Title: We Stand Alone Together
Summery: Voldemort's followers were not bound only to England. While the events of Deathly Hallows were taking place, thousands upon thousands of his Death Eaters and magical followers were beginning their world-wide conquest of the globe. Eventually, their lightening war spread to a very important province of the Middle East, where the only thing standing in their way were two hundred soldiers, determined not to give up until the last man was down.
Rated: T/M for language and heavy war scenes/violence.
Brought to you by: Wesker888, the author behind such works as Just One Dance, For You I Will, and Crawling Under The Surface.
Disclaimer: I own only the characters and the plot. Nothing more, nothing less.
Author's Notes: Finally picking up from the cliffhanger. Another long wait. School and stuff, y'know? Plus, this was kind of a stressful semester for me, with school and friend-related stuff. But anyway, here we go:
On the Road Again
It started low at first, the rumbling in the ground. If one was not paying attention to the slight vibrations they would miss it entirely, but the closer it got the more apparent it was. Men stopped their night time routines when they felt it and stood to look in the direction it was apparently coming from.
Captain Wallace and his lieutenants looked up from the map they had been pouring over when they felt the vibrations in the ground. The captain stuck his head out of the tent, frowning. What was that?
Danny had finally been going to sleep when he the rumblings snapped him out of his drowsiness. Beside him, Marek and Matthews had risen as well, both having reached for their weapons.
All around them, some soldiers were just waking up to the noise. Those who were already awake already had their weapons ready. Wallace stepped to the front of the group, hand at his side to reach for his pistol.
"Who's on guard right now?" he asked.
"Weaver and Murphy, sir," answered Lieutenant Hunter.
"Pull them back. Get them back here ASAP."
Hunter did not even have to move before they heard a shout and then a scream and then they heard an M-4 being fired in an automatic burst. Seconds later, Murphy and Private First Class Joshua Weaver barreled towards the camp, clutching their weapons close to them, their faces wild with fright. Weaver tripped over his feet and rolled to the end of the dune and was helped back up by two other soldiers. Murphy ran to the captain, eyes wide as dinner plates.
"S-s-s-sir," he stuttered. Wallace had never seen him shake so hard. "T-t-t-t-there a-a-are t-t-t-t-t-"
"Out with it lad, what is it?"
"C-c-c-coming t-this w-w-way, m-m-mu-hltiple t-t-t-t-t-"
"Multiple what, Murphy? Multiple what?"
"T-t-t...t-t-t-t..."
He did not finish, but as it turned out he did not need to, for Sully, having moved to the top of the dune to get a better look, finished it for him.
"Tangos inbound! Multiple hostiles! Everyone take cover!"
"Take cover!" Wallace called out as his men immediately dashed for some viable cover. On the dune, Sully had popped off a few rounds from his machine-gun, aiming, not firing off wildly, taking his time, before turning around and following the rest of them.
The rumblings in the ground were producing more noticeable vibrations. Scott gripped his M-4 and peered through his holographic sights. It did not feel like it had not a week ago; the ground had not shook on their last encounter. And he knew it was not rebels. So what was causing this?
A moment later, he found out.
With a kick of sand and a whirlwind of dust, a battalion of cavalry, men riding horses, clutching spears, and firing arrows from bows, rode over the dunes at full speed. The spectacle, which should have been humorous given the sheer fact that it was men on horses attacking them, was instead causing further panic as the men opened fire on them. They were a blur, so it was hard to see the men riding them, but he did not get the chance as an arrow shot past his head and he ducked his head behind his dune.
Chaos erupted as men ran and shot and ran and shot and did everything they could to avoid the hail of sharp objects being flung their way. Sully was firing his M-60 without respite, not taking cover, keeping aware but not daring to stop unless reloading for fear of letting his mates down. Finn fired from a concealed position, with Owen providing him some support and helping him reload when needed. Grimes and the platoon sergeants were shouting orders, trying to keep things together, but not having success as their men ran about the camp, and a wild game of Cowboys and Indians broke out.
Danny fired off a burst and then rolled out of the way as one of the horsemen almost ran over him. He leapt to his feet, fired off another burst, and ducked as one brought a spear right over his head. He was in the zone here, a complete machine, moving and ducking and shooting, just the way he had been taught. Despite his ankle still not fully recovered from the base assault, he was staying a moving target, and a deadly one; he was not going to give them a chance to kill him, and if they did get lucky, he would take as many of them with him as he possibly could.
He reloaded as quickly as possible, ejecting the spent clip and stuffing in a new one, and then felt himself back into a brick wall hard enough that he tumbled over. He rolled and aimed up at to find Marek, who fired his M-4 at a passing horseman, then looked down at him, grinning and extending a hand.
"Not doing much, laying on your back there, lad," he said, helping the Scotsman up.
"Neither does your sister," Danny replied jokingly with a grin. "I've hit at least three so far, what's your number?"
"Why, making a competition?"
"Don't think you can keep up?"
"Father says I can handle anything you can throw at me, Scots Boy. First to ten wins."
"You're on."
The two turned and immediately began firing at whatever creature they could find. It became a game then, what often happened when two young men were thrown into something like war. They yelled and hollered playfully as they fired at the assailants, which moved so fast that they barely hit anything, but at least they were doing something, were moving out and about and among the chaos, and at least they were having fun with it.
The horsemen rode in perfect fluid style. The rider and the stead were both in perfect sync with each other; at no point was a rider ever almost thrown off, or the horse disobedient to the owner's command. It was almost as if they shared a mind, horse and rider, although it was hard to tell for sure; they moved so fast, it was hard to get an accurate reading on their attack order.
All over the compound there were soldiers engaging in the horsemen, whether with rifles, sidearms, or even in hand-to-hand. Two soldiers had gotten a hold of a horseman; one had jumped onto the horse's back, taken out his combat knife, and stabbed the rider in the back, then reached around the man's neck and slit his throat. Another had taken his injured friend's M-4 and along with his own M-4 was dual firing them at any horse rider he saw. There were no rules in this battle; it was the pure wild west, anything went as long as one side won.
Morrison had emptied his clip and instead of reloading had pulled out his club and waited for the perfect opportunity. When one of the horsemen came close to him, he swung and his club slammed into one of the horse legs, shattering the kneecap and causing the horse and the rider to go flying head first into the sand. He brought his club up to bring it down on its ribs when he heard movement directly behind him.
He turned at the last second as a rider's horse had leaned onto its high legs and delivered a kick to his side, right in the top rib. He felt a sharp pain and a loss of air for a moment- the kick had probably cracked the rib- and fell onto his back. He looked up as the horse rider loomed over him, the front legs again poised to strike-
From behind, Will lightening-fast pulled out his USP and pumped five quick rounds into the rider's back. Both him and his horse fell to the side, both seemingly dead. The Irishman ran over, grabbed his friend, and helped him over to safety.
That safety was the medical tent, the only area not under direct fire. Doc and Sykes were still inside, the former doing his best to keep the other man in his bed.
"Let me go! I wanna fight!" Sykes was yelling.
"With a broken leg? You daft loony, lay down!" the medic forced the wounded radioman back onto the cot.
From their perch, Weber and Riley had the perfect vantage point to snipe the riders. They were the two that did the most damage that night; taking aim, being patient instead of impulsive, taking their shots whenever they were presented. While they did not hit many, every shot they made counted towards a kill for their side.
Slowly but surely, the surviving members of the task force managed to push the horsemen back, drive them away. The rumbling sound of their hooves soon faded off into the distance, as soon as they had come they were gone, leaving the men standing in the midst of ruin and dead horses and men.
Wallace stood back on the mound and looked around. His men were covered in sand, looking positively bewildered. Some of them were sitting down with sprained ankles or bruised ribs; one man had wrenched his knee, being supported by two of his buddies. They had cuts, scrapes, and bruises, but looked alright otherwise.
"Everyone alright? Call out!" he ordered.
One by one, his men called out, or if not him then one of his friends. Before long, all his men were accounted for; a good number of wounded, mostly just scrapes and cuts, some with twisted or bruised limbs, but nothing more serious than that, and none killed. He breathed easier.
"We've got a live one here!"
Terry was aiming his G-3 at the horseman that Morrison had hit with his club. Wallace and Port proceeded over to him to examine the rider and question him. As they got closer, they heard the men muttering and occasionally yelling out in surprise. The officers pushed to the front and stopped immediately upon sight of the target.
Now they knew how the horsemen coordinated so well; now they knew how horse and man were able to be in sync with each other. The two beings were actually one; the man was the horse. The top half was a man's torso, black as night, a goatee that was pointed at the end, eyes dark and menacing, teeth barred and sharp. But past his midsection, it was all animal- the torso and legs of a horse, one of the front legs mangled by the club's impact, the back legs kicking wildly. It was taking five men to keep the horse part on the ground, so harshly was it thrashing around.
Wallace just stared at it in shock. No way...
"Bloody hell..."
Sergeant Carter fell to his knees in front of it and took off his helmet. His eyes were wide and his mouth was open in shock and- was that awe?- at the hybrid creature.
"It's a centaur," he blurted, confirming to the captain what his mind had already told him.
"Centaur?" Charlie gulped, his rifle aimed at the creature's chest. "What, those half-men, half-horse things they made up in the old stories?"
"Aye." A smile suddenly formed upon Carter's bewildered face. "Ohhh, look at it, it's beautiful."
He reached to touch the centaur's face, but it wildly bit at his fingers, missing by only a fraction of a inch. He yelped, but it was one of glee, and the smile never left his face. Wallace was wondering if his platoon sergeant had finally had his mind broken at the sight of what should have only been something from a story.
"Carter, what's the story with the centaur?" he demanded. Carter was a History teacher, and he probably knew these things to a better detail than those whose knowledge had faded after years out of school.
"Uh, in Greek mythology, the centaur was said to be born from Ixion, the son of Ares. Said to show the dark side of nature, they were normally depicted as barbaric by the Greeks, the real essence of what the worst of man can be. Stories of them being drunken followers of Dionysus, real nasty stuff. Notable exception was Cheiron, who was said to be the wisest and most gentle of the centaurs, whose logic was shared by him to such heroes as Hercules and Achilles, that whole schtick."
"Well, we can tell these didn't come from Cheiron's loin, then," Wallace noted. "Anything else?"
"Nothing other than that. There were stories that they may have been forest guardians, but no Greek account has made any mention, let alone confirmed that notion, so it's mostly just people making up their own tales."
"Well, there's no bloody forest, is there?" Danny demanded, face covered in sand and looking angry and unnerved by this turn of events. "What the hell would it have to protect out here? Sand? Rock? Fucking cacti?"
"I'm telling you the story as it was handed down by the Ancient Greeks," the platoon sergeant looked over his shoulder to say. "If you've got a problem with that, take it up with the historians!"
"You are the bloody historian!"
"Both of you, zip it!" Port demanded, face red. Wallace knelt down to be eye-to-eye with the creature. It glared angrily back at him.
"What are you?" the captain asked. "What do you want from us?"
The centaur opened its mouth, and the words that came out were a low hiss that made the hairs on the back of every man's neck stand up by the cold tingling feeling that shot down their spines.
"We are the black centaurs," it hissed. "And you cannot escape what it coming. You are all going to die."
Charlie gulped again and backed away from it. Danny and Terry exchanged glances. They were words they were hearing all too often lately, and it was doing nothing to calm their nerves.
BAM!
Wallace pulled out his pistol, put it to the centaur's head, and fired. The surrounding men jumped at the sound; Carter fell backwards in shock as the centaur's skull exploded from the forty-five caliber round. The gazes of the men now were on the captain, who gave the dead creature one final glare before turning his back to it.
"Lieutenant Port, Sergeant Major Grimes," he ordered, walking away from the scene, "have the camp broken down and the men ready to move out by dawn. We're leaving."
Every light in the camp was turned on; the Humvees and trucks were ignited but stalling, their only use being to light the area. Men were up and running around, collapsing the tents, boxing up the rations, and moving everything into the trucks. The wounded, which were mainly those with sprained or wrenched ankles and knees from the latest attack, were helped onto the medical bus.
"Sir," Hunter asked his C.O., as he trailed behind the two commanders as they walked among the men. "Might we be acting a little hasty here?"
"Those creatures were a scouting party," Wallace said. "They didn't know we were out here, they just got lucky. Which means that the ones that got away are going to be returning to wherever their camp is to report our whereabouts, which means that come sunrise these dunes are going to be swarming with that dark-cloaked lot. And we do not want to be here when they show up."
"He's right," Port agreed. "We'd be right to move while we have the time advantage."
"And I assume staying and making a stand here is out of the question?"
Both officers looked over their shoulders at him with looks that answered the question fine on their own.
"We couldn't beat them back at full strength, Lieutenant. If they come back and see us with wounded, we wouldn't stand a chance."
"We could plan an ambush-"
"Lieutenant," Wallace stopped and turned, "this is not negotiable. We are in a bad position with limited supplies and manpower, and any ambush we plan would be suicide. I want to get the men up and moving, I want the vehicles all loaded up, and I want Carter to stop taking pictures of the damn centaur and do his job!"
The three looked over to where Carter was on his knees with his digital camera pointed down at the dead creature. It had been sent to him by a student from the school he taught at in Nottingham, as a way of capturing the sites of the Middle East that he had taught his classes about. Sometimes he would take a Jeep out with a scout and take some pictures of some of the grand mosques and buildings of the cities they ventured out into; it was dangerous, and he had been cited for it several times, but the pictures he brought back were astounding.
The staff sergeant jerked his head up to meet his captain's annoyed gaze.
"Uh...right. Sorry, sir," he answered sheepishly, stuffing his camera in his vest pouch, slinging his M-240 strap over his shoulder, and getting up to give out orders to his men.
"What's the estimated time we can move out?" the captain then asked his executive officer.
"We can be ready in about ninety minutes, if we move fast enough," was the answer.
"Well then, let's move fast. If we're lucky, we'll be out of here before they realize their patrol is coming back short."
Danny, Marek and Matthews were loading supplies onto the flatbed truck. Matthews was still shaken by the attack.
"I think we seriously need to think about what's going on," he said.
"No need to," Danny said, slamming a box onto the truck and sliding it to the back. "We were attacked, they moved out, we're leaving before they come back."
"No, think about it." The machine-gunner slammed his box down and looked at his friend. "You remember what Franky was saying that girl said? About magic existing and being a witch and all that?"
"Aye, and?"
"And? And people don't just create centaurs, do they? I've never heard of some bastard sitting in his garage and thinking to himself, hey, you know what would be cool? If I were to cut a man in half, cut a horse's head off, and just fuse the two together into some hybrid! No one thinks like that, man."
"Apparently you do," Marek pointed out, his trademark grin glued to his face.
"It's not funny, man. I'm being serious."
"So what are you saying? That magical creatures like centaurs actually exist?" The idea, to Danny, seemed absurd.
"And if they do, then what else exists? There was a fucking flying horse in the camp today, Danny! And what about those bastards we ran into on patrol yesterday? Because they didn't act like regular humans act!"
"And that means magic exists?"
"I don't know, dude! Something weird is going on, I know that!"
"Well, he's right on that count," Marek agreed. "But magical creatures? That's a stretch."
"Oh, what, like the Bible never had any magical creatures?"
"Alright, look," Danny sighed and turned back to them. "Yes, there is something creepy out there. Yes, it's something we haven't seen before. And yes, it's hard to explain exactly what it is. But magic is a bullshit answer if you ask me."
"But what is the answer then? Work of God? Or one of Carter's ancient civilizations come back from the grave to bite us all in the ass?"
"More reliable an answer than magic. The first one, anyway, I don't know about Greek resurrection."
"Whatever it is," interjected Marek, slinging his pack over his shoulder, "it seems very devoted to giving us a run for our money."
"I don't care what the reason is," Danny announced. "Either we get away from it or we wipe them all out, whichever option works. That's all I care about."
Matthews nodded. That was all he cared about at this point, just going home. But he wanted to understand this as well, this phenomenon that was occurring. It was how he operated, how all of them operated. You had to understand your enemy, understand how they worked, if you had any chance of launching a good attack against them.
Danny knew that, of course he did. But his mind was running rampant with the thoughts of the last few days, of all he had seen, of all he had been through. He had come close to death several times that night of the attack, and he had come close yesterday, and he had come close tonight; more times in a week than he was used to, even in combat.
So he would worry about it later, at a time where he felt safe enough to think about it. Which, out here, was few and far between.
Terry and Tucker came into the tent as Jason was packing up his stuff. The money bag was resting on top of his sleeping bag.
"It's all still there?" Terry asked, crossing over to it.
"Unless one of you sods took some, it should be," his friend replied, not looking up from his work.
"I'm more concerned with your hands than mine," came the retort, as the blonde checked the contents. All there, as far as he could tell. They might have to do another count later, just in case.
"Oh, nice, mate. Real mature."
"Guys," groaned Tucker, sounding as tired as he looked, "not tonight, please? Let's just get packed up and ready to move on Captain's word."
"Talk to him," Jason nudged his head in Terry's direction. "He's the one being moody."
"Oh, forgive me. I'm just a little high strung from being attacked by men that had horses attached to their anuses."
"Eh, go have a smoke and calm yourself down."
"I can't. I ran out."
Both of his friends turned their heads towards him. "You? Out of smokes? Unheard of," Jason snorted.
"Well, it's not like I can just go to the PX and grab a new pack, can I?" Terry snapped.
"Oh boy," Tucker gulped. Terry, like most of the smokers on their base, did not function well around others without nicotine in his system. When he went even a day without a cigarette, he was aggravated, jumpy, and prone to confrontation. It was always a good idea for him to have his smoke, otherwise the dynamic of their roles in their little three-person group was thrown off.
Jason saw it too, and knew how to handle it. It was funny, in a bad way, how the roles were reversed just because Terry could not smoke. Normally, he was the calm, rational one, and Jason was the one who let his emotions and ambitions get the better of him. When there were no cigarettes, Jason found himself taking on Terry's role, something that he never did as well.
"Give the bag here, mate," he said, holding his hand out. "I'll hold onto it."
Terry snorted. "I can take care of the bag, Jason."
"Not saying you can't, I'm saying you should give it here."
"And I'm saying piss off."
"Guys, please," Tucker moaned. "We're all stressed right now, we're all on edge, last thing we need to do is get in a tizzy over this."
"Just give me the bag, Ter," Jason crossed over and grabbed for the bag. His hand clasped one of the handles.
"I've got it," Terry growled, firmly holding on to the other handle.
"Give it here."
The two started tugging at the bag like children arguing over a toy. Tucker was panicking. Something bad was going to happen, he was sure of that. That feeling was there, that feeling of looming dread that there was no way something was not going to go wrong. He was sure-
And then, from the corner of his eye, he saw the tent flap start to unzip.
"Guys, cut it out now-"
"Just give it to me, you wanker!"
"I can take care of it fine!"
"Everything alright in here?"
Everything happened fast. The flap opened and Sergeant Price's head stuck in. His abrupt entrance startled the two soldiers enough to make them jump; Jason released his hold on the handle, the bag flew back into Terry, who lost his footing and fell backwards. The bag tipped over, its mouth opened, and the money spilled out onto the ground, in plain view of everyone in the tent.
The silence that fell over the tent was overwhelming. Tucker's eyes darted from Jason's face, which had gone miraculously pale in such a short time, to Terry, whose mouth was wide open with no sound coming out, and then to Price, who had completely frozen, his eyes locked on the rather large pile of money in the middle of the tent, money that was very obviously not British and very obviously not theirs. Unless they had somehow gotten very lucky in American craps; which everyone knew their luck was not that great.
Price stepped fully into the tent, still looking at the money, until he finally looked up at the two men in front of him.
"And what's this, then?" he asked, his voice low and scratchy.
Tucker gulped. The sergeant glared over his shoulder, causing him to jump and scamper over to join his team mates. Price angry was a scary sight, and the least he could do to fuel the anger, the better.
"Well?" he asked again.
"Uh..." Jason clapped his hands together. "Right, well, Sarge, we need to finish packing if we're going to make Captain's deadline-"
"All of you, stand still and don't make a move!"
He flinched and did what he was told. Price looked almost deranged; he had never appeared this angry before, not that they had seen, at least. Tucker shot up straight as a pole. Terry staggered to his feet.
Price paced back and forth, keeping his eyes on the three of them. It was hard to tell quite what he was thinking, although Tucker's paranoia made him positive their sergeant was debating shooting them. He looked perfectly ready to do so.
"So what, drug money?" he asked.
"No," Terry groaned.
"So you murdered someone, then."
"No, Sarge-"
"Then where the hell did you get it?"
The private kept silent. So did the other two.
"Fine," Price said. "Stay silent for me. Captain Wallace will probably want to see this for himself, and you're not going to stay silent for him. I'm going to go fetch him, and so help me, if I come back here and one of you is missing, or if that money is touched in any way, ohhh, you will be very sorry."
He stormed out of the tent. The three exchanged nervous glances, not in a hurry to hear what their company commander had to say.
"Looks like this was a waste, aye?" Weaver grunted, as Stern sat on his shoulders and worked on untying the transmitter from the dish.
"What do you mean?" Stern asked, not looking down from his work.
"Well, you spent all day getting this thing up, and now you're taking it down, and it didn't really do much when it was up, did it?"
"No, it did. We got a response."
"Aye?" Weaver felt his knees quaking, but held fast. "Ours or theirs?"
"Sounded like ours. Couldn't really tell. There was a lot of static."
"Well, who did it sound like?"
"Could have been Command, could have been an outpost unit, hell, it could have just been some telephone company over in India. I couldn't tell for sure."
"Lovely," the private laughed beneath him.
"Just hold it a little...there. Woah!"
As soon as Stern got the transmitter off the dish, Weaver's legs gave out. The two came crashing to the ground, Stern falling against the pole, which once again fell onto the sand. François ran forward to check the dish.
"Christ's sake, Weaver, you damn fool!" Stern cried, brushing himself off and checking the transmitter. A little sand on it, but it didn't look broken or breached. He would check it later, but for now it looked fine.
"Sorry," Weaver brushed himself off. "But you're not exactly light on the shoulders, are you?"
The techie shook his head. Weaver was a bean pole from Belfast, Ireland, and probably only weighed a hundred and fifty pounds soaking wet. A shaggy dark-haired lad at only twenty years, he had been a typical computer gamer back home, and had probably never gone outside at all then. He was a straight-A student-which was a surprise why he would be out here with them-but he was from a poor family, and the army gave him a chance to get a college fund built up. He was a hell of a marksman, though- although he could not hit a thing without his glasses- and it was because of this that he strayed from the classic M-4 that most of the unit used and used an MK-14 EBR rifle that he had had imported from the U.S. His tour was supposed to be up in two months, and he preferred to stay out of trouble until then; an impossible task now, with their predicament.
Stern looked over towards François, who thumbed up to indicate that the dish was okay. He sighed in relief. The last thing they needed was to build another dish, they had used up the last of their resources just to make this one. He stood up as the Frenchman came back over.
"Alright, now, François, I need you to-" He stopped. This was going to be pointless, the man did not understand a word coming out of his mouth. Normally, he would have tried anyway, but after today, he knew better now. "Alright, come with me." He motioned for his assistant to follow him and went off towards the French compound.
He found Sergeant-Chef Callard, who was kneeling in the sand and packing up his supplies. The sergeant looked up at their approach and stood.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"I need François to do something important, can you translate for me?"
Stern figured it was a surprise request, and that was apparent when Callard's face turned into one of surprise. He was not a man who liked to make the same mistake twice, though, and if this made his life easier then he would do it.
"Alright, sure," Callard finally answered, a hint of surprise and satisfaction in his voice.
"Okay." Stern turned back to the French technician. "Now, François, I am going to give you the transmitter-"
"François, il vous donnerai l'émetteur."
"I want you to hold on to it for now-"
"Je vous veux que vous le teniez pour le moment."
"Now, whatever happens, do not lose this-"
"Ne perdez pas ceci, quoi qu passe."
"Or let it get damaged-"
"Et ne le faites pas endommager."
"This is our only chance of connecting with Command. Guard it with your life."
"C'est notre seule chance de connecter avec le centre d'Autorité. Gardez-le avec votre vie."
"Oui, Je le prendrai," François nodded and took the transmitter and wrapped it in its cloth.
"Did he get all that?" Stern asked Callard.
"Every word," was the reply.
Stern sighed in relief. Experiment proven successful. He should have done this sooner, but then again, if he had there would not have been so big a problem between him and the French. At least now he had finally overcome the language barrier.
"Thank you, Sergeant," he said gratefully, dragging François back to the truck. Callard nodded and returned to his work, satisfied that his message had sunk in.
Wallace looked from the pile of money in front of him, then at the three soldiers sitting in front of him, from one face to the other. None of them dared look him in the face, not after telling their story. He and Price exchanged a quick look before he turned back.
"You lads had better be telling the truth," he said.
"It's like we said, Captain," Terry insisted. "The guy was already dead when we found him. I don't know if he did himself in, or if the rebels did, or what."
"And you have no idea what he was doing there?"
"We figured either he was a drug dealer or a spook, but we didn't really check to see what he was. He was just a guy in a suit with a hole in his face and a bag full of cash."
"Alright," Scott rubbed his tired eyes. This was not something he needed to deal with right now. "Did anyone else see it? Does anyone else know about this?"
Terry hesitated, but then Jason answered instead. "Tubbs came in, he saw the body, but he didn't see the money. We didn't tell him about it. We haven't told anyone else either."
"Good." The less who knew about this, the better it would be.
"Sir," Tucker spoke up, his voice cracking. "You don't think...we didn't lose the base over this, did we? All the lads we lost, you don't think it was because of this?"
Wallace looked into the young private's eyes and saw the distress this thought was clearly causing him. Was that his biggest worry, that they were the cause of all of it? The poor lad, to be plagued with that thought this whole week...
"No," he sighed, shaking his head. "No, I don't. If they had been after this, that girl we had would've said something. And she never made any indication that this was a matter of money."
No, she just wanted to kill every single one of us, he thought bitterly. But he saw a wave of relief wash over the boy's face, and that was good enough. Of course, it did not alleviate the matter at hand.
If this got out, the three would be in a world of trouble. Chances are their prints would be on the body and the gun, and add the fact that the money was probably not legal to begin with if it was being distributed in the middle of a combat zone, there were going to be a lot of people convinced that the three of them had done the man in. If they had just left it be, had reported it upon seeing it, it would not have been a problem. But it was a bag full of money, who would not get a little greedy?
Even still, he did not want to see anything happen to these three. As lazy as they were, they were good soldiers. They had family, they had friends. Jason had his dreams for his business. A military court would certainly ruin all of that for them.
"Alright, here's what's going to happen," he told them. "I'm not going to punish you. I'm not going to sell you out. When we get back to headquarters, I'll put in a report that there was a body found, but nothing was touched. We'll start an inquiry over what he was doing out there, but that's the last we'll think of it. You will be questioned, of course, but as long as you tell them the story you just told me, omitting the cargo you took off him, then you'll be fine."
Jason sighed in relief. "Thank you so much, Captain-"
"However," Scott interrupted, not finished, "between now and the time we get to the safe zone, I want this money gone. All of it. I don't care what you do, burn it, blow it up, whatever. But it is not coming with us when we get to safe ground. Not a single bill. And I will check when we get there to make sure it is all gone. Understood?"
Jason's face fell. His mouth stayed open as he struggled to find words, but nothing came out. Terry's expression was blank. Tucker looked like a mix between relief and terror.
"If so much as a single bill are still on any of you when we're done, then the deal is off the table. I can't risk it. This doesn't affect just you, it affects the whole company. I don't want to get out of this mess only to end up in another one. Do you all understand?"
Tucker nodded, his head bobbing in earnest. Terry nodded, somewhat dejectedly. Jason did not move a muscle, just standing there, face down turned. The captain stared sternly at him, and he knew there was no way out but to agree. He nodded.
"Good." Wallace looked at his watch. "We're rolling out in twenty. Get the rest of this sorted out and get ready to fall in with the convoy."
He nodded to all of them and walked out without a salute. Price moved in front of them, his face no longer angry, but sullen.
"I expected better from you boys, really," he said. "Get rid of it." And then he followed Wallace out as well.
As soon as they were gone, Jason rounded on Terry.
"What the fuck is WRONG with you?" he screamed. He almost went to tackle him but Tucker held him back. "Did you go daft or something? You think you were being funny? Now look what you've done!"
Terry did not reply, his eyes looking down to the ground. It was hard for Tucker to read his expression, it was so muddled.
"Jace, relax, mate-"
"Don't tell me to bloody relax! Now we're out on our luck because this arsehole decided to act like a raging cunt!"
"I'm sorry" muttered Terry, so low it was barely heard.
"Oh, you're sorry! Well, I'm so glad that you're sorry you've fucked us out of six hundred thousand dollars!"
"Jace!" Tucker insisted. He had never seen Jason this angry, and had never seen Terry this submissive. Usually the two could go at it as equals, Terry had had no problem defending himself against Jason before, but now he just sat there and did nothing.
Jason backed off, still fuming, but trying to calm himself down. He glared at Terry.
"Okay...okay, well I'm going to try and figure something out. Try not to do anything more stupid than what you just did, aye?"
Don't know how he'll do that, Tucker thought, Captain made it pretty clear he wanted it gone. But maybe Jason would figure out a way to still keep it. Not that he cared. If he got out of this mess, he'd be fine with never touching that money again. It had brought nothing but bad luck since they found it.
On the outskirts of the camp, Keaney and his squad were gathered around the spot where they had buried Mathenson. Keaney was fixing an IP transponder to the metal pole they had used to mark the grave.
"That's not going to do much if a sandstorm comes along," Anwar reminded him.
"Well, it's the best we can do," came the tired reply. "We can't take him with us."
After a week in the grave, the body would smell worse than elephant dung, and they had no way of preserving it to possibly delay decomposition. It would just be cumbersome on all of them. At least this way they had a chance of returning to recover the corpse when they were rescued. It was only right. Mathenson had been a great teammate and friend to all of them. The least they could do was make sure he was brought back home.
Keaney finished tying the transponder to the cross and then stood, his rifle in his hand.
"Alright," he said, turning to his men. "Let's roll out."
The camp was packed up. The vehicles were ready to roll. The men were running around and doing one final sweep to make sure they did not leave any sign of a trace. What for a week had been tent city was now just another barren spot in the desert, soon to be completely deserted.
"Alright, Sykes, in you go," Doc ordered, as Finn and Owen lifted the stretcher onto the medical bus. "We'll get you strapped in so that it doesn't hurt too much, is that okay?"
"Might as well. It's not like I'm useful for anything else," Sykes replied sullenly. His leg was laid out straight in its brace, unable to do anything but stay there as it was. This latest attack had left him more forlorn than anything else; he had just sat there, unable to move, unable to help the rest of the company.
"Don't worry, mate, I'll drive slow for you," Archie told him, as cheerful as ever. Optimism at this point was desperately needed, and thankfully, the driver never was in short supply of that.
Wallace and Port watched as Sykes was placed on the bus, then proceeded to their jeep. The last of the preparations were being made. The platoon sergeants had gotten the men moving at an amazing speed. Already most of the men were packed into the Humvees and the flatbed, along with all of the supplies. They should be moving out within minutes.
"Do we have a destination?" Wallace asked his X.O.
"Not entirely-"
"Sir," Murphy's voice spoke softly behind them. He and Sully had caught up to the officers and were keeping pace.
"-but we've got a compass bearing due north, and once we hit the city we can get a better assessment of where we are and where we're going."
"Sir, it's kind of important-"
"Alright," Wallace replied. "We'll take lead of the convoy, everyone else follows behind-"
"Sir," Sully interjected, loud enough to definitely be heard. "We're short on gas."
That got their attention. The officers turned to the two mechanics, stopping them in their tracks.
"How short?" The captain demanded.
"We only m-managed to fill up a few cans per vehicle at the base, sir," Murphy answered, his voice shaky. "M-m-maybe two and a half, three cans per vehicle."
"Nowhere near enough, if we don't know where we're going," Sully added.
That was going to be a huge problem that they had not taken into consideration. Wallace had completely forgotten about the gas. Of course they would not have enough gas, not to get from here to Command in one drive, not without a real sense of direction. They would run out long before then without help.
"The good news is, we're in one of the largest oil reserves countries in the world," continued Sully, trying to keep hope. "The question is, are we going to get it easy?"
"Not if the rebels have their say," Port answered, looking at the captain. "How do we want to do this, Scott?"
"We don't have the choice," was the hesitant answer. "We'll need to hit up any oil pipeline we come across, big or small. Take whatever we can get and hope the locals don't start shooting at us. It's the only shot we have."
"I'll let Sergeant Ryan know," said Sully, hurrying off with Murphy right on his heels.
"Even that's not going to be enough for the entire convoy," Port reminded him as they hopped into their Jeep, which Charlie was already starting up.
"We'll just have to make do. We'll work it out on the road," Scott replied, sitting down. "Are we ready to go, Charlie?"
"All vehicles confirm they are ready to move out, sir."
"Then let's not overstay our welcome any more than we have."
And they were off. Charlie hit the gas and the Jeep roared forward, immediately taking the lead. The remainder of the convoy sped off after them, loaded with the remainder of the company however they could fit them all in, in addition to weapons and supplies. The faster vehicles took the lead, with the bigger, slower ones trailing towards the rear. They arranged themselves in a way that there was enough protection for every vehicle in the convoy, even though an RPG round could still cause plenty of trouble. They were glad, however, to be on the road, to finally be making a move towards rescue.
Even though they had no idea where or when it would come.
It was now dawn. The convoy drove in a single-file line down the road, lead by Captain Wallace's Jeep, occupied by him in the passenger's seat, Charlie driving, and Lieutenant Port in the back. Behind him was the communications van with Stern and François riding together. Behind him were the first three Humvees, the first driven by Danny, the second by Terry, and the third by Weaver. Next was the medical bus, driven by Archie, and behind him was Sully's flatbed truck. Behind the truck was the Humvee occupied by the French and German soldiers, with Sergeant-Chef Callard driving. Finally, bringing up the rear as expected, was the lone Russian tank.
Scott looked tiredly out into the rising sun. It had been such a long night getting everyone together and moving out, especially with the little surprise with the money that those three had. Add the attacks and the surprises of the last week, and he was exhausted. When was the last time he had truly slept? Had it really been too long?
"Dammit," he heard Port curse in the back. He turned to see his lieutenant fumbling through his jacket pockets.
"What?" he asked.
"I'm out of cigarettes," Port groaned, giving up his pocket search. "Do you have any?"
His friend raised an eyebrow. "Since when do I smoke?" he asked. Never, was the answer. His grandfather had died of lung cancer when he was six, and he had no intention of ending up like him.
"Charlie?"
"Sorry, sir, I have none."
Port groaned again, prompting Wallace to reach for the radio receiver. He knew the lieutenant was not going to stop until he had smoke in his lungs, and there were others in the company that would certainly have some for him.
"Lead to convoy, Lieutenant Port is in need of cigarettes. Danny, cough them up," he said into the receiver.
"Sorry, Captain, I'm out." Danny's voice replied back.
"Why don't I believe that, Private?"
"Oh Captain, my Captain, would I lie to you?"
About cigarettes, you would, Wallace thought, but he let it go. "Lead to Archie."
"Yes, Captain, what can I do for you this fine day?" The driver of the medical bus said back cheerfully.
"Need smokes for the lieutenant. You got any?"
"Oooh, that's a negative, sir."
"What about those strawberry cigars you get shipped to you?" Archie had a cousin in the cigar business, and he always got the best kinds shipped to him.
"Hate to say it, but I'm out of those too."
Bloody hell, the captain mentally cursed. "Terry, you've got some?"
"Ran out. Not happy about it," came Terry's grumpy answer.
"Oh, you've got to be taking the mickey," the captain retorted, getting frustrated. "Sully?"
"Sorry, Captain. Smoked my last two before we moved out."
Port groaned behind him. "Terrific," he cursed, stuffing his lighter back in his pocket.
Wallace sighed. Over the radio, Stern's voice said what all of them were starting to think.
"Well, gents, looks like it really is the end of the world."
Scott snorted as he again looked out towards the rising sun. That sentence summed things up nicer than anything else would have.
I had to look that up, what the exact oil status is of Iraq (where this story is taking place, if you weren't aware; Balad, the city in chapter 3, is a city in Iraq), and according to surveys it is one of the biggest oil reserves countries in the world, if not the biggest. Which probably isn't big news for most of you reading this, given the way our world has worked for the last twenty years, but I needed to be sure. I'm not very intelligent, as you can probably tell.
Weaver is just another face in the company. I know I have a lot of characters, but there are still quite a few nameless soldiers scattered here and there, and I decided to take advantage of that. He's not going to be huge, he's just gonna be around.
Other than that, this story's been picking up in views, which is always lovely, even though it's been over two years now...yeah. I know it's long between updates, but I'm being kind of a perfectionist with this story, which I suppose is a genuine first for me. And they are long chapters.
Well, thank you for reading, hope you enjoy it, let me know what you think, and I'll see you next time. Pea soup.