Retirement Plan Material
After finishing up the recording of Williams with his guy Mitchell, I did a quick conversion to todays year, and started turning my notes into a more formal readout. Popping a couple of 40 mg caffeine gummies in my mouth and chawing on them with my molars, I sucked the mentholated goo from my gums and started my transcription.
WARREN, Mitchell Alexander
Contact #095277 - Misc. (Non-aligned non-combatant)
22-03-YMCC
WARREN made contact with Agent Williams (O/A: Jack Dakota) via satellite phone at approx. 15:35.
WARREN reported capture of adversary suitable for rapid exchange program, offered to allow us to extract adversary in exchange for regular distribution of resources package C-A9.
Inclement weather at WARREN'S location prevented extraction within nominal timeframe, offered additional resource package Y-8 and/or Y-9 as additional compensation.
Adversary is in good health.
END OF READOUT
Williams didn't tell me the guy's health, but I assumed. This Warren guy's a real piece of work, I heard, but I'm sure it's nothing too bad or anything. Just your run of the mill survivalist from the sounds of things, but for some reason.
Sucking more goo from my teeth, I order up two copies of the readout from the printer downstairs. Exiting the bullpen I take one of the flashlights and start descending into the dark, down to the basement.
Switching off my lantern, I walked in the artificial twilight to the print office down the hall where I can hear the low hum of my report printing from one of the few remaining Lexmarks we found in the back closet. Pete hands me my reports from over the apron door counter.
"I never understood why Williams always picked stupid movie star names like Jack Dakota," Pete says, handing over the stamp marked MASTER COPY.
With a thud, the top copy receives the green stamp of mastery, "I think it's like a persona he adopts to handle the nucks," I say, popping another 40 mg. "He likes to use an obviously fake but memorable name and act like a big shot. Curtis always uses the name 'Harry Rinquest' or something equally as pretentious sounding, but he acts like a big shot the whole time, whether on the job or off."
I chuckle, Pete doesn't.
"How long are you stuck on printer duty?"
"Til they find someone else I s'pose. Not much else for a man with one hand to do in a war, after all. USA all the way, though."
"Amen, brother," I say, without skipping a beat.
We say our goodbyes and I head up to the bullpen to file the master copy away and lock the duplicate in the metal interoffice mailer due to head out the next day. Shutting off the overhead sodium lights for the night, I lock the door behind me as I cautiously head to the lobby, which is still cast in golden sunlight as the sun is setting.
What was a low hum inside the building was nearly deafening now as the giant props of the cargo military planes began to spin up to begin preparing for takeoff. The lead plane's giant maw was still open and receiving its payload. I counted a few JLTVs in there already, with about four or five racks of dogs. They were still wheeling in a couple of Cougars, as well as about two dozen skids of supplies for the destination.
Catching the time on the central clocktower, I was due to be ready for takeoff in the second plane about 15 more minutes. Feeling the warm embrace of caffeine in my bloodstream, I decide to head out and get my gear together.
The whole FOB is buzzing with activity as I see a few chicken-walkers get ready to load in on my plane, fully collapsed down into 2' x 2' x 5' box and strapped down to skids head in, which likely meant we were also getting dogs, probably a few dozen regulars, but my copy of the manifest from this showed only one of me.
The hot smell of plane fuel and exhaust chokes the air as I enter the full-shade of the open roller door. A couple boys in green give me a once over.
One sneers, scoffs at me, and says something under his breath about the New Model Army.
Fuck him. He's a bullet sponge. I'm retirement plan material.
I punch in my code, and a gate along the far wall opens letting me get my loadout.
Once I was strapped up with my loadout, I got buckled in, and got a chance to take a look at the 20-somethings around me. The cargo bay door closed, and after a moment I could feel the plane begin to taxi towards the improvised runway we'd laid down only weeks before. Rattling further up in the cargo area were a few gun platform dogs, as well as the boys' very own pair of Cougars, which were basically tin cans on wheels for the nucks.
As the plane accelerated, I glanced down at my chronograph, I counted about 3 hours from landing. These boys are just going to fly direct only to walk face first into a meat grinder for the sake of keeping up appearances. They knew from my different loadout and color uniform I wasn't going with them and I was just hitching a ride. They knew I'd be leaving them once we landed.
Unlike them, I was working to actually fight, and win the war.