The mangrove forest was dying. It was nothing new, forests all over the world had already died out, but this one was taking a bit longer than the others. Countless industrial spills had seeped into the water table and now the slim bark of the ancient trees played host to a cornucopia of industrial solvents that ate away at it's leaves and branches. And beneath the yellowing canopy, a small squad of First Reconnaissance Battalion Marines trudged through the undergrowth, cursing their assignment and wishing the Corps issued more powerful bug spray. At the head of the column walked Private First Class Jake Sully, who, despite the bugs, was actually enjoying the morning exercise.
Still, something was very wrong here, and he couldn't put his finger on it. It was a weird feeling, and he thought that the rest of the squad knew it too, because none of them were talking, just eyeing the forest on either side of them with deep suspicion. Then, he realized what it was.
The birdsong had stopped.
"Hey, does it seem qu-"
Jake never got to finish his sentence as a hidden machine gunner at the far end of the trail opened up with a teeth-shaking chatter.
"AMBUSH!" Someone screamed, and they all dove off the beaten path into the scrub and tree roots.
High caliber bullets whizzed around them, tearing neat holes through the weakened tree trunks. A couple dozen men appeared out of the forest and started firing at them with rifles. The marines retreated a few yards and regrouped behind a stand of large trees that sheltered them from the hail of bullets. Jake saw Tipsy, their resident medic get a round just under the chin. The back of his neck exploded and he ceased to move. They returned fire franticly, shooting at anything that moved, but it was like trying to catch smoke, one second they were there, the next second they weren't.
The sergeant poked his head up to survey the scene and received a bullet in the eye for his troubles. A few Marines pulled him back into the undergrowth and tried to start CPR, but abandoned it after only a few seconds. Jake switched his rifle onto full auto and burned through the rest of his magazine. If there was one thing 1st Recon had plenty of, it was ammo. The rest of the squad soon followed suit and bullets began to find their mark. Jakes saw a tan skinned Mestizo boy flinch and drop his rifle as a round passed through his shoulder.
The firefight only lasted a few minutes, but to Jake, they were hours, each second a canyon of time, in which his only hope was to keep firing and survive. Panic jabbed a warm spike into his stomach. What if they had reinforcements? What if they died here, and the only thing that was left was his dog tags and bits of skeleton?
His attention was drawn elsewhere when a large orange blob made it's way across his field of vision. It was a clunky device, with a wide nozzle, attached to a backpack.
"Bushboss! Ten'o'clock!" He yelled to the other Marines.
"Focus your fire on the flamethrower!"
How the Venezuelans had acquired the stocky defoliant projector, Jake would never find out. The man fell in a hail of bullets, one of which pierced the tank on his back. A roiling fireball climbed into the canopy, setting everything in reach ablaze. The winds whipped the fire into a frenzy and it began to spread rapidly. The enemy fighters, flushed out by the smoke and heat, rushed the marines position.
They were young, some of them no older than sixteen, dressed in ragged camouflage and soccer jerseys, hefting rifles that were decades outdated. Not a single one of them made it across the open stretch of ground. Jake would look back on that day and remember, for the rest of his life, the look of absolute terror on their faces as they ran from the flames and into the muzzle bursts of the marine squad. Most of them died instantly, shredded by the sheer volume of caseless ammunition. Others fell over into the dirt and convulsed. Some unlucky ones fell into the path of the advancing flame and their screams etched themselves onto the inside of Jake's ear.
Finally, the shooting stopped. In the clearing before them lay over thirty enemy dead. Jake wiped his face with a fold of his shirt and shivered, despite the heat coming off of the fire. A sandy haired corporal stood up and assumed command.
"Check your ammo and clear you sights. I need a couple guys on stretcher detail, two KIA's, we're not leaving them here. Haverson, get on your radio, we need a CASEVAC bird down here quick."
The two dead were put on stretchers and blankets were draped over them. The radio man extended his high gain antenna and broadcast on open channel.
"Overwatch, this is Hammer 2-2. Minor engagement, two dead, multiple enemy KIA, over."
A long pause followed and then the response crackled over the airwaves.
"Roger 2-2, stay put, we can see your transponder beacons now, over."
Haverson looked across the clearing at the inferno, which was starting to send off little tendrils of flame to surrounding trees.
"Copy that Overwatch, be advised, if this fire gets any worse we're going to have to re-locate, the smoke is obscuring the landing area, over."
"We hear you 2-2, just find an open area and radio us when you're ready. Overwatch out."
Haverson stowed the antenna and turned to Sully.
"Christ, that was something. Didja see me nail that flamethrower?"
"Bullshit, that was me, I saw my tracers!" Another private piped up
Over the sound of the crackling fire, Jake could hear a series of soft thumps, coming from a distance. He blinked once and listened more intently. They continued, like someone punching a pillow, and realization set in.
"Artillery." he mumbled
"No, uh-uh, you were over on my far left anyway, you couldn't even see him."
"Artillery." Jake said, a little louder.
Haverson broke off his spirited debate and looked at Sully.
"What?"
"We're about to be shelled."
There was a moment of silence, and then the sandy haired corporal nodded, a stunned look on his face.
"I can hear them too. Get up, everybody. GET UP! GET UP GO, GET MOVING!"
The first explosion was some distance off. Without a spotter, the battery was just testing ranges. Then another, closer this time, and another, and another, and another. The creeping barrage swept towards them like an invisible giant pounding over the forest. Dirt and vegetation was thrown in their faces as they sprinted to get out of the killzone. Haverson was screaming something into his radio, but Jake couldn't hear what over the sound of the shells and the frantic thumping of his own heart.
Then it all went black.
After that, he only remembered bits and pieces.
The squad, picking themselves up off of the ground.
Another corpsman, who's name escaped him, lifting him onto a stretcher. "You're going to be fine, just look at me, keep your eyes open now."
A VTOL dropship ramp crashing down onto the forest floor.
The next time he regained consciousness, it was in a hospital room. He smelled it first. Like harsh soap and bleach. He hated that smell. When he opened his eyes the brightness almost blinded him. Everything was a sterilized white, and he was lying in a bunk.
It took him a few minutes to realize he couldn't feel his legs. It was like they weren't there. He ripped the covers off. No, they were still very much there, but he couldn't feel them. Not a bit. The door to the room opened and an older doctor stepped in.
"Ah, you're awake."
Without another word he began to fuss with the IV bags attached to Jake's arm.
"What happened? Why can't I feel my legs?"
The doctor stopped his work and examined his chart.
"Rightman, Ronski, Sachs, Sully, here we are. Lets see... Shrapnel wound to the lower back, paralysis of both legs."
"What?"
Jake grabbed the clipboard out of the doctors hands and read it for himself.
"Can you fix me?" He asked desperately.
The old man beamed.
"We sure can! It was a clean break, nothing a spinal can't fix. In fact, we can do it right here. You'll just pop down to surgery and be trotting around before dinner tomorrow."
Some measure of relief settled into Jake's stomach. As long as they could fix it.
"Where is here anyway?"
"The USNS Deliverance. Hospital ship. Nothing but smooth sailing from here on out kid, a spinal is a ticket home." The doctor mused.
And with a final adjustment of the EKG monitors, he left, the door closing gently behind him.
"I'm sorry Mr. Sully, but a spinal reconstruction is an expensive procedure, and I don't think we can approve you for a loan with this kind of credit."
Jake gritted his teeth in frustration. The wheelchair was incredibly ungainly for the first few weeks, but you go used to it after a while. I shouldn't have to get used to it, he chided himself, I should already have my legs back. One bank after another had turned him down, always as politely as possible. How did these assholes sleep at night? This wasn't a new car, or a second house, it was a pair of fucking legs!
"If you give me the money, I can work it off, I guarantee you. I'll find work, I'll go back into the army, I'll do whatever, I just need my legs back."
The portly man sighed and adjusted his tie.
"I really want to help you out Jake, but you have to give me more collateral than an apartment and a few hundred bucks. You have to see it from the bank's perspective; we have a lot of investments going under these days, the depression is hitting everybody hard. We just can't afford to give out high risk loans like this, It's just corporate policy."
Jake slumped back into the chair. He was done. Done with this whole process. Done with listening to fat men in suits tell him to fuck off. The banker stood up and offered him his hand.
"I'm sorry it didn't work out."
He ignored the outstretched hand and clambered back into his wheelchair.
"Save your breath."
Jake rolled silently across the bank lobby and out onto the street. He had a few quarters left in his pocket, just enough to find a payphone and call his brother. Last he heard he was about to leave on some expedition or something. Maybe he could borrow some money from him.
[Okay, stop. Did you remember to review? No? Green button on the bottom there. Much appreciated.]