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“The final reserve…”

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“The final reserve…”

Post  ABigSoggy Wafle on 21st January 2010, 1:40 am

Prologue/ chapter 1



________________________________________
The sound of gun fire rang out in the distance, then the zipping of the hot lead en route towards the squadron’s 5th man. The sounds of Arabic commands were being shouted in between gun fire. The 4 soldiers blind fired into the cloud of yellow dust that had sprung up.
“3 enemy tangos! Twelve O’ Clock!” the sergeant bellowed his voice from behind a sandbag barrier towards the 3 men crouching subsequent to the make shift cover made of scrap metal and sand. Sergeant Boon has a typical back story. Born in Illinois, went to school, and killed 2 family members over a game of cards. He was tried and got off easy with being found guilty for manslaughter in the 2nd. The “Serge” was a burly built Caucasian. He was the defining stereotypical image of a sergeant. From his number one hair cut, to his extreme neatness, and even to the southern accent which spit orders at Pt. Crowell.
Crowell was a 6’7’’ heavy set African American who seemed like a juggernaut to everyone who met him. He was enlisted into the army because of a brutal triple homicide was linked to him. He needed to get out of the country before the one man still living would identify him. He was too worried though, the eye witness was suppose to be the 4th victim but, you can only bludgeoned 3 cops to death outside a police station before you hear “PUT YOUR HANDS BEHIND YOU BACK!” The 4th one got away with only a punctured lung, a fractured jaw, and a blown knee cap. Lucky for him. Needless to say, Crowell found refuge at a local bar then the next day, enlisted for the army for the reason “He wanted to help his country in a time of need.” The interviewers gobbled it up and shipped him off. Those are just the facts, you don’t want to hear the rumors… “Mordici! I need suppressing fire!” Crowell crouched back down behind the wall of sand after emptying the entire 200 shots in his LMG that just looked like it weighed just as much as he did.
Mordici was a Russian immigrant. He earned 3 marksman metals within the first day at the firing ranges. His father was a Spetsnaz officer for as long as Mordici can remember. His father was a grade A psychopath, though. He would burn his house down every time he would get back from a long mission. He would take little Mordici out back and have him run back and forth while his father threw spades at the target behind him. It wouldn’t have upset Mordici if his father wasn’t blind folded with ear plugs in, and at 2 in the morning making the spade an invisible blade that caused one too many scars. When Mordici reached 15 his father had managed to burn down 15 of their own houses, cause 35 trips to the hospital (those were only for emergencies for when Mordici’s father ran out of supplies to fix a fractured elbow or a 7 inch deep lesion.), and 12 wives to marry and divorce him. By age 17 Mordici was suppose to face a judge for 12 accounts of murdering 12 Spetsnaz officers in the first degree, use of illegal weapons, use of illegal explosives, destroying a government headquarters building, and plotting to kill the main officer himself Jakob Menorabich (aka: Mordici’s father). Being the descendant of a natural born killer, he wasn’t going to stick around for the trial. He fled to the states in hopes of finding his father. He knew he needed better training so; U.S. army seemed like the best choice. Being the marksman he is, a massive caliber sniper seemed best deemed for him. “You vant to help meh here, Mcumms? I don’t vant to vaste anoter bullet on dees pigs.” Mordici said nonchalantly as he dropped from his perch checking his clip seeing he has only one bullet missing but, 4 fresh kills lay on the hot sand with blood gleaming and all.
Jamie Mcummsy is his real name. He was… an outcast. He had a few friends but, slowly lost them before he made it to high school after trying out for the football team. He hadn’t even made it to the field before he was on the ground crying. He was a pale 5’ 5’’ kid with freckles covering 90% of his face. The other 10% was either acne or his thick rim glasses. He got his doctorate degree in various animal biology and care. He was going to be a veterinarian… was. His father was a bit of a war fanatic. He was supposed to be drafted but, was relived because he had webbed feet. He wanted someone in his family to have gone to war, and he chose Jamie. The kid had floundered in boot camp for 3 months longer than he should have because; the military didn’t deem him ready. Just before they kicked him out, his father made a generous sum of his entire retirement fund, his and his wife’s 401k, as well as any money he had saved up for Jamie. Obviously, the army deemed him ready for combat and sent him in for technical support and small arms fire. He had been in his company longer than anyone else. Even the Serge. He had seen men go from pathetic wimps to hard hitters and war machines in just weeks. He was in the “reserves company.” In other words, his squad (him and a kid with so many disorders, he ended up blowing his brains out after the first week. Not much of a squad.) shouldn't have see the light of day, much less any “action” because, they were sent to clean out an old base hidden in the mountains. The place was littered bodies of fallen Iraqis and dried blood that dripped and splattered in every direction. Mcumms never got any other orders but, to clean; that is, until now. Since the army was going in for the final push towards victory but heard of a massive counter attack, they wanted to beef up every company and send them to war. Mcumms didn’t mind the "no fighting" jobs. He actually enjoyed his old jobs more. But, as they say, nothing good lasts forever. Before he knew it, 12 new recruits as well as a second Serge showed up in hummers and said let’s get moving. Jamie didn’t even get a hello or anything. Everyone still figured he was a new guy just by the way he looked, when in actuality, he had been in Iraq for 2 and 1 half consecutive years. The guy who never even saw more than an ounce of fresh blood was now covered with a fallen squadron leaving only the best and Jamie behind.
“Well Jamie?! Are you just going to lie there cowering in fear or are you going to finish these liberals?!” Serge screamed at me. I had dirt caked on my glasses with blood as an icing. My clothes looked the same way. I hid under crevasse of sand, quivering and twitching as each shot whizzed into the barrier between me and immediate death. And yes, you read right. I am Jamie. Each of these men have been hand selected as the "most qualified" and "least forgotten" for the jobs we do here. If this is true, then why the heck am I here?
More shot flew by. They dinged against the metal sheath that cover the Sarge and covered his voice. One voice stood out. A voice I had forgot to mention. His name was Damian Steinbeck. It is ironic how the human mind works. He was the only guy nice to me and I forgot to mention him up until now. He was probably the closet thing I ever had to a friend. He cared about me more than my parents did. Anyway, the bullets were hitting harder and were coming at an angle now. If someone didn't do something we would have been flanked and killed. This is where Damian comes in. He took one glance at me and knew I couldn't even stand. His face went from sympathetic to angry to the Sarge blasting orders a someone who shouldn't even be in the army. He knew my whole story. His taught face rose up from under the sand dune and fired his assault rifle blindly. His face was concentrated and strong as he took a look down to me. He was saying something I couldn't hear very well over the gun fire and was pointing in the other direction from me. As I got up to move, he steps in front of me and all I see are jolts of his body just an inch away from my face. So close, you could feel the heat off of him. Then, the poison which paralyzed me psychologically poured out of him and onto me. I dropped to the ground in tears, gripping his body. The feeling of your heart dropping this far is only comparable to taking a toothpick on fire and jamming it under your big toe nail while kicking a door as hard as possible. The voices that rip at my very conscious today grew closer as I noticed the left flank was wide open with 10 soldiers armed to the teeth. I turned to run and noticed 5 more coming down on us hard. I just gripped the dirt until it was over.
“Fuck this.” Crowell had enough of my cowering and jumped up onto the mound from his machine gun pit on the left side of me and emptied another 200 rounds, eliminating anything within a 500 yard radius around him. The bullet casings fell onto my head before they clanged on the hard rocks that the wind had not yet claimed and crushed to dust. I could picture each shot entering the skull of at least 4 guys, causing blood to exploded and fall down like rose pedals, before my mind blocked it out and dropped into a depression.
The last round echoed through the Armenian hills and back.
“Out fucking standing Crowell!” Serge said interrupting the silence that was quietly lying like a blanket over the area. “You to Mordi…whatever! Too bad Dame took your bullet Mcumms." He began walking towards me, coming out of his cover. "I could have gotten a lot more out of him that I am getting out of YOU!” The Serge got in my face after examining one of our fallen brethren that lied just a few inches away from my shuttering body. I was in tears. My eyes were swollen and my nose was stuffed. My throat was clogged and my stomach tightened. I just wanted to die at this point. My facial expression changed as I heard the sounds of planes up above.
It is still too bad those were the Serge’s last words…


Last edited by ABigSoggy Wafle on 8th March 2010, 12:42 am; edited 7 times in total
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Re: “The final reserve…”

Post  ABigSoggy Wafle on 4th March 2010, 2:55 am

Chapter 2 “Irony”




________________________________________
When I think about it now however, you would think Z-day would start off on a much different note wouldn’t you? At least with some, brave men and women fighting to the end trying to stop the bombing, not me and some blood thirsty convicts looking for some fun. I am getting off track here... So after the Sarge had his fit, the loudest sound blasted into my ear drums like thunder on a hurricane night.
If you ever wanted to hear what a tactical missile strike sounds like just before it lands about 21 feet in front of you, imagine a banshee screaming just before a massive wave blows out your ear drums leaving only ringing. You don’t remember seeing much after something like that hits. However, the image of Sarge face just as the massive shrapnel stops on the other side of his head before a huge wave of heat lifts him 12+ yards towards me. I remember thinking, too bad you took that plate of shrapnel for me; I would have enjoyed being set free from this barren desert. It's funny how a human mind works under distress.
I knew I was lifted but, at the same time it was like me blacking out. It didn't feel anything and it felt like hours before I hit the ground. It is difficult to explain. I guess, it felt like jumping off the empire state building with your eyes close and you never realized you jumped. Like I said, weird how the human mind works under distress.
After the piercing white noise had stopped, the sound of things settling slowed my heart rate down. That is, before I opened my eyes to see a jagged ½ cm thick piece of metal staring me down in the face only to realize it was no longer moving because it was housed in the “revered” Sarge’s head. I pushed him off of me in haste. At the time, it was bad enough to witness someone get shot from a distance away, to have a dead body on my however, made me cringe and nearly break out into tears. And my father wondered why I didn’t want to go into the army.
I got up to feel the intense stinging in my right leg. I collapsed immediately onto my back. I grabbed my knee cap. I lifted my hands to see if there was blood. Thankfully it was only my shattered knee cap that caused the rest of my leg to sit limp in the glowing sand. I looked up to see how far I had traveled. Once I realized that smoldering rubble was what was left of our Hummvee and campsite, my jaw dropped. There lied a blood splash and a rain of falling debris and flesh; all surrounding a black smoldering crater. I was under the impression, I was the only one left in my squad.
I sat there for a moment, taking it all in. When you lose a squad mate in my reserve, it usually isn’t about the moral aspect, but the “Oh crap! Now the people that were going to shoot at him will shoot at me!” That is how it always was in our reserve. Human life slowly became an after thought. Unless that person was lying dead on top of you, you never really care. But, hell, if you were sent on these missions, you would understand why it was so important. Take this mission for example; we were supposed to apprehend one of the most heavily guarded men in the whole hemisphere. His name was something like Admïr something. The point was, we only had a handful of men and we had to get him in the middle of a fire fight. So picture this, you are on the opposite side of the battle field as the people who are suppose to be helping you, and you have keep your cool and manage to sneak into the building without setting off any alarm. Mind you, the place is guarded heavier than the UN. He obviously had something or was threatening something that got HQ’s attention; otherwise, they would have sent in an air raid and blew the fucker up. He must have had us by the balls or something. You don’t call in “The Last Reserves” to do a job that isn’t detrimental. We were the US’s highly trained kamikazes. Anyway,...
After the moment of silence and even a bit of tears, I sat in wonderment as to how I could survive a blast that sends someone over 15 yards. My eyes went searching for clues to make sure I was still alive and figure out how exactly this had happened. My eyes then stopped on the Sarge. When my shaken brain put two and two together, I had figured out that he must have absorbed the blast with his back and judging by the bloody and fully exposed spinal column, I wouldn’t have lived if I wasn’t getting my ass chewed. It almost seemed biblical, where the moment one man wants death on another, he receives punishment. It was at this moment; however, I truly felt remorse. I never liked the guy, but a human being is a human being. He has a family and friends that will not be able to sleep from this. It was a permanent scar on each person he ever touched. Sometimes, emotions pour through when you least expect them. I inched my way over to him. There wasn’t too much blood. Most of it either evaporated or flew out in mid flight and scattered across the blinding gold.
His back was opened up as if for an operation. The back of his legs and arms looked like road rash with the little particles and all. Some parts of his leg even showed some bone. And like I wrote before, there was that jagged piece of metal that sat only an inch away from my face. It permeated his skull harder than a black guy getting lucky. After examining the body, I lied down next to him. I began to do a quick frisk for anything in his pockets and of course his dog tags. I felt something odd in his right pocket, though. It was a cassette tape. As you can imagine, in the 21rst era a cassette was a piece of ancient history. There had to be some reason as to why but, it never struck my mind as important. I just grabbed that and stuck it in my pocket as best I could.
Just as I finished stuffing the dog tags into my pockets, I heard a sound that still haunts me today. “هناك هم! قتلهم!” was screamed by one of the Iraqis behind me. It translates to something along the lines of “your fucked” at least, in my case it did. I lay down in a cliché position hoping they will fall for the “tongue out, sprawled body” playing dead technique. I was cowering more than ever. Each sound of sand shifting under boots made each hair on the back of my neck go up. The random shouts of what was pretty much gibberish to me got closer and closer. I nearly wet myself when they stood next to me, unfortunately for me; however, I did piss my pants after I heard the sound of something with high diesel and big enough to make the ground shake. This convinced me enough that I was screwed. There is nothing like the sound of Iraqis laughing at you as you are trying to play dead with a tank humming just a few yards away from your head.


Last edited by ABigSoggy Wafle on 6th March 2010, 9:54 pm; edited 5 times in total
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Re: “The final reserve…”

Post  DeadApe on 4th March 2010, 4:03 pm

Good story so far. Looks like a job for Bad Company.

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Re: “The final reserve…”

Post  ABigSoggy Wafle on 4th March 2010, 5:37 pm

Thanks and yup lack of creativity...
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Re: “The final reserve…”

Post  Katai on 6th March 2010, 10:22 am

Good story so far, very good descriptions.

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Re: “The final reserve…”

Post  B Mane65 on 6th March 2010, 2:05 pm

nice story, i like how it all fits together
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Re: “The final reserve…”

Post  eaustinn36 on 7th March 2010, 10:25 pm

I like it so far Smile Looking forward to the next chapter.
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