Chapter 3: Top Secret
Before sitting in the wooden chair, Gurdeaux walked over to the mirror that hung next to the window. Gurdeaux removed his helmet and placed it below on top of a short bookcase. He could see his black eyes standing alone in the pool of white plastic that surrounded them. Seeing his scared face in the reflection started to bring stings of pain. The sergeant raised his left hand to feel the old and new cuts that had come from today. It used to be he could feel any new wound on him, whether visible or meant to be seen later when his clothes had come off. But now, after years of combat and dozens of types of injuries, he didn't notice anything from the slightest to the biggest of wounds. His whole body was practically a teaching tool for wounds. Though obviously not visible at the moment, Gurdeaux knew where his oldest cuts and broken bones lay and where the newest of his flesh wounds clung to his body. His square jaw and short hair made him attractive but his banged up cheeks and scarred plastic flesh made him unappealing.
After examining his face, Gurdeaux sat in a wood chair, finely polished and finished, with his jacket and helmet on his lap. Grooves from bullets and flying debris lay on the green helmet. Gurdeaux felt them through his finger tips. Sudden images of carnage and action now popped into his brain but were sent back into the blackness once he heard more footsteps behind.
The general's office was nice. Two windows on the back and side walls and a few cabinets and bookcases gave a welcoming sense to anyone who managed to come inside. With both windows open, the smell of food could be sniffed. A breeze had started again, brining in the warm aroma and salivating sensation to Gurdeaux's senses. Many pens and papers were neatly organized on the desk. Some read "Overview", "Report" or "Classified". Manila folders piled several inches high topped the cabinets to the wall beside him. Gurdeaux had never set foot in here before, and only once had he set foot inside a General's quarters.
On the desk was a lamp with bright lights and four glasses of water. The lamp, stationed on Gurdeaux's left, shined the room nicely. However, because of its stance, it made the left side of Malist's desk grim. Crystal clear, the glasses looked very elegant. Two sat on one corner while two stood on the other. The water was cold, but had no ice. Vapor was on all of them from top to bottom. Gurdeaux was now becoming hungry.
Toole and Oaken came up from the door and sat to the sides of Gurdeaux. The three operated in a triangle, so whoever had the "fortune" of spending time with them could look straight forward and out the corner of each eye and see one staring back with an intimidating look. It wasn't that the three were mean men, they just acted like jerks. Certain people had to keep order and discipline in the army. Not every commander could be a good-guy or a pleasant fellow all the time.
Confined in his chair, Gurdeaux watched Malist come by his side and go around to his chair. Both colonels undid their uniforms, stretched their legs and reached for glasses of water. Toole looked at Gurdeaux but turned away when he saw Gurdeaux's eyes look back at him. Oaken was nice and offered Gurdeaux a glass near him. Gurdeaux refused, saying he would go to the chow-hall and eat soon anyways.
Malist opened a cabinet in the far back corner. Reaching inside, he pulled out a folder with a picture on the front. Gurdeaux anticipated a briefing, but now he didn't know what to expect. Malist pulled out his chair and sat firm. Scooting in, he planted the folder on his desk. The picture was of Gurdeaux. On it read, "Gurdeaux, Felix A: Sergeant." The letters were bold, black and old. No ink smears or a scratch lay on the folder. Gurdeaux looked up at his boss. Malist looked back, stared down and opened the folder. Malist held it to his face and began reading.
"Sergeant Felix Anthony Gurdeaux. Age, 33, years in service….15." Everyone watched Malist's lips move as each word sprang from his mouth; everyone traveled back in time. "Military Record: Commanded Felix Campaigns in Hork Forest, Dirian Swamp Campaigns, Renabok Tundra Missions and New World Missions. Total allied casualties under command – 8,700,000 troops, total enemy casualties under command – 58,900,000." Gurdeaux was now looking at floor. His shoes still had dirt and grass. He took a deep breath. "That may have to be updated." Malist locked his eyes upon his head and sighed. "Medals earned: Four Green Crosses for bravery on the field, 19 Gold Stars for injuries sustained from a battle, 6 Silver Blades of Merit for bravery, do you still have those knifes?" "Yes sir, I do," Gurdeaux said calmly. "They're at the Soldier's Locker in Fier, waiting for me to pick them and everything else up after my discharge.
In the Green Army, soldiers were given lockers in the Green Nation city. The largest city in the entire nation, Fier contained a series of buildings and underground networks that housed medals, letters and miscellaneous items. Upon returning home, a soldier would stop at the building first and pick up any thing that had been placed in his locker.
After listening to Gurdeaux's reply, Malist closed the folder. A paper stuck out from the abrupt close but Malist did nothing to it. He let it hand outside its protective sleeve and carried on.
The general gently set aside the folder. He glanced at Gurdeaux and the other two before getting up. Toole and Oaken tapped their glasses. A hero was standing next to them, a hero that up until now, they had never really known why.
"Gurdeaux," began Malist, "this war has gone on for too long. You've served with us for too long. And I'm afraid to say, we're going to need you for another long time." "I understand
sir," replied Gurdeaux. "The Tan are mobilizing and seem to be busy 'making' something," said Toole. Gurdeaux shifted in his chair and looked at Toole. "What are they making? A…." "We're not sure," Malist interrupted. Malist had his face looking out the window, feeling the smell of fresh bread and coffee engulfing his old face. "Oaken knows more than I do. Let him speak." "Thank you General," said the colonel.
Oaken got up from his seat and went to Malist's desk. The light from the lamp dimmed out his face, casting shadows upon his face which looked almost monstrous. Oaken yanked out one of the drawers and reached into the compartment. When his hand emerged, it held another manila folder. Opening it in front of his face, Oaken took a glance, eyed Gurdeaux and tossed the folder onto the desk.
The folder opened, revealing its contents. In it were photos, black and white and probably surveillance, of what looked like a factory. Oaken tossed them in front of Gurdeaux. Gently, he examined them with his hands and eyes. Tan soldiers were obviously in every photo but so were some unidentified people. Men with glasses and coats could be seen pointing and testing electronic devices.
"Those Tan menaces are building some new bomb. From the looks of it, it seems to be something electrical rather than nuclear. I doubt they'd be that stupid," Oaken said. Gurdeaux continued through the short pile. Nuclear arms were agreed on to never be used in any situation by all nations, not just the Tan and Green. The No-Nukes Treaty was signed years before the war started.
But just for precaution, the Green army built up a well developed line of nuclear weapons. Bombs, missiles and even vehicle-guided nuclear weapons had been designed, built and stored in Green factories that lined Wasteland. Gurdeaux wasn't supposed to know this, but
he did. If the order was given by their leader, President Orlan, three hundred nuclear missiles, equipped with enough firepower to wipe out the Tan nation ten times, would be launched and take less than two minutes to eliminate any breathing Tan body.
"What will the bomb be used for, sir?" asked Gurdeaux. "It could be something that won't do anymore damage than what they hit us with now, or it could be our biggest nightmare. You're going to find out," answered Toole. Gurdeaux, puzzled by the intelligent brains around him not knowing anything else, knew what was to become of him. "Who am I going with? Or are you sending me by myself?"
Oaken and Malist turned to each other. They uttered to words to each other. Oaken closed the folder and then simply walked back to his seat. "Two squads will accompany you on your new mission. We've selected about 20 men to find out information along with you. They've been divided into 4 fire teams for easier movement. You and your men will meet tomorrow, airlifted and then dropped behind enemy lines into Sector 8." Sector 8 was a house, completely under Tan control. It had been rumored for quite some time that no Green soldier has been able to go inside and come back out alive. Sometimes, if the soldier were of a high status, the Tan positioned inside would send him back to a nearby Green base via a lone medic truck.
Gurdeaux knew this was no ordinary mission. He had never been to Sector 8. Once he helped do an air raid by mounting a bomber's turret. Few depots and soldiers were taken out. The house was no place for any Green soldier. Twenty-one men verse what most estimated to be 20 of all Tan forces in the New World, approximately 400,000, was a sure-to-be lost battle.
Yet Gurdeaux didn't argue. He didn't stand up to his superiors and ask otherwise or demand a change of plans. In his mind, should he die in Sector 8, his image and history would be forever engraved in Green military records. Gurdeaux didn't want glory or a brave death. He was
just looking for a worthy death, one a soldier always deserves. Gurdeaux wanted to die in battle or in a situation that any soldier would never give up in. The sergeant never wished for a futile death such as dying while sleeping at a guard post or as a prisoner of war. Gurdeaux wanted a death where when he finally fell to his final resting position, he could glance above and know he had died fighting for his beliefs, his nation and more important, himself.
"I will perform my duty, sir. Is there anything else you wish to tell me?" "No," replied Malist, "that is all soldier. Go eat." Gurdeaux got up, placed his helmet back on and then put on his jacket. Crumbs of dry dirt fell to the floor as he stuck his arms through the sleeves. With each buttoning of his jacket came tension between the three men. Having a willing volunteer was one thing, but none of them figured Gurdeaux knew what he was getting into.
Malist was now looking through the side window. Toole and Oaken were busy filling their mouths with refreshing water. Not one pair of their selfish eyes was locked on to Gurdeaux.
Gurdeaux held his salute and left the office without uttering another word or looking at any of the two men beside him. He didn't storm out in an angry fashion, nor go proud and nose-high. He walked, back straight, politely out of the office. The door knob didn't open easily at first, squeaking with rust but Gurdeaux continued his courteous exit nonetheless. Gurdeaux, once he closed the door behind him, leaned up against the wood and looked out at the base. Men were running around in formation. Some were bayoneting fake soldiers for drills and most were just hanging around their barracks, probably sharing stories and telling jokes to keep their minds sane.
Gurdeaux was no more relaxed than before, knowing that at every conceivable angle and view, Green soldiers were alive and well. A sense of nostalgia came over him. The picture he
was now examining reminded him of the base in the Grinn Desert, before he was lifted out. Nothing was different except the air.
The sun had set something Gurdeaux always looked forward to watching. Time always seemed to fly with important things. The luminous body's descent below the surface kept Gurdeaux at ease and optimistic. In his heart, he knew that when the glowing structure streamed across the sky, he had survived the night. And when it went down into the blackness, he knew that he had survived yet another day and that time would keep going. Another day would come soon and he would be alive to see it glow with radiance, providing the Tan didn't do something harsh like a midnight bombing on the base.
Nostalgia gone, Gurdeaux walked to the cafeteria. It took him a minute to get to building. Planted near the helipads, many soldiers lingered around for food or entertainment, or to just relax.
As Gurdeaux came closer to the doors, he saw a chopper land. A GMC, a medical helicopter, was being unloaded. Bodies came out. The only ones that were moving were of the crew, not the cargo. First came a body bag, then another, but the third item to come out of the belly of the chopper had white bandages, stained green from blood. He wasn't moving but appeared to be alive.
The crew of two gently pulled his stretcher out and began to carry him across the tarmac. The medical facility, located on the opposite side, seemed empty, at least for now. As the crew carried the wounded soldier to help, his head titled up and began looking up at the sky. Twinkles of little white and pale lights were beginning to emerge. He smiled as his body came past Gurdeaux. Not knowing what to think, Gurdeaux proceeded to the doors.
Gurdeaux grabbed the handle and pulled hard. The inside of the cafeteria was clean, sparkling with clean floors and glistening metal tables. He saw cooks still serving some men who licked their lips with hunger. Haggard and exhausted, Gurdeaux grabbed a red tray, got in line and took anything that caught his eye. Meat, fruits, vegetables and water filled his tray before leaving the line to find a seat. Almost every imaginable color brightened up his tray, making him hungrier by the second.
He didn't want to sit alone. Even after a long day of constant bloodshed and dismembered bodies being blown apart in front of him, he still needed to sit next to a fellow soldier. No words had to be spoken, just acknowledgement of each other's existence. A smile could sometimes be all it took to make a soldier feel welcomed.
Gurdeaux looked over to his right and saw the private insignia on several men's arms. The green sword going the bottom left to the top right of the round patch made them stick out, along with their bright uniforms. Many of the men inside bore the same patch, making the selection small. With no superiors in the room, Gurdeaux decided to join them.
Their bright uniforms looked brand new and unscathed by dirt or even lint. These men were probably fresh recruits and just out of basic training. New and impressionable, he thought that the young boys would like to sit next to a superior. It could brighten their perspective on respect and if lucky, they could hear firsthand account on combat so their worries would drain away, only opening up a window of bright optimism. Gurdeaux casually walked over and sat next to one. Five sat at the table but all stopped eating when he glanced at the bunch.
They saw the symbol on his uniform: a black circle with a golden box with the stitched letter S in the center. They then looked up at his heart to read his name. All it took was the first word to bring about wide eyes. Each soldier became astounded to see this glorious soldier seated
next to them in a professional manor. He didn't demand a salute or clear his throat as to collect a response. All the sergeant did was smile and nod.
After Gurdeaux sat down, things began to get more social. One by one they asked if he was who they thought. Gurdeaux answered bashfully that yes, he was Sgt. Gurdeaux. The privates couldn't believe it and started asking all sorts of questions like where he was born, how many men he had killed and what his favorite drink is. Gurdeaux answered each question with a brief and sweet reply followed with a smile. But when the conversation shifted to serious matters such as what happened today, Gurdeaux didn't limit his boastfulness on what happened to him and his platoon. The men watched in awe as the man they idolized spoke to them.
Gurdeaux's words came out and sank into the men's minds without difficulty. As the men picked up food with their utensils, Gurdeaux told them his accounts of the fight today, the one last week and some from years ago.
When he had finished his meal and his stories, he looked at the clock and realized he had been talking for an hour. He left the men and bid them the best of luck. The sergeant left the men hoping someday he'd see each of the fine boys again when the war was over or during a quiet day.
Gurdeaux ended his night by walking to a barracks for guests named Barracks Z. It was a common standard in Green Military Bases to have guest barracks. He loved sleeping in the barracks because the sounds of soldiers marching and grunts chattering soothed him to a calm sleep, rather than the silence of a quiet room in the staff area. So with a full stomach, he walked past the helipads, down a dirt walkway and wound up at his home for the night.
It was no different than any other barracks in the base. Gurdeaux walked in slowly in case anyone was to be inside. Loud creaks shot up as the door turned on its hinges and let Gurdeaux in.
Inside he found no one sleeping. He could choose any cot he wanted and did so. He tested each one out to find any imperfections. He went down half the hall before stumbling upon what seemed to be the perfect fit. Sitting on the bed, Gurdeaux unlaced his boots and unbuttoned his jacket, placing it over his boots. Taking the pile in both hands, he placed it at the foot of his bed where he knew he'd remember to find it the following morning. Before retracing his steps back to the cot, he took off his helmet and plopped it on top of the pile, where he hoped it would stay throughout the night.
Once done, he fell back first and lied still for a moment on his bed, getting a feel for the pillow and mattress he so desperately needed for tonight. If tomorrow was ordained to be his last day, Gurdeaux wanted a good sleep before. Any soldier would wish the same especially when tomorrow was unknown. Reaching for the blanket, a spotlight beamed through the windows opposite his side of the room. The light gleamed on his body and bed. He now realized the cuts he had sustained from the day all over his hands and wrists. They didn't hurt until he looked at them. Gurdeaux didn't notice them before that moment that he even had them. Tomorrow, he said to himself, he'd go get them disinfected and cleaned.
Lying flat, he covered himself with a blanket and shut his eyes. The view was black, the sounds were loud in the background but Gurdeaux, for once in along while, had a blanket, a pillow and a roof over his head while he slept. He went to another state of mind and smiled on his transition. Not one thing could take this moment away from him. The only time a soldier can
be completely happy is when the enemy is out of sight. Happiness was now all over the sergeant as he started to sleep well and dream about his home.