"Cataclysm: No Problem"
Years later
November 27th, 2018. 1202 hours. (12:02 pm.)
Cpl. Samantha J. Puckett.
United States Marine Corps MAGTF. 2nd Reconnaissance Battalion. FORECON team "GHOST".
Camp Leatherneck, Helmand province Afghanistan.
Six, seven, eight... eight, dammit. I look around, loading the last round into the magazine. What did I do with them? Did I count them wrong? No, I had ten, So where? I stand up, toss the mag on my rack, moving the blanket and the pillow. They aren't there, dammit again. I get on a knee, looking under the thin mattress and below, nothing. I smack the mattress. I had ten, so wheres the other two? I stand and start looking around the room with no luck.
"I already threw away your porn mags, Corporal." Bruce Holden is on his rack, running a barrel cleaner through his M416.
He's sat with one leg on the bed, resting against the wall, the lower receiver mostly assembled on a towel next to him. He runs it through, looking down the barrel and adding more solution, running it through again.
"You nasty."
"Thank you, Staff Sergeant."
Having recently been busted back down to Corporal hadn't done anything to help the usual jokes. But it was a two-way street.
"Threw them away? Then what did I hear the other night?" I cover my mouth and gasp. "You weren't... you weren't thinking of me were you?" I make a gagging sound and he throws an oily rag at me, laughing sarcastically.
"Please, I only think of you when I see that picture of Kirk's wife. Our little Lance Corporal did well for himself." He assembles the rifle, wiping it down and pulling on the charging handle. "Besides, only John could get away with that shit," he smiles, the cigarette in his mouth moving around.
He knows I'm going to throw something at him. He expects the rag, but that would be obvious. I pull an empty mag off the center table and wing it as his leg. He could move out of the way, but he's too busy staring down into the chamber of his rifle as it smacks into his shin. He howls in pain, jumping off the rack and hopping around and holding his leg.
"OW! The hell was that for?" he all but screams.
"Have you seen two rounds?" I ask him, scattering the various things on the table and moving a chair.
"What kind of rounds?" he asks, having stopped to kneel down and rub his shin.
"Sevens, sub sevens." I look under the maps on the table again.
He stands up, faking a limp as he puts out his cigarette. He plops in a chair by the table and shrugs.
"No, I have not seen your ammo. Or were you talking about your nipples again? Because I think you might have low self-esteem then. Sevens?" he says as he lazily opens one of the scattered magazines.
"If I have sevens that means you have fives. And if I do the math that means I have a better chance than you with that cute chick in supplies back in Lejeune." I smack the back of his head and he lets out an agitated sigh.
"No, I have not seen your ammo. Now don't joke about that. You really think I have a chance with her?"
He stares at me, puppy dog eyes and all.
"Sure, but tell her I said hi. I forgot to call her back last time I was there."
He frowns at me, unsure if I'm serious or not, but neither am I. I like to spend my visits to Camp Lejeune wasted out of my mind or doing PT. For me, it's off the plane, blackout, and wake up on a different plane or ship or whatever need be.
"But in all seriousness, go for it; just stop her if she starts talking about me. That's a whole road you don't want to go down." I sit back on my rack, looking around for a second when I remember.
I dig in my pockets and sure enough, there they are. I roll them around in my hand and Bruce throws his arms up in the air in defeat, the pages of the magazine flapping as it sails through the air as Kirk walks in with two ammo cans. He looks around, confused. He looks to Bruce and blinks a few times.
"She tore the place up looking for ammo, which was in her fucking pockets, and... and she slept with the cute girl in supplies back in Lejeune!" he yells, acting it out and pointing at me as he goes. His tone could be mistaken for that of a small child.
"Did you seriously hit that?" Kirk sets the ammo cans on the table, staring at me.
And I stare back, never breaking eye contact as I load the rounds in the mag and lift my carrier onto the rack, placing the magazine in one of the pouches.
"You are a monster," he says at last.
I smile at him, an evil smile, and I look at Bruce and he realizes what's happening. I point to him and look at Kirk; Bruce frowns at me and shakes his head slowly.
"He wants to bang your wife." Kirk looks at him, his face showing a mixture of shock and acceptance.
"And you are an asshole. But enough of this shit already. We've been called upon to defend the freedom of the greatest nation on earth. To ensure justice reaches the enemies of liberty and..." he looks at us both, rolling his eyes. "We have an assignment. John, and The Captain are waiting in the big tent. Everyone else has already been briefed."
It's a few minutes of bickering and whining as we load magazines, check rifles and sling gear around before we step outside. It's a short walk from the barracks to the Ops center, or the big tent as I have taken to calling it. We passed helicopters spooling up, Marines doing laps or training at the firing range. Men and women tearing apart Humvees or putting them back together. But it was the same everywhere, everyone was staring at us and it was Bruce who gave an explanation.
"It's your bars, Corporal, they don't understand why you aren't a Sergeant anymore." He spins around, smiling again.
"Good one. But I think I might have to reconsider your chances with Chloe," I say casually.
I have no idea if that was her name. I wasn't exactly sober when I saw her. And I only talked to her to try and wing-man for Bruce, but it blanks after that. He practically snarls and turns back around.
"How many NJP's is that? Seven?" he asks.
"Nine," I reply, stepping back as a few men rush past, kicking up dirt and dust, talking about the big one.
"How have you been NJP'd that many times?"
We near the Ops Center and Bruce pulls back a bit when we pass under the tail of an old Venom. It's crew point and laughs as we pass by, just to drop a box of ammo for the door gun.
"The better question, Kirk, is how she and LC Tonto are still in the damn Corps at this point. And who loses two ranks in a bar fights? Should I start calling you Sergeant-Sergeant-Corporal?" I can tell he's smiling again, but the smile most likely fades as he nearly trips over a rock.
"It's not my fault those flyboys can't keep their mouths shut; my only regret is dragging Shilah into it. I'm used to having my pay cut if they still pay me at this point. But John... not so much. I guess Navajo are weird like that."
We pass through the flap that counts as a door and through a maze of tables and displays. Men and women are scurrying about, headphones and chatter their biggest concern. Adjacent to the back is an old table with maps scattered about, plastic markers and little tags are all over. Hunched over it, scribbling on the maps with said shitty markers is John and the Captain. They don't look up as we approach, just keep talking and scribbling.
"Captain Oppenheimer, Sir."
We all salute him, formal and practiced. Like we weren't going to spend the next however long using his rank instead of his name. It's... not a name we'll ever say correctly in his eyes. He stares at us a moment, motioning for us to gear up. I'm ready rather quickly, having a smaller carrier and less gear than the others. Kirk is a close second, being on the small side himself, but Bruce struggles with one of his straps on his thick side.
"Little short notice, ain't it?"
He stares at them and I stare at John, but he doesn't even seem to notice me.
"Yes, Corporal, it is. Tweedledee, help Tweedledum-shit with his gear."
Kirk shoves Bruce's hands away and fiddles with the strap for a moment, both of them standing up straight afterward and tossing the other the looks kids give when they are angry at each other. The Captain shakes his head, disapproving of the team he's stuck with.
"I hope everyone knows the general situation because we're heading into enemy territory." He points at the map on the table. "Here, the city of Farah, it's where Noor was marching his troops before the last storm hit. If we're lucky, we can catch him there and take the bastard out. But only if we get a clean shot, no suicide runs. We'll drop in via Osprey here, on the outskirts. From there each team sets up a blind and posts over-watch and scouts further into the city. If we see Noor, we report in and wait for orders. If not, it's troop movements and numbers. Intel points to civilian recruits and little to no training and shit gear. Just a bunch of angry people shooting things so it should be no problem for us to go undetected. This is a multi-day assignment, so worry about carbs and canteens, not ammo. And make sure your camelbacks are full. If we do get spotted or there's a radio failure... that's where things get dicey.
"No-one was ready for this level of conflict on this timescale, so everyone is scrambling to launch an offensive in the area. QRF and support are a no go, but reinforcements come in the form of an assault force out of FOB Ogden in Bakwa. Parts of the Three Deuce Five tasked to track us down. But even that could take a few days if the weather doesn't hold up." He crosses his arms and sighs. eyes on the map.
"If we're lucky, and when have we ever been, the latest reports from those CIA spooks is that Noor has his hands full with dissension in the ranks; his people are starting to lose faith. So, let's hope the fuckers will be too worried about fighting each other to see us. This is an old-school operation gentleman. The other fire-teams are being led by Poali, Harper, and Pike. Two-Two, Two-Three, and Two-Four. You four are with me. The other Team is being led by Gunnery Sergeant Burns, one-one through one-four are his concern. Understood Two-One? Oorah."
We all nod and repeat his call. It's a lot to take in, but it should be easy. Bruce, Kirk and the Captain move out of the Ops Center, but John doesn't move; he just stares at the map, his brow furrowed in thought.
"Hey man, I'm sorry about the pay thing, but you didn't need to get involved."
His face stays the same but he looks up at me.
"Yes, I did. If I hadn't you'd be in the brig right now. But that's not the issue." He looks at the map again.
"Then what is? It's a simple city op. Lots of hiding places, not a lot of activity. No problem."
He grabs his M4 and starts walking to the flap.
"It just doesn't feel right," he says just before he disappears into the light.
I look at the map again; NATO forces have been smashed, a whole city goes dark and a man has an army on a warpath. And we have no backup.
"What's the worst that could happen?"
Five Days Later
December 2nd, 2018. 1303 hours. (1:03 pm.)
Pfc. Dominic "Rook" Martin.
United States Marine Corps. 3rd Battalion 25th Marines. Callsign "Sinner Two-One"
Forward Operating Base Ogden, Central Bakwa district, Farah province Afghanistan.
I scratch at my scalp, my hair matted down from even a few minutes in the helmet. I sigh contently as the sun shines through the holes of the cover for the briefing center. It was a nice change from the rather cool air of the December day.
This country was always a mix up when it came to terrain and temperatures. Mountains and scorching air here, deserts and frigid winds there. I was simply happy to see the sun after that last storm; the ground had only now started to dry back up. I feel a tap on my shoulder and roll my head over to look at Jeff, his eyes drilling into me.
"Yes, Lance?" I asked him and he just shakes his head at me, scowling.
"Pay attention," he practically growls at me.
"To what? The briefing hasn't even started yet."
We were the last group to be briefed on the mission. The other squads had already begun preparing for an assault: checking weapons, loading ammo and kicking tires. The thin cover did little to stop the cacophony outside. People shouting to one another, helo's spooling up and the sound of tanks as they rolled by.
"Besides, we already know what we're doing," I say.
Jeff looks upfront, to the board and back to me. "No, we don't. Look at the board."
I stick my head up, trying to see the board over the head of brown hair in front of me. For a driver, the woman in front of me was a little on the tall side. I'm not sure what she drives, but I know she drives it well from the way her gunner spoke. She was a little preoccupied with tapping out a beat on her thigh when I felt a hand land on my shoulder.
I saw one on Jeff's as well and we turned around to see Parker, our fireteam's machine gunner. He pulls his arms back and scratches one of the big scars running from his temple to his chin. He never talked about them, but I knew that he got them from an I.E.D on his first tour.
"Calm down children, we don't want Papa to be angry, do we?" His German ancestry could be obvious at times, his speech and looks made him a little bit on the scary side.
But nowhere close to the unbridled fear that came from the stories he told about our Sergeant.
At first, Jeff and I just thought he was being an asshole, but when the whole squad told us about it at various point, it got a little unnerving. The stories were always different, but about the same stuff. And none of us ever tried asking him about it for rather obvious reasons.
I shifted in the fold out chair and looked around for him, but no sign. He must be getting a specific briefing with the other Sergeants and CO's.
"I think Donaldson here might be correct. The rest of the Battalion had a mass briefing, but our platoon is given a second briefing with armor crews? Sounds fishy to me. Maybe we made the Sergeant angry. Or maybe it was you, Martin." He smiles and leans back.
But they were right about the briefing. I almost jumped when I felt a tap on my gear and saw that the head of hair in front of me had spontaneously grown a face, and she was pretty. She looked at the three of us before locking her big green eyes on me.
"I don't think that would be very good, Martin. I heard your Sergeant beat up a guy in boot camp for interrupting a phone call." She smiled with a big mouth of pearly, although slightly crooked, white teeth.
The kind of smile a kid gives when they feel they just did the greatest thing ever. I look her over, her tag reading Sgt. Simone. Parker just laughed.
"Beat him? He nearly killed the guy then talked him into letting it go."
Simone nods her head, agreeing with him.
"And didn't he stab someone with a fork? Or was a bottle in a bar fight?" She still has that smile and Parker just laughs and points to her.
"Yes, yes. There was that too, the fork. And he had twenty-two confirmed on his first tour."
She gasped, rather poorly, and looked at me again.
"Wow, it's like you pissed off a monster. How are you going to get out of this one, Private? You sure you know how to handle a gun?" She laughed and turned around when the man next to her nudged her in the ribs.
"Stop flirting with the help, Cass," said the man
She straightened a little bit.
"Yes Gunny." she sounded dejected.
Flirting? That wasn't flirting, was it?
"And get your men to calm down Sergeant," said the Gunnery Sergeant.
I never heard him come up and sit next to me. I quickly turned to him and started stammering. He shook his head in a way that screamed for me to shut up.
"Only if you promote Simone here, I don't want a stripper covering my ass."
The Gunny laughed and someone else tried to speak up, the gunner I would presume, but no-one spoke. They all turned to the board and watched intently.
A man walked in, taking me a moment to see that it was actually the Colonel himself.
"Fun is over boys, time for business," Parker said.
Colonel Hiker turned to the smart board, flipping through files before he settled on a series of satellite images.
"At ease. By now I'm sure that even the dumbest of you here figured out that some pretty big stuff is going down," he says as he points to the board and pulls up a picture of the province. "NATO coalition forces are getting hammered along the Afghan/Iranian border by the soldiers of the ever elusive pain in the ass, Abu Noor. But all of you should know this because it's why you're in the country in the first place.
"He is giving us a run for our money, something he shouldn't be able to do. His forces have stormed through entire districts along the border and are wreaking havoc on the good guys, but you knew that. The Germans and the French are rallying and flying in reinforcements from Iran to help them take back the rest of the Anar Dara district; pretty heavy fighting. The Brits and our friends in the Army are holding the line in the districts of Pusht Rod and Khaki Safed. The Coalition is going to regroup and break through from the back.
"After that, they are moving south and linking up with some of our Army armor divisions and together with our assault on the city of Farah, we are going to trap the bastard in the city or make him flee the province. Either one is good, but that isn't what you are here for." He flips through the pictures and settles on a thermal image of the city and a satellite view side-by-side.
"The rest of the Battalion is going to push in from the north and fight its way through the city from the MSR. The assault force is the rest of your Battalion, as well as the rest of the 25th, accompanied by Abrams from the 2nd tank as well as artillery from the Five And Dime. They have close air support coming from AH-1Z's and A-10's, so watch your heads out there, lots of hot lead gonna be coming down." He takes a breath and looks at the screen.
He switches through a few photos of where the artillery placement is outside the city before a series of faces pop up on the screen; each one was a Recon Marine. I could hear Sarge curse under his breath as a woman flashed up and settled in the corner of the screen.
It was rare for women to make it through Recon training, and even more rare to be on assignments. I always thought the whole deal was an equal opportunity press deal; no real intent of action.
"Shit, this can't be good," Jeff whispered in my ear and went back to staring at the board.
"But you can almost think of the entire assault as a diversionary force. The reason you are here and not already saddling up is what's on the board now. A week ago Noor took the city of Farah, but you knew that. What you don't know is five days ago the powers at be decided to launch a deep behind the lines recon mission. They dropped in, set up then went dark. The last thing we heard from them was a bunch of garbled fucking static. They are why you are here, they are your objective.
"It's been five days since we've had contact, but thermal imaging shows fighting as late as the day before yesterday. Now, I don't need to explain why we think these guys are still alive, it ain't that hard to understand. These are some tough bastards and they may have critical information on the situation there and let's face it, we need some help here. Staff Sergeant Bark is leading you into the area south of the MSR," he continues to flip through maps and satellite images. "Our hope is that with an assault going on the bulk of Noor's forces will be preoccupied and that should give you a clean shot to rally point Alpha. Once in the city, you will try to contact the FORECON team. Upon contact, you will rendezvous and head to the East end of the city. There you will pop smoke for the Venom's standing by before joining the main force. You will sweep and clear, looking for anything to suggest that they are still alive all the way until rally point Charlie. If you get that far and don't find anything you will radio for orders and be reassigned to the assault force. Let us hope it doesn't come to that.
"I understand, sending two squads on a mission like this doesn't seem very appropriate, so you will have two LAV's in support if things get hairy. And if push comes to shove I'll do what I can to get some of the M-trip-sevens pulled to you for fire missions, but the assault must succeed so don't hold your breath. Squad leaders will give you everything else you need to know. Let's bring our guys home, Oorah?" He shuts down the board and marches out of the tent.
Staff Sergeant Bark is the first to stand up. He waves a clipboard around and starts shouting.
"Richards, you're with me in the LAV's, O'Brady, you and yours take the Humvees. I want the LAV's in front and back, Humvees in the middle. Let's go get those guys and go home, I don't want to miss my soaps."
Everyone starts moving out of the tent. I grab my helmet and rifle, jogging out into the sunlight as a pair of helo's pass overhead. Sergeant O'Brady shoves past me, turning to look at me and smile.
"Martin," Sarge calls out. "You, Parker, and Donaldson are with me in the second Humvee, I'll be acting as your fire team leader. Is that understood?"
I can't help but nod sheepishly as Jeff and Parker march past. I look around at the world for a moment. Is this shit really about to happen? A major assault on a hostile held city? It's like something out of a movie.
I don't have long with my thoughts when one of the LAV's pulls up, Simone is sticking her head out the driver hatch and smiling at me again.
"Do you know how to work that thing?" I ask, partly serious.
She just sticks her tongue out and music begins blaring out of the vehicle. The heavy guitars and fast drums one would find in an album from the eighties.
"Sorry, I can't hear you over how awesome this is. Painkiller, bitch."
The engine revs and the armored vehicle pulls away. I feel a shiver down my spine when a gust of wind blows through, carrying dust and the smell of exhaust.
"ROOK! Get the stardust out of your eyes."
I fumble with my rifle and helmet for a moment, jogging to the Humvee. Everyone else is inside when I climb in behind the driver's seat, closing the heavy door.
"Let's go save these poor bastards."
December 2nd, 2018. 1511 hours. (3:11 pm.)
Pfc. Dominic "Rook" Martin.
United States Marine Corps. 3rd Battalion 25th Marines. Callsign "Sinner Two-One"
Inside city outskirts, Farah, Farah province Afghanistan.
"Talk about a ghost town. This place is empty." Jeff squirms around in his seat, trying to get a better view from his window.
"Yeah, how do you make an entire city go quiet?" I echoed Jeff's sentiments; nothing about this felt right. "Hey Sarge, are we ahead of schedule? I thought we had a whole assault to draw fire?"
It had been bothering me, where was the assault? Where was our cover? Sarge turns around in his seat just to turn back and check the small monitor next to him.
"Hey Staff, got anything on the comms? Seems pretty dead from out here."
The radio clicks and Bark's voice filters through.
"Keep your panties on Two-One. Command, what's the news on the assault? It's getting pretty quiet here." He barely finishes the sentence when a series of Tank shots can be heard in the distance.
The repeated thumps from the LAV's and the pops of automatic rifles all give the air a certain heavy feel.
"Uh... disregard last. Alright, you boys know the drill, change channels and start scanning. O'Brady, keep shortwave with Honeypot."
Sarge flips channels and tests the radio. "Honeypot, this Sinner Two-One, got anything up front?"
There's a little static and the Gunny from before responds. "Uh... thermal is showing flashes in some of the windows. Could be yokels or all those guys that want to shoot us in the face. I'll let you know if I hear rounds pinging off the hull. And can you get this guy off our ass? Simone is about start break checking and I'm worried about his insurance."
Sarge smiles for a moment. It was odd to me how he could be so calm at a time like this.
"Copy that Gunny. You heard the man, possible contact, standard ROE. Get those guns ready and scan rooftops and windows." He motions to Jeff. "Get on the fifty and keep your eyes open."
It's a clatter of gear as Jeff climbs to the turret. I see the same from the Humvee in front of us. A Marine popping up and cocking the turret.
"And Griff, I hear you are being-"
A shot rings through the air and the guy on the turret falls back, limp against the rim of the hatch before they pull him inside. Then another shot, and another. It's only a moment till the air is filled with automatic fire.
Men are screaming and trying to call orders but the gunfire rises over all. A round slams into the ballistic glass not three inches from my head and someone screams sniper and Jeff lets loose with the fifty. Men in robes and old Kevlar vests are filling windows and rooftops, raining lead with the guns from a dozen different nations.
Old surplus and captured weapons bark and flash as they shoot fury at the vehicles. The rounds bounce off the armor with resounding pings and Jeff fires back; bursts of machine gun fire make up the whole world till I see it. I try to call it out but my voice stops in my throat and I can't do anything besides cower and put my head between my knees.
I can hear the LAV's firing off their cannons, repeated thuds, and more screaming mix in with everything else.
"LEFT SIDE, LEFT SIDE, RPG, LEFT SIDE!"
I can hear Sarge curse and grunt as rounds smack into the windshield, but it's his words that scare me the most; till I hear the rocket fire and a small explosion. The Humvee stops and the sound of bullets smacking into the armor gets louder.
"GUNNY, ARE YOU OPERATIONAL?" Sarge calls out.
There isn't a reply for a few moments and I lift my head just in time to see another RPG slam into the lead Humvee, the front of the vehicle bursts into flames and it slams into the LAV. It's a few moment before the fuel takes hold and the whole thing goes up in flames.
"GUNNY!" he shouts
There's coughing and groaning on the other side. More white streaks fly overhead and explode behind us.
"Shit, the guns down and we've lost control of the co-ax! Cass, get this fucking thing moving."
The LAV groans as the engine lets out a cloud of black smoke and rumbles back to life and takes off. Parker hits the gas and pulls around the ball of flame that was once a Humvee. I can hear them screaming inside till Sarge yells.
"GET OFF THE SIDE ROADS, RPG ON THE LEF- ANOTHER ON THE RIGHT. ROOK, SHUT THE FUCK UP!"
And it dawns on me. the dead are silent, I'm the one screaming.
