Captain O'Brien

APRIL 30TH, 2009
11:00 AM

Three days had past, and while Groggy's regiment rested and recovered, the campaign was slowly trudging along. General Ramsey's division of Army regulars, supported by swarming Palacian insurrectos, overran the Russian outpost at El Morro on the 28th. General Slurry, who had finally arrived on the island on the 28th (after stopping at Miami for a two-day Stanley Kubrick marathon), extolled this as the correct way to fight a war, unlike the accidental victory at El Grapadura. Nevermind that Ramsey had suffered as many casualties as Groggy's regiment in his action, and had taken longer to reduce the target.

General R.D. Jenkins lie in the Army hospital, still suffering from his injury. His arm had been shattered, mangled by four metal-jacketed slugs, fired by idiot Floridians, and he was steaming mad. He had to relinquish his field command to General Ale, who gave the brigade to Colonel Alstott of the 7th Florida. His elaborate anti-Groggy plan was naught, as they were talking about sending him back to the States to recuperate. And unless he could convince the DOD to fire a missile at Groggy's tent, it wasn't likely he'd garner his desired vengeance.

Stoically smoking a cigar, Jenkins dismissed his nurse as Captain O'Brien entered the tent. The Captain daren't mention it to his commanding officer, but he was growing increasingly leery of the revenge plans. He had come to respect Colonel Dundee - clearly not a model officer, but a brave if somewhat foolhardy and egotistical man. And after all, his cousin hadn't been directly killed by Groggy, no matter what the General might say. Jenkins could stake such a claim to vengeance, but the Captain didn't particularly care about a cousin he barely knew, who died largely of his own choice and accord.

"They say I'm lucky if I'll be able to use this arm again," Jenkins said, wincing.

"The Devil's work is still to be done, boy," Jenkins continued. "Sadly, I need you to do it. I won't get the satisfaction of killing that son-of-a-bitch myself."

"You came awfully close yesterday," O'Brien said.

"Well, suicide by Russkie isn't that reliable a method," Jenkins uttered, before bursting into a long and violent coughing heat. "Damn this heat, I think I got some sort of fever since I've been laying here. Them bastards ran like squirrels yesterday."

"Well, I can't say I'm too upset by that," O'Brien replied.

"Now you listen here, Captain," Jenkins said pointedly. "This ain't no time to be backing out. You're in this up to your neck, and you ain't getting out now."

"Yes, sir," O'Brien saluted, unable to defy his commander, at least to his face.

"Now I'm giving you command of a company under Colonel Dundee," Jenkins said. "That's right, find one of his companies whose Captain got shot up and take command. Tell them you have my authorization."

"How should I do it?"

"What do I care?" Jenkins answered. "Just get it done. Anyway you please. But you might have something-"

Jenkins reached into a knapsack and pulled out a large, rusty cutting knife.

"This was cousin Dave's. See if you can put it to use."

O'Brien balanced the weapon in his hands, contemplating it.

"You have your orders, Captain." The two men saluted. "Dismissed."

Jenkins watched his subordinate exit the tent slowly. He then laid back, taking a long drag on the cigar.

That boy has a conscience, Jenkins mused, a smile creeping over his face. I hope I'm just being paranoid, but a conscience is the last thing we need in this situation.