Thanks to Jen and BrokenLizard.
A/N: the first two parts of this fic I was going really fast, because I wanted to get into the meat of it. Now I'm going to slow down and explain things more. Okay? Get it, got it, good.
Here is the next part of "The Sorrow of the World Cannot Add Up to Now."
Painted Red
Chapter Three
"You've thrown a hell of a party, sir," Master Chief Tom O'Malley told Admiral Leslie Reigart as they sat at the grand table, eating their food off of the glass plates.
"We like Christmas," Reigart replied, nodding his head, his eyes casting out at the soldiers in front of him. There were many at this time, all happy to be away from the monotone of everyday life aboard the ship. At the top of that list would be Lt. Chris Burnett.
He felt anger at the very thought. The boy was just that, a boy, and he acted like he knew everything in the whole damn world. What gave him the nerve to ask to be let out of the Navy? He didn't have any right. Sure, the life onboard might be the painfully the same everyday, and also boring down to its very pure core, but it was necessary.
It never ceased to amaze Reigart how extremely arrogant his men were of that fact. The drills were made to keep the men on their toes, to keep them constantly alert and aware of what they had to do. It didn't matter if they weren't at war! Half the time in the world they weren't and war, but who the hell cared? War was something delicate and rugged at the same time. It could be broken and started easily, and then the hardest thing in the world to erase. The drills and training prepared men for that, made them what they were! What if a bomb suddenly dropped in the ocean at that very moment? The damn drills and training would come into play then and there and save lives!
How could somebody as naïve and green as Burnett tell him what to do?
"Sir." It was a man, leaning down to whisper in his ear. "Sir, we've lost an F-18 and need your assistance immediately."
What?
He looked up at the seaman apprentice in disbelief.
"Sir," the man said again, more urgently.
"I'm coming." He turned to O'Malley. "Come on." He stood up and dropped his fork with an angry clatter. How could they have lost an F-18?
"It's Arc Angel 0-6," said the apprentice as they hurried down the halls towards the main deck.
"Stackhouse and Burnett!" Damn them! "Goddamn it, I put them on holiday mission! What the hell were they doing?"
"What happened?" O'Malley asked, alarmed. "What about them?'
"They got shot down," Reigart growled as they reached the deck. "Where?"
"Sir," said a new man, an intelligence specialist. "Come, I'll show you what happened."
The man led them through the maze that was the main deck to a large glass computer screen. It showed a lay out of land, along with ocean and many lines.
"This is Bosnia," the specialist said, pointing. A yellow line zigged forward and across the land, back into the sea. "That is the route Arc Angel was supposed to take. Their actual course shows in red." A red line appeared. It moved forward fluidly, staying on the yellow one for half the way, then suddenly arching into the Bosnian countryside. A dot began to blink by the yellow line. "We lost radio contact here and from whatever little data we can find, we think they were being painted."
"Painted?" Riegart asked, shocked. "By whom?"
"We're not sure, sir. It could be anybody." The specialist started to tick off on his fingers. "The rebels, the Serbs, some other out of state military force, a militia-"
"I get the point," Riegart snarled, staring up at the glass screen. "Have you tried contacting the radio?"
"It dosen't work. Their probably too densely covered to get a good enough reception."
"That's all?" Riegart felt a migraine begin to start behind his eyes. Of all the days, it had to be Christmas. What had happened? What could have taken them off their flight path?
"Nothing right now, sir. If they ejected, we might be able to find the homing beacon on the ejection seat. It also could be cutting off their signal. Would you like us to turn it off?"
"No. Keep in on so we at least have some damn idea about where the hell they are." He turned to O'Malley. "Contact Piquet and Donnelley," he told him, naming the commanders of NATO forces. "Tell them what's happened. Tell them there is a possible situation, but not to get too steamed and we need to wait." He started away, to his private quarters. "No names," he said over his shoulder.
"Aye aye, sir," O'Malley replied and darted in front of him, hurriedly walking towards the bow of the ship.
"Tell me if anything comes up," Reigart told the spec. behind him. "Got it?"
"Yes, sir," the specialist answered smartly. "Anything, sir."
"Good." Reigart stormed away from him and out of the bustling dark place. Questions, mindless, stupid questions went through his mind. If they had only stayed on the damn flight path! It was stupid of them to fly from it. It would violate the treaty!
Admiral Piquet had recently created a treaty, a cease-fire treaty almost, with Bosnia. NATO forces were withdrawing from Bosnia now, with only four days left to go. The treaty stated that Bosnian militants and military would not fire upon American troops, but only if the Americans agreed to stay in restricted areas. Admiral Piquet had ordered Reigart to command his pilots to stay on the agreed flight paths and trails.
Reigart thought he had made it clear to all his pilots. Appearently, that was not true for Stackhouse and Burnett.
"If only the damned fools had stayed on their flight path," he cursed as he approached his quarters. "They're going to get themselves killed."
The bullets were thunking into the ground behind me, into the naked trees on either side of me. I could hear the angry bursts of the guns as they clicked off, hear the shouts and yells of the men behind me, chasing me.
The wind whistled past my ears. The breath inside of my chest felt cold and painful. And still, the bullets rained down behind.
God, they had killed Stackhouse. God, they were trying to kill me. God, the sky was so gray, the trees so cold, the bullets behind me so fire filled . . .
They were falling behind me, their tanks slowed by the trees! The terrain in front of me continued to be inhabited by trees! I just had to keep running, just had to keep pumping my legs, keep breathing, keep ignoring the picture that was racing through my mind, the picture of Stackhouse, standing, the picture of Stackhouse, falling . . .
My legs still moved and my chest still stung.
But suddenly the trees in front of me were red.
Sasha left the fallen American where he lay with blood streaming from his back and ran to where Lokar stood with his second-in-command, Bazda.
"Lokar," he spat in Russian. "Let me go after the other American. You want this man dead and I can do it. Send me. Only me."
"That's ridiculous!" Bazda said immediately. "He's running alone. He's scared and has nowhere to go. We'll catch him in good time."
"Hold your tongue!" Sasha moved away from the man who competed with him to be Miroslav Lokar's second man. "You don't know anything!"
"Silence, both of you!" Lokar glared furiously at them both. "You both find him. You work together. I want his head in two days!" The military leader glanced at where the first American man still lay, blood still trickling from the bullet wound that Sasha had given him. He stared at that for a long while.
"Lokar," Bazda said, breaking the man out of his trance. "No, we can capture him. Do not let this . . . man find the American. He will kill him and drown the body."
Sasha stared at him in contempt, but said nothing.
"Stop arguing." Lokar finally looked at them both. "You will get along and find him. Kill him and . . ." his gaze went back to the bloody American. "Bring me that one's body."
"Let it rot," Bazda snarled. "Filthy American."
"They'll want his body back, you fool," Sasha snapped. "I'll get it."
"Let it rot," Bazda said, looking at Lokar.
"Get it, Sasha." Lokar stared at Bazda, his eyes burning. "You will not fight this man, you will not! Now get over there and find that other one."
Bazda wisely said nothing this time.
Sasha looked at him superciliously, then started towards the American. Bazda hesitated, but another look from Lokar sent him scurrying after his rival, and now his partner.
Lokar stared after them, then looked back to the fallen American.
Something was not right, but there wasn't time for that now. He went after his captain and started to shout orders.
The cliff face was high and rocky, its jagged edges thrusting out like daggers.
I had left the tanks and men far behind a few minutes ago. My chest was still cold and painful, and now my ankle was hurting. I must have had tripped over something when I had been fleeing the Serbs. It hurt to apply too much pressure, but there was nothing I could do about it.
I took the radio out of my pouch and tried a frequency. "Alpha Whiskey, this is Arc Angel 0-6, Alpha Whiskey this is Arc 0-6, over."
There was a slight buzz.
I felt panic sweep through me as my hands began to shake.
"Alpha Whiskey, this is Arc Angel 0-6, please reply!"
It buzzed louder.
No. I looked up the rock face.
This was my only way to contact the Carl Vinson. I needed to get to them. I needed to get out of his country.
I sucked in my breath and tried to look at this objectively. This wasn't me. I just had to get to the top. Nobody was chasing me and Stackhouse wasn't dead.
But Stackhouse is dead and his killers are chasing me.
No. He was not and this was one of the mountains that I had used to climb back home in the States.
Yes. That was the answer.
I replaced the radio back into my pouch and tested my ankle. It held my weight, but stung. No matter. I could make it. I gathered a hold on the cliff and started to climb up.
"Admiral Piquet is in a conference with Donnelley," O'Malley reported to Reigart inside his office. "They cannot be disturbed and will get back to us as soon as possible."
"That's good," said Reigart sarcastically, then looked out his window into the deep ocean. "Any word from the plane?"
"None yet," O'Malley answered, his voice dejected. "Maybe they didn't make it."
"Don't-"
"Admiral!"
A crewmember burst into the office.
"Sir, we have a signal from Arc Angel," he panted. O'Malley looked at Reigart, speechless.
"Don't ever say that, O'Malley," Riegart advised, then went after the man back to the main deck.
He almost crashed into the man in front of him when he reached the deck. Lt. Chris Burnett's voice was around him, loud and cracked.
"What's wrong?" he asked loudly.
"The homing beacon on the ejection seat is interfering," said one of the controllers.
"Shut it off," he said.
"Alpha Whiskey?" I shook the radio. The voice had been faint and barely there, but it had been there. Now I heard a large amount of static, with only a monotone that sounded like a voice. "Alpha Whiskey, this is Arc Angel 0-6, over."
"Arc Angel, this is Alpha Whiskey."
I almost stood up and shouted my joy so that it would echo from the mountaintop down to the valley below and flood the country of Bosnia.
"Arc Angle, confirm a count," said a voice I now recognized as Admiral Reigart's.
I sat down very suddenly, very hard.
My chest started to hurt again. I had climbed the mountain carelessly, only intent on getting to my destination. But now Stackhouse's death came back to me. Now the fact his murderers were chasing me came back to me.
"0-6, confirm a count."
"One down, Stackhouse, they shot him." I lowered my head, tears welling in back of my eyes.
"No names over the net!" There was a shaky pause. "Recalculate and repeat."
I took calming breaths. "One down, confirmed. The Serbs . . . they . . . they killed my pilot."
There was a long pause and when Reigart came back on again, he sounded like he didn't believe me. "Calm down a minute, son. Are you saying an uniformed officer shot your pilot?"
Anger exploded with me, mingling with the tears in back of my eyes to produce nothing now but a suffocating steam. "No, I'm saying they executed him. I repeat, they executed him and now they're chasing me."
"Chasing you?"
"Damn you, they killed him and now they're chasing me!"
"Take it easy, take it easy. Consult your maps and check for the rendezvous point."
I blinked and opened the pocket on my pants and took out the map of the Bosnian country. He read out of some numbers and I found it. It wasn't far, about five miles to my east.
"Maintain radio silence and will meet at 1500 hours," Reigart said, his voice somehow more compassionate than I would ever think it could be. "Just get yourself to the RP, son."
"Over, out." I replaced the radio and stared out at the Bosnian countryside. This was such a beautiful country. It had lovely scenery and was even lovelier in the spring.
But now it was smothered in sickening red. It was dripping with tears and bullet wounds and lost lives and blood.
The air was sharp and painful, the cruelest winter wind. I looked down the mountain that I just scaled up. I had to go back down now. This time I couldn't run. This time I couldn't forget about my destination. This time I had to think and use my tools and reach the RP.
If only I hadn't taken Stackhouse away from the course. If only I hadn't insisted. Why wasn't I the one that had died? Why was Stackhouse that had taken the punishment for the havoc I had reaped?
I looked once more about the ravaged Bosnian countryside.
So colorful now. So colorful because now the countryside was draped with nothing but red.
A/N: the first two parts of this fic I was going really fast, because I wanted to get into the meat of it. Now I'm going to slow down and explain things more. Okay? Get it, got it, good.
Here is the next part of "The Sorrow of the World Cannot Add Up to Now."
Painted Red
Chapter Three
"You've thrown a hell of a party, sir," Master Chief Tom O'Malley told Admiral Leslie Reigart as they sat at the grand table, eating their food off of the glass plates.
"We like Christmas," Reigart replied, nodding his head, his eyes casting out at the soldiers in front of him. There were many at this time, all happy to be away from the monotone of everyday life aboard the ship. At the top of that list would be Lt. Chris Burnett.
He felt anger at the very thought. The boy was just that, a boy, and he acted like he knew everything in the whole damn world. What gave him the nerve to ask to be let out of the Navy? He didn't have any right. Sure, the life onboard might be the painfully the same everyday, and also boring down to its very pure core, but it was necessary.
It never ceased to amaze Reigart how extremely arrogant his men were of that fact. The drills were made to keep the men on their toes, to keep them constantly alert and aware of what they had to do. It didn't matter if they weren't at war! Half the time in the world they weren't and war, but who the hell cared? War was something delicate and rugged at the same time. It could be broken and started easily, and then the hardest thing in the world to erase. The drills and training prepared men for that, made them what they were! What if a bomb suddenly dropped in the ocean at that very moment? The damn drills and training would come into play then and there and save lives!
How could somebody as naïve and green as Burnett tell him what to do?
"Sir." It was a man, leaning down to whisper in his ear. "Sir, we've lost an F-18 and need your assistance immediately."
What?
He looked up at the seaman apprentice in disbelief.
"Sir," the man said again, more urgently.
"I'm coming." He turned to O'Malley. "Come on." He stood up and dropped his fork with an angry clatter. How could they have lost an F-18?
"It's Arc Angel 0-6," said the apprentice as they hurried down the halls towards the main deck.
"Stackhouse and Burnett!" Damn them! "Goddamn it, I put them on holiday mission! What the hell were they doing?"
"What happened?" O'Malley asked, alarmed. "What about them?'
"They got shot down," Reigart growled as they reached the deck. "Where?"
"Sir," said a new man, an intelligence specialist. "Come, I'll show you what happened."
The man led them through the maze that was the main deck to a large glass computer screen. It showed a lay out of land, along with ocean and many lines.
"This is Bosnia," the specialist said, pointing. A yellow line zigged forward and across the land, back into the sea. "That is the route Arc Angel was supposed to take. Their actual course shows in red." A red line appeared. It moved forward fluidly, staying on the yellow one for half the way, then suddenly arching into the Bosnian countryside. A dot began to blink by the yellow line. "We lost radio contact here and from whatever little data we can find, we think they were being painted."
"Painted?" Riegart asked, shocked. "By whom?"
"We're not sure, sir. It could be anybody." The specialist started to tick off on his fingers. "The rebels, the Serbs, some other out of state military force, a militia-"
"I get the point," Riegart snarled, staring up at the glass screen. "Have you tried contacting the radio?"
"It dosen't work. Their probably too densely covered to get a good enough reception."
"That's all?" Riegart felt a migraine begin to start behind his eyes. Of all the days, it had to be Christmas. What had happened? What could have taken them off their flight path?
"Nothing right now, sir. If they ejected, we might be able to find the homing beacon on the ejection seat. It also could be cutting off their signal. Would you like us to turn it off?"
"No. Keep in on so we at least have some damn idea about where the hell they are." He turned to O'Malley. "Contact Piquet and Donnelley," he told him, naming the commanders of NATO forces. "Tell them what's happened. Tell them there is a possible situation, but not to get too steamed and we need to wait." He started away, to his private quarters. "No names," he said over his shoulder.
"Aye aye, sir," O'Malley replied and darted in front of him, hurriedly walking towards the bow of the ship.
"Tell me if anything comes up," Reigart told the spec. behind him. "Got it?"
"Yes, sir," the specialist answered smartly. "Anything, sir."
"Good." Reigart stormed away from him and out of the bustling dark place. Questions, mindless, stupid questions went through his mind. If they had only stayed on the damn flight path! It was stupid of them to fly from it. It would violate the treaty!
Admiral Piquet had recently created a treaty, a cease-fire treaty almost, with Bosnia. NATO forces were withdrawing from Bosnia now, with only four days left to go. The treaty stated that Bosnian militants and military would not fire upon American troops, but only if the Americans agreed to stay in restricted areas. Admiral Piquet had ordered Reigart to command his pilots to stay on the agreed flight paths and trails.
Reigart thought he had made it clear to all his pilots. Appearently, that was not true for Stackhouse and Burnett.
"If only the damned fools had stayed on their flight path," he cursed as he approached his quarters. "They're going to get themselves killed."
The bullets were thunking into the ground behind me, into the naked trees on either side of me. I could hear the angry bursts of the guns as they clicked off, hear the shouts and yells of the men behind me, chasing me.
The wind whistled past my ears. The breath inside of my chest felt cold and painful. And still, the bullets rained down behind.
God, they had killed Stackhouse. God, they were trying to kill me. God, the sky was so gray, the trees so cold, the bullets behind me so fire filled . . .
They were falling behind me, their tanks slowed by the trees! The terrain in front of me continued to be inhabited by trees! I just had to keep running, just had to keep pumping my legs, keep breathing, keep ignoring the picture that was racing through my mind, the picture of Stackhouse, standing, the picture of Stackhouse, falling . . .
My legs still moved and my chest still stung.
But suddenly the trees in front of me were red.
Sasha left the fallen American where he lay with blood streaming from his back and ran to where Lokar stood with his second-in-command, Bazda.
"Lokar," he spat in Russian. "Let me go after the other American. You want this man dead and I can do it. Send me. Only me."
"That's ridiculous!" Bazda said immediately. "He's running alone. He's scared and has nowhere to go. We'll catch him in good time."
"Hold your tongue!" Sasha moved away from the man who competed with him to be Miroslav Lokar's second man. "You don't know anything!"
"Silence, both of you!" Lokar glared furiously at them both. "You both find him. You work together. I want his head in two days!" The military leader glanced at where the first American man still lay, blood still trickling from the bullet wound that Sasha had given him. He stared at that for a long while.
"Lokar," Bazda said, breaking the man out of his trance. "No, we can capture him. Do not let this . . . man find the American. He will kill him and drown the body."
Sasha stared at him in contempt, but said nothing.
"Stop arguing." Lokar finally looked at them both. "You will get along and find him. Kill him and . . ." his gaze went back to the bloody American. "Bring me that one's body."
"Let it rot," Bazda snarled. "Filthy American."
"They'll want his body back, you fool," Sasha snapped. "I'll get it."
"Let it rot," Bazda said, looking at Lokar.
"Get it, Sasha." Lokar stared at Bazda, his eyes burning. "You will not fight this man, you will not! Now get over there and find that other one."
Bazda wisely said nothing this time.
Sasha looked at him superciliously, then started towards the American. Bazda hesitated, but another look from Lokar sent him scurrying after his rival, and now his partner.
Lokar stared after them, then looked back to the fallen American.
Something was not right, but there wasn't time for that now. He went after his captain and started to shout orders.
The cliff face was high and rocky, its jagged edges thrusting out like daggers.
I had left the tanks and men far behind a few minutes ago. My chest was still cold and painful, and now my ankle was hurting. I must have had tripped over something when I had been fleeing the Serbs. It hurt to apply too much pressure, but there was nothing I could do about it.
I took the radio out of my pouch and tried a frequency. "Alpha Whiskey, this is Arc Angel 0-6, Alpha Whiskey this is Arc 0-6, over."
There was a slight buzz.
I felt panic sweep through me as my hands began to shake.
"Alpha Whiskey, this is Arc Angel 0-6, please reply!"
It buzzed louder.
No. I looked up the rock face.
This was my only way to contact the Carl Vinson. I needed to get to them. I needed to get out of his country.
I sucked in my breath and tried to look at this objectively. This wasn't me. I just had to get to the top. Nobody was chasing me and Stackhouse wasn't dead.
But Stackhouse is dead and his killers are chasing me.
No. He was not and this was one of the mountains that I had used to climb back home in the States.
Yes. That was the answer.
I replaced the radio back into my pouch and tested my ankle. It held my weight, but stung. No matter. I could make it. I gathered a hold on the cliff and started to climb up.
"Admiral Piquet is in a conference with Donnelley," O'Malley reported to Reigart inside his office. "They cannot be disturbed and will get back to us as soon as possible."
"That's good," said Reigart sarcastically, then looked out his window into the deep ocean. "Any word from the plane?"
"None yet," O'Malley answered, his voice dejected. "Maybe they didn't make it."
"Don't-"
"Admiral!"
A crewmember burst into the office.
"Sir, we have a signal from Arc Angel," he panted. O'Malley looked at Reigart, speechless.
"Don't ever say that, O'Malley," Riegart advised, then went after the man back to the main deck.
He almost crashed into the man in front of him when he reached the deck. Lt. Chris Burnett's voice was around him, loud and cracked.
"What's wrong?" he asked loudly.
"The homing beacon on the ejection seat is interfering," said one of the controllers.
"Shut it off," he said.
"Alpha Whiskey?" I shook the radio. The voice had been faint and barely there, but it had been there. Now I heard a large amount of static, with only a monotone that sounded like a voice. "Alpha Whiskey, this is Arc Angel 0-6, over."
"Arc Angel, this is Alpha Whiskey."
I almost stood up and shouted my joy so that it would echo from the mountaintop down to the valley below and flood the country of Bosnia.
"Arc Angle, confirm a count," said a voice I now recognized as Admiral Reigart's.
I sat down very suddenly, very hard.
My chest started to hurt again. I had climbed the mountain carelessly, only intent on getting to my destination. But now Stackhouse's death came back to me. Now the fact his murderers were chasing me came back to me.
"0-6, confirm a count."
"One down, Stackhouse, they shot him." I lowered my head, tears welling in back of my eyes.
"No names over the net!" There was a shaky pause. "Recalculate and repeat."
I took calming breaths. "One down, confirmed. The Serbs . . . they . . . they killed my pilot."
There was a long pause and when Reigart came back on again, he sounded like he didn't believe me. "Calm down a minute, son. Are you saying an uniformed officer shot your pilot?"
Anger exploded with me, mingling with the tears in back of my eyes to produce nothing now but a suffocating steam. "No, I'm saying they executed him. I repeat, they executed him and now they're chasing me."
"Chasing you?"
"Damn you, they killed him and now they're chasing me!"
"Take it easy, take it easy. Consult your maps and check for the rendezvous point."
I blinked and opened the pocket on my pants and took out the map of the Bosnian country. He read out of some numbers and I found it. It wasn't far, about five miles to my east.
"Maintain radio silence and will meet at 1500 hours," Reigart said, his voice somehow more compassionate than I would ever think it could be. "Just get yourself to the RP, son."
"Over, out." I replaced the radio and stared out at the Bosnian countryside. This was such a beautiful country. It had lovely scenery and was even lovelier in the spring.
But now it was smothered in sickening red. It was dripping with tears and bullet wounds and lost lives and blood.
The air was sharp and painful, the cruelest winter wind. I looked down the mountain that I just scaled up. I had to go back down now. This time I couldn't run. This time I couldn't forget about my destination. This time I had to think and use my tools and reach the RP.
If only I hadn't taken Stackhouse away from the course. If only I hadn't insisted. Why wasn't I the one that had died? Why was Stackhouse that had taken the punishment for the havoc I had reaped?
I looked once more about the ravaged Bosnian countryside.
So colorful now. So colorful because now the countryside was draped with nothing but red.