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Authors: Z. A. Recht
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either.
Colonel Dewen came marching back up from the rear of the convoy and joined the conference. Denton was getting annoyed at not being able to hear the words of the three officers. He tried to edge his way around the semicircle of enlisted troops, but didn’t want to appear too nosy-his press credentials were limited and the state of affairs in the world wasn’t the best for messing with Lieutenant Generals.
Denton had an idea of what they were discussing, however. Two other times he’d seen advance bases go down-once in Bosnia, when a guard post had failed to check in, and again in Mogadishu, when a forward intersection stopped reporting. Both times the decision had been made to hit the spot with armor and artillery.
Just as Sherman seemed to be wrapping up the conversation with a grim look on his face, the radio clicked on. All the soldiers, including Denton, jumped a little. It was the last thing they had expected.
“Echo, Echo, this is Suez. Are you still there, over?”
General Sherman snatched the handset from the radio pack and held it to his ear.
“Suez, where the hell have you been? We’ve been trying to raise you for a quarter of an hour. Be advised we were two minutes from shelling your position into dust, over.”
“Sorry, sir. We had a bit of a situation here,” came the reply. “Area is secure now. It’s safe to proceed, over.”
“I expect a damn good story when I get there,” said General Sherman. “Start thinking up a good sitrep. We’re on our way down.”
“Oh, man, this isn’t good,” Brewster said out of the side of his mouth to Denton. “Sounds like Suez is a clusterfuck. Sherman’s gonna be pissed.”
Denton frowned. He asked, “Clusterfuck?”
“Everything’s gotta be FUMTU in Suez,” Brewster explained.
Denton raised an eyebrow.
“ Fucked Up More Than Usual ,” the private said, groaning. “Come on, man. Everyone knows FUMTU.”
“It had better not be,” Denton said. “I’d love to see how well we can defend the canal if our defenses aren’t up to snuff.”
“Oh. Yeah,” Brewster said, fingering the strap of his M-16. “Forgot about the whole virus thing.”
Denton cringed. The cream of the United States Army, indeed.
PART FOUR: FIRE
Suez
January 7, 2007
1634 hrs_
SUEZ BASE WAS a mess.
The first thing that the convoy from El Ferdan noticed as they rolled through the security checkpoint was the pile of burning corpses near the water’s edge. Thick black smoke poured from the macabre bonfire, blotting out the sun. Soldiers supervising the burning turned to look at the newcomers, faces obscured by heavy Middle-Eastern style handkerchiefs they’d tied around their noses to help guard against the stench of roasting flesh.
Wire fences had been overturned, sandbagged bunkers were half-collapsed, and the sandy streets were pockmarked with black rings of carbon and debris from hand grenade explosions. The buildings were peppered with bullet holes.
“Fuck,” breathed Brewster as the convoy pulled up to the base HQ. “What the hell happened here?”
The ranking officer present was a sergeant first-class named Decker. He had greeted the arriving convoy at the edge of the HQ’s perimeter, waving them down as they approached. He cradled a wounded arm and his face was grim.
“Glad to have reinforcements,” he’d said. “There’s only fifty of us left.”
General Sherman had balked at the number, and had asked just how they had taken so many casualties without command getting wind of the situation.
“It was the refugees, sir,” Decker said. “We had a ship arrive out of the Red Sea this morning. We saw people on the deck. We helped them off and then sent a team onboard to clear the ship. They opened a bulkhead to a lower
Colonel Dewen came marching back up from the rear of the convoy and joined the conference. Denton was getting annoyed at not being able to hear the words of the three officers. He tried to edge his way around the semicircle of enlisted troops, but didn’t want to appear too nosy-his press credentials were limited and the state of affairs in the world wasn’t the best for messing with Lieutenant Generals.
Denton had an idea of what they were discussing, however. Two other times he’d seen advance bases go down-once in Bosnia, when a guard post had failed to check in, and again in Mogadishu, when a forward intersection stopped reporting. Both times the decision had been made to hit the spot with armor and artillery.
Just as Sherman seemed to be wrapping up the conversation with a grim look on his face, the radio clicked on. All the soldiers, including Denton, jumped a little. It was the last thing they had expected.
“Echo, Echo, this is Suez. Are you still there, over?”
General Sherman snatched the handset from the radio pack and held it to his ear.
“Suez, where the hell have you been? We’ve been trying to raise you for a quarter of an hour. Be advised we were two minutes from shelling your position into dust, over.”
“Sorry, sir. We had a bit of a situation here,” came the reply. “Area is secure now. It’s safe to proceed, over.”
“I expect a damn good story when I get there,” said General Sherman. “Start thinking up a good sitrep. We’re on our way down.”
“Oh, man, this isn’t good,” Brewster said out of the side of his mouth to Denton. “Sounds like Suez is a clusterfuck. Sherman’s gonna be pissed.”
Denton frowned. He asked, “Clusterfuck?”
“Everything’s gotta be FUMTU in Suez,” Brewster explained.
Denton raised an eyebrow.
“ Fucked Up More Than Usual ,” the private said, groaning. “Come on, man. Everyone knows FUMTU.”
“It had better not be,” Denton said. “I’d love to see how well we can defend the canal if our defenses aren’t up to snuff.”
“Oh. Yeah,” Brewster said, fingering the strap of his M-16. “Forgot about the whole virus thing.”
Denton cringed. The cream of the United States Army, indeed.
PART FOUR: FIRE
Suez
January 7, 2007
1634 hrs_
SUEZ BASE WAS a mess.
The first thing that the convoy from El Ferdan noticed as they rolled through the security checkpoint was the pile of burning corpses near the water’s edge. Thick black smoke poured from the macabre bonfire, blotting out the sun. Soldiers supervising the burning turned to look at the newcomers, faces obscured by heavy Middle-Eastern style handkerchiefs they’d tied around their noses to help guard against the stench of roasting flesh.
Wire fences had been overturned, sandbagged bunkers were half-collapsed, and the sandy streets were pockmarked with black rings of carbon and debris from hand grenade explosions. The buildings were peppered with bullet holes.
“Fuck,” breathed Brewster as the convoy pulled up to the base HQ. “What the hell happened here?”
The ranking officer present was a sergeant first-class named Decker. He had greeted the arriving convoy at the edge of the HQ’s perimeter, waving them down as they approached. He cradled a wounded arm and his face was grim.
“Glad to have reinforcements,” he’d said. “There’s only fifty of us left.”
General Sherman had balked at the number, and had asked just how they had taken so many casualties without command getting wind of the situation.
“It was the refugees, sir,” Decker said. “We had a ship arrive out of the Red Sea this morning. We saw people on the deck. We helped them off and then sent a team onboard to clear the ship. They opened a bulkhead to a lower
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