General Jenkins, Corporal Beck

The outside world trembled with anticipation as the two superpowers prepared for all-out war. Last-ditch negotiations, with President Obama and the UN trying every possible way to bring about a cessation of hostilities, were proving fruitless. Fingers hovered over the red buttons that would bring Armageddon, armies stood awaiting orders to unleash hell, and the world's nations stood on the brink of oblivion. Americans celebrated their initial victory, with Admiral Undershaft the new God of the political Right for his accidental heroism; West Europe and Asia were ambivalent, unsure whose victory would be more advantageous to their craven political powers; Eastern Europe braced for the inevitable advance of the Russians; and Russians screamed for the blood of Americans, and the vengeance of their humiliation in the Bering Sea. President Medevev, nor Mr. Putin, were highly ambivalent; their bluster had been checkmated, but how could they respond? Was an all-out invasion of the US feasible? The only alternative was an all-out nuclear war, and no one wanted to destroy the human race. At least, not yet.

CAMP MILIUS
APRIL 16, 2009

Corporal Beck - or Corporal Delta - arose at the first trickle of dawn, just in time to hear Reverie played and watch the Stars and Stripes climb the flagpole. The last few days had been pretty routine for him, but it was proving to be hell for his assorted companions, most of whom were raw recruits, dilettantes and guys with nothing better to do.

The drill instructor was Gunnery Sergeant A.B. Mount. Mount had never served in an actual war, and physically was a scrawny wimp, but he certainly was a loud and pompous individual. The first time he greeted troopers, he had addressed them in most stentorian tones, "VERILY I SAY UNTO THEE..." before launching into a speech. "I am the man's man," he said, loudly but unconvincingly. "I'll whip you into a bunch of hardasses that could make Chuck Norris and Steven Seagal cry!" A recruit named Matt Garth snickered, but Mountyordered the trooper forward and punched him across his nose, bloodying him. There was no BSing of the Sergeant after that.

For over a week, in the hot Texas sun, they fired rifles, learned hand-to-hand combat, proper etiquette, exercised, ate MREs and other assorted crap, and generally engaged in rigorous training. Their muscles ached, their bodies were sore, as they put themselves through the stress of becoming soldiers. Mount tried to turn them into passionate killing machines, and the beast inside of each of them was slowly being unleashed - albeit, more easily in some than others.

There were still the predictable divisions within the unit. Private Naslund, who had gotten in so much trouble for striking the Colonel a week before, was the most persistent troublemaker; he was mostly a surly jerk, and he didn't seem to have many, if any, friends. He continued pestering "the college boys and their cunts", leading to another dust-up with Terry, who had been made Corporal. The Colonel would have to keep a sharp eye out on that trouble-making bastard.

The gender division was proving most problematic; in the eyes of their male colleagues, the girls simply weren't pulling their weight, and most of the men wanted them gone. Harrassment and peeping continued daily. Some of the girls appreciated the attention, but most were disgusted. Fortunately, no more rape attempts occurred, Groggy having seen that the MPs keep an eye on rowdiness. That didn't prevent certain embarrassing incidents from happening - most notably when Elizabeth, the plump, cheery girl who formed one of Pitt's "Band of Brothers", was startled by a leering gang of male recruits while bathing. Fortunately for her, her boyfriend Matt arrived and stood off the bastards, threatening to castrate them for their trouble.

Still, all this aside, they were slowly becoming a command. It would take awhile, but there was starting to be a semblance of cohesion, of a will towards a common goal and purpose. It always took time to train troops, and at the very least, when the baptism of fire came, they'd have little choice but to stick together.

Colonel Dundee visited and reviewed his troops daily, and occasionally even dined and conversed with them, but mostly he was an aloof presence, watching his men and women training impatiently. He was always there, rarely speaking, spectacles gleaming in the sunlight, his face bearing an odd look that combined anticipation and anxiety, with that Harriman girl - still bearing a Sergeant's uniform, with Captain's epaulettes hastily and unconvincingly applied to the shoulders - always standing next to him.

Today was a special day, however. The regiment was being reviewed by Major General Jenkins, who had been appointed command of the 3rd Division, Provisional XXII Corps. This was the expeditionary force, made up mostly of raw recruits and National Guardsmen, that was being organized to conquer the Russian West Indies. There were rumors of Russian guns and missiles being implaced on the island, and even with Governor Palin's house in danger of shelling, a Russian stronghold just off the coast of Florida could not be ignored. Divisional and brigade commands were still being sorted out, and the command of the corps was uncertain - whether it would go to General Ricardo Sanchez, former CentCom commander, or Josephus V. Slurry, a borderline useless old general suffering from an angry case of grouchiness, was being debated in the Pentagon.

Corporal Beck - who viewed his insignificant rank as a private joke - stood at attention. He surveyed his officers. In the center, Groggy was, as usual, twitching with barely-restrained anticipation and anxiety; Captain-Sergeant Harriman stood at his right side, a slight smirk belying her faux-seriousness; Lieutenant-Colonel Starbuck on his left, quite smart-looking in his uniform; and to either side of them, the battalion commanders, Majors Martinez and Atlas, and an assortment of junior officers behind them. Beck then turned his gaze towards the so-called soldiers standing next to him, looking their best in dress uniforms, but the horribly awkward manner in which they stood and held their rifles belied their inexperience.

These poor bastards wouldn't last a day in combat, Beck thought to himself, smirking. Even with Afghanistan and Iraq going on, the US government isn't this desperate. We'll probably spend the war cleaning latrines in Tulsa.

Then, for the first time, he saw him. A face caught his attention, flickering in the corner of his eyes. Beck tried to find it again, but was unsuccessful. He had seen a dark-complected, dark-haired man somewhere in the crowd. He'd sworn it was a face he'd seen before, but he couldn't place it.

But if it was someone Beck had seen before, it was almost certainly a bad thing.

"Ten-SHUN!" a call came, snapping the Corporal from his reverie.

Riding into camp on, of all things, a handsome white stallion, came the General. He was wearing a rough-hewn camo uniform. His hair was gray, his face intensely serious, almost cruel. Riding next to him was his aid, a fresh-faced young man, Captain O'Brien.

The soldiers presented arms in the sloppiest manner possible; one or two soldiers even dropped their weapons. Jenkins reviewed the troops, his face impassive. His eyes betrayed a mixture of disgust and humor at the sight before him. He then turned to the officers, who looked slightly more dignified and professional. He rode through the ranks, then dismounted from his horse, followed by his aide.

"Well, what do you make of 'em, Tom?" the General asked his aide.

"Not very promising, sir," came the reply.

"Ah," Jenkins said, a gleam in his cold gray eyes, "but that makes it all the easier for us two."

The Captain marched over to the regiment's assembled officers. The General looked after him, and a smile slowly crept onto his reptilian face.

* * *

3:00 PM

"You are to relocate to the headquarters of the Provisional XXII Corps," General Jenkins said. "By Sunday you need to have your regiment in Tampa and ready for departure to the RWI's at a moment's notice."

This news came as a shock to Groggy and his officers.

"General, our men have only been training for a week!" Groggy shouted anxiously.

"Well, the world might not EXIST in another week Colonel!" Jenkins retorted. Groggy and his officers couldn't argue this point.

"This whole expedition is a fucking circus," Jenkins said, "and I'm the fucking ringmaster. You're my main attraction," he said, pointing to Groggy. The Colonel wasn't sure whether to take this as an insult or not; he looked confused askance at the General, and Captain Harriman, who shrugged helplessly.

"Forgive me, sir, but shouldn't circus animals be properly trained?" Major Martinez asked, also taken aback by the analogy.

"We ain't Ringling Brothers, Major," Jenkins spit. "We're that cheap-ass travelling circus with the Bearded Lady and a three-legged goat that came to your grandpappy's hick town once a year in the summer."

Groggy couldn't disagree with the nature of this comment, bizarre though it struck him, but he was curious about how such a caricature of a human being could have two stars pinned on his shoulder. But, stranger things had indeed happened in the US Army; and he was living proof. And if something were to happen, he knew he had at least had someone other than himself to blame.

Still, his mind couldn't help wondering; why would raw recruits with barely a week of training - and fairly light training at that, barely learning how to use their weapons and wear their uniforms - be sent immediately to a probable front-line unit? The situation must be really desperate, or really crazy - or both.

The meeting broke up before too much longer. As Groggy left the tent, he looked at the General's young aid. He took a long look at the Captain's face, and there was something.

Do I know that man? Groggy asked. A thought flickered into his head, but he quickly dismissed it. No, it couldn't be. He exited the tent.

"Madness," he uttered under his breath.

"Sir?" Sergeant-Captain Harriman replied.

"Utter madness," he repeated.

* * *

Groggy had reason to be suspicious of the General. For, unbeknownst to the Colonel, he was none other than the cousin of Dave Jenkins - the treacherous, backstabbing trooper who had caused so much problems in Groggy's previous expedition, whom Groggy had been forced to summarily execute for his murderous insubordination.

Jenkins had read his cousin's correspondances and accounts of the expedition, and knew what had happened, knew all about his prospective victim. He knew Groggy's weaknesses, his ego and vanity, and all Jenkins had to do was give fuel towards this, to give him a sense of importance and let him drive himself to destruction. He wouldn't need to do much himself, just give him a shove to get things started.

And as an even crueller joke, he'd gotten the kin of Groggy's vanquished rival, Tim Tyreen O'Brien, as his personal aide-de-camp - Captain Tom O'Brien. To Jenkins' recknoning, there was going to be hell to pay, a score to settle, in the Caribbean, and it couldn't come soon enough.

* * *

11:00 PM

The long day of pomp and pageantry, and a rare degree of leisure - only light target practice and exercises had been engaged in for the sake of the General's visit - was finally at an end. Jenkins and his aide had left around 7 o'clock, departing back to Tampa.

Beck began drifting off to sleep, towards the edge of the camp. He thought he heard footsteps creeping up beside him, but figured it was just Bunsher returning from his usual late-night excretions.

Then, he felt two strong hands grab him from behind, wrapping around his throat.

"Corporal John J. Delta," he heard a rough voice growl into his ear. "Or is it Julius J. Beck? If you are who I think you are, the shit's gonna come down on you real fast. If it weren't for those MPs over there I'd kill you right here and now."

His head held down, Beck gasped for breath, unable to speak, barely able to breathe. He tried to tilt his head, to see who his tormentor was.

"The first opportunity I get, I'm hauling your ass back to Montreal and justice," the voice continued. "And if I can't, I'll wring your scrawny neck and bury your body so far in the woods that the shitting bears won't find it."

Beck gasped, choking, feeling the strong hands around his throat. He then heard, out of the corner of his ear, one of his colleagues, either Bunsher or Aclea, stirring in their sleep. The hands let go, and Beck gasped out heavily, welcoming the rush of warm air into his throat. When he turned his head, all he saw was a tall, dark shadow disappearing into the row of tents. He turned his head to the ground and breathed heavily, gasping and wheezing until his lungs were back to normal.

So he hadn't escaped after all.