Chapter Three: In Hard
Infected: 21,435,881
Healthy: 7,164,802,686
Day: 11
Corporal Marcus Erwing – or Kiwi to the rest of his platoon – looked up from his dog eared and beaten up copy of
H.M.S Surprise
by Patric O'Brian and then leaped to his feet, standing to attention as his commanding officer – 2nd Lt. Miguel – strode into the break room. The rest of the 202nd stood as well, all conversation silencing as the Master Sergeant shouted: "AT EASE!"
Everyone relaxed fractionally, and Kiwi heard his bunkmate – a man who went by the name of Oneball for no real physical reason – whisper: "What the hell's the twooie loowie doing here?"
Kiwi snorted, softly, as Lt. Miguel stopped his pacing and started his talking: His voice still held the slightly stick up the ass tone that he hadn't lost after the last tour Over There, but it had definitely become less afraid. The first time Kiwi had set eyes on Miguel, he had been pretty sure that Miguel was going to get at least one person in the platoon killed. The fact that he had managed to keep them all relatively intact through a tour with only a few minor injuries and one serious was why that stick up the ass was...well, forgivable.
Hell, Kiwi was willing to forgive an officer of almost anything, if his leadership kept the whole platoon from getting killed in stupid and pointless ways. It marked
fairly
high on Kiwi's list of things that he wanted in an officer.
"All right, men, I know that we're back home, but an emergency situation had cropped up and Command wants a squad willing to do some dangerous duty in country," the Lt said, without preamble. This sparked no muttering – the 202nd were Marines, not idiots, and only an idiot would start muttering like this was the middle of high school with the Master Sergeant within glowering reach – but it did produce a lot of glancing and raised eyebrows. "It'll be counted against your current roster of assignments – one less tour before you need to reup. I only want volunteers. Come to my office if you're interested."
"Yes sir!" The marines chorused.
And with that, the Lt turned around and marched out of the room, the Master Sergeant following him with his glower still affixed like a tumor. A face tumor.
"Volunteers?" Kiwi asked as he sat down at his bunk. "What the fuck, command doesn't want volunteers..."
"Sure it does. For suicide missions." Oneball muttered.
And, right on cue, Rodriguez walked past, heading right for the office at the end of the barracks.
Oneball and Kiwi watched her walk past. Rodriguez was one of the five...no, six women who had gotten through Perry Island's training course intact and with ball-kicking boots still attached. Hell, she had qualified higher on the range than most of the marines. At first, Kiwi hadn't been entirely sure...but, well, Oneball had pointed out that they had to pass the same tests as the rest of them. They passed, so they passed, so Kiwi didn't give a shit if they had their genitalia on the inside or the outside.
But some people hadn't gotten that memo. Sadly, one of them seemed to be Rodriguez, as she kept acting like she had something to prove.
Oneball sighed. "You're going to do it, aren't you?"
"What can I say?" Kiwi put his hands behind his neck, then stood. "I'm one of those chauvinist pigs that my college professor kept warning me about."
"...you didn't go to college, dude."
"Fuck you!" Kiwi raised a middle finger as he walked past Oneball's bunk. "I got a BA!"
"More like a BS, if you ask me..."
Kiwi shook his head as he found that the officer's office had a bit more people than he had expected: Rodriguez might have been the first one there, but there were a few other marines from the 202nd, all waiting for a chance to volunteer. Once they had a full squad, the LT gestured them inside.
"This mission is...well, it breaks a few of the standard protocols we're all used to." Miguel made
that
part sound like the most distressing part of an unknown, most likely dangerous, mission. As he spoke, he handed out a dozen paper packets, which was loaded with information that only someone trained in MABS (Military Acronym Bullshit) could understand. Kiwi flipped through his, and found it less comprehensible than most of the books he read – which was strange, as before he'd started the O'Brian series, he wouldn't have known what a mainsail was if it had whacked him in the face.
"Essentially, a corporation called Dynacore Biotechnology has refused to divulge information that the US government needs to get a handle on. We're going in to get it out of their headquarters."
"Sir!"
The LT nodded to a blond haired kid with spectacles, named Harry. Harry voiced what everyone was thinking: "Isn't this a job for SWAT or something, sir?"
"Well, normally, it would be." Lt. Miguel frowned. "But the local government refuses to send the SWAT team in. They cite the dangerous environment, but I've been informed that it is
most
likely the result of corporate maleficence and corruption."
"Sir?" Gordon, one of the heavy gunners from the 3rd fireteam asked.
"They're bribing the local government something fierce," Lt. Miguel said, sighing. "Fortunately, we don't expect much resistance. But, the important thing is that we go in, full NBC gear, full caution, and take their computers by force. Understood?"
The marines nodded.
"Now, if anyone wants to back out, now would be the time to do it."
No one left.
Lt. Miguel nodded. "Good. Report to the helipad in four hours, full kit, ready to go. And remember...this is a secret. Need to know."
They nodded.
###
In the armory, Kiwi started to regret taking this mission. For one thing, it had been at least a year since basic, and the time he had spent Over There had worn off the sharp edges of memory. Hell, he was sure that if he had enough time to stretch between basic and his present – say, at least a thousand years – he might even look back on the time as a brighter, better time of his life. But still, training in NBC gear had been one of the shorter parts of his time in basic, meaning it loomed less large than Hell Week or crawling through mud under barbed wire or listening to the DIs bellowing at the top of their lungs in the most astounding way: Managing to reduce people to near tears without using a single profane word.
It was really quite impressive – if viewed from a distance.
Still, the training in thick rubber hood and thick rubber gloves and thick rubber gas mask with assault friendly broad face plate and thick rubber boots and a thick set of rubber overalls...it hadn't been pleasant. And strapping down in an air conditioned armory in a military base in the United States, far far far away from the tropical, sandy, and other generally too hot and too violent hellholes that he had been sent to in his career...was still one of the most horrible things that he had experienced.
If you didn't count being shot at.
This was just being drowned in rubber, and suffocated in rubber. Still, he checked and rechecked the containment, while Rodriguez hurried past the window of the armory – already dressed, with her shooter on her back and two spare magazines hanging prominently on her CMB. Kiwi sighed, then dragged on his gas mask, to check the fitting, then tugged it down to hang around his neck, and hurried out to follow the woman.
Once they were all of them dressed and fitted, they were hustled onto a black helicopter that whirred softly as it took off, then zipped away, over the base, then over suburbia.
Looking down at the sweep of suburbia, Kiwi pursed his lips, checked his M16A1 and tried to chill.
Corporate maleficence and corruption? Unpredicted emergency? And NBC gear for going into a biotech firm.
"Please don't say we're heading to Raccoon City next..." He muttered.
The marine to his left glanced at him, then grinned. "Nah, man. There's still plenty of room left in Hell. I know, because I haven't gotten there yet!"
That produced a short laugh, and confused looks from others.
"Romero man! Zombie movies and shit," the joker said.
The confused looks grew more confused.
"Eh, nevermind."
The black helicopter took a hard, banking turn, and then accelerated. Black helicopters – or stealth helicopters, or whatever you wanted to call them – had gotten famous as hell when Seal Team 6 had gone in and taken out Osama Bin Ladin with one. They weren't actually completely silent. Instead, they just dampened the sound to make it sound like they could either be approaching or leaving a targeted location – thus, making it
slightly
more likely that the bad guys at the LZ would be caught unaware.
Kiwi liked that kind of thing, but...didn't want to rely on it. So, he checked his weapon again and listened to their on the ground commander for the mission, Staff Sergeant Baen.
"All right, when we land, we'll approach it in a low threat posture," Staff was saying at the front of the helicopter. "Until we are notified of any changes in the situation, Dynacore is still an American corporation. But I want everyone to get home in one piece, so keep your gear on and your eyes open."
"Staff, why are we wearing this shit?" One of the marines asked.
"Because I fucking ordered you too, Kowalski. And, because, as your fellow marines have so kindly pointed out, we appear to be in the prequel to a zombie movie. But, see, we have one advantage." He grinned, fiercely, and slid his gas mask on. "We're not fictional."
###
Dynacore's building looked a little bit like the office building from Terminator 2 – where the evil or at the very least misguided scientists were busily studying the robot arm from the future, to make bigger, better weapons. Kiwi wondered, for a moment, if anyone else in his squad was making the mental comparison – all the talk of zombie movies and other bits of joking...it cut down on the strain of walking into the unknown. But the downside was that it crept in these little tendrils of doubt.
What if we open the doors and find a load of zombies, huh? What if?
The helicopter came down in the mostly abandoned car park...abandoned despite it being the middle of the day.
Okay, seriously,
Kiwi thought as he stepped off, his M16A3 hanging around his neck, his hands cradling it gently. He wanted to sweep it around – but, again, they were in the good old US of A. And he didn't really want to shoot any part of it. And, as he'd been taught by every father figure in his life: Don't point your gun at something unless you plan to shoot it. The other marines stepped off, and Staff – clearly not liking what he saw – made the hand gesture to indicate dispersal.
The squad split up, moving forward in a jagged, broken line, ducking behind cars for cover. Fuck the low threat posture, it seemed.
