Jenkins In A Jam (In a Giant CLAM!)

SOMEWHERE IN FLORIDA
APRIL 24TH, 2009
10:00 AM

General Jenkins and his entourage were preparing to depart via helicopter for the front line. But they were being hounded by Colonel Ackatsis, who was still smarting from being outfoxed by Groggy's maneuver, and whose regiment was now trapped in Florida as the machinery of war began to roll forward.

"The 1st Volunteer Infantry was supposed to be left behind as a reserve unit!" Colonel Ackatsis bellowed, his voice cracking. "Those sons-of-bitches stole our transport and flagrantly violated orders!"

"They're simply ambitious," Jenkins said with a hint of amusement and even admiration for his foe.

"Call it what you, they were supposed to stay behind!"

"Now that ain't very smart, Colonel," Jenkins said coolly. "You really think it would be good PR to have the most famous, most talked about regiment in the US Army right now left behind for their most crucial mission? Run that by Slurry and his boys and beat it with a stick."

Before the Colonel could say any more, Captain O'Brien closed the helicopter door, and soon they were flying away, over the Gulf of Mexico, their destination only a short flight away.

GUERNICA, PALACIOS
APRIL 24TH, 2009
1:00 PM

There had been no resistance whatever from the Russian forces. For whatever reason, Colonel Strelnikoff was concentrating his forces in the interior, allowing Groggy's regiment, along with several others, to quickly establish a secure beach head.

Groggy's men quickly went back to their usual routine of leisure, sloth and goofing off, taking in their new climate, which was muggy and hot yet not unpleasant. Mosquitoes weren't biting yet, and the various other horrors and hardships had yet to come creeping out of the jungle, so they regarded it as a paid vacation with automatic weapons.

Groggy and his major officers were in their respective tents, conferencing. They had been the third regiment to arrive on Palacios - the 1st and 5th Florida National Guard Regiments were there first. All were speculating why the Russians had not hit them on the beach head, but no one dared ask too loudly, lest they give Colonel Strelnikoff any ideas.

A helicopter soon hovered over the horizon. It was a sole transport helicopter, just one of dozens, if not hundreds, that had flown in that day alone. In it was no doubt a high-ranking officer - Jenkins or Ale or maybe even General Slurry. But no one really took any notice of it, and they barely heard the quiet hiss or saw the smoke trail as an RPG fluttered through the air over their camp...

* * *

Jenkins, Captain O'Brien, and their pilot, a Lieutenant Renard, were fast approaching the beachhead. They didn't even see the missle until it hit their rotor blades.

"Goddammit, what the hell's going on here?" Jenkins was able to sputter out. But the helicopter was already plunging into the briny shallows, nosefirst.

The helicopter plunged beneath the water, quickly flooding through the damaged roof. Jenkins frantically pulled his sidearm and began shooting out the windows. As dumb an idea as this was, it was the only one that seemed to make sense to the old bastard. Unfortunately, one of his shots hit Renard the pilot in the back of the head, killing him, but he was able to shoot a hole through the window, and eagerly scrambled through it.

Jenkins pushed his way out through the window. He swam through the cloud of blood, and quickly touched bottom with his right foot. He looked beside him and saw the backwash of his copter as it sunk to the bottom beside him. He saw a dark figure - Captain O'Brien, he hoped - push his way to the surface.

That was a close one, Jenkins thought to himself. He crouched down and prepard to propel himself to the surface, waiting for the impact of the copter to subside. But as he pushed himself up, he didn't move, seemingly anchored to the bottom. He tried again, and failed. Frustrated and bewildered, he looked down at his feet -

And saw, to his horror, that his foot was caught in the mouth of a five-foot long giant clam.

* * *

Privates Sven Celeton and Jeremiah "Whalestoe" Pennypacker were standing. The grizzled sailor smoked his corncob pipe as he stared out at sea, not paying much mind the approaching craft, while Celeton, a hugely built Teutonic barbarian, stared stupidly at the craft flying in.

Whalestoe tore off his shirt and jumped into the water. Before Celeton could react in any way, he heard the voice of Major Atlas resounding through the camp: "WHAT THE HELL'S GOING ON HERE!?!"

Before any of the soldiers could answer, another rocket flew into the camp, exploding a supply truck. The soldiers around it ducked for cover, and Celeton dived to the ground, rolling torwards his tent and his gun, as a spray of Kalashnikov bullets pattered into the ground around him.

"HOSTILES ON THE PERIMETER!" Atlas shouted, taking command of the situation. "FIRE AT WILL!"

The soldiers immediately jumped into action, gleefully and sloppily pumping thousands of rifle and machine gun rounds into the bushes. After a few momments the return fire subsided, but the command continued to spray their long-repressed primal bloodlust into the bushes for another long minute.

"CEASE FIRE!" Atlas finally shouted. "Cease fire!"

By this time, Groggy and the rest of his staff had emerged from the tent, taking in the chaotic scene before them. In various states of dress and consciousness, his men and women stood anxiously, fingers twitching above the triggers of their still-hot rifles. The air was thick with rifle smoke, and his ears were

Then there was a splashing sound from the water. The soldiers turned, instinctively aiming ther weapons, as a shaken and exhausted Whalestoe emerged, carrying the unconscious General Jenkins over his shoulder.

"Clam almost got him," Whalestoe announced as he flopped the General's body onto the sand. "Poor damned fool got his leg clamped down about ten feet under the surface. Fortunately I was able to cut its adductor muscles with my trusty knife."

"Then how will he give orders?" Sven asked, with a mixture of amazement and incomprehension.

"The clam, you scurvy idiot!" Whalestoe bellowed. "Cut its muscles and up the shell went. And should we try and salvage it, we'd have one hell of a dinner."

"Just keep it away from Lieutenant Ackt," one of the grunts mumbled. There was scattered laughter amongst the ranks.

"WHO THE HELL WAS RESPONSIBLE FOR SETTING UP THE PERIMETER!?!" Atlas demanded, angrily waving his pistol in the air.

Sergeant Falk rushed forward quickly. "Sir, that was my duty, sir!"

"You, college boy?" Atlas holstered his weapon, a pissed look on his face. "You're just damned lucky nobody got hurt in that shit. Get your fucking frat buddies together and form a picket line 500 yards out ASAP."

"Yes, sir!" Sergeant Falk quickly organized a squad and his men rushed hurriedly, and somewhat sheepishly, out into the woods. There they found three dead Russian troops, bodies mangled by countless bulllets from the 1st, along with countless rodents, birds, frogs, and other hapless fauna unlucky enough to have gotten in the line of fire - including an 11-foot alligator, which Lieutenant Ack eagerly set upon with a carving knife.

"He'll make Colonel, at least," the suitably impressed Groggy commented to Starbuck, Martinez and Harriman, before re-entering his camp.

Suddenly, there came the sound of more rifle fire. The camp occupants instinctively reacted, but it was quickly apparent that the fire was at distance - off to their left, and the 6th Florida's camp. After a few short minutes, it died down, only to start up again on their right.

"Probing action," the now-conscious Jenkins sputtered out on the sand. "Simple reconnassiance."

"You bastards ain't gonna get me yet," Jenkins shouted as he rose to his feet, helped by several of his soldiers. Then added, "Not while I've the Devil's work to do, by damn!" He then marched off, coughing up a mouthful of water, towards a tent nearby, followed by his adjutant.