I am six years old again, walking through the woods on a bright, clear sunny day. The thick bed of dead leaves and moss feels glorious on my tiny bare feet and I'm still too young to care that my homespun dress is fast becoming soaked as I gleefully jump through every brook, stream, and mud puddle that I come across.
I'm so content, that I hum an old tune that my father whistles for me sometimes on the nights when I sit on his knee and gaze at the stars on our back porch back home in District 7. He didn't come on this trip with my mother and me. She insisted that it be "just the girls" this time, much to my chagrin. Even at this young age, I realize that I love spending time with my father much more than her…even though my many similarities to her can't be denied. She is just too smothering…too controlling. She always screams and cries at the strangest times and never lets me do what I want to do. Instead, she lectures and preaches about the dangers of everything outside of her direct control. That's why I ran off the first time she turned her back on me. I just wanted to be free for a few brief moments.
It's so warm and wonderful this day, part of me hopes she'll never find me and I can just be on my own forever. I actually giggle out loud at the sight of a fat squirrel munching on an acorn in a nearby tree.
"Hello, Mr. Squirrel!" I squeak loudly. The animal quickly becomes alarmed at my presence and starts leaping from branch to branch in an attempt to flee his strange new admirer. I happily give chase through the woods until I lose him to the top of a tall tree. Even though he's disappeared now, he's still managed to lead me to a wonderful green meadow filled with wild raspberry bushes…my favorite.
In a flash, I'm on my hands and knees, greedily shoving handfuls of the delicious ripe fruit into my little mouth. I'm so engrossed, that I don't notice the other visitor attracted to the promise of a quick and tasty snack.
Suddenly, I hear a loud rustling in a bush only a few feet away. I freeze in terror as a giant black bear crashes into the meadow and catches my scent. A deep growl emanates from his gullet and his nostrils flair open angrily. With a roar, he rears back onto his hind legs, towering over my cowering, miniscule frame. Even if I could find the courage to flee, I know it's useless to attempt any kind of escape. Instead, I just brace myself for the inevitable.
Just as the bear prepares to charge, a glistening flash flies straight over my head. I look on in awe as a hatchet buries itself deep into the animal's skull. He stumbles a bit, and then collapses forward onto his gigantic belly. A see a human silhouette jump out of the undergrowth, leap onto the bear's back, and wrench her blade from the creature's forehead. It is my mother…
"I'd thought you know better than anyone else not to mess with a mother's cub!" she screams as she hacks downward into the bear's jugular vein, dispatching him once and for all in a bright spray of crimson.
I'm still frozen in shock as my mother rips her hatchet from the bear's hide, gives it a quick snap of the wrist to flick the blood off the edge, and then comes barreling straight for me.
"Olivia!" she yells angrily as she grabs my little arm so hard that it hurts. Her piercing brown eyes burn into me like two embers. "Never run off like that again. This is the Canada! There are dangers here around every bush and branch. That bear is probably the safest thing you could have come across.
I cannot ever lose you! You are too important and you are all I care about. Do you understand me?" I feel my lip start to quiver and tears straight streaming down my cheeks.
"I'm sorry, Mommy," is all I can manage to squeak. Then, she immediately realizes that she's gone too far as usual.
"It's ok, Baby," she says as her voice softens to a motherly whisper. "You're safe and sound. Mommy's here." My mother pulls me close into her chest and slowly rubs my back until the tears stop. Then, she gently takes me by the hand and leads me back to the center of the meadow. She grabs a handful of berries from a nearby bush and starts playfully feeding them to me. I giggle again as one explodes in my mouth, sending a little bit of juice down my lips.
I look up to my mother, who seems to have something weighing on her mind. She grabs her hatchet and holds it up in front of me. It is still stained dark red from the bear's blood.
"Olivia," she says growing quite serious. "You need to learn how to use this. It will keep you safe, wherever you go…"
"Sergeant Major…" my eyes fly open as I feel someone shake my leg. "Sergeant Major, I'm sorry to wake you," Private Weaver says leaning over my seat on the hovercraft, "but Lieutenant Colonel Bixby wanted me to get you. He's up in the cockpit with the pilots. We're on our final approach."
"Thanks, Weaves," I say as I shake my head back to the present. "Take your seat."
"Yes, Sergeant Major," she says as she disappears back toward the troop compartment. I unbuckle my harness and climb to my feet. I look down the long fuselage of the transport at row after row of seats filled with anxious soldiers ready to hit the ground running. This ship, and nine more just like it have flown in close formation all the way across the Atlantic, made a quick jump across Iberia, and then over across the Mediterranean.
I make my way up to the open cockpit door where I find Bixby standing over the pilot's shoulder and looking out the front viewscreen. The dim outline of a brown, rocky coast looms in the distance with turquoise blue water dancing around it's shore. My first view of Isla Cartina is not a good one. It looks like nothing more than a barren knob in the middle of the sea.
"Have a nice nap, Sergeant Major?" Bixby asks as I take my place next to him.
"I guess you could call it that, Sir," I say still rubbing a little bit of sleep from my eyes.
"Gunslinger One, this is Mariner Base. You and your formation and cleared for landing. Welcome to Isla Cartina." a voice suddenly crackles over the radio.
"Roger, Mariner Base," the pilot replies keying his headset. "We appreciate the hospitality."
"Back in the badlands…" Bixby mutters under his breath.
"Not as bad as the lands a couple hundred clicks south, Sir," I reply looking over to him. He just gives a nervous nod.
Our hovercraft zooms over the rocky coastline and approaches the tarmac. The pilots give a long slow circle over the landing zone as the ground controllers guide us in with bright orange paddles.
Sparse barely even begins to describe Joint Operating Base Mariner, an isolated little outpost in the middle of the deep blue sea. It is a collection of eight large aircraft hangars and what appears to be a headquarters building. One can only tell because it has three crudely constructed flagpoles in front of it. The banners of Francia and Italia flutter in the breeze on either side of the bright blue flag of the Independent States of Europe Joint Defense Command. It is too eerily similar to the TEC banner to be of much comfort.
The pilot brings the hovercraft to a gentle landing. Before disembarking, I get on the radio to inform the first sergeants in the other hovercraft to start an orderly unloading of our equipment. Then, Bixby and I head down the ramp and into the bright Mediterranean sun.
"Not much to look at, is it?" he says bemusedly.
"That's the understatement of the year," I say without looking at him. "Sir, this place looks like it can barely support the Europeans stationed here more or less us. I certainly don't want to have to stage a landing in Africa from this place."
"I don't know, Sergeant Major," Bixby says shaking his head. "I don't think we have a choice."
"Now, we don't, Sir," I reply. "The time to bring up that fact would have been in the planning meeting with General Hallonger."
"Noted," he says looking down at the ground a little embarrassed.
We look up to a see a figure emerge from the headquarters building and walk towards us. Despite the collapse of the TEC, the Europeans still retain much of its old equipment for their militaries. They still wear the same blue armor, except that the faceless, visored helmets have been replaced with blue berets. The man who now grows closer and closer appears to be an officer, and a rather high-ranking one at that.
Bixby and I both salute out of respect. The officer returns the gesture before introducing himself in a thick, Italian accent.
"Colonel Giacomo Ribaldi, Italian Ground Forces and commander of Joint Operating Base Mariner. You must be Lieutenant Colonel Bixby and Sergeant Major Hightower."
"Yes, Sir," Bixby says shaking the Colonel's hand.
"Welcome," Colonel Ribaldi says more than somewhat detached. "I'm afraid you have not arrived a moment too soon. The situation has continued to grow worse in Tripolitania. My command on the mainland requests that you begin your aerial aid delivery operations as soon as possible."
"Sergeant Major?" Bixby says turning to me.
"We've already brought the first 72 hours of aid shipments with us aboard our hovercraft, Sir," I say to Colonel Ribaldi. "If you give us the rest of the day to settle in, we should be able to send the first push out tomorrow morning."
"Excellent," he says to us both. "My team here will show you to the accommodations we have reserved for you. I'm afraid they may not be as luxurious as you may be used to…"
Unfortunately, the "accommodations" that Colonel Ribaldi were referring to are two empty hangars at the far end of the tarmac. Five hundred Gunslingers somehow manage to cram all their equipment and belongings into the two buildings with barely enough room to set up cots to sleep on. The result is something that appears to be more indoor gypsy camp than military billeting. In typical European fashion, Bixby and I are offered "real" quarters in the headquarters building along with Colonel Ribaldi and his staff but I refuse.
"A leader's place is with her soldiers," I say expecting a reaction from Ribaldi. All I receive in return is a mild snicker and the words
"Suit Yourself."
Much to my surprise, Bixby also refuses Ribaldi's offer and agrees to move into the hangars with the men.
"He's learning…at least a little," I think to myself with a chuckle as I watch him desperately try to unfold an army cot in the end of one of the crowded and cramped hangars.
As the burning sun begins to set over the western waves, Bixby and I take a walk along the shoreline to discuss the forthcoming missions.
"They'll begin loading the pallets of aid onto the first transport tomorrow at 0600. Skids up at 0700, Sir," I say taking in the scenery.
"Good, good," Bixby says lost in thought. "I want to try to launch a transport every twelve hours, each with a different target location on the ground. That way, we can keep the militias from being able to target one area and hopefully get some help to the people that need it."
"Sounds like a plan, Sir," I say more than a little impressed. I pause a bit before my next statement. "I want to go up with the first transport in the morning."
"Why?" Bixby replies confused.
"Maps and photo recons are one thing, Sir," but I want to see Tripolitania with my own eyes. Maybe start to get an idea of the terrain in case we have to plan landing sites."
"Alright," Bixby says apparently afraid to disagree with my logic. "Do you want me to come along?"
"Negative, Sir," I say firmly. "Not right now at least. I need you in that command center with Ribaldi acting as a liaison until he gets the warm and fuzzy on how we do business." Bixby just nods his head slowly.
"You know something, Sergeant Major," he finally speaks.
"What's that, Sir?"
"You were absolutely right. This whole thing seems rushed and unorganized…" I flash him a look of disdain before he corrects himself, "…but not on our part, I mean. The Europeans weren't prepared to receive us and I can't get any response from the Ministry on how or when we'll get some more help from Panem. It's like they just shoved us out the door and said 'Good Luck."
"Well, Sir, I hope this helps you realize that just because a high ranking officer made it… doesn't mean the plan holds water." He chuckles a little bit to himself.
"Roger, that."
"One good thing is coming out of this though, Sir."
"And that is?"
"When they saw where they'd be living for the next few months, the men have suddenly become a lot more motivated to complete this mission and get the hell out of here." For the first time, he and I finally start to enjoy each other's company as the sound of our laughter echoes off the rocks and out over the dancing waves.