Marine at War is free

Here's how you can kick off the new year: From January 1st to January 3rd, Marine at War is free. I've got a goal in mind this time- cracking the top 100 free kindle books, for all three days.

Marine at War is a novel based on my own experiences, in the early days after 9/11, in Afghanistan and the United States. If you've been following this blog, I've been serializing the sequel-in-spirit, Video Game Crusader, if not, then I encourage you to start reading, so you know what the fuss is all about when I win that there Pulitzer.

Video Game Crusader- Chapter 17

Lt. Easter walked on patrol in a half daze. Things had changed in the daylight. There were bodies in the streets.
It wasnt as if a crowd had been shot and killed, or laid down in a mass grave. It was more like a single man had laid down and died, or, more likely, been shot to pieces. In so many cases the haajis had been torn apart by the gunfire. He wondered, had he ordered this? More likely, whenever a target was available, they had focused fire on it, until the thing simply burst to pieces.
There seemed to be a great moral quandary among the Marines. To look, or not. To stare, or not, and make a comment. A few men were taking pictures. He thought about that notion. If you had a picture to prove you were in Iraq, and had been in combat. But wasnt your mind taking a picture, right now? There was a line being drawn in the sand. On the one side were the Marines who took pictures of the corpses. These were the people who believed life was generally the way it was in the States, safe and secure at home, with death being something that one did in hospitals. To them the deployment was still an adventure, and the picture would be a momento of the adventure, like the last screenshot of the final kill in a Call of Duty deathmatch. On the other side were the Marines that chose not to take pictures, and look away. To them Fallujah was the greater reality. Man was meat and bone, nothing more, and when the flesh was dismantled, man was gone. The illusion of safety in first world countries was a lie. In time, although they could not know it then, on patrol, almost every member of Chosin company would come to find the realization of the second group, in barfights, mental wards, or jail cells. But for the moment Lt. Easter had no pictures of any of this. He thought if he could have one, it would be of him hiding under a table, while Lt. Slayton charged off into mortar fire with his flask and no rifle. He had lost many of his illusions since then.
The beginning of the battle of Fallujah, the opening night, had not been a grand battle with his men sweeping house to house, as he had thought. They had cleared exactly one house. The M1 abrams tank had done most of the clearing for them, reducing the lone haaji to pulp. Then they had sat there and exchanged fire all night. They had suffered two wounded. Sgt. White had to be evacuated for a wound to the leg, and Lance Corporal Lopez had suffered a stray bullet to his shoulder, that had ripped out a chunk of meat. Lopez had refused to leave the platoon, and merely accepted a bandage. Easter wondered about the purple heart citation. Would he write it up, himself, or would Major Fight want to do it?
There had been some chatter on the radio earlier about the Company. Third Platoon had come across an IED in an alley and a PFC had lost both his legs. Weapons Platoon had a machine gunner on a humvee turret shot clear through the skull, just under the helmet. Thinking about it put a chill in his heart. What were the odds. Just above the rim of the helmet, and you probably could get away with a concussion. Just below, and you were dead. Who decided those things? God or fate, whose responsibility was it, to say which person got to live? The haajis in the street, dead, they believed in a God that wrote everything down at the start, and knew in advance who would and wouldnt make it. Who would become a picture for a momento somewhere on the internet, for one Marine to pass on to another.
The town looked vague in front of him. Buildings seemed to possess the no-color of sand, even when they were white or tan. As if the desert could rise up and claim everything around, altogether. Odle was on the radio. "There's a new objective, sir." He said. "Two clicks east."
"Another building?"
"It sounds like it."
The two clicks were spent patrolling the city. rifle Muzzles raised down different streets, half- expecting contact at any minute. At one point, a stray shot rang out, and contact was called. But it was never determined where it came from, or what direction. It was entirely possible the round was spent hundreds of yards away, by a Marine or Soldier in another part of the city, and had simply continued to travel. It was also possible a sniper was watching the patrol the entire time, and had let loose a stray, while aiming in at the Lt.'s head. There was no way of knowing. All they could do was continue the patrol, until the objective was reached.
There was a ring of humvee's, on the far street. Most of the Marines were hunkered down taking cover behind them. "Hurry up!" Came across the radio, and Kurre gave the signal to double-time. The Marines were running now, hurridly sprinting down the street. A shot came down from the end, where the obective was. The gunner behind the fifty cal turret let out a blaat in response. If this were a movie it would be all shaky-cam view, with mud and dirt flying up to hit the lense. As it is not, each Marine feels his heart pound, with the weight, the sheer weight of fifty pounds of gear, dragging your shoulders and compressing your vertebrea, destroying the cartilage in your knees. For everything a price is paid. Somehow Conner is smiling, underneath his Oakley's and thinking how cool, how cool, how cool is this.
The fire dies down. One of the haajis is screaming something inside the building. The fifty gunner on the humvee calls back, "Fuck your mother!"
"We got a CO?" One of the guys Easter recognizes from earlier, on the rooftop. "An LT."
"Here." Easter says, careful not to raise his head too high. "I'm here."
"We need that building cleared out." He said. "Its high-priority."
"How many are inside?" Easter asks. Noticing Kurre isnt here. Where is Kurre?
"At least four tangoes." The guy says. "One with an MG."
Lazirko is here. "What about a tank?" He asks. "Or some kind of support."
The psyops guy shakes his head. "Its HVT." He says. "There's intel in there we need. We cant level the joint first." Another burst of fire comes out, splitting everyones concentration.
"Is there another entrance?" Lazirko asked. "Or a way up on the roof?"
"Its just the front."
Easter mind snapped clear, all at once, to what was being said. Just the front. Just the front door, where the ragheads would be waiting. Just the front entrance, where AK's were already being aimed. A name came back, from the pre-deployment training. The fatal funnel of fire. That was it, really and truly it. He imagined a cone where bullets were being poured in, fresh from Wal-Mart factory packages, and emerged from the other side at the speed of sound, with the funnel end aimed at his forehead, turning what was in it into something resembling pulped watermelon.
****
The mission of the Marine Corps rifle company is to locate, close with, and destroy the enemy with firing manuever, or to repel the enemies assault by firing close combat. In the end, what simply happened happened, regardless of what was best, or optimal, or what would have worked or saved lives. The Marines did what they had to do.
The designated Marksmen and the heavy gun on the humvee repositioned slightly, just enough to give them a direct view of the buildings front. They elements started suppressive fire. The purpose of suppresive fire is too lay down continuous fire on the enemy, in order to prevent his own fire, or to make him to take cover. The purpose of putting your finger on the trigger of any firearm, at any time, is to kill. The Marines were trying very hard to do that. To kill. The fifty cal gunner was unleashing poom poom poom and the Designated Marksmen were letting go a snap-crack, snap-crack, aiming at doors, through windows, at any object that showed itself throughout or looked like it would show itself. At the same moment of time, the Marines in first platoon were running. Double-time, it was called it the Corps, a heavy, stomping run. A run while you held on to your M16 rifle or M249 SAW with both hands, and listened to the bullets crack. As you ran toward them. Toward the edge of the building. As he ran, Easter grew flustered. He fumbled in his pack for the sign. The red smoke grenade. Gone. It wasnt in his pack, it was strapped to a pouch on his chest. He let go of his M4 carbine, panicked again, thinking the object would clatter to the ground. Instead the sling caught it like a yo-yo, and slapped it against his body armor. He threw the silver canister underhand, it bounced once, in the street, and spewed forth red smoke like colorful flatulance. The fire ceased from across the way, and for reasons Easter did not fully understand, not would ever figure out, he was the first one in the stack, through the door. After that it becomes a matter of which events would become seared in his mind, for eternity, and which ones would be forgotten.
Seared: The room was empty. A spiral staircase barks and flashes light, and bites him in the side.
Unrealized: The insurgents had retreated to the second floor. They had captured a SAW from a fallen soldier, earlier in the conflict. when Easter showed up in the doorway, at that fatal fire, the insurgent had held down the trigger. It should have killed his enemy, the foe, the Marine, but the haaji had only been trained once, in Pakistan, and then poorly. He had never bothered to look down the sights of his weapon before, or establish a proper trigger pull. Instead he simply squeezed, aiming in a general, pointed direction, and the bullets tore through the meat of Easter's bicep, into the stock of his M4 carbine, and amputating two fingers from his left hand. But as too his enemies continued life, the haaji was unaware as well, because Easter simply slipped to the side, spurting blood. The next man came through the door, and as he fired, the gentle hand of his colluague, a man called Omar, rolled a grenade down the staircase.
This, too, was seared in Easters brain, before he lost consciousness. Before he woke up in a hospital in Germany, thinking, where's my rifle, where's my rifle, and found out that his right arm was gone, up to the shoulder. The hand grenades lazy bounce. The staircase was disturbingly ornate, done in black metal with gilded leaves. And every third or fourth step, the grenade clattered, rolling down like a baseball. Every precious second wasted. Easter thought, in that time, this is my last thought, these are my mens last thoughts. We are going to die together. And then the way Lopez dives on the grenade, covering it up with the meat of his stomach, and both hands. A muffled explosion, that spews out a rorshach blend of red from underneath the stomach-down Marine.
The final bit belongs to the haajis in the second floor, and the quick trained mind of Sgt. Lazirko. A wooden flooring may conceal your body, but it will not stop a bullet. And Lazirko simply fires upwards, when he enters the room correctly, after seeing first his Lt. fall, and then Lopez, and sees the SAW, and fires through the ceiling. The next man is Fonseca, who does the same. They do not aim, but in a direction of ceiling drywall, and upstairs, all that it seems is that the floor is deciding to explode and bite them from underneath, the first man is shot in the gut, he starts to scream. Omar gets up to run, and falls down. His foot is bleeding, not from crucifixion, but where a bullet has pierced it. The Fallujah floors are shoddy, and when he falls there is a distinct thud, that cannot be anything but what it truly is, a man falling down. And this one belongs to Conner, the next man in the stack, who hears the thud, and aims his own weapon with as little care as the haaji before him, holding the trigger down. And the effect is horrible, upstairs, the man called Omar, a real human being with thoughts and dreams, and a family, and a wife that would have loved him. Becomes hamburger. Burnt hamburger, because Conner does whats known as going cyclic with the SAW, holding down the trigger until all two hundred rounds are exhausted from the drum and the barrel glows red hot, causing each round to come through hotter and hotter until Omar's body becomes a parody of the fate that awaits his soul later, burning, in hell.

Free book for New Years!

Amped Up, one of the books I released this year, is completely free from December 31 to January 2nd. Thank you to all my fans and readers, to anyone out there who has bought one of my books or read this blog. The world didnt end with the Mayan calendar after all, so lets celebrate!

Video Game Crusader- Chapter 16

16
"Haakumph. Your name?"
"Raul Lopez. My friends call me Ra."
"Are you with this unit."
"Yeah. I'm a Lance Corporal in second squad."
"Whats that flak on your-your vest?"
"This is the flag of the Zapatista Army of National Liberation."
"Is that a- some sort of group."
"Its a group at war with the government in Chiapas."
"What country?"
"Chiapas is in Mexico."
"Its like the poorest part of mexico. Its the state where my parents were from."
"Huh."
"My mom crossed the border to have me and my sister. That makes us anchor babies, if your one of those right wing mother fuckers."
"..."
"What the Zapatistas believe, is that basically, people should have their own control of where they live. The area, I mean. The rich shouldnt be able to exploit the poor. Women should have the same rights as men. Its the sort of basic Anarchistic Socialism that goes back to Mayan times.
"Sounds like Karl Marx."
"Its not fascist communism. Its almost the opposite of communism, where you have the government, one leader, telling everyone in a country what the fuck to do. Here you have the people deciding what to do, for each other."
"..."
"So, my dad and my mom, were undocumented, right? 'illegal' or whatever, like being a person can make you illegal. And my dad was the one that had the idea that we should go to the US. He believed in the land of the free, opprotunity, all that shit. So he busts his ass on the lowest of the low, construction, landscaping. All the shit that white people dont want to do, but they bitch about one of us doing it. And thats the freedom America gave him, the freedom to work at the bottom forever. It was either that, or the freedom to starve."
"But you could say that he worked for a better life, for you and your sister."
"What better life? We went to a shitty school. My sister got caught up with these idiots, and had this fucking drug dealers baby. He's in jail and out of the picture. She's on the county and just has a GED."
"hakuumph! On the county?"
"Its an expression. It means on welfare."
"Ah."
"My dad gets lung cancer from smoking all his goddamn life. My mom has to watch these white peoples kids, these rich white people, while they treat her like shit."
"So you think this- this Zapata stuff- Hakuumph!"
"Look, man. I'm a realist. I know the people with the power and the money, arent going to give that shit up. Its not like their going to admit one day, 'okay, yeah, were fucktards.' They get points for calling me an anchor baby and my mom and dad parasites, while making them wage slaves. Its the way of the world. But if you call things what they are, I mean, call a spade a spade, you can make that much right."
"Haakumph!"
"I mean, look at the Marines. I run fast and do a lot of pull ups. I shoot a rifle pretty well and do what I'm told. The military likes that and says I'm doing a good job. It doesnt take anything else into account. Thats how things should be! Thats how the world should work. We recognize people for their ability, and what they contribute. Not for where their from. But it wont happen."
"How do you feel about Iraq?"
"Hey, man...their just the ones getting fucked, right now. After this, like, for five or ten years, America's going to take a break, and make movies, and build statues. Then after its all forgotten, were going to strap on that big green dildo, and fuck another country in the ass."
"Why is the dildo green?"
"Sorry. Its a Marine expression, the green dildo, or green weenie."
"Huh."
"But anyway, Iraq is totally arbitrary. It could be anywhere in the world."

Video Game Crusader- Chapter 15

15
He looked at the pills in the palm of his hand. There were three of them, unique as snowflakes.
The first was Prazosin. Prazosin came in a capsule like certain kinds of Tylenol. It was grey. Prazosin helped with the nightmares, supposedly, but when he took it he didnt have any sort of dreams at all. He had been proud of his dreams, once. He was a lucid dreamer, with the freedom to do and create in the dream world. But now it was all about Iraq and twisted. So he needed the Prazosin.
The second was Citalopram. Citalopram was the generic version of Cylexia. It was a white round pill, and could have been anything. Citalopram was an anti-depressent. He didnt feel depressed, but this one Dr. Robinson said he prescribed to most his patients with PTSD. Citalopram had knocked him on his ass, at first, sending him into ten-hour-long naps, but lately it didnt seem to do too much at all.
The third was Risperidone. Risperidone as an anti-psychotic. It was a small pink tab with a bend in the middle, a unique looking substance. This one zonked him out good. He felt numb while taking it, like he was underneath a warm bath. The effect lasted all day, and this one also sent him into a ten hour rest period. There was an additional side effect, he had put on a hefty amount of weight since taking it. Dr. Robinson told him only a small percentage of his patients were on this one, which made Conner feel even worse, but he took it anyway. He took them all because, despite everything, the pills worked, the evened him out. There were prices to be paid for everything. He put the pills back in their containers, resolving to take them later.
Joanna was on the hospital bed. She was moaning and quietly calling him over. He went and asked what she wanted.
"Ice." She said. "Give me the ice chips."
"The nurse said your not supposed to eat or drink anything."
"JAMES!"
"Yes?"
"Bring me ice chips."
He picked up the small plastic container from its place beside the bed. It was bone dry and empty. He walked out the room, telling her he was going to be right back. The dispenser was easy to find. The hospital in Browning wasnt very large. He filled it with ice chips, and brought it back to her, picking up one of them, and placing it in her mouth. She crunched through it like a child with a sucker.
"Keep em' coming." She said.
After he fed her half the bucket, the nurse barged in. "You no eat!" She proclaimed. "Docler says you no eat." She was philipino, and squat in a way that made her essentially formless. Her mouth was drawn down in a tight frown, to which it looked like she had added lipstick to the top and bottom corner, where there still remained a vestigial amount of lips. Conner retreated to his chair, in the corner of the room. "I didnt eat." Joanna protested. "It was only ice."
"You no eat and no dlink." The nurse said. "I check dilation."
The nurse whisked the blanket away, revealing the horror underneath, where the doctor had stuffed a bag into his wifes holiest of holies, and where tubing now dangled. She put on a pair of surgical gloves, and Conner couldnt help but notice her fingers, short and squat, each and everyone one of them the sort of digit usually found as a big toe. With no fanfare the nurse jammed the hand into Joanna's twat, and his wife groaned in displeasure.
"You no dilated." The nurse said, in disgust. "We wait more hour."
"How long?" Conner asked.
"More hour!" The nurse replied.
He sat in the chair and waited. His mind raced back over the previous months. Today was September 21st. Ten days after his birthday. Jo had baked him a birthday cake, pregnant as she was. His son would turn out to be a Virgo, like him. Most of the bad vibes of September would be gone by then, or at least by the time he was an adult. Did anyone care about December Seven, anymore? It was one more date. A single date, possibly mentioned on the twenty-four hour news cycles. But it was a big world, and there was most likely some major calamity for someone on every number.
More hour turned out to be overnight. He took the pills and slept as well as he could in the big chair in the delivery room. His wife was moaning in fits. The drugs they were giving here produced contractions, but no results. She had had no labor pains before. The baby did not want to leave. It had been nine months, but the wombs was comfortable enough. Joanna felt terrible. She woke her husband up regularly to demand ice chips. Let that philipino bitch try to stop her. She would shoot out this parasite in the woman's face, and be done with it.
In the morning Dr. Oliver stopped by. "Good morning!" She called out. "How were we last night, mom? and dad?"
Conner said nothing. Joanna was biting her tongue with rage. Dr. Oliver was immaculate, dressed in a designer number with a pair of cute shoes, and a wonderful hairstyle that may or may not have been a weave. She saw the hostility in the room, and dodged it expertly.
"So, I can see that the dilation isnt getting any better." She said. "We may want to talk about C-section."
"Yes!" Jo said. "Get this sucker out!"
"Oh?" Oliver frowned, flipping through her chart. "I thought you wanted a natural birth?"
"Nope." Jo said. "That wasnt me."
"That wasnt her." Conner said, helpfully.
"Drugs." Jo added. "Epedural, right now, and cut this sucker out."
"All right!" The doctor added, still cheerful. "Lets do that. Lets have a baby."
****
After the epidural Jo started to snore, a kind of deep full body rasp that would normally be found among lumberjack's warming up their chainsaws. The nurse gave Conner a set of blue scrubs. He took a picture of himself for facebook before going into the surgery room. He looked at his phone curiously, somehow he had managed to avoid using the thing for the entire twenty-four hours they had been in the hospital. It seemed to be a record for him, at least, in his civilian life.
Inside the surgery room the doctors had arranged a sort of tent around where they were working, and told Conner to "Stay by the head." That was all that was visible. His wifes drooling, snoring, head. He remembered something she had said months ago, about getting her hair done before having the baby. That hadnt happened. It was nap-tastic, pulled out in every direction. A sudden queasiness came over him, would she want a picture, with the baby? Should he crop out her hair in it?
The doctors mumbled to each other. One of them said, "You got him?" And the other answered, "I've got him. Big pull." Conner's curiousity overwhelmed him. He peeked over the sheet. The doctors hands were in a hole in his wifes stomach, pulling something lumpy out. Jo's eyes flew open. "Ouch!" She said.
"Ouch!"
"Ouch!"
"Ouch!"
When they baby was held to the light, it was far less messy than all the horrible medical shows had conditioned Conner to believe. There wasnt even a lot of blood. It was just a small baby, not even that small, face squinched up like a bulldog, eyes firmly shut. The baby opened his mouth and went
"Yawp!"
A little cry, and the doctor laughed, "Okay dad, here you go!" And, wrapped in a blanket, Conner held his
Son
Who was small and perfect. Who resembled neither him or his wife, nothing but a baby, but his baby. A piece of him. Something he had cast off. He could see the future, now. Something that would survive him. He held the baby next to his wifes head, and told her, "Look honey."
And showed her what had happened. His wife said, "Awww." and
"My baby."
And gave the newborn a kiss, a moment that Conner captured in a picture. After that she closed her eyes back to sleep. They put his new baby in a clear plastic bed, and wheeled him out of there. "Come on dad." One of the nurses said, almost bubbly with cheer. Everyones happy, Conner thought. It must be a good job to have. At least when everything turns out well.
This nurse cleaned off the baby with a towel and looked him over. Conner had the same chance, to look at his son deeply. His heart skipped a beat, when he realized that the nurse was looking for defects. "Okay." The nurse said. "There's a little tiny birthmark here." She pointed to the baby's back. "Not large enough to really be seen, and its not red." Where she pointed, Conner couldnt see anything.
"Thats all right." Conner said. "As long as he's healthy." He felt stupid after saying it. It was the sort of generic observation every parent to be makes. As long as its healthy. As long as it possesses all its eyes and ears, fingers and toes, all in the right amount and in good order. But somehow he never doubted it, or questioned it. Joe did. She had her moments. But not him.
"You know." Whispered the nurse, conspiritorally, "I cant find a trace of color anywhere on him."
"What color are his eyes?" Conner asked.
"Blue." Said the nurse. "They might change, later."
So this was it, Conner thought. A blue-eyed, light skinned child, with a black woman. If the roles where reversed- that is, if he was the black one, with a white wife, he would have cause for concern. Possibly hauling his wife off to one of those reality shows she enjoyed, where the entire purpose was to announce "In the case of..." And announce the childs name, followed by an overly dramatic reading of parentage. Evidence of fatherhood. The woman would crow, and he would hang his head in his hands, or the woman would scream, and run backstage, and he would celebrate with an impromptu dance, with all the joy overflowing in his soul of being able to once again escape the consequences of unprotected intercourse. But the child favored him, so everything was fine.
He gave the name for the birth certificate. Caleb Arthur Conners. Caleb because it was from the Bible, which meant his mother would accept it, and it was also the only name they had both agreed on. He had originally wanted Dylan for a boy or a girl, Jo had wanted Savannah for a girl, Demetrius for a boy. He had made the mistake of saying Demetrius was to ethnic. This led to a fight, because, according to Jo, ethnic was code for ghetto which was code for black, which meant that you thought black was bad, and Joanna's uncle was named Demetrius, a kind, sweet man, who had made his living as a cook, which was more than Conner was able to do, seeing as how he was somehow incapable of feeding himself, etc. etc. The matter was tearfully resolved later.
Here, now, a trio of family. Conner resolved to capture everything. He wanted to hold this moment deep within himself, and make it the new fucrum of his existence. But the war was still there. The war was in him, in the flesh and under his skin, and even when he was here, at the hospital, he was still Over There in Iraq, or Afghanistan, where nothing ever ended. But while he was Over There he was only Over There, so he wasnt in two places at once, not really. He was one-quarter in one place and three-quarters in the past, at war, and in danger of being sucked in completely.

Video Game Crusader-Chapter 14

14
Conner had the shits.
He had been very careful not to eat anything all day. The virus, whatever it was, was working its way out of his system. It had made rounds throughout every member of the platoon, and finally landed on him, one day before the Operation was going to kick off in earnest. Sgt. Lazirko had called him over to talk to him about it.
"Are you going to be able to handle this?" He asked.
"Yes, Sgt." He replied.
"If you cant do it, let me know now. You can stay behind with Harshbarger and guard the gear."
Conner's mind recoiled. Stay with Harshbarger? Harshbarger, who had decided that he was a consciountous objector? Harshbarger, who most of the platoon called 'faggbagger' behind his back? Harshbarger, who even managed to smoke a cigarette like a woman, with a bent wrist? "I'm good to go." He insisted, again. "I'll be ready for it."
But now the waiting was weighing him down. They had staged at zero five hundred near the front gate, waiting for the word to go in. The AMRAPS didnt arrive until zero eight. An AMRAP was a sort of armored personnel carrier, that was supposedly amphibious. It resembled nothing more than a metal box with wheels. After the AMRAP's arrived, instead of an attack happening, the Marines were handed MRE's for lunch chow. Conner packed his away in his daypack, and only went to the port-a-shitters when a group was ready, to not make a big deal. But when he did the act of crapping was so big a relief he nearly cried, even though there was nothing left in his intestines but water and bile, by this time. When he got back everyone was sitting down, or leaning against the AMRAP for support. He didnt need to ask for the word, the word was wait.
At twelve hundred, they handed out ammunition. Enough to top off anyone that needed it, and grenades. After that some excited chatter moved back and forth through the waiting Marines, but soon died down. Nothing was happening, again. By sixteen hundred almost all the Marines had taken a seat on their helmets or daypacks, and nothing had happened some more. Another MRE was handed out to each man.
At seventeen hundred Staff Sgt. Kurre had drawn up the outlines of a basic room with his foot in the sand and was conducting room clearing exercises with the platoon. It was a simple enough manuever to go over. How to stack on a door, clear a room, check the corners and the ceiling, announce 'clear' to the next Marine. all of this Conner had been over many times, as had everyone else, but still the fuckups managed to fuckup, namely Dula, who never seemed to get anything just right, and Fonseca. Devening would have fucked up as well, but he was in Germany with a missing eye.
At nineteen hundred the AMRAP drivers let down the back of the ramps into their vehicles and the Marines piled in. Many of them started to sleep immediatedly. Conner couldnt sleep, still. He was overhyped with what was going on. Sawyer and Jerel Swinney were having a heated debate next to him about the existence of God, or politics or something. The squad leaders were looking around to see what was happening. It was getting hard to see, until Conner realized that the sun was going down, and he was still wearing his Oakley sunglasses. He was suddenly fautigued. The entire day he had been fighting his asshole, fighting its urge to open wide and let loose whatever was left in his colon. He could imagine his sphincter as an actual muscle now, rebellious, and angry. Occasionally Conner would let out a fart, a great big hrumphing flatulence that somehow no one would notice, or comment on. Afterwards he would feel dizzy, and the only sustenance he would allow himself was a sip from his Camelbak hose. Sgt. Lazirko thumped him on his knee.
"An NVG check." He said. "Get em on your helmet mount."
Conner fumbled among his many pouches for his night vision goggles. He fumbled some more getting the helmet mount secured, where the NVG's would flip down so he could use them. Not that he would use them. Looking through NVG's at night was a way to completely kill your depth perception, with its single camera lense. The world appeared green and hazy. Worse, any source of light became a brilliant blinding torch with the night vision. It was an idea that appeared good on paper, or to on officer, but was totally useless in the practice. The older PVS-14 model had a single eye lense, so that when they were flipped down you could still retain your normal vision. But the company had decreed that all SAW gunners would have the newer model with dual eye lenses, and Conner was a SAW gunner, which meant that he was screwed for as long as someone would be watching to make sure he used them.
"Mine dont work, Sar'nt." Sawyer told Sgt. White, and Conner tried not to grin. Sawyer had clearly worked some sort of sabotage earlier, possibly beating the lense against a cement barrier, or stepping on it with his boots until in snapped.
"Use your extra batteries."
Sawyer fumbled with these a minute, and then said, triumphantely, "Those dont work either."
"Just put it on your helmet mount." White said, "For uniformity."
"I dont have a helmet mount."
"Why dont you have a helmet mount?" Kurre snapped, now involved in the conversation.
"They ran out when I went to supply, Staff Sergeant." Sawyer said, lifting up a mass of straps and plastic. "I've got this thing."
"Thats a head mount." Kurre said. "Put it on under your helmet, and get yourself unfucked."
And thusly Sawyer was punished doubly for his transgression. The Marines had decreed that not only would he wear the non-functional goggles, but also that he would wear a sort of vise on his head, underneath his helmet, that would strive to render him totally useless in combat. This was done in the name of uniformity. If one member of the platoon was wearing NVG's, then the entire platoon needed to do the same.
Wearing night vision rendered the sights on your weapon mostly useless, as well. Some members of the platoon had a sort of infrared laser mounted to their rifles or SAW's, to compensate for this condition. The problem with that was that the laser beam was notoriously unreliable, for anything but the most point blank shooting. Conner was going to do without any of it. He had a surefire flashlight strapped to a pouch on his body armor. If the situation came up, he would flick it on. Other than that, he would use whatever lighting was available.
Conner fell asleep.
****
When he woke up someone was shaking his body armor back and forth and passing back a command with two upraised fingers. Two minutes. He had a blinding headache. The AMRAP was moving. In was not dignified in this effect. There were no windows in the vehicle, to see outside. The air was choked with the smell of diesel fumes. A single raised finger, this time, from Staff Sgt. Kurre.
One minute!
Things were revving inside Conner, as if an engine was being started. He listened hard, and over the sound of the AMRAP's diesel he could hear the braap braap of gunfire. One minute! he checked his SAW, racking the bolt to the rear. It was hungry now, ready to spit out two hundred rounds from the plastic drum. One minute! He tried to check everything from his gloves, with its plastic knuckles built for thumping. Were his boots tied? His boots were tied. His kneepads were fixed assuredly to his knees, the ballistic plates were in his vest. A new signal passed to the back benches.
Thirty seconds!
The AMRAP was lurching to a halt. He could feel the change. It was time to stand up. The engine gargled down, Conner swayed back and forth while standing, clutching slightly to Sawyers daypack. Thirty seconds! There was no time to think about his needs. There was no time to think about whether he was tired or not, whether he had to shit again. If he was ready to go to war. How he felt about killing. War was here, immenent, on the other side of the ramp. Now he could very much hear the exchange of fire, the way the enemy fired its AK's, and the slower semi-automatic burst fire of M16's and M4's. Then the ramp was down, Staff Sgt. Kurre was screaming go, go, go, or maybe move, move, move, it was impossible to say, and maybe not very important. When Conner stood, he suddenly felt entangled. Struggling, he realized that his helmet mounted NVG's had become entangled with the straps on Sawyers goggles. he bent back with a tug, and there was a loud tearing sound, and something fell to the ground, either Conner's NVG's or Sawyers helmet goggles. But there was no time to determine what it was. He was running, pounding the ground with his feet, Kurre was directing traffic, pointing in a direction "That way!" The night was hot and bright, overhead flares illuminating the world with the bloom of an artificial sun, sputtering for moments until rapid death. Then another.
He was stacked on a building. Someone was shouting at them, in arabic, inside. Lazirko was the first man, he gave it a hard mule kick. The door splintered, and fell of its hinges. Underneath was a wall of cinderblocks. With a pop pop pop, and a crack crack crack, Conner realized what was happening. They were taking fire from above, from the second floor. Kurre had his 16 up, and was firing through a window. "Get a SAW on that!" He screamed. "Cover that fucking thing!" And Conner realized
He was a
SAW
And raised the weapon deftly. It weighed less than it ever had before, somehow, and he slowly squeezed off a burst, then another, a braaap and a braaaaap, four or five rounds each, through the window, meanwhile the stack had peeled off the door, because there was no real way inside now, and others were firing. It was good to do this, to fire weapons at a something, a something that was trying to kill you. Everything was amplified more than usual, colors were brighter, he felt more alive than was previously reckoned possible.
"Get back!" Kurre said on the radio. "They bringing in a tank!"
A tank? Conner thought, feeling another thrill. And it was. An M1 Abrams wheeled up, the Marines scuttered to get to the minimum safe distance. The gun spoke, a clap of thunder that sent Conner's ears ringing. There was dust and debris from where the walled-up doorway had been, now stood a gaping hole. The Marines started to charge, discipline somewhat forgotten, not keeping proper dispersion, maybe, but trying to get in the hole, like sperm to a crevice, trying to get inside the objective, the building that needs to be cleared. Inside was the very strong smell of copper. The floor was slick with an unknown substance, and Sawyer skidded and fell, his feet sliding out from under him. Conner pulled him up from behind. They climbed the stairs to the second floor.
The platoon arranged themselves on the second floor of the building. The walls had been knocked down to make one large open room, and besides the obvious windows, slits had been hacked in the exterior walls to fire out of. Inside was half a heavy machine gun, on a tripod, and crates and crates of ammunition. Easter looked at it and whistled. "Is that what hit us?" He said. "Shit."
"Probably one guy with an AK, sir." Odle answered. "This thing looks like its mounted to the floor."
"Corpsman up!" Fonseca started screaming. "Look at Sawyer! Look at Sawyer!"
Staff Sergeant Kurre and the Corpsman went over to do just that. When Conner looked his heart skipped a beat. Under the light of the sure-fire flashlight, he could see that half the Marine's uniform was covered in blood. Kurre grabbed him and dragged him over. "Are you alright son?" He said, gently. "Where are you hit?"
"I feel okay." Sawyer said, his own heart in his throat. When they took of his vest and helmet, and looked under his shirt and trousers, there was no wound obvious.
"Hey Staff Sgt." Odle called out. "Look at the bottom of your boots."
Kurre looked and saw the whole thing thick with red gore. When he shined the light down on the floor there were red footprints criss crossing the cement. With his sure fire light, he went downstairs, and there he saw what the whole platoon had crossed, to get to their position. The insurgent was near liquified from the tank round. His blood and insides made a messy soup on the floor. There was a single bit of head and upper torse, which had landed somewhat intact, and Kurre could see the ugly details, how the glossy eye stared at him, behind the dead white skin, and behind it brains were visible, an entire section of brain, used to form whatever last thought the haaji had said before he stood behind a homemade wall that was no match for a tank. Kurre retched quickly. The vomit came up neat and bothered him little, and when it hit the floor it was not very distinct from the rest of the mess.
****
After the prolonged period of inactivity, and the sudden, violent movement that followed, there was another period of inactivity, that was shorter than the first one, but seemed longer thanks to the anticipation. During this time, Lt. Easter recieved new orders over the radio that his platoon was to stay inside the house for the rest of the night. The house was a major objective. The recon elements had seen the insurgents piecing together the machine gun inside, in the days leading up to the attack, and there was still a fear of the enemy retaking it and cutting off a choke point into the city. What was not known was that the gun had proven to be defective, and the insurgents had abandoned it, leaving behind only the token fighter who had been nearly disintigrated by the tank.
Conner had his SAW aimed down a field of fire that encompassed most of the intersection in front of the building. With the bipod legs extended, the weapon was resting comfortable in a firing position, with him prone on the floor. But everything hurt now. A low ache permeated his body, from every position it could. He was tired. He would wake suddenly only to wonder how long he had been out, and check the fields of fire, to see if anything had changed. He would check his watch, and it always showed the same time, near enough to one in the morning. He no longer felt like he had to shit, and that in itself was a blessing.
Next to him Ryan Sawyer was trying very hard not to thing about the very literal bloodbath he had taken, up the steps. He was covering near the same fields of fire as Conner, with his M203 grenade launcher. His night vision was gone, and he had torn off the head mount and put it in his daypack. In some part of his mind he was wondering how much trouble he would get into for missing the useless NVG's. Maybe his pay would be docked, the thousands of dollars they cost. When he looked around he could see that no one else in the platoon was using them, except for the Lt., who stared out of it while raising the single monocle to his eye, as if he were some sort of sea explorer for queen Elizabeth, and testing a spyglass for pirates.
His mind wandered. What had really happened, this night, anyway? He had gotten into an ill-smelling vehicle with no windows. He had ran outside and shot his weapon into a window, after someone had shot at him, which he felt but did not witness. A tank had fired through a door and he had climbed up a flight of stairs, through the tank-hole, and laid on the floor, where he had proceeded to fight sleep while staring out a window at an intersection.
What was the bigger story? Behind all this mess, what was the 'task force' doing? Why was this building important? Why was this street important? Why did this sad little town, this ingrateful little city of Fallujah, matter at all? Two Blackwater employees had been dismembered, torched, and hung from a bridge. Who were they?
Who was he?
A screaming comes across the street. The RPG goes fweeeeeeoooooohhWHYPGH and detonates on the first floor of the building across the way. Someone yells "Contact!" Unnecesarily, Conner is already firing. He can see right to the building where the RPG came from, and lines up his sights right on it through the scope, giving disciplined bursts. More fire is coming back, from the other side of the street, sounds of RPK's and AKs Another fweeee of an RPG, this one caterwailing off harmlessly above. "Talking guns!" Kurre snaps.
The Marine Corps fire discipline, as evidenced by the concept of talking guns. A fire team, or squad, or platoon, is firing on the same objective. One SAW lets out a rrrrrrrt burst, and when its finished, another SAW lets out a rrrrrrrt in response. The devestation that follows, a target, decimated by continous machine gun fire. The platoon is doing its job.

Video Game Crusader- Chapter 12 and 13

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