The call came in about two in the morning. The big black phone on the southern inside wall of the bunker jingle-jangled its tired, plastic self nearly off the hook until some poor schmuck finally picked it up. That poor schmuck happened to be Private Lewis, who got an earful of heavy-handed insults and berating insinuations of his exact position in life until he wised up. He leaned over further into the pre-fabricated structure and shook his unit commander awake.
Corporal Rykerds, the wolf from Bartlesborough, way out in the middle of Federal Corneria, cursed under his breath and tucked himself deeper into his threadbare blankets. Private Lewis whined and begged him to wake up.
Rykerds finally got up, but promised to kick Lewis' ass later that day. Further, it wasn't a threat, but a true guarantee. He took the phone.
It was Lieutenant Colonel Meyers, screaming at him from all the way over in Nine Corps headquarters. The distance was incredible-nine corps HQ was four hours behind them and constantly got sunshine instead of the ever-present trade-winds borne rain that was now splattering all over Ulence island. Corporal Rykerds sighed and gathered that someone special was coming to inspect their unit and make a long-term visit.
He sighed, pinched the bridge of his snout. He was further explained to how Ulence was smack in the middle of nowhere, and that Rykerds and the twenty-five or so grunts under his personal command made an ample enough security force.
Meyers then ended the call with a slightly mumbled promise that a good performance this time might just get that incident on Katina swept under the rug, finally. The line disconnected, and all Rykerds heard then was the Cornerian Interplanetary Armed Forces Commsnet recorded advice for the day: Optimism solves more problems than worry.
He hung up the phone and lit up a cigarette. He knew that, two months ago, he'd have gotten his head blown off. Now it didn't matter. Nothing mattered, maybe. He hadn't eaten a real meal in more than a month, and he didn't fit the brown, brush-stroke camo uniform of his very well anymore.
He barked at Lewis to wake the hell up and get back to work. Christ, but Lewis was a sloppy little good-for-nothing. He mockingly called him Einstein when the private from Johannesburg, in Imperial Corneria, got his boots retied quickly. Rykerds gave him his own boot, except into the small of his back. Lewis the bear stumbled back out onto the surface of the island, the gear jangling off his Y-straps and sounding like a hardware store.
Rykerds sat back down on his cot and prayed to whoever was listening not to let him screw this one up.
Lewis cried out and accidentally fell down in the surf.