumes.
“What’s your name again, Mario,” Tucker asked?
“It ain’t Mario,” the driver responded. He craned his head back, glancing at Tucker, who sat in the third row. “It’s Marizo, you got it? That’s got to be the seventh time I told you. You stupid or what?”
“Or what!” Tucker smiled a little victory. He did not like getting placed on detail. Marizo needed to be ridden. He could use a butt kicking too. That could be arranged later.
The van jerked again and Tucker slid into the man who slept on the seat beside him. Large paws pushed him back. Blood shot eyes glared in his direction. Tucker read the nametag sewed on the large black man’s battle dress uniform or BDUs. Jones.
“Yo, Jonesey! Mario thinks we’re in a race or something. I ain’t messing with you.”
“I don’t like you,” Jones replied. He emphasized each word with a heavy poke of his thick fingers. “Gimme some room.”
Tucker slid back just in time to miss Jones’ jabbing elbow. Tucker held up his hands, shaking them in submission. The brakes on the van screeched as Marizo brought the vehicle to a stop along the shoulder. Jones looked toward the front and Tucker slid the door open and exited. The heat lashed out at him, but he wanted to get away from Jones. What a grump!
He took a couple of steps and stretched. The rear door on the far side popped open and Leung stepped out. He walked around and grinned at Tucker. Did he ever not smile? “Feels good to stretch my legs,” the smaller man said. “How many hours we been stuck in that thing?”
“Seven hours.”
Tucker turned to look at the speaker. The man’s nametag read Ulm. What kind of name was that? Dutch? German? “Course we was losted the first four hours,” said Ulm rolling his eyes.
“Don’t block the doorway,” an agitated voice demanded. “I want to get out of this piece of shit too.”
Ulm moved aside. His lips smiled, but his eyes did not. Tucker recognized the next soldier that stepped out. Calloway had trained with him at Benning. Jones and Norton came out in short order; while the sarge exited the front door.
“We look like the circus,” Tucker remarked. Leung and Ulm laughed at the observation, while Calloway sneered.
“Sorry guys,” Marizo spoke. “This has got to be the worst day of my life. Looks like we’re walkin’ the last mile.”
Calloway spat on the asphalt in front of him and shouted, “Ain’t that a piece of shit. Maybe you can walk while we wait for you to come back with some gas, vato.”
Marizo looked down at his feet. The quiet hung in the air for a moment and then he spoke, “Look I got up on the wrong side of bed.” He glanced up at Calloway. Stared straight into his eyes. “I’m really sorry that we’re late. Shit, man. I don’t know how this day could get any worse.”
The ground shook followed by a rumbling sound to the north. Tucker looked around at his companions. Was this an earthquake? Then he looked towards the rumbling and he saw smoke rising in the distance, a lot of it.
“Is that smoke green?” Tucker did not expect an answer, but he had plenty of questions to ask. “Camp is over there right?”
“Yep,” somebody confirmed.
Then a new noise attracted Tucker’s attention. He looked to the northwest and spotted a chopper heading towards them. He did not recognize the model yet. It carried no visible guns or rockets so it had to be a transport. It turned back towards the camp just as it moved over their position besides the road.
“What’s that over there,” Calloway asked?
“It’s a chopper,” Tucker said.
“No goofball. What’s that?” Calloway pointed toward the camp and Tucker squinted in that general direction.
“Whoa!” Tucker had no time to say anything else. A large bird flew directly toward the chopper. It was hard to make out. As it closed the distance, Tucker saw bat-like wings.
Before his brain could confirm what he saw, the bird slammed into the helicopter. Tucker saw glass and other debris eject from the impact. The chopper spun around once, twice, and caught itself halfway on the third rotation. Then its nose pointed down and it dropped. He thought he could hear screams as the chopper lost altitude. Just when he knew they would need a spatula to clean up the mess, it leveled off. It looked like a roller coaster as it jumped and dipped. Then it briefly hovered and two figures jumped out.
The chopper lost it at that point. It bit into a boulder and flames shot high into the sky. Tucker stared, mouth wide open. Definitely going to need that spatula after all.
