Ron's Worst Nightmares

Shifting Sands

By Pat Squared

WARNING: NOT POLITICALLY CORRECT!
Vasilii hated the sand. No matter what he did, the talc like substance worked its way into his clothing, his food, his water, and his gear.

He hated Sudan, its endless supply of sand, and playing the role of peacekeeper between a bunch of people fighting over which god to pray to. In Iraq and Afghanistan, at least the Marines got to vent steam by shooting some idiot insurgent who sought martyrdom. All Vasilii did in Sudan was patrol a stretch of road and ensure that no one left a mine or improvised explosive device the previous night.

Being fresh meat straight from the land of the Big PX and the latest 1371 or combat engineer meant that it was Vasilii's job to find landmines or improvised explosive devices, get close enough mark its location, notify his squad leader, Sergeant Seymour Jackson, so that he would call it in, and nine times out of ten he was volunteered to defuse or detonate the device in place. Unlike the other combat engineers, Vasilii actually looked forward to defusing the explosive devices.It meant the he would have to walk up right on it and maybe, just maybe, it would forever end his pain.

Vasilii's old life as Ron Stoppable in the land of nacos and Bueno-sized Coca-colas was fading out of his memory. He got good at it. Sometimes he would go more than seventeen hours without remembering why he ran away. It was so easy where everyone was so dark that Wade and Monique looked white.

Everyone here knew him as Vasilii, V, or more often as Dumbo for his outsized ears. Ten days in country and all he now dreamt about was leaving this sand and insect infected land. Even four years of alcohol and frozen meat pies in the Artic guarding an igloo seemed like paradise. He lost count of the inflamed sores that resulted from scratching them in his sleep.

Vasilii lugged about his M25 USMC Designated Marksman Rifle. As fresh meat,Vasilii was assigned to carry the eleven pound beast with the kick of a pissed off mule, while the rest of the guys carried a six pound M4 Carbine. He was also stuck carrying any extra gear that Sergeant Jackson could think of.

Vasilii scanned the road ahead with the field glasses, not binoculars (the Corps frown on civilian-speak), looking for any signs of disturbed earth. All sides were violating the truce and it was Vasilii's job to get rid of the evidence before the evidence killed someone and the war flares up again in time for the six o'clock news and sweeps week.

Along the road was the usual assortment of wildlife. Mothers with baskets on their head carrying new born babes in a sling and burnt out old farmhands hiking off to work were clogging the dirt path that the map called a road.

Armed militiamen and boys swaggering with their AK-47's safe in the fact that unless they fired first at the peacekeepers, the peacekeepers would not do shit to stop the violence.

Everyone can afford a fully loaded AK and two belts of 7.62x39 mm Soviet, but no one can afford to feed their family. Ten days and I already hate these ... creatures.

Before Vasilii could not understand why racism is so attractive to so many people. Now he found himself thinking of the victims of this war as less than human.

At timesVasilii could not resist contemplating ending the suffering one bullet at a time. If he could just perform summary executions on the warlords, maybe he could stem the bloodshed. It was all they understood, one hundred twenty grains of 7.62x39mm Soviet at twenty three hundred feet per second through the appropriate cranial cavity.

In ten days, he had seen villainy that made Drakken's dreams of world domination look so innocent, so child-like. He had lost count of how many fat hyenas were feasting on the remnants of what was once a human being.

All Vasilii could ever do was to ensure that none of his fellow Marines were injured by roadside improvised explosive devices. He literally double-checked each and every rock and pebble on his section of the route.

Soon the foot traffic would be thinning out. It was perversely more dangerous since the natives seemed to be better at sniffing out roadside booby traps than the dogs flow in from Eglin Air Force Base. They instinctively would avoid the devices and that would alert the road clearing team.

"Dumbo, get the sand out of your ass, you are going to do a walk about. Gonzo will be your den mother."

Vasilii hated Sergeant Jackson's walkabouts the most. While everyone else enjoyed a seat in the HUMVEE, he would have to hump sixty pounds of gears looking for trouble before trouble found him. Gonzo, or Gonzalo Cortez was the unlucky marine assigned this time to cover Vasilii as Vasilii looked for landmines and other booby traps. He would be hauling the M-249 SAW and lay down cover fire the instant anything went wrong.

Being on the shit detail saved Vasilii's life.

Twenty minutes later, Vasilii was knocked to the ground by a concussion wave. The training kicked in and he moved away form the blast.

Cortez was down, his brains exposed to the world. The squad – some punk with an RPG took out the ride.

Vasilii was alone in a land were everyone hated the Marines. All sides were unhappy about the occupation. In that they were all united. It was all a matter finding out who did the hit and making it back to HQ to deliver the news.

He rolled into a nearby gully and watched as the hyenas feast on the remains of his former squad mates.