Delta Three Six Alpha
I - Hunting
“Tango whiskey delta five zero, this is tango whiskey delta three six alpha. Message, over.”
There was some white noise over the radio. Seven men lay in the dirt amongst the trees, their disruptive camouflage clothing and deliberately dirty faces concealing them in the night’s dark, mysterious visage.
More white noise.
“Tango whiskey delta three six alpha, this is tango whiskey delta five zero. Wait, out.”
“Fuck.” I swore, eyes on the target ahead. A 25 meter squared clearing, enemy personnel swarming all over it. If we were spotted, we’d be slaughtered. We didn’t have time to waste for base to finish fucking around with whatever they were doing; or at least, that’s what I thought.
“Tango whiskey delta five zero, this is tango whiskey delta three six alpha. Priority urgent. Message, over.”
A long period of white noise followed. A twinge of guilt burned my insides. These people, my comrades, lying in the dirt next to me. They had families, mothers and fathers. Some of them wives, girlfriends or children. I made a split-second decision - if control didn’t get back to us within the next thirty seconds, we were going to pull out. I would not be responsible for leading six men to their deaths, waiting for authorisation to open fire.
Brush - or Private Klar, as he was known formally - shivered slightly in front of me. Poor guy. He was only sixteen, fallen victim to the consistent glamorisation of the service by the media. He was a very, very intelligent man. Such a waste of talent. The army was for people like me - people who were neither skilled nor intelligent enough to make a living any other way, but with enough presence of mind to obey orders and shoot a gun accurately.
Movement. An enemy patrol, passing not five yards away from where Brush, me and the others were lying. We all knew that the slightest movement, and we were dead. The patrol stopped - and so did my heart. I didn’t even breathe.
He looked down for what seemed like forever. Looked directly at me. For that instant, I was convinced we were going to die in one blaze of gunfire from the M240 he was holding. I cursed myself for not aborting the mission when Control had told us to wait. I had led us all to our deaths.
And then… He shook his head, and started moving.
YES!
A metaphorical sigh of relief went around those of us lying in the dirt. We were going to get away with it, after all.
“Tango whiskey delta three six alpha, this is”
NO
“Tango whiskey delta five zero.”
The patrol had not yet passed completely. And at hearing the buzz of the radio I was wearing around my neck, his head shot around.
There was only one thing we could do now.
“WE’RE SPOTTED!” I roared. “GO LOUD, TAKE THEM OUT!”
There was some white noise over the radio. Seven men lay in the dirt amongst the trees, their disruptive camouflage clothing and deliberately dirty faces concealing them in the night’s dark, mysterious visage.
More white noise.
“Tango whiskey delta three six alpha, this is tango whiskey delta five zero. Wait, out.”
“Fuck.” I swore, eyes on the target ahead. A 25 meter squared clearing, enemy personnel swarming all over it. If we were spotted, we’d be slaughtered. We didn’t have time to waste for base to finish fucking around with whatever they were doing; or at least, that’s what I thought.
“Tango whiskey delta five zero, this is tango whiskey delta three six alpha. Priority urgent. Message, over.”
A long period of white noise followed. A twinge of guilt burned my insides. These people, my comrades, lying in the dirt next to me. They had families, mothers and fathers. Some of them wives, girlfriends or children. I made a split-second decision - if control didn’t get back to us within the next thirty seconds, we were going to pull out. I would not be responsible for leading six men to their deaths, waiting for authorisation to open fire.
Brush - or Private Klar, as he was known formally - shivered slightly in front of me. Poor guy. He was only sixteen, fallen victim to the consistent glamorisation of the service by the media. He was a very, very intelligent man. Such a waste of talent. The army was for people like me - people who were neither skilled nor intelligent enough to make a living any other way, but with enough presence of mind to obey orders and shoot a gun accurately.
Movement. An enemy patrol, passing not five yards away from where Brush, me and the others were lying. We all knew that the slightest movement, and we were dead. The patrol stopped - and so did my heart. I didn’t even breathe.
He looked down for what seemed like forever. Looked directly at me. For that instant, I was convinced we were going to die in one blaze of gunfire from the M240 he was holding. I cursed myself for not aborting the mission when Control had told us to wait. I had led us all to our deaths.
And then… He shook his head, and started moving.
YES!
A metaphorical sigh of relief went around those of us lying in the dirt. We were going to get away with it, after all.
“Tango whiskey delta three six alpha, this is”
NO
“Tango whiskey delta five zero.”
The patrol had not yet passed completely. And at hearing the buzz of the radio I was wearing around my neck, his head shot around.
There was only one thing we could do now.
“WE’RE SPOTTED!” I roared. “GO LOUD, TAKE THEM OUT!”
♠ ♠ ♠
I can't write. I really, really can't. But here goes. Haha.