Defensor Fortis. Defender of the Forces. A fitting motto for the men and women who stood by and guarded the base, and protected the planes. The US Air Force's Sucurity Forces couldn't be said to be a glamorous specialty, and the job they were forced to do often left those wearing the blue beret that was the symbol of their status quite lonely. There is no airman that likes to recieve a ticket or wait in line at a checkpoint, and the other branches always worked to find their little ways to look down on the "Chair Farce." Still, there are those that choose it nonetheless, and to them, that blue beret is a symbol of pride, a symbol of security, and to those who are ostrasized by their peers by the nature of their job, it is a sign of a fellow, one who understands the plight of the military policeman.
Of course, none of the philosophising that tended to go with the long hours sitting in a checkpoint did anything to make the day shorter, or more interesting for Airman First Class Henry "Abrams" Weston. He never did understand how he got that name, but his peers always snickered whenever it was said. Behind his back, people noted that he was akin to a human tank, clocking in at six foot four, and weighing, at their best guess, around two hundred and eighty pounds, without an ounce of fat on him. Weston had just glanced up at the clock when he saw what he had always hoped to not. With twenty minutes left until he was to be relieved, a large white passenger van was pulling up to the gate, driver's face concealed.
This can't be good, he thought, grabbing his carbine and stepping out of the booth. The driver of the van seemed to just now notice Weston, and setting himself in what appeared to be determination, stepped on the throttle in the van. Reacting swiftly and surely, Weston primed his M4 for firing, disengaged the saftey, and raised the rifle at the van rapidly accelerating towards him. Inhale, Exhale. Weston felt as if he was only watching form a distance, and saw as whatever it was that was controlling his body calmly settled into a standing firing position and put two founds of 5.56 NATO into the skull of the van's driver.
The attempted ram through the gate ended as soon as it began. With the van's driver dead, it careened into the small gatehouse where Weston had been sitting not twenty seconds prior. Weston stood in a daze, stunned at how quickly everything had happened.
"What the FUCK are you standing there for?"
The aggrivated shout of his fellow airman, one Miranda Hunt, snapped him out of his stupor. Quickly, he spun around and leveled his weapon at the wreckage, before glancing over at his battle buddy, who had clearly just finished up her restroom break.
"I go to the bathroom for ONE GODDAMN MINUTE and I immideately start hearing gunshots. What actually happened?" She asked, falling in beside Weston.
"Driver saw me, started accelerating. I decelerated him."
"Understatement of the year."
Slowly, the two advanced on the wreck, rifles steady. By now many of the othe on base athourities had begun to show up, most notably an ambulance and a couple of other Blue Berets. Once the two had finished reaching the vehicle, Weston drew a bead on the still bleeding driver of the van. "Check inside, I'll watch him."
Miranda nodded an affirmative, and began to get inside of the van, starting with opening the passenger door and sidling back into the cargo compartment. As the paramedics in the ambulance began approaching the wreck. As they approched, Miranda's form filipped about in the passage to the cargo area to the van, attempting to leap out, yelling all the while.
"FERTILIZER BOMB, HIT THE DE-"
The world went white, and two blue berets, one medic, and the remains of a man with his face still concealed were no more.