Disclaimer: I own nothing, until I state otherwise. If I do, than the
things I state to own belong solely to me!
Special thank you to Jen, the first person in the green earth to review my fic, and also the only one to review it as well (rolls eyes at the pitifully stupid). So thanks, Jen, you have made my week so nice!
Well, kudos also to Erin who's been emailing me about my story. Thanks for the comments!
Also, the Bosnians are going to speak . . . whatever language they speak. German's pretty close to English and they didn't sound like they were speaking English in the movie, so I think this is Russian. So I'm gonna call it Russian. If it's not, I feel terrible, but please tell me. Back to my point. Since I don't know Russian, I can't write it in Russian, you follow? So I'm going to write it in English, but I'll indicate in the story when it's supposed to be Russian, okay? So now that that's settled.
And another thing (I know you're getting tired, but I need to explain things). I'm not quite sure of the names of the Serbians. I know the head guy's name is Lokar, the tracker is Sasha, but I'm not quite sure of the other guy, the guy that dosen't like Sasha but goes with him to track Chris anyway. I give him a name, but I'll let you get there when you get there. If you got his name, I want it, please.
And another thing (this is the last!). Stackhouse's first name is Jeremy, it was on the Superhornet they took off in at the beginning. I don't think I use it, but if I do, now you know who he is.
So finally I am done!
Here you are, Jen, the next chapter!
Chapter Two
At the End of Everything
The wind whipped by me in a whirl that I could barely see through. Stackhouse was below me, careening in a crazy spiral that I knew was more dangerous than my own. The world below him went by in an unreadable map, a high, cold, dry plateau of green, white, and brown. My life wasn't flashing before my eyes; it was the country that I had sworn to protect that had shot me down.
I surveyed the country before me as I drifted down, the icy wind giving wings to my parachute. I released my ejection seat and it crashed down at an alarming pace into a lake of ice. The crash seemed magnified to my ears as it stuck deep into the lake. Poor seat.
The lake was stationed on a high, rocky cliff. The cliff jutted out into a rounded corner with a statue placed on the lip of it. A statue of an angel- or whatever the hell it was- was beautifully smooth. My mother would have found it simply ravishing. Of course, I wasn't my mother. I had to admire its intricate artwork, the time and work that must have gone into its making. The face was gentle and welcoming.
I drifted past it at a swift pace. As I went past, I angled my head back.
As I saw it, I shuddered violently with a force I didn't know, had never known in my life.
One side of the face was smooth and beautiful, a mother asking for a hug from her child.
The other side was a jagged scar where a face should have been, a darkened cave of nothing but exploded stone.
I could think of only one name for the emotion that shook my body and erased the thoughts for my mind.
The name of that feeling was fear.
The trees rushed up at me at a blinding speed. I was going to fast and was too far away from the field that Stackhouse had landed in. Instead, dead trees loomed before me, there spindly branches like beckoning arms. I yelled as I crashed into them.
Claws tore at me as I slammed through them, drawing red lines in my face and hands.
I came to a jerking halt as my 'chute caught in the trees. The air was knocked from my lungs. Panting, I looked down. The ground was good ten feet away from me.
"Damn it," I cursed to myself, snarling. I fumbled with the buckles of the 'chute frantically. They came unclasped finally and I fell the rest of the way to the ground.
"Damn it!" I yelled as I hit the forest floor. Damn this pain. I jumped to my feet, gritting my teeth and tearing away my flight helmet. I wouldn't need it. I needed to find Stackhouse, that's what I needed to do.
I ran through the trees, catching sight of a plain of green through the crinkled branches. Blood seeped down my face and I felt my head as I ran. It was a shallow cut, but it was bleeding like I had hit an artery. Damn it.
Stackhouse's parachute came into view as I broke through the line of trees. "Stackhouse!" I hollered as I raced towards him. "Stack! Stackhouse!" Through the tall weeds I ran. Where was he? Oh God, he was hurt. He should have been up and running too.
"Stack!"
"Burnett!"
I felt relief sweep through me. At least he wasn't dead.
I reached the small patch of clear grass in the next second. "Stack!" He was lying on the ground, looking up at me. His 'chute lay spread out behind him, but he had unstrapped the buckles. I looked him over up and down.
"You okay?" I asked him, panting.
"Yeah, you? Where's your 'chute?" he asked, wincing.
"Stuck in a tree," I told him, bending down next to him. "Your hurt. Where?"
"My leg," he said, motioning. "I didn't eject right away and the plane started burning. Don't worry though, it's not too bad."
"Let me take away the leg and clean it," I said, starting to work.
"My leg?" he said, alarmed.
"The pant leg, stupid."
"Oh sorry." He started looked around at the desolate landscape. "So where are we, mister navigator man?"
"In the middle of Mesovich, it seems," I said, also looking around.
"You think it's hostile?"
I wrapped a clean piece of cloth around his burn and stood up. "We're not going to be around long enough to find out," I told him and started to take out my radio.
"Already tried it," he said, sounding depressed. "You have to get to those hills." He indicated with his head.
"You mean I gotta walk up there?"
"Use your superior sense of direction, mister navigator man," he said, joking. "Just get us the hell out of here before someone finds us."
"Yeah, okay. Reigart's going to be pissed we lost his bird, though."
"You can say that again," Stackhouse whistled. "Well, get going."
"Sit tight." I started off. "Don't move."
"Fucking funny, Chris," he snickered. He quieted suddenly. "Chris, I should have dodged the second missile."
I stopped for an instant. He was trying to blame himself.
No, it wasn't his fault. I was the one trying to take us of the photo recon mission.
But he needed some humor, not an apology.
"Yeah, you're right," I said wickedly. "You're losing your edge, man." His flight helmet came flying at me. "See you in a few!"
"A few!"
I started running towards the hill.
Lokar was waiting impatiently for his phone call as the soldier burst through his door and started to speak in Russian.
"They're downed, sir," the soldier said. "Sasha's group has got them."
"Captured them?" his second in command, Belzor, asked.
The Serbian military leader looked at the soldier intently.
"No," the soldier stammered. "But they're on the way."
Just then his cell phone rang. Lokar answered it with a quick word.
"We have their position and are waiting. We found the plane."
Lokar stopped.
"We're they flying recon?" he asked.
"I'm not sure," replied his best tracker. "We haven't found a camera yet, but we're looking. Are you coming?"
"Yes, I'm coming. Meet me at the bunker."
He snapped his phone shut and cast his gaze to Belzor. "Come, Belzor. They know where they are. Let's go get them."
Stackhouse heard them before he saw them.
He turned his head to the hill behind his fallen body. Rifle shots were fired into the air, the sounds of men close behind. He squinted, his heart pounding so loud he thought that it would burst from his chest. Fear gripped him, a fear he had not felt for a long time.
From the edge of the hill, a tip of a tank appeared. A man appeared. The muzzle of a rifle appeared.
Stackhouse moved back frantically. These weren't American soldiers. He wasn't even sure they were soldiers at all. From behind the first wave came a second, then a third, then a fourth, then more than he could keep track of. The men were marching down before the tanks, in disorganized groups that looked more like a mob than an army or company.
He touched his gun, then agitatedly looked through the maze of trees of his east. He couldn't spot Burnett anywhere. At least Chris was out of harm's way.
He touched his gun briefly. No. Any hostile movement and they might shoot him.
Suddenly they were around him, moving in a circle around him, surrounding him, guns being cocked and pointed at him.
A man stepped forward, his teeth rotted and his rifle being carried like a treasure. With an enraged smile, he rose his foot and stepped on Stackhouse's burn.
Stackhouse winced in agony. His gun was stripped from him and then another stepped forward and kicked him.
Suddenly the men stopped, halted by an authoritative voice in Russian. Stackhouse, his leg still burning in agony, looked up at a man staring down at him. He wore the cap of a Bosnian military official, his rifle slung casually over his solider.
"You on reconnaissance mission?" the man asked in thick English.
Stackhouse didn't reply. It would be better if he didn't speak.
"You take pictures?" the man persisted.
Still, Stackhouse didn't answer. The officer looked back at his men and said something in Russian. The men started to snicker and laugh. Stackhouse lowered his head.
"You alone?" the man asked roughly.
For one moment, Stackhouse looked fleetingly at the hills. He couldn't see Chris. He looked back at the man before him. If they knew Chris was out there, they would find him and take him.
"Correct," he answered, holding his breath.
The man peered at him purposefully, then hit him softly on the cheek before he stood up.
A flame of anger flared in him, but he didn't move.
The officer barked at his men in Russian, then at one in particular. They exchanged words and his gun was given to the new man. Then the officer followed the other men as they started away from the spot.
Maybe they were letting him go. Maybe they were giving him back. What did they need him for? He hadn't seen anything wrong. He had flown off course, sure, but it wasn't a good reason to keep him. Maybe they were just hotheads who liked bullying people.
The second man came over to him and grunted something in Russian. He bent down and put grabbed him by both arms. He started to pull on him.
Stackhouse decided he was trying to pull him up and helped himself up, leaning on the other man for support. When he was on his feet, the Serb left him there and move behind him. He started to look back, but didn't. It would be better if he didn't.
Then he heard the cock of his gun and then everything for him went black.
What the hell were they doing? Who the hell were they?
The men had formed a ring around Stackhouse, but when the blue car pulled up, they made way for the three men that emerged from it. The binoculars I held were only so powerful. They were talking to Stackhouse, but I couldn't hear or properly see them.
Who were they? They looked like Serbs, but they could easily be rebel groups. If that was the case . . . no, but wait, the cap was that of a Bosnian military man.
Suddenly they started to disperse around Stackhouse-all but one man. The other started away, away from the hills they had come over. The man was helping Stackhouse to his feet, pulling him roughly. When Stackhouse got to his feet, the Serb left him there and stood in back of him, fiddling with his gun.
I realized what was going to happen as he rose the gun swiftly.
"NOOOOO!"
The boom echoed throughout the countryside. Stackhouse fell to the ground, dead.
The Serb who had shot him turned to look at the hills, hearing my scream.
Stack was dead, Jeremy was dead, he was dead!
They had shot him!
The Serb started shouting in Russian to his other men.
Stackhouse was dead!
Guns started to fire upon the hills.
Stackhouse was dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead!
Bullets sprayed the ground below me.
He was dead and now they were firing on me.
Oh, God, what was happening? What had happened?
I was an American, goddamn it, an American and they weren't supposed to kill me!
The bullets began to move closer.
They weren't supposed to! It wasn't right! They weren't supposed to kill me!
I leaped to my feet and started running away, the echo of the bullet that had killed Stackhouse still in my mind.
He was dead and now they were firing at me.
God, why? Oh God, why?
Special thank you to Jen, the first person in the green earth to review my fic, and also the only one to review it as well (rolls eyes at the pitifully stupid). So thanks, Jen, you have made my week so nice!
Well, kudos also to Erin who's been emailing me about my story. Thanks for the comments!
Also, the Bosnians are going to speak . . . whatever language they speak. German's pretty close to English and they didn't sound like they were speaking English in the movie, so I think this is Russian. So I'm gonna call it Russian. If it's not, I feel terrible, but please tell me. Back to my point. Since I don't know Russian, I can't write it in Russian, you follow? So I'm going to write it in English, but I'll indicate in the story when it's supposed to be Russian, okay? So now that that's settled.
And another thing (I know you're getting tired, but I need to explain things). I'm not quite sure of the names of the Serbians. I know the head guy's name is Lokar, the tracker is Sasha, but I'm not quite sure of the other guy, the guy that dosen't like Sasha but goes with him to track Chris anyway. I give him a name, but I'll let you get there when you get there. If you got his name, I want it, please.
And another thing (this is the last!). Stackhouse's first name is Jeremy, it was on the Superhornet they took off in at the beginning. I don't think I use it, but if I do, now you know who he is.
So finally I am done!
Here you are, Jen, the next chapter!
Chapter Two
At the End of Everything
The wind whipped by me in a whirl that I could barely see through. Stackhouse was below me, careening in a crazy spiral that I knew was more dangerous than my own. The world below him went by in an unreadable map, a high, cold, dry plateau of green, white, and brown. My life wasn't flashing before my eyes; it was the country that I had sworn to protect that had shot me down.
I surveyed the country before me as I drifted down, the icy wind giving wings to my parachute. I released my ejection seat and it crashed down at an alarming pace into a lake of ice. The crash seemed magnified to my ears as it stuck deep into the lake. Poor seat.
The lake was stationed on a high, rocky cliff. The cliff jutted out into a rounded corner with a statue placed on the lip of it. A statue of an angel- or whatever the hell it was- was beautifully smooth. My mother would have found it simply ravishing. Of course, I wasn't my mother. I had to admire its intricate artwork, the time and work that must have gone into its making. The face was gentle and welcoming.
I drifted past it at a swift pace. As I went past, I angled my head back.
As I saw it, I shuddered violently with a force I didn't know, had never known in my life.
One side of the face was smooth and beautiful, a mother asking for a hug from her child.
The other side was a jagged scar where a face should have been, a darkened cave of nothing but exploded stone.
I could think of only one name for the emotion that shook my body and erased the thoughts for my mind.
The name of that feeling was fear.
The trees rushed up at me at a blinding speed. I was going to fast and was too far away from the field that Stackhouse had landed in. Instead, dead trees loomed before me, there spindly branches like beckoning arms. I yelled as I crashed into them.
Claws tore at me as I slammed through them, drawing red lines in my face and hands.
I came to a jerking halt as my 'chute caught in the trees. The air was knocked from my lungs. Panting, I looked down. The ground was good ten feet away from me.
"Damn it," I cursed to myself, snarling. I fumbled with the buckles of the 'chute frantically. They came unclasped finally and I fell the rest of the way to the ground.
"Damn it!" I yelled as I hit the forest floor. Damn this pain. I jumped to my feet, gritting my teeth and tearing away my flight helmet. I wouldn't need it. I needed to find Stackhouse, that's what I needed to do.
I ran through the trees, catching sight of a plain of green through the crinkled branches. Blood seeped down my face and I felt my head as I ran. It was a shallow cut, but it was bleeding like I had hit an artery. Damn it.
Stackhouse's parachute came into view as I broke through the line of trees. "Stackhouse!" I hollered as I raced towards him. "Stack! Stackhouse!" Through the tall weeds I ran. Where was he? Oh God, he was hurt. He should have been up and running too.
"Stack!"
"Burnett!"
I felt relief sweep through me. At least he wasn't dead.
I reached the small patch of clear grass in the next second. "Stack!" He was lying on the ground, looking up at me. His 'chute lay spread out behind him, but he had unstrapped the buckles. I looked him over up and down.
"You okay?" I asked him, panting.
"Yeah, you? Where's your 'chute?" he asked, wincing.
"Stuck in a tree," I told him, bending down next to him. "Your hurt. Where?"
"My leg," he said, motioning. "I didn't eject right away and the plane started burning. Don't worry though, it's not too bad."
"Let me take away the leg and clean it," I said, starting to work.
"My leg?" he said, alarmed.
"The pant leg, stupid."
"Oh sorry." He started looked around at the desolate landscape. "So where are we, mister navigator man?"
"In the middle of Mesovich, it seems," I said, also looking around.
"You think it's hostile?"
I wrapped a clean piece of cloth around his burn and stood up. "We're not going to be around long enough to find out," I told him and started to take out my radio.
"Already tried it," he said, sounding depressed. "You have to get to those hills." He indicated with his head.
"You mean I gotta walk up there?"
"Use your superior sense of direction, mister navigator man," he said, joking. "Just get us the hell out of here before someone finds us."
"Yeah, okay. Reigart's going to be pissed we lost his bird, though."
"You can say that again," Stackhouse whistled. "Well, get going."
"Sit tight." I started off. "Don't move."
"Fucking funny, Chris," he snickered. He quieted suddenly. "Chris, I should have dodged the second missile."
I stopped for an instant. He was trying to blame himself.
No, it wasn't his fault. I was the one trying to take us of the photo recon mission.
But he needed some humor, not an apology.
"Yeah, you're right," I said wickedly. "You're losing your edge, man." His flight helmet came flying at me. "See you in a few!"
"A few!"
I started running towards the hill.
Lokar was waiting impatiently for his phone call as the soldier burst through his door and started to speak in Russian.
"They're downed, sir," the soldier said. "Sasha's group has got them."
"Captured them?" his second in command, Belzor, asked.
The Serbian military leader looked at the soldier intently.
"No," the soldier stammered. "But they're on the way."
Just then his cell phone rang. Lokar answered it with a quick word.
"We have their position and are waiting. We found the plane."
Lokar stopped.
"We're they flying recon?" he asked.
"I'm not sure," replied his best tracker. "We haven't found a camera yet, but we're looking. Are you coming?"
"Yes, I'm coming. Meet me at the bunker."
He snapped his phone shut and cast his gaze to Belzor. "Come, Belzor. They know where they are. Let's go get them."
Stackhouse heard them before he saw them.
He turned his head to the hill behind his fallen body. Rifle shots were fired into the air, the sounds of men close behind. He squinted, his heart pounding so loud he thought that it would burst from his chest. Fear gripped him, a fear he had not felt for a long time.
From the edge of the hill, a tip of a tank appeared. A man appeared. The muzzle of a rifle appeared.
Stackhouse moved back frantically. These weren't American soldiers. He wasn't even sure they were soldiers at all. From behind the first wave came a second, then a third, then a fourth, then more than he could keep track of. The men were marching down before the tanks, in disorganized groups that looked more like a mob than an army or company.
He touched his gun, then agitatedly looked through the maze of trees of his east. He couldn't spot Burnett anywhere. At least Chris was out of harm's way.
He touched his gun briefly. No. Any hostile movement and they might shoot him.
Suddenly they were around him, moving in a circle around him, surrounding him, guns being cocked and pointed at him.
A man stepped forward, his teeth rotted and his rifle being carried like a treasure. With an enraged smile, he rose his foot and stepped on Stackhouse's burn.
Stackhouse winced in agony. His gun was stripped from him and then another stepped forward and kicked him.
Suddenly the men stopped, halted by an authoritative voice in Russian. Stackhouse, his leg still burning in agony, looked up at a man staring down at him. He wore the cap of a Bosnian military official, his rifle slung casually over his solider.
"You on reconnaissance mission?" the man asked in thick English.
Stackhouse didn't reply. It would be better if he didn't speak.
"You take pictures?" the man persisted.
Still, Stackhouse didn't answer. The officer looked back at his men and said something in Russian. The men started to snicker and laugh. Stackhouse lowered his head.
"You alone?" the man asked roughly.
For one moment, Stackhouse looked fleetingly at the hills. He couldn't see Chris. He looked back at the man before him. If they knew Chris was out there, they would find him and take him.
"Correct," he answered, holding his breath.
The man peered at him purposefully, then hit him softly on the cheek before he stood up.
A flame of anger flared in him, but he didn't move.
The officer barked at his men in Russian, then at one in particular. They exchanged words and his gun was given to the new man. Then the officer followed the other men as they started away from the spot.
Maybe they were letting him go. Maybe they were giving him back. What did they need him for? He hadn't seen anything wrong. He had flown off course, sure, but it wasn't a good reason to keep him. Maybe they were just hotheads who liked bullying people.
The second man came over to him and grunted something in Russian. He bent down and put grabbed him by both arms. He started to pull on him.
Stackhouse decided he was trying to pull him up and helped himself up, leaning on the other man for support. When he was on his feet, the Serb left him there and move behind him. He started to look back, but didn't. It would be better if he didn't.
Then he heard the cock of his gun and then everything for him went black.
What the hell were they doing? Who the hell were they?
The men had formed a ring around Stackhouse, but when the blue car pulled up, they made way for the three men that emerged from it. The binoculars I held were only so powerful. They were talking to Stackhouse, but I couldn't hear or properly see them.
Who were they? They looked like Serbs, but they could easily be rebel groups. If that was the case . . . no, but wait, the cap was that of a Bosnian military man.
Suddenly they started to disperse around Stackhouse-all but one man. The other started away, away from the hills they had come over. The man was helping Stackhouse to his feet, pulling him roughly. When Stackhouse got to his feet, the Serb left him there and stood in back of him, fiddling with his gun.
I realized what was going to happen as he rose the gun swiftly.
"NOOOOO!"
The boom echoed throughout the countryside. Stackhouse fell to the ground, dead.
The Serb who had shot him turned to look at the hills, hearing my scream.
Stack was dead, Jeremy was dead, he was dead!
They had shot him!
The Serb started shouting in Russian to his other men.
Stackhouse was dead!
Guns started to fire upon the hills.
Stackhouse was dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead!
Bullets sprayed the ground below me.
He was dead and now they were firing on me.
Oh, God, what was happening? What had happened?
I was an American, goddamn it, an American and they weren't supposed to kill me!
The bullets began to move closer.
They weren't supposed to! It wasn't right! They weren't supposed to kill me!
I leaped to my feet and started running away, the echo of the bullet that had killed Stackhouse still in my mind.
He was dead and now they were firing at me.
God, why? Oh God, why?