Radio Free Earth III: The Ring of Fire

A quick breeze flitted over the fifty foot limestone cliffs that wrapped around the southernmost section of the island. With it came the waves. Dashing in madly from some place to the southeast of the island, the waves formed small white crests and relentlessly smashed themselves into the base of the cliffs, launching the salt spray high into the air. In places the water had undercut the limestone, forming small overhangs that would one day bring the cliffs crashing down. But for all the seeming enthusiasm of the waves, the Pacific hardly seemed to be in a hurry. Undercutting the island, if only by a few feet, had taken the wind and waves a good fifteen hundred years. It had time to deal with this impudent speck of land--all the time in the world.

On top of the cliffs, or more properly, about a hundred feet behind them, rose a spindly tower that seemed strangely out of place. It wasn't that the tower looked alien, menacing, or was even particularly noteworthy. It was just that in some unfathomable way, the slim steel edifice didn't seem to fit the place—like a mob of randy drunken Mennonites throwing beads to young women at Mardi Gras. At intervals, cables ran down and outwards, anchoring the tower to the limestone beneath it. This was supposed to prevent the tower from swaying in even the strongest of winds. However, it was readily apparent that the tower's designer probably never even thought of accounting for two hundred odd pounds of foul-mouthed NCO.

Gabe angrily waved his hat at one of the gulls perched above him. "Damn blasted birds! Why couldn't the Invid wipe you out too?" The gull gave him an incredulous look, and screeched. It was just a bird. He should know better than to be yelling at it in that tone of voice. Besides, where else would it poop?

Muttering obscenities he kept climbing the tower. His transmitter's main antenna had been damaged in last night's storm when a bolt of lightning had struck the tower. The scattered mess of burnt feathers near the base of the tower, combined with some blown out tubes in the broadcasting shack had been proof enough. Sometimes he would stop and check his safety "harness." A simple rope sling was all that kept him from an almost certain death should he lose his grip on the radio tower. Gabe gritted his teeth and reached in one of his pockets. After fishing around for a moment, his fingers closed around the handle of a wrench. Gabe held it up in the sunlight. On one side of the wrench were engraved the initials "J.B." They glinted in the South Pacific sun.

"It's been a while since we've been deployed Flag."

"No shit Gabe. But I for one…" James Bernard, age 24, bent over the pool table. He squinted and took the shot "Five ball, corner pocket." The ivory white cue ball rushed the length of the table. "…am perfectly fine with letting the Southern Cross take the ass-pounding from the Masters. Better them than us." It clacked against the thirteen-ball, knocking it into the center of the table. Flag swore under his breath. "It's your shot Gabe."

"It feels like bad luck being active this long without any action." Gabe countered. "We haven't seen –any- offensive moves from the Masters, and the most we've seen here—since that firefight with the 5th Army a few weeks ago is a drunk NCO or five." He shrugged. "Call it an old soldier's intuition, but something should be happening."

James laughed, and slapped his friend on the back. "You worry too much Gramps. you're not going to see any more action beyond perhaps…" His gaze wandered towards the bar. He nodded towards a red-haired Zentraedi woman in officer's stripes. "…that Lieutenant's sweet ass." he finished.

Gabe ignored the remark and walked to the opposite end of the green felted pool table, crouched down, and struck the cue ball. He missed, and the ball geared off to the left. "Damn James, I think the game is yours." He stood and began to turn away from the table.

"Don't be so quick to give in Sarge…" James squinted down the length of his cue. There was a brief clack as he struck the ivory white cue ball, sending it screaming across the felted table. It struck the one ball, pocketing it. The corporal smiled. "…Although I think you might not want to bet on winning this game."

Gabe blinked, looked back at the table, and nearly did a double take. The balls spun and struck against each other. One, two, three, four! His "missed shot" had sunk every one of his balls but the black eight-ball. The cue bounced off one of the felted table edges, and spun towards a corner pocket, seemingly determined to strike the eight-ball.

Both soldiers held their breath. The cue rolled to a stop, barely an inch from the eight ball.

"Hah" James threw a fist into the air and bellowed. "Victory shall be mine!" He bent down, and took his shot, hitting nothing but felt. He frowned "Speaking of that, you hear anything about the result of Charles' court martial?"

"Yeah…His ass didn't get chewed nearly as bad as I thought it would."

"Good thing it was Charles, otherwise they would've tossed him in the brig and thrown away the key" remarked the Corporal. "What did he get for the punch-up?"

"A stern reprimand and subsequent psychological evaluation" Gabe replied, glibly pocketing the four.

James scoffed "Really? I thought the Major was more of a hard-ass about intra-service fighting than that. You know his line about that sort of shit…"

"Yeah" replied Gabe. "If you want to beat the hell out of some dumb bastard, make sure he's wearing a Southern Cross uniform first." The Sergeant leaned back against the wall. "But put yourself in the Major's position. Are you really going to bust one of the best damn Gunnery Sergeants in the division down to an E-3 just for getting drunk and picking a fight with, get this, a –Macronized- E-2?"

"Macronized?" James raised an eyebrow. That was something he hadn't heard.

"I hear they're now considering him for a promotion to Master Sergeant." Gabe offered. He struck a pose, imitating Major Reynolds' unimpressive figure. "…Any man who'd pick, much less win, a fight with a Macron is either insane, fifty feet tall, or has a pair and a half. This tribunal finds that Gunnery Sergeant Charles Jackson is just the sort of enlisted man we need in the Confederate Armed Forces. The tribunal also recommends minor disciplinary action be taken, concurrent with subsequent promotion. Trial dismissed."

Gabe took his next shot, hitting nothing but felt.

James doubled over laughing. Gabe's imitation of Reynolds' weedy voice had been nearly flawless. "Fuck it man, that's the Major to a tee." Trying to control his laughter, he crouched down and lined up his cue to shoot what would ostensibly, the winning shot of the game. There was only one ball left—the Eight Ball. He looked over to Gave "You're buying the drinks Sarge -- after I pocket this last one."

A few seconds later, the eight ball fell into a corner pocket with an anticlimactic clack, and the two servicemen made for the bar. Gabe smiled inwardly. Perhaps he would make a pass at the Lieutenant. She was still there, the night was young, and so was he—relatively speaking. Over the radio crackled the deep voice of Johnny Cash.

Love Is A Burning Thing
And It Makes A Fiery Ring
Bound By Wild Desire
I Fell Into A Ring Of Fire

She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned her head. A dark-eyed NCO smiled at her.

"Can I buy you a drink?"

Teyna Amigosil Ihlyrena smiled. This was a cute one. "Mmhmm…Do your pockets talk as well?" In the background the strains of Johnny and June Carter Cash echoed through time.

I Fell Into A Burning Ring Of Fire
I Went Down, Down, Down
And The Flames Went Higher

Gabe shrugged. "Screwdrivers alright with you?"

The Zentraedi officer shook her head. "A Bloody Mary is the thing for an evening like this."

Looking down the table Gabe called to the bartender. "Hey Steve. Can I get a Screwdriver, and a Bloody Mary for the lady here?" He felt someone nudge his ribs. Damn, he had momentarily forgotten about James. Gabe called out again "…And get something for this Corporal here. The man hasn't had a proper drink since the Apocalypse."