The god also felt that patience would be needed. This man, this new Champion, would not arrive for some time. Thankfully, Enyo could not amass enough followers in his realm to challenge his dominion overnight. It would take her time, perhaps even a few generations, and Eros would continue to observe his own people as well. He had spent too much time among them, and it was time for them to learn how to stand on their own once again.
Eros remained standing in the field as hours turned to days, weeks, months, and finally years. Watching the bodies of the fallen carried off by loved ones, looters, and carrion animals. None save his Champion were left untouched. She alone would be protected by his power, and his vigil, until the next Champion came to lay her to rest; and to claim her place at his side.
*** Chapter 1: Same Stuff Different Day ***
100200MAR13 LOCAL
Combat Outpost (COP) Able-Main, Kunar Province, Afghanistan
The sound of the alarm pierced through the fog of sleep surrounding David, bringing him out of a pleasant dream involving him, his last girlfriend, and their favorite can of whipped cream. Reaching over he slapped the off switch, then patted his M9 pistol, making sure it was where it should be. Plenty of the older NCOs joked about sleeping with their weapons, but unless he was outside the wire he just couldn't sleep comfortably with a gun in his rack. At that thought he chuckled ruefully; comfortably was a relative term after all. As he sat up and swung his legs off his cot he remembered the time he had signed his pistol over to Doc for a mission.
He smiled at the memory of his reaction when the C-RAM alarm went off while he was taking a rare and badly needed nap that same afternoon. Hearing the warning alert of 'incoming' he reached over to pat his M9 for reassurance, but it was NOT in its customary spot. He had freaked out so badly that it took ten minutes to get his heart rate back to normal.
He had to shake his head at the memory; he was so used to the insurgents lobbing rounds at them he didn't even get out of bed when the alarm went off any more, but he sure as shit jumped out of bed when he couldn't put a hand on his weapon. Since then he made it a habit of leaning his M4 next to the shelf if his M9 was out.
I guess we never get too old for security blankets,
David thought to himself as he looked at his pistol,
they just aren't always blankets.
Getting up he stretched his six foot tall, 185 pound frame, and pulled on his Multi-Cam uniform trousers. He glanced in the small mirror by his desk. His ruggedly handsome face was clean of stubble from shaving the night before, but his dark brown military-cut hair was getting long.
Better get a haircut soon, or Top will start flipping his shit
he thought to himself. He also noticed that the once piercing blue eyes of his childhood had become flatter, grayer than they once were. He shrugged at his reflection. He wasn't sure when it happened, but sometime in the last few years life had stolen their vibrant luster.
Reminding himself why he was awake at this ungodly hour, he started checking his trouser pockets for mission essential gear. He also double checked that they had been stripped of pocket litter. He was going outside the wire today on an overwatch mission. His team was responsible for teaching and training the local Afghan National Army (ANA) forces. Essentially their job was to convince the local army to not be a bunch of unprofessional, corrupt fuck-ups. Having only been in Afghanistan for six months David already knew they were wasting their time.
Today they were setting up an overwatch position on the ridgeline next to a valley that the local Afghan commander was planning on clearing. Apparently, the villages in the valley were being forced to support insurgents coming over the border from Pakistan, on their way further in to Afghanistan to fight in Helmand Province in the south. He didn't think it mattered. The whole mission was a goat-roping contest, and if the fucking Afghans found a single insurgent he'd call home and buy a lottery ticket.
The Afghan Army didn't fight insurgents. The insurgents didn't fight the Afghan Army. It was a losing proposition for either side. The locals didn't want Afghans killing Afghans, regardless of the uniform, or lack thereof. But insurgents killing Americans worked for both sides. The insurgents could claim they were victoriously defending their homeland from the infidel invaders, while the Afghan Army could show how serious the "insurgent threat" was in their region, and demand more weapons, material, and equipment from the US Army.
He chuckled at that thought.
I imagine the only reason the US encourages the Afghan Army use M16s now is to ensure it is that much more obvious when the local Afghan commander sells his weapons and ammo to the insurgents.
That had already happened five times in the last six months. He still couldn't understand what the hell an enemy that primarily used Kalashnikovs, Enfield rifles, and PKMs would want with ten crates of 5.56mm NATO standard ammo, but they had happily bought it from the last Afghan commander. David shook his head again; selling ammunition, food, and military supplies to the enemy, and that commander got demoted and reassigned. The fucker should have gotten the firing squad.
Strapping on his drop-leg holster, he checked and secured his M9 and spare magazine. Then he picked up his M4, inspected it, and readied it as well. Next he checked his body armor / load carrier. The new vest was a better load bearing system, and more comfortable than the old one, but it was a bitch to get in and out of. Luckily once something was woven into its webbing it pretty much stayed there. His vest was currently configured to carry his standard load-out, which was six magazines (180 rounds) for the M4, two magazines (30 rounds) for the M9, a single M67 fragmentation grenade, combat knife, and assorted other necessities for an Army forward observer (FO). While David was not actually a true FO, the duties were part of his training as an Artillery Officer and he would be required to fulfill the role on this mission, as he had a number of times before. He had already pulled the MBITR hand held radio off of his vest, in favor of the more powerful PRC-117F backpack radio in his rucksack.
The larger radio and enough batteries to power it for 48 hours were a shit load of extra weight to haul, but it was the only thing that could reliably range other friendly forces from their overwatch position. The captain in charge of this mission wanted this long range radio with the team, and David agreed with him. As a certified Joint Fires Observer (JFO) he made the most sense to carry it. After all, if they were forced to call for help, the first thing they would want is Air or Artillery Support, and that was the JFO's specialty.
Next he moved on to check his rucksack. He would need to do a communications check with the PRC-117F before he stepped off today, but he wanted to make sure everything was secure before then. He had packed what he needed for the two-day mission last night. Unlike his last 48 hour mission, where he under-packed according to higher command's guidance (and spent four days starving and freezing his ass off) he over-packed this time. That was the coldest and hungriest he had ever been, and he refused to ever do that again. This time he had what he wanted, and screw anyone that didn't like it. The only thing he carried that he did not want to was the hygiene kit. He snorted ruefully at that last part. Walking out for a two-day combat mission and he had to take a fucking razor.
First Sergeant cares more about us having a clean shave than a hot meal.
He thought to himself.
After spot checking his rucksack and radio, he put on his combat shirt, checking that Old Abe was centered with his ISAF patch on his left shoulder sleeve pocket. Then he checked to make sure he had his smart phone, ear buds, and communications card inside. It was an old smart phone, and he had erased any sensitive information off it, but he still carried it to watch movies, listen to music, and as a training aid. It was amazing how much of the language barrier he could overcome when training Afghans just by taking a picture of a target and pointing to it. As far as he knew he was the only trainer to use this technique, but it worked very well. Next he checked to make sure his cigarettes were inside his right shoulder sleeve pocket, and the nametape and IR flag were still attached to the outside. Lastly, he pulled his rank patch off.
Brigade Headquarters had sent down a message last week that Taliban were paying bounties for confirmed US kills by rank. NCOs were worth US $2,000, and Officers paid US $10,000. The next day their team leader, Major Deanore, allowed anyone on the team that wanted to remove their rank insignia to help counter the bounties to do so while on mission. David wasn't sure it would make a difference, but if he was going to die on the side of a mountain, then at least he could try to screw the guy that killed him out of a payday. Plus, he didn't trust the Afghan Army. Most of them were greedy, corrupt, and you never really knew whose side they were on.
